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I raised my eyebrows in surprise. Really? The only person I could think of who would come get me would be Sadie, or maybe my mom. My mom really wouldn't like the idea of me sitting in jail. It would look bad. Worse than marrying for money or your husband losing all your money. Like, you'd just be formerly rich then. Not a filthy criminal. Having a daughter who was a criminal? Well then you would be a bad mother.
I got up and followed the officer out of the holding cell. They gave me my shit—not much—and told me my court date, and then they escorted me to the front desk.
Anton stood there.
I stopped and stared. I hadn't seen him in almost a month. We'd been apart for longer than we'd known each other.
He was still beautiful. Still magnetic. But he looked tired. His green eyes were lined, and his face drawn. His fluid dancer's stance was stiff, as though he were in pain.
He watched me, and I watched him for a long moment.
“Felicia,” he said. Then he seemed to stop, as though he didn't know what to say next. I'm sorry, or come home, or—anything. He knew he should say something.
Finally he opened his hands, as though to show me he had no weapons. “Sadie told me you were in jail,” he said.
God, he was such a dork.
I ran forward and threw my arms around him, and it felt like waking up.
Chapter Nine:
Bartered Surrender
We drove back home. To Anton's house. It was awkward, the way we sat in silence the whole way there, staring out the windows, but deep inside it was also a huge relief. Whatever happened, the stasis would be over. We could move on.
Wherever that would be.
My palms began to sweat.
When we finally reached the house, I was a ball of nerves. I didn't know if Anton had seen my work, or if Sadie had only told him I had been arrested. Though now that I thought about it, she probably had made sure he knew exactly why I'd been arrested. She's an artist, too. She understands the fundamental Look at me! motivation that underpins all works of art. So I could be ninety-nine percent certain he'd seen it. What he thought about it was another matter entirely.
The moment the door of the foyer closed behind us, we were alone in the house, and the atmosphere became oppressive. I tried to play it off, reaching up and shaking my hair out of its ponytail. I ignored Anton as he took his coat off and walked into the kitchen. I needed coffee. And something more substantial than goddamn ramen noodles.
There was a jar of sweet pickles in the fridge. I swiped it, popped it open, and began crunching away as I busied myself with making coffee.
Anton followed me and installed himself in the breakfast nook, leaning against the back door. He crossed his arms and watched me as I bustled around. I didn't know what he was thinking, but it didn't matter. I'd said what I needed to say. The ball was in his court now.
Turning the coffee maker on, I took my jar of pickles and sat down at the table. I met Anton's glittering green eyes full on. For the first time, I felt like we were meeting as equals, and I could see it made him uncomfortable. I tried to help him.
“Pickle?” I asked him, proffering a gherkin.
He smiled, though it looked pained. “Felicia...” he said.
I waited, the trick he'd taught me. Waited for him to fill up the silence.
Finally he sat down at the table and rubbed a hand over his forehead. I thought he'd rub his face right off, he was so forceful. He was working up to something. Something he didn't do much.
“Felicia,” he said at last, “I am so, so sorry.”
Those words were sweet, and necessary. But not really what concerned me.
“I know you are,” I said. “I understand.”
He looked at me in surprise. “You do? I mean... I am not... not the best at conveying my feelings. You know that.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I know that,” I said. “I know that really well.”
“This is hard for me.”
