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His smile fades, and he spins around behind me to close the door.
I stomp into the condo as he follows, asking me what’s wrong, what’s going on.
I don’t know what I expect to see or what I’m looking for, but the size and space of this condo are overwhelming. Spanning the entire floor, three walls are floor to ceiling glass, and the far wall, overlooking the river, is open and letting the breeze pass through. There’s a huge deck outside.
Highly polished wood floors gleam under soft white recessed lighting. Cream sofas and chairs are accented with pops of navy blue and gray accent pillows and dark rugs, giving a very masculine feel to the vast open-concept space.
Like everything else, it’s so much more tangible and impressive in real life versus what I saw online when Cole gave an interview at home years ago.
“What’s going on, are you okay?”
In the middle of his living room, seeing no one else lingering about—though I have not seen the bedrooms—I spin around and can feel how red my face is, how angry I am. Everything I have been trying to ignore bubbles to the surface.
“Why won’t you fuck me?” I yell and don’t even care how ridiculous I sound.
“What?” Cole’s head jerks back and his brows furrow.
“You heard me,” I cross my arms and stand my ground.
“What the hell is this about?” He takes a step toward me, but I hold my hand up, and he stops.
“You do everything else short of actually fucking me, then you leave. Every time, Cole. Am I just not what you want, or am I the other woman?” I force myself to spit out my hostile words even though I feel my eyes getting watery, and my voice falter.
He brings his hands to his head and runs his fingers through his hair. He looks confused and mad, which is just great because that’s exactly how I feel, and I’m sick of it.
“You think I don’t want you?” He says like he cannot believe the words coming out of my mouth. Like I’m a crazy person for suggesting such a thing.
“Is that why Cole? I’m not some model or athlete.”
I throw my arms out to my side. My voice carries throughout the cavernous, open space. Surely if there was anyone else here, they’d hear me yelling. The Tennis Bitch would probably have stomped out by now and beat me with her racket.
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“Don’t you dare pull that shit,” he yells back and points at me.
His chest is heaving, and his muscles are tense, and I’m taken aback by his anger. I was the one who was going to be angry and yell today.
“What the hell is going on, Emily? Since when are you the insecure, jealous type?”
“Since you made me that way!” My anger flares up like gasoline on a fire. I'm fighting the tears hard, but they’re just a drop away from spilling over the dam, a flood is about to ensue.
He drops his hands to his hips, where his jogging pants are riding low. His shoulders sag under the realization that we’re talking about this now. Like he hears the hurt in my voice that he caused.
“You left me, Cole! And then you spent the next six years parading around with beautiful, exotic women…”
“I was single, Em,” he interrupts me. “You were with other people, too.”
I don’t know how he knows what I was doing, but he isn’t wrong. Our proclivity certainly wasn’t equal, if we’re talking semantics, though.
“Is that why you won’t have sex with me? Do you have a girlfriend?” I peer over his shoulder toward a hallway beyond the kitchen that must lead to bedrooms.
“Jesus,” he huffs and starts pacing. “You think I have a girlfriend, that there are other women—what—hiding in my bedroom right now?”
I shrug and twist up my face because it sounds ridiculous when he says it like that, and I know it.
But I also don’t trust that there isn’t another woman.
Or six.
