Breaking Him

It was Dante.  He’d changed into a dark, dark suit that set off his golden hair and skin to an unfair degree.

This was the look that suited him best; he was born to be a villain in black.

My shallow, superficial self was devastated by the sight of him.

It should have been against the law for him to go out in public like that.  It did indecent things to me.

“Are you ready?” he asked me, eyes on my feet, though he didn’t comment on the shoes.  “It’s almost time to go.”

“I won’t share a car with her,” I said quietly and vehemently.

I hadn’t even realized I was thinking the words.  They’d flown out of my mouth completely of their own accord.

But I meant them.  I would not, could not share a car with Tiffany.  I refused to share anything with her for the rest of my life.  I had shared enough.

He nodded solemnly.  “Of course not.”  He held out his arm.  “Let’s go?”

“Is Eugene driving me?” I asked.

He went from looking stoic to annoyed, which had been my intent.  “No.  I’m taking you.  Are you ready?”

“Is it . . . just us driving together?”  I wanted to know what I was in for.  The dreadful possibilities were endless, and it was telling that being alone with him was far from the worst option.

“Yes, if you’re all right with that,” he bit out the words.  I could tell he’d misunderstood the reason for my question, and it was almost a relief to realize that sometimes he could completely misread me.

“Fine,” I said.  I grabbed my small purse out of the room, taking his arm but giving him nothing, letting him stew on the misunderstanding.  “Let’s go.”

He led me out of the house without another word.

Moving with him, the way we walked together, how he opened every door and handed me into his car like it was his personal duty, all of it was painfully familiar.  If I let myself, I could forget for a moment, two, three, four, that we were years away from the time when we’d belonged so desperately to each other.

I tried to distract myself from it on the drive by antagonizing him.  “Is she staying at Gram’s?”

He glanced at me, then back at the road, tugging at his collar.  “I’ve no clue.  I assume she’s staying either at my mother’s house or with her parents.  I didn’t ask.”

“I won’t stay under the same roof as her.”

He started chewing his lip so intently, a nervous tell of his, that I had to look away.  “The only accommodations I arranged were yours and mine.  I honestly have no clue what anyone else is planning.  Well, besides my father.  He’s staying at Gram’s, as well.”

That didn’t surprise me one bit, and I couldn’t have cared less.  Still, it was a sore spot for Dante, so I did a bit of picking at it.

“Did he bring his mistress?” I prodded.

His mouth twisted bitterly and the look he shot me was not hostile so much as wounded.  “No.”

“Don’t you find it ironic how much you resent his mistress, all things considered?”

Oh, ho.  Big point for me.  That one was a doozy.  The black look he sent me for that had my heart beating faster and had me fighting not to smile.

“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” I hummed under my breath.

He hit the brakes, stopping the car so fast that I had to brace myself against the dashboard.

“Oh my God.  Really?” he ground out.  “Is there any low fucking blow you won’t resort to, on today of all days?  Can’t you save it for even one fucking day?  On this fucking day, when we bury Gram?”

My high at riling him went instantly to a low, and I had to look away, flushing with shame.  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly.  Not even I was this big of a bitch, not even to him.  “I was just trying to distract myself by antagonizing you,” I admitted to the window.

“I’m well aware, but can you give a rest for a few hours?  Please.”

I nodded, stunned at how freely the P word seemed to roll off his tongue lately.

He began to drive again and the car fell quiet for a time.

Without even the distraction of messing with him, my thoughts went dark, to Gram, to the past, to how long it’d been since I saw her last, and how that was all my fucking fault.

“I still spoke to her every week,” I told him.  “She’d call me like clockwork, and I always made sure I was available to talk to her for at least an hour.”  It was a small bit of comfort for him, and I offered it up as a defensive apology.

“I know.  I know,” he said with jaw clenching stiffness.  Clearly, he was still upset.

That had been my whole repertoire on trying to make him feel better, so I gave up after that.

I couldn’t even make myself feel better.  How on earth would I know how to fix him?

My talent lay in making him feel worse, and if that was off the table, I figured I should just shut up.

It was a bit of a drive to the funeral parlor, I vaguely remembered, though I’d only been there a few times my whole life.

We were maybe halfway there when Dante put his hand on my leg.  His warm grip squeezed the spot just above my knee.

It was so familiar, something he’d done hundreds of times at least, that at first I just stared, my sensory memory at war with my current perception.

It took me a minute, but finally I managed to get out a quiet but firm, “Stop touching me.”