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Disappointment comes from a genuine place;angerwould be the feeling if he was only responding to my defiance.
Following some instinct I don’t quite understand, I look over at him. “How will you feel if I don’t show up?”
“I’m not worried about that.”
“Yes, I know you’re arrogant,” I murmur, wanting to get past that to the real answer.
Some men look at women as disposable, interchangeable. Objects to be used up and tossed out, then easily replaced with another. After what he did last night, it would be easy enough to imagine he’s exactly that sort of man.
But there are brush strokes that don’t quite seem to fit that picture, too.
If he’s a mean, angry man who means to bully me and bend me until I break, then he’s the kind of asshole there are tons of in the world, decidedly unspecial. And even though I know it will meanIhave to go through hell over something that was donetome, maybe Ishouldshoulder that burden and go to the police. Even if his expensive lawyers let him skate and he never has to pay for what he’s done, I would have a record of harassment started. I could file a restraining order. He could be literally dangerous, after all. Angry men kill women all the time.
Maybe it’s crazy to imagine he might be any other kind of asshole, but there’s an odd gentleness in the way he’s handling me despite the brutal force he’s trying to exert.
I don’t know.
Something feels off, just not quite what I expect.
Seeking to understand where that’s coming from, I hold his gaze and press deeper. “But how will youfeelif I don’t show up?”
He cocks his head and watches me, almost like he’s trying to figure me out while I’m doing the same to him. “Hypothetically?”
I roll my eyes and humor him. “Sure.”
His gaze drifts for a few seconds as he thinks, then meets mine again. “Bereft.”
I take a deep breath, unprepared for that answer.
Bereft.
That’s much closer to disappointment than anger.
It certainly doesn’t imply he views me as disposable or easily replaced.
Sure, he could be lying, but he seems pretty adamant about his honesty, and I can’t deny he has been honest about things most people never would.
For a split second, I feel conflicted.
My first instinct today was to get him away from me, of course. But right now, in this moment, talking to him and actually trying to get at the core of who he is…
I don’t hate it.
My lack of relief a moment ago flits across my mind. Is it possible I didn’t feel relieved when he told me he would leave because… some part of me doesn’t actually want him to?
No.
That’s sick.
It can’t be that.
Right?
I shake my head to clear it of the insane impulse to actually go to that restaurant. To truly meet him somewhere public and safe so I can see more about who he is.
It doesn’t matter who he is, not after what he did to me.
Right?
