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“No...” her head shakes. The tense gesture makes me doubt her, but I decide not to push too hard.
“Kristine,” I call out to her, noticing I've lost her again.
Her gaze lifts to meet mine. I extend my arm across the table, my fingers softly grazing her silky skin. Tenderly, I raise her hand to my lips for a soft kiss.
The scent of her perfume envelops me, invigorating my spirit as if I've been reborn. This woman has awakened a part of me I thought I'd never experience again. The part that wants more from life, and I want it with her.
“You can tell me anything.”
“I know.” Her grin falters, and within the captivating olive depths of her eyes, I discern terror.
Something has definitely happened. Even though she doesn't want to say it, I just know.
“You're safe with me,” I promise.
“I know that too.”
Her fingers glide over the nape of her neck in a distant, distracted motion, and I rise to my feet.
I take her by the hand and make her stand up with me. She gives me a curious look but follows me silently.
We take the short way up to the dance floor, which is elevated above the rest of the restaurant. Wonderful views of the city surround us as we glide slowly across the floor.
She looks up at me and then rests her head against my chest. Wrapping my arms around her small waist, I pull her a little closer to me. Kristine's other hand climbs up until her fingers tangle around my neck.
“Did you always want children?” I whisper against her ear.
She nods. “My family is very close. Kind of a cover family,” she smiles. “I always wanted to have something like my parents. A perfect marriage, the kind you don't doubt will last a lifetime.”
“Sounds picturesque,” I admit, completely unfamiliar with the idea.
My father was an alcoholic who made my mother's life miserable. They separated when I was very young, and she emotionally distanced herself from me early because she said I reminded her of him.
I didn't grow up in a loving home, but I don't doubt Kristine's ability to give her son the world.
“But my first love was ballet. I wanted to be a professional dancer,” she confesses.
I look at her, loving the sound of her voice. Kristine smiles brightly. “But you already know that. You've seen the pictures at my house and the videos.”
I nod. Kristine has a collection of photographs from her ballerina days. She was a prima donna at the professional ballet school in New York. “What made you turn away from that dream?”
“Brandon,” admits Kristine. “I admit, I had stars in my eyes when I met him. I thought our life would be perfect, like my parents. And then...”
She is silent, and I don't urge her to continue. I know the story well.
I know its nuances, even though she has never mentioned them. I know a beaten woman anywhere. With my mother, I learned too well to recognize the signs.
And I always hated the image of an abusive man that I spent my life being compared to. I promised myself I would never, ever be someone like that.
One of my hands settles under her chin. I make her look at me as I calmly say, “Your fairy tale ending is waiting for you, Kristine,” I assure her with conviction. This planet teems with malice and cruelty, yet Kristine has the rare gift of making even a skeptic like me trust in the possibility of new beginnings.
What other rationale could there be for her remarkable presence in my life?
“I don't know if that’s the case,” she admits sadly.
“You'll have your second chance. Don't let him soil your outlook on life. You and Asher deserve it.”
I wish someone had been there to tell my mother the same. Maybe I wouldn't have lived such a fucked-up existence. To live with a woman who hated me because I looked like my deadbeat father.
