Unmistakable (12 page)

“You have nothing to apologize for.” His voice is firm.

“If you see Luke...”

“I won’t mention any of this.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

There’s an uncomfortable moment where I’m not sure exactly how to say goodbye. There’s the obvious choices, a quick kiss on the cheek or a hug. Either might be apt given our somewhat intimate conversation where I revealed more than I’ve revealed to anyone besides Izzy in a very long time. However, both seem wildly inappropriate given the fact that he’s still technically my professor.

I settle on a strange wave-like gesture as I fumble with my keys.

“By the way, Stella...”

That slight pause is an obvious ploy to get me to look at him.

It works. When I finally lose the battle with myself and spin around, I’m dazzled by the brilliance of his smile.

I’ve been too distracted by the thought Luke Dixon and all of the baggage that he carries around to have reflected upon Holden’s beauty. And beauty is a misnomer. There are any number of adjectives that would be more appropriate—dazzling, beautiful, ethereal, magnificent—and even those barely scratch the surface.

Even though I’m temporarily blinded by his shimmering light, I manage a rough, “What?”

“Great dress.” He gives me an oversized wink. “I’ll e-mail you about the independent study.”

I stare into the darkness for a good minute before managing to get myself in the door. I think Izzy might have been wrong—for the first time in her life. I might not remember much about flirting, but I do know one thing.

There’s no such thing as a non-flirtatious wink.

I
take the stairs instead of the elevator, thinking that the physical release might do me some good. As it turns out, it’s not such a great idea. By the time I reach the fifth floor, I’m more than a little winded and my skin is glistening with sweat. I should really get around to exercising one of these days.

The door to our suite is ajar. Shit. That cup of coffee must have taken longer than I thought. I hoped I would have a couple of minutes to change and compose myself before dealing with Izzy’s questions. I’m better at confrontation when I’m wearing sweatpants.

I push on the door tentatively. “Iz, where are you? I’m sorry I had to ditch you back there. It’s a really long story. I mean, it’s not actually that long of a story, but I tend to overanalyze, so it might take a while to tell it and I’m pretty tired right now, so...”

“Stella, don’t!” Izzy’s voice is frantic and it’s coming from the wrong direction, from outside of the room. When I turn back to the hallway, I see her running towards me, her panic palpable.

When she puts a finger to her lips, I look back inside. A figure, shrouded entirely in darkness, is standing at the window. The only visible feature is the electric blue of his eyes. And that’s all I need to see.

If I could murder Izzy with just a look, she’d be lying in a puddle on the floor.

“He escorted me home and insisted on talking to you. I don’t even know how he figured out that I was your roommate.” Her voice is very small, and very defensive. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“It’s fine,” I say, even though it isn’t.

Luke is steadfast in his stillness. He makes no noise, no effort to greet me, no effort to resolve the tension. The air festers, stagnant with things unsaid. I take one long, deep breath before speaking in a tone of voice that approximates normal.

“Iz, do you mind?” I gesture towards Luke, who’s still seemingly oblivious to our chatter.

“Um, yeah. Let me just...I’ll wait for you in the lounge. You can come and find me when you’re finished. Or, um, I can go to Danny’s if you think you need more time. Whatever you need,” she stutters.

I glance at Luke for some indication of what he wants from me, but he remains motionless, so I make a quick decision and turn to Iz.

“You should go to Danny’s. You have to collect on our bet.”

She lingers for a few seconds longer, obviously hesitant to leave me in the jaws of a lion. Part of me wants her to stay and to prolong the inescapable agony of letting him back under my skin, but eventually, I make a small gesture towards the elevator, and she disappears. I shut the door softly behind her, trapping myself and Luke Dixon in a space that’s only fractionally larger than a jail cell. It’s probably not the brightest idea I’ve ever had.

I wait for him to make the first move, but he remains uncharacteristically silent. Fine. He can have it his way.

“Hello, Luke. It’s been a long time.”

Even through the haze of darkness, I can see his lips curl into a smile. “Only if you consider forty-five minutes to be a long time, Stella.”

“Dancing doesn’t count. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a conversation. That’s what I meant.”

