Chapter 40

“You’re a great dancer,” she said.

She hoped she didn’t sound bitchy. It took energy she didn’t have not to sound bitchy. Finally, blessedly, they had said their goodbyes—after Max ordered the two of them to come to Old Saybrook for breakfast with the family the next day—and they were in a cab, heading back to the hotel.

“Ballroom lessons at the Academy.”

“They think of everything, don’t they?”

Alright, that sounded bitchy.

“Everything okay?”

“I’m just beat. I don’t think I feel well.”

“I’m sorry. I really appreciate you coming. I know it was a lot. Everyone loved you though. No surprise there.”

Corey gave a weak smile, then turned toward the window. It wasn’t even that she was jealous, it was just one more thing. Everything had gone to shit with A-Game, with Lou, and the ball was supposed to be a respite, but instead the whole day made her feel out of sorts to the point of feeling feverish. Seeing him dance with his ex-wife wasn’t a big deal, she told herself, but seeing him dance with his ex-wife so perfectly, when she felt so off, well that was just one more fucking thing. It was time to flip the script, she thought, and she turned back toward him.

“Let’s fly somewhere. Right now.”

He laughed. “What?”

“Let’s just find a beach for a couple of days. Disappear, play hooky. Just me and you.”

He looked at her. “You’re serious.”

“Come fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly away…” she crooned.

She knew just by the tone of his good-natured laugh that he hadn’t even considered it.

“Come on, we have breakfast in the morning, then I have to hit the road on Monday, then prep for this week’s seminars…” He gave her hand a squeeze then he turned to face the window, not meeting her eye. “We will though. Soon.”

“Sure.”

They were back at the hotel in minutes, and once inside, their room felt smaller than it had in the afternoon, when it was dappled in golden light. Now it looked dark and cramped. She made a beeline for the bathroom. Once inside, she took several deep breaths.

With the trip, he had just dismissed her trip idea—kindly, gently, and with a smile on his face—as if she was a little girl asking for a unicorn. Only what she had asked for was not outlandish. Or rather it wouldn’t be if he didn’t waste so much of their time together behind the fucking wheel.

Here I am throwing a beautiful Hail Mary pass, she thought, and rather than catching it, he shoots it out of the damn sky…

She felt depleted, physically and mentally, but she was also irritated and wanted to get out, go for a walk, get some fresh air. But there was no way to do that without Kyle offering to come along, and if she said she wanted to be alone, there was no way it wouldn’t arouse suspicion or get into a sticky discussion. Every option seemed like it would just turn into a whole…thing.

And a nagging, surly part of her wanted to make it a thing.

But first she would have to fend him off. Had it been any of their other weekends, they would have gone at each other like a pair of teenagers. And now there was a healthy bit of alcohol added to the mix, which only made it worse. She took a deep breath, exhaled, and stepped outside to find the lights dimmed.

He was still dressed in his suit, an inky shadow seated on the bed. He rose to meet her, wrapped his arms around her, and began kissing her neck. Rather than softening, or responding to his touch, she stood as rigid as she had with Deaver. She realized she hadn’t even lifted her arms to him.

“What is it?” he said.

“I don’t get your best,” she said.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m not getting your best.” It just came out.

“Is this about the dance?”

“Yes. No. Somewhat.”

“It wasn’t even my idea. Bobby egged us on.”

“It’s not just the dance, Kyle. You used to want to fly with her, but you can’t even be bothered to get on a plane for me.”

Kyle took a step back, eyeing her warily. “Where is this coming from?”

“How much time have you wasted, going back and forth in that stupid car of yours? You could’ve tacked on another two days on any visit. We totally could have hopped a plane in the morning.”

“Where is it you want to go?”

She made a guttural noise. He wasn’t getting it. “I don’t want to go anywhere. It’s the fucking principle of it. Doesn’t anybody care about principles anymore?”

“I’m not tracking…”

She could feel her buzz curdling into a rage buzz, which was no less intoxicating. She felt it coming on, a flood tide of anger and disappointment sweeping her along, toward a palpable desire to break stuff. Like hurling her phone or the involuntary bellow of curses after a stubbed toe. It was so seductive, that desire to burn everything to the ground. The flame didn’t burn clean, but it was warm and it gave off a dazzling light.

