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Romy
A whole day has come and gone since Donnacha left me panting in the pool, a throbbing pulse between my thighs and fresh fissures etched on my heart. The ghost of his lips haunts my neck, and in the quietest corners of the penthouse, I can still hear his dangerous whisper in my ear.
You like seeing me this angry.
Time passes excruciatingly slow. Minutes roll into hours, stretching lazily like a snoozing kitten, not giving a flying fuck that I’m on the edge of exploding. Baking keeps the demons at bay. I forgo the untouched cookbooks that Aisling left on the coffee table a few days ago—along with a sticky note begging me to study every recipe like it’s a holy scripture before I even think about turning on the oven—in favor of Bessie Banks, the yellow-haired host from the Cooking Channel. She’s become a permanent fixture in the penthouse, her shrill but sunny tones filling the void even when I’m not baking. When her segments finish, I immediately switch to a TIVO recording of a previous show, and she’ll walk me through another sugary treat, step by step, all over again, even if I’m curled up under a blanket on the sofa.
On the second night, Donnacha appears.
His presence enters the penthouse before he does, charging the air with electricity that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. The elevator shaft whirs, the doors ding, and heavy footsteps echo closer. Even when his imposing frame casts a shadow over the kitchen island, I don’t take my eyes off Bessie Banks, watching her intensely as she kneads gingerbread dough with her chubby fists.
“What’s on the menu today?”
I steal a glance at him and immediately wish I hadn’t. He’s wet, unapologetically so. His damp navy suit looks black, the shirt underneath now translucent enough to reveal the carvings of his abs. His thick curls have been raked back, little droplets gathering around his hairline. I wonder why a man who has the world at his feet would ever need to be caught in a storm.
I nod to the baking tray on the marble between us. “Banana bread.”
He picks up a plastic fork and dives right into the doughy loaf. Lifting a bit up to his lips, it barely tongues his tongue before he declares, “Delicious.”
“Donnacha.” He cocks an eyebrow in response, running the flat of his tongue over the blunt prongs of the fork. My thighs clench together in an attempt to lower the heat rising between them. “I know it tastes like a kindergarten science experiment. All of my baking does.” My voice drops to a whisper like I don’t want the answer to what I’m about to ask. “So, why are you lying to me?”
He works my question around his jaw, then plunges the fork in the middle of the loaf, making it stick up like King Arthur’s sword. He leans his palms against the island, clears his throat, and says, “Sometimes, the smaller lies are just smoke and mirrors to conceal a bigger lie.”
We stare at each other.
“What’s the bigger lie?”
He runs his tongue over his teeth, his gaze tracing every line of my face. It starts by flickering from one of my eyes to the other, then down to my mouth. Like he’s trying to figure out if all of the components that make me whole are strong enough to handle the answer.
Something has shifted between us, and I can feel it. Like the world has tilted on its axis a few degrees south, and it’s changed the climate and charged the air.
Wordlessly, he picks up the banana bread and tosses it in the garbage can next to him. Then he saunters around the island until he’s just a mere inch away from me.
I wasn’t expecting to smell liquor on his breath.
His warm hand cups my cheek. My heart quickens, then comes to a complete stop.
“That I really fucking hate you, Romy.” His grip tightens, his fingers curling into my flesh possessively. “I can’t stand your stubbornness or the way you’re so good at concealing the darkness you harbor within you.” His hand snakes around to the nape of my neck. When he tilts my head back, I’m forced to stare into his eyes. They look different, darker, pupils so black that I could dive in and disappear forever. This is it, I realize. The darkness Aisling was talking about. “Do you want to know my biggest lie of all?” he whispers harshly. I don’t move as a storm washes over the planes of his face. “I wish I’d never fucking met you.”
He’s gone as quickly as he arrived, trailing out of the kitchen like an unfinished sentence.
* * *
The next morning, the angry fissures running along my heart show no signs of healing. War wounds from the world’s smallest battle. I’m running on a few stolen hours of sleep, my throat hoarse from my nightmares.
Even Bessie Bank’s chirpy tone sounds sinister today, so I’m definitely not prepared for Aisling to bound into the apartment, spilling her excitement all over my morning coffee.
“Today is the day! Ball day!” As she claps her hands, the Cartier bangles on her wrists clash together like the world’s worst marching band. She towers over me on the sofa, the miserable charcoal sky not a fitting backdrop for the sunshine she radiates. But noticing my lack of enthusiasm, her smile soon melts into a scowl more suited to the storm. “Why aren’t you excited?”
I take a sip of scalding coffee. It burns the tender wounds on my lip. “Because I have no idea what I’m supposed to be excited about. And because you’re one decibel away from bursting my eardrum,” I add into my plastic beaker.
“Don didn’t tell you?”
The last thing Don told me was a lie. One that’s been playing around my mind like a broken record.I shake my head.
Her eyes fling up to the ceiling as she mutters an oath. Flopping down on the sofa next to me, she says, “You know Cillian and Lottie Black?” She’s met with another of my blank stares. She sighs. “Of course you don’t. Cill used to be one of Don’s henchmen, but now he runs Philly and South Jersey. Long story short, they host a ball every season, and they are the fucking best. Even better than Poppy’s balls—” She leans in, gripping my forearm. “But Jesus Christ, please don’t tell her I told you that. Lottie, Cill’s wife, goes all out. Always the best venues and the most elaborate themes. This summer, the invite was a life buoy, inscribed with the question—what were you wearing when the ship sunk?” The way her eyebrows wiggle, I realize I’m supposed to be way more impressed than this. “It was on an old warship in the middle of the Hudson, and you could only reach it in these charming little fishing boats. Of course, all the men went as captains, and waiters, a few boiler suits thrown in for engineers.” She sinks into her seat, throwing her head back for extra dramatics.“But the women. Beautiful corsets and petticoats. Tits up to their chins. Tulle for days. Ah, it was magical.”
“It sounds it.”