“Dancing is more intimate than a conversation.” He breaks his stillness by rocking back onto the balls of his feet. After long seconds, he murmurs, “More truthful, certainly.”

I don’t know what he means. “Dancing doesn’t require truth.”

“Oh, sure it does. You obviously haven’t had a lot of long conversations lately. Or done a lot of dancing, for that matter. It’s surprising that you haven’t lost a step out there.”

My cheeks flush. I want to kill him. Or throw my arms around his neck and touch my lips to his. Either would work.

He must sense my indecision, my weakness, because he reaches over and flicks the light on. The fluorescent sting hits my eyes, but before he can conduct a thorough examination of my flaws, I promptly flick them off again.

“Little Stella. Afraid of the light?”

Despite the tenderness in his voice, the diminutive nickname rankles me. For the thousandth time tonight, I wish I was wearing my combat boots. The delicate heels aren’t exactly ass kicking shoes, and that’s what I feel like doing. Still, I refuse to let him win. I turn a lamp on and fight the desperate urge to say, “So there.” Baby steps.

His eyes travel the full length of my body, and while I want to throw the blanket over my head and hide, I straighten my shoulders and throw my head back. I may be afraid of the light, but I refuse to cower in the corner.

His eyes pierce all the way through mine, until all of my old fears and small devastations threaten to tumble over.

“Seen enough?” I mutter finally, unwilling to let the heat of his gaze consume me.

“It was you in the hallway, wasn’t it?” he asks finally. “After the psych class and before breakouts? I ran into you.”

If he wants an apology, he’s come to the wrong room. I’m not apologizing for shit. I raise my chin and give him a defiant stare.

“Why didn’t you say something to me? Christ, Stels.”

My throat is dry and cracked, and the words don’t come easily. Apparently, after three and a half years of thinking about it, I’m still at a loss for something to say.

“You didn’t recognize me. I just figured it was better to leave it alone.” It’s a half-truth. Then again, isn’t everything?

“That’s bloody brilliant, then, isn’t it, Stella? Just leave it alone. Sounds like a fantastic idea.”

My legs wobble precariously, and I’m not sure how long they’re going to support me, so I fall into the couch. There’s always a chance that he’ll take pity on me. He can smell weakness, and my feeble attempts at verbal sparring aren’t even close to full strength. Vulnerability disgusts him. Maybe he’ll leave. I watch him fight for control over his temper. He clenches his fist and loses the battle, but in time, he wins the war. He raises himself to his full height and gives me a cold glare.

This is what judgment day must feel like, if you’re meeting a less-than-beneficent god.

“Where did you go, Stella?”

I don’t think that’s really what he wants to know, but I take the words at face value. “I’ve been here. At Greenview.”

He lets out an impatient grunt. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. What happened to you? Where did my Stella go?”

His Stella?

“The girl I knew wouldn’t go to places like Phillips. She wouldn’t run into an old friend and blatantly ignore him. She wouldn’t run away.”

The accusation stings. “We all grow up sometime, Luke.” I can’t match the scrutiny of his gaze, so I pick lamely at my fingernails. “And I’m fine. Don’t you see that? Completely fine.”

“Oh, yeah, you look completely fine to me. Certainly fine. More than fine.” His eyes, the ones that see too much and nothing at all, sweep the length of my body. “You dyed your hair, changed your last name, stopped wearing those stupid cardigans, and started going to clubs that you have no business in. There’s nothing about you that is remotely fine.”

In a matter of seconds, he’s broken through the walls that have taken me three years to construct. No one’s ever had the nerve to say those words to my face.
“You are not fine.”

Of course, he’s entirely correct. I am not fine. But I didn’t want or need him to know that.

My anger flares, and I feel the irresistible urge to fight back. “Fuck you, Luke,” I spit. “Lots of people dye their hair. The cardigans were ugly. I am twenty-one years old, not eleven, which means that I can go to any club that I want to go to. And no one else seems to have a problem with how I’m doing.”