“I wrote songs for A-Game like some fucking whore, giving up my principles in part for you, and you can’t even fly coach for me?”

She saw Kyle’s jawbones flare, and it pleased her. Finally, she was getting a rise out of the guy, but he kept his voice low and steady.

“I didn’t ask you to do any of that. If you recall, I didn’t even know about it. And I don’t appreciate you throwing the flying into my face. If you were pissed about it, you should’ve said so before getting drunk and dropkicking me with it.”

“Did you fly for her?”

“No,” he said, steel in his voice. “My turn. What happened with A-Game?”

“Nothing,” she spat. “I whored myself out and nothing came of it.”

“Why do you keep saying you whored yourself out? You wrote them songs, you didn’t commit treason. It’s just music.”

“‘Just music?’” she said. He had just given her the rocket fuel necessary to reach escape velocity. “Did you really say ‘just music?’”

“Come on, that’s not what I meant…”

He stood in the center of the room and she whirled around him, grabbing the clothes that she had been so quick to get out of earlier that afternoon. She strode to the bathroom and used her forearm to sweep the sink of its toiletries into her bag.

“This was such a mistake…”

Hey, come on,” he said, gentler now. He reached out to grab her arm and she recoiled.

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

He backed a slow, deliberate step and raised his hands.

“Just music,” she spat. “Music is my life! How would you like it if I said to you, ‘Just risk?’ Which is rich, because you don’t risk shit. Better yet, what if I said ‘just fear,’ because that’s what your whole fucking life is based on. Fear of getting on a goddamn plane or fear of, God forbid, something spontaneous happening. Of something going wrong. I have news for you, man—shit goes wrong all the time. It’s one thing to own an umbrella, it’s another to buy a fucking wag bag.”

He winced at that. It felt good to land a blow, to knock him off balance for once. And she was on a roll. It was like picking a scab or touching a sore tooth or any other oddly satisfying tactile sensation that one couldn’t stop despite its utter lack of benefit.

“Wag bag?”

“Kirby told me about it.”

“Yes, I got her school waste kits for active shooters. So?”

“So it mortified her.”

“Yes. I heard all about it at the time. Years ago. What the hell does that have to do with us?”

“Because when we were walking along the canal, I pointed out the pretty houses and you pointed out that they flood. It’s…it’s like your software, your app. It’s a choose your own adventure, except there’s no winning with you. Just staving off disaster. I see the ocean, you see a storm surge waiting to happen. I can’t live like that.”

“I’m not asking you to live like that.”

“You can’t help it. You’re hardwired that way. And I’m hardwired another way.”

“In other words, ‘it’s not you, it’s me.’” For the first time, he sounded as bitter as she did.

“Whatever,” she said and moved for the door. “I’m out.”

“Let’s just be clear here,” he said, “I’m not the one who’s afraid.”

“Really, Doctor?” she said, dripping with disdain and whirling back around.

“I love you and you love me, whatever all this is,” he said, waving his arms in front of him. “We’re good, Corey. And I think that’s what you’re afraid of. Of digging in when things get too real or too hard, because if you try and fail there’s no one else to blame. You’re afraid of this,” he said, indicating the space between them again, “working. You’re afraid of success, so you’re running away.” 

“Whoa,” she said. She pressed her fingertips to her temples and popped them open, pantomiming her mind being blown. “I got news for you, man. My version of success is clawing. Yours is nesting. My version of success doesn’t include military balls or breakfasts with your perfect family or worrying about meteors all day or whatever the hell it is that you fret about.”

“Easy there with my family,” he said, the frustration finally breaking loose. “I’m sorry your family situation sucked growing up. I am. And I’m sorry the family you chose next turned out to be a bunch of backstabbing assholes.”

“You don’t get to talk about The Toddlers. You don’t know shit.”

“I know a little something about being risk-averse. About pushing people away, thinking you’re protecting yourself.”

“You don’t know shit about me either.”

“Because you won’t let me get past the Rock Star. Corey Lyondell would rather keep it easy and breezy and half-ass her way through real life.”

“Fuck off, Kyle,” she said and threw her middle finger up and over her shoulder on the way out the door.