She blanched at his tone. It was true. After a disastrousopening night, she’d fled home to London, as she always did when life went wrong, told everyone she was ill. They couldn’t do the play without her, so the run had been canceled. It wasn’t something she was proud of, but she couldn’t imagine anyone would have wanted to go on with it.
“You’re really still angry aboutthat?” she asked, thrusting out her lower lip in incomprehension.
“You asked me to write the music. I told you I didn’t have time, but you begged me, said you couldn’t do it without me.” John took a deep breath. “I passed up a trip to South America with my parents because I didn’t want to let you down. I spent the holidays here, locked in a practice room, working on the score.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, a fresh layer of shame settling in her chest. “I didn’t know you did that.”
“You get a few shitty reviews, and you drop everything, including me.”
“That’s not true, I didn’t drop you, but you were living with Sean…” She trailed off. Shehaddropped him. She remembered a birthday dinner he’d invited her to. She’d made her excuses because it was too awkward seeing Susie. “Okay, so I might have been a little self-centered back then.”
He turned to face her now, his eyes catching hers in the dark; they exuded a fierce glow she had never seen from him before. He made a “huh” sound, as though this revelation was not news to him.
“Why are you giving me such a hard time?” she asked, standing up, pacing a few steps, needing to escape those accusatory eyes.
“I knew you weren’t ready for the big talk,” he said, rubbing his chin with his palm. She saw his whole body stiffen, his handdropping from his face as he straightened up with a slow, deliberate motion, like he was bracing for something. His shoulders squared, jaw tightening, and for a fraction of a second, Chloe saw him pull into himself, like he was retreating, closing off. As John stood, Richard started to bark. Someone else was walking across the other side of the quad. John ran a hand through his hair, restless, as though he had more to say, but the moment had passed. “I’m going to take Richard back. Thanks for helping with him.”
He shot her one final look, his eyes swimming with feeling, then he turned and strode back toward the party. Chloe was left alone, navigating an uncomfortable sea of emotions. Guilt pressed down on her like humidity, impossible to shake. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, as if that could keep it out, but it was already in her chest, her throat, her stomach.
She had never thought of John as someone who struggled. At Oxford, there were plenty of people who had buckled under the workload, but not him. His talent for composing had always seemed so innate, like he could conjure magic. She’d sat beside him at the piano and watched him create a melody in minutes, as though the music lived in his fingertips. But maybe, as with writing, there was always more going on beneath the surface, words deleted, ideas discarded. She paced up and down, her body gripped with unpleasant feelings. Maybe being back here was not so much a jaunt down memory lane as it was picking at the scab of all their youthful insecurities.
She heard a sound and looked up to see Rob appear out of the dark with her shawl.
“I thought you might be cold,” he said, his warm smile cutting through the uneasy fog John’s words had left behind. “Youwant to go back in? They’re doing shots of alcohol and a conga line.”
“You know, I’m tired, let’s just go to bed. We’ll see everyone tomorrow,” she said.
“As you wish,” he said, picking up her shoes, then wrapping the shawl around her, hugging her to him as they walked side by side. If felt good to have him there, and she leaned into him, letting him support her.
“Do you think I’m self-centered?” she asked, as they reached the archway leading into college.
“Chloe, you’re always thinking about others. Remember last week, we walked the long way around so you could send a birthday card to Emma in Canada? And in that bar, Victors, you ran halfway down the road to return that lady’s coat. You are compassionate and giving and thoughtful. Why?”
“Nothing, just something John said.”
“John from the bus?” Rob asked, and she nodded. “He’s a friend of yours?”
“Yes, he is. Well, he used to be.” She felt another pang of regret. “I don’t think I was a good friend to him back then. I might have been a little wrapped up in myself, taken people for granted.”
“I think it’s okay to prioritize your own thoughts and feelings occasionally. Taking care of yourself isn’t selfish, it’s necessary. It also takes courage to admit you made a mistake; a truly self-involved person wouldn’t do that.” These were the words she needed to hear.
When they got to their room, Rob shut the door, then pulled her closer, stroking a finger down her cheek. “How can I make you feel better?” She looked up at him, then leaned in to kisshim, his soft lips reassuring, pushing away thoughts of John and the uncomfortable feelings he’d provoked.
Rob didn’t deepen the kiss this time; he pulled away, then reached up to take out her earrings for her.
“You are so beautiful,” he said. Then without another word, he took off his jacket, walked across to the couch, and lay down. “Sleep well, Chloe.”
She felt an unexpected pang of disappointment. Did she want more? No, of course not. That was the gentlemanly thing for him to do. She took her makeup off in the bathroom, pulled on her nightshirt, then slid into bed and lay still, staring up at the ceiling. It would be so easy to call him over. Just let herself be held, nothing more. Her body ached to have someone next to her, the weight of an arm, the heat of skin, the hush of breath at her neck. It had been a long time, and knowing he was there, taut and toned, ready to do whatever she asked…
She tossed and turned, finding it impossible to sleep. Her mind jumped to Peter. Sex with him had been satisfying, but it had always been the way he wanted it,whenhe wanted it—mainly in the shower because he had a thing about sweaty sheets. With Rob, she would be in complete control. He would be gentle, willing, there would be no pressure to reciprocate. It would just be scratching an itch, wouldn’t it? No, no. What was she thinking? It was unnatural. It would beweird. She wasn’t going toPretty Womanthis situation. She closed her eyes tight, as if that could shut it down. But the thoughts kept circling, restless and intrusive, maybe fueled by the wine she’d drunk and the oppressive heat in this room. Still, as her mind wandered—lips brushing skin, a hand sliding along her thigh—her mind conjured a face in the dark, but to her surprise it wasn’t Rob’s. It was John’s.
12
When Chloe woke the nextmorning, she turned over to see Rob sitting on the sofa, watching her.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he said, his face shifting into a smile.
“Morning,” she said, starting slightly. How long had he been sitting there watching her sleep?