“Who? Tom and Caroline? I’m sure they’re whispering into your ear, ‘Oh Stella, we’re so proud of you for being so strong, for making it through another day.’ What’s that bullshit that they always say? One day at a time?” He shakes his head violently. “I’m not going to lie to you like they do, Stels.”

“It’s none of your business.” My lower lip wobbles, but I am not going to fall apart right now. Not until he leaves this room. “This is my room and I didn’t invite you here. Get out.”

I’m ready for a snappy retort. We’ve slipped into our old game, well-crafted insults and veiled threats. I hate that being with him fills the ache inside me. I hate that I want more of his biting cruelty.

“I don’t give a damn if you invited me.” His lips curl into a sneer. “Do you really think I need an invitation, Stella? Come on. You can do better than that. And it is my business. You are my business.”

“No, I’m not.”
I wish I was.
“What happens if we turn the tables, Luke? Where have you been? My mother practically lost her mind with worry when she couldn’t find you. She sent a private investigator after you, for chrissakes. Where were all of your texts and e-mails about my
business
three years ago?”

There’s unacknowledged danger lurking below the surface of our words, but I want to walk on the edge. He disappeared without a trace, leaving my mother half-mad with worry and all of us sick with grief. I have to know why.

When he finally speaks, his voice is stripped of all emotion. A belligerent roar would be less terrifying.

“I was in England.”

I don’t believe him. Luke’s father is British, and that’s the only possible reason that he would have gone there. And that is unthinkable. Luke tolerates his mother and even treats her like a cossetted and very stupid family pet, but his hatred for his father runs deep.

“England?” I ask, incredulous.

“Cambridge. Then I headed off to London and worked with my dear old dad for a bit.”

“Seriously?”

“No, Stella. I’m lying to you.”

His sarcasm is laced with an undercurrent of self-loathing that I recognize immediately—I’ve heard it enough times in my own voice. At that small admission of his own vulnerability, my defenses start to disintegrate.

It must have taken an act of god for him to go there.

Not an act of god. An act of man. He wanted to punish himself for what happened.

The pieces start to fall into place. Except for one.

“How did you wind up in academia?”

“The only thing more disappointing than a son who wants to be a rock star is a son who wants to go into academia instead of international finance.” He gives me a wry look. “Studying psychology was the last straw. I needn’t have bothered with the rest of it. Could have saved me a fortune in tattoo cash.”

I can’t completely stifle my laughter as I try to picture the showdown between Liam Dixon and his son. To my surprise, Luke laughs, too, and the air fills with the sounds of mingled pleasure. For a moment, we both forget where we are and that we’ve become combatants rather than childhood playmates.

He remembers first and his scowl sucks all of the laughter from my throat.

“Tit for tat, Stella,” he says eventually. “Why didn’t you call? Write?”

A dozen answers dance at the end of my tongue: you are a living reminder of hell and I couldn’t face it; I’ve been running away for a very long time and all I wanted was for you to find me; I was afraid of what you would find when you saw the sham that is now my life.

None of them manages to escape my lips.

“You were in England, remember? I guess I forgot to order the international calling plan. It’s what, like five bucks a minute? Wasteful.”

“You cheeky, stubborn little prat.”

“Takes one to know one.” I cringe, inwardly, when those words actually enter the air. Again, I’m reverting to kindergarten insults. I can’t seem to string a coherent word together, let alone an entire thought. I stare at the patterned afghan on the couch, as if it might suddenly morph into a black hole that will suck me in.

Luke grabs my hand, roughly, and spins me to face him. I want to yank my flesh from his, but my body refuses to follow my brain’s commands. I let my hand linger in his calloused palm for just a second too long, and without warning, the words spill over, along with the pent-up emotion that I’ve been holding back forever. There’s nothing I can do about the fact that my voice no longer holds any trace of a tease. It’s been replaced by pure and undisguised longing. I’ve hanging by the slimmest of threads here.

“Why didn’t you call me? Try to find me?”

For three interminable years, I’ve wanted the real answer to that question, and not the half-truth. After a brief disappearance, he made amends with my parents. He talks to them. He even sees them on holidays, which is more than I can say for myself.

But never me. He never tried to find me.