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“Of course, but I’m good at hiding my emotions, almost as good as you.” I thought of the times I’d seen him smoking, once at the photoshoot when we were alone, another possibly being the night of his fitting. Though I didn't see him smoke at the penthouse, the sweet smell was still on his skin, as if he had one before coming downstairs to surprise me.
“Well you smoke around me, so I must stress you out.” I welcomed his eyes now, “That or I make you nervous.” I pushed this narrative, doing my best to be like Alejandro. Quick, presumptive, and observant.
“You don't stress me out. If it were that bad, I’d leave.” He didn’t comment on the nervousness but provoked another feeling, leaving when things get bad.
“So I’ve heard. It’s not a good look though, not for everything at least.” Such as the meetings I heard about him and his lawyers, that’s what I wanted to say, but didn’t.
“If it's not necessary, sure, but what’s wrong with leaving when something is bad?”
“It reminds me of someone, and I don’t like it.” I snipped, clearly reminiscent of my father, how he essentially abandoned us, causing Claire’s depression to worsen.
“Reminds you of someone? Is this related to the cigarettes as well?”
“Close, but no. Running away from problems lacks character, it makes things worse than what they are.” I said it so baselessly, as if I weren’t guilty of this myself. Avoiding my mother wasn't the same, or at least I believed so. She wasn't an uncomfortable meeting with lawyers like Parker described for Alejandro, she was a lifetime of exhaustion.
“Everyone runs from something, even you at times. You’ve avoided enough of my questions to reveal something in itself.
“And what would that be?”
“That doing so comes easy to you. It’s in your nature, but I know better.”
I scoffed, his continued ideas both irked me and made me laugh. “You think you see meaning in everything, and that’s just not true. People do and say things every day without giving a message.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, and avoiding a topic is not a testament to my nature, but rather, the nature ofus, our relationship. You’re my boss, you’re entitled to nothing other than a job well done.”
“I’m entitled to the truth, and it begins with admitting that you’re a purposeful woman.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Simple.” He twisted the butt of his cigarette to be extinguished, “You think you’re clever, and in many ways you are. You dare not speak the truth, but the truth is written everywhere. It’s what you wear, it's how you look, how your body responds, the way you cross your legs and hide your cheeks.”
“Meaningless.” I snipped, clenching my teeth. The fact he’d seen that, that he noticed that particular movement with my legs made me burn. “That means nothing.”
“Is that so? I can tell you one thing for certain. You’re in love.”
“That’s not true!” My tone was already an apparent give away. His confidence was far too staggering, even for my defensive screech.
“I knew it the moment I saw you tonight. Give yourself more credit.”
“Sitting at a bar with popcorn and wine doesn’t indicate love.”
“No, but gardenias do. That’s not just a floral dress you’re wearing, it's a message.” He looked down at me, scanning my bare shoulders, studying each marking and imperfection. Everything was vulnerable, the freckles I’d earned from the Hamptons’ sun, the tiny dark mole along my collarbone. He wasn’t just looking at me, he was remembering me, for what, I wasn’t sure. I placed my hands together, digging them into my lap, resisting the urge to cross my legs once more.
“Gardenias?” I asked, but it was a bluff. Of course I knew what they meant, of course I wore them on purpose. But admitting this confirmed everything Alejandro said was true, and I wasn't ready to acknowledge that, nor him.
“They mean secret love, and it’s no coincidence you were meeting your best friend, the one who’s relationship you call ‘complicated’.”
“And it is.”
“I thought I cleared that up for you.” Alejandro shifted in his seat, pulling himself closer where we were shoulder to shoulder, but his lean into me felt threateningly close. “If he doesn't stare at you like I do, then you’re missing the point.” His tempered eyes left my insides sticky, glued together like a dirty paper doll. I gripped the seat below me, squeezing the leather, wondering if it was as smooth as his jacket.
“And what about your flowers?” I protested. He stared at my lips, the concept of him inching closer was just an illusion, or maybe an uncertain wish. I eyed the black rose on his hand, its vine curled into his cuff. “You’re not the only one with hidden meanings. If you think we’re so alike, then you’re just as guilty.”
“And what do you think it means?” He asked, running his thumb along the dark ink.
“I’m not interested in giving you my perception. And if it’s my perception you want, then go ahead and read aNew York Prestigearticle, because it’s all I have.” I let go of my seat.
