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“Isshe actually your wife?”
He said nothing, just continued to rub his triceps.
“Right,” I said and strode across the platform toward another track, where I found a seat on one of the worn, empty benches.
Heavy footsteps approached, and I didn’t need the signature almond scent to know who had joined me. We sat there in silence, staring down the empty train tunnel.
“It’s really fucking cold in here,” Brandon remarked.
For some reason, his nonchalance pissed me off even more.
“Maybe you should go get your coat,” I sneered. “I’m sure your wife would warm it up for you.”
“Goddamn it, Skylar, will you stop?”
I whipped around to glare at him. “Isn’t she? Because that’s what she said, Brandon. You know, while I was lying naked on top of you. So, which is it: is she lying or are you fuckingmarried?”
My voice rose with every word, and I couldn’t quite stop the crack that broke through “married.” Tears rose again, and I did my best to sniff them back, praying that they would disappear before they betrayed me. Brandon stared at me sadly, the crease between his eyebrows more pronounced than usual. Our eyes locked for at least a minute, and I was determined not to look away first. I’d stare the truth out of him if I had to.
Finally, he sucked in another deep breath, heaving his broad chest out and in before he opened his mouth.
“I...am,” he said slowly, not breaking eye contact with me. “Married.” His eyelids shuttered, and he finally looked away.
I stared. The teapot had reached a boil, and for a moment I forgot where I was, who I was. It was true. He was married. I was nothing but a…fuck.
“Skylar?” he interrupted me from the inarticulate mess of my thoughts. “Please,” he said. “Say something.”
Before I knew what I was doing, I reached a hand back and slapped him as hard as I possibly could. I closed my eyes, reveling in my throbbing palm. When I opened them, he was holding one hand to his face with a mixed expression of shock and respect.
“I guess I deserved that,” he said. “Again.”
“Get the fuck away from me,” I replied, this time not bothering to control the uneven tenor of my voice. “I mean it. Again.”
I stood up, and Brandon stood with me. He reached out a timid hand, which I batted away.
“I’m serious, Brandon. Leave me alone!”
“Skylar, stop,” he pleaded as he started toward me, but was interrupted.
“Do you need some help, miss?”
We both swiveled our heads towards three rather large construction workers approaching with concerned looks. With their beat-up baseball caps and worn-out jeans, they looked like they were on their way home from work. On the Red Line, that meant South Boston, maybe even Dorchester. They weren’t the kind of guys you messed with.
I looked back at Brandon.
“Do I?” I asked evenly.
Brandon just stared, frustration emanating from his stiff posture and clenched fists. He looked like he wanted to throw down with all three of the guys, sling me over his shoulder, and carry me away as a booty of war. I would have rather thrown myself on the tracks.
Finally, he exhaled.
“No,” he said, and with a forlorn look, he jogged up the escalator and out of the station.
Threat neutralized, my impromptu rescue brigade returned to their side of the station while I took my seat.
Less than a minute later, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
Skylar, we WILL talk about this!
