The hand on my waist tightened abruptly. He froze, swallowing hard.
“No,” he said, his voice thick. “You suspect me?”
I fell silent. It was a slip of the tongue. I knew he wasn’t that kind of person.
You You suspect me, for him?” His voice was incredulous. “He gets a little scratch, and you’re that worried about him? Holding his hand, wiping his sweat, letting him lean on you, visiting him for eight days straight! Clara, you used to only take care of me like that!
He took several ragged breaths, his voice cracking. “And you suspect me… Have I ever done anything like that? If I wanted to get
my hands dirty, you wouldn’t have a single man near you!”
We were too close. When a tear fell onto my cheek, it was still warm from his eye.
Adrian could hold his liquor. But it always went to his head. A little too much, and he became an irrational, clinging mess.
I pushed against his shoulders, trying to calm my racing heart, my voice trembling uncontrollably. “You know that was in the past.”
I enunciated each word carefully. “He’s the person I’m considering marrying now. Is there a problem with me taking care of him?”
I heard the joints in his hand crack. He was gritting his teeth, his breathing ragged. The alcohol seemed to have short–circuited his brain. He just kept repeating, his voice broken, “You used to… only be good to me.”
My sanity returned. I shoved him away. I found the switch and flipped it.
One by one, the lights came on, flooding the suite.
He stumbled back a few steps, then fell backward onto the sofa. His shirt was unbuttoned haphazardly. The leather sleeve garters were tight on his arms. His long legs were bent casually, his powerful frame on full display.
“I wasn’t only good to you,” I said, looking down at him. In contrast to his disheveled state, I felt strangely powerful. I’m good to my
partner. Do you understand? Adrian, we’re not together anymore.”
He stared at t me in silence.
I looked away. “You should get some rest. And don’t drink so much in the future. I’m leaving.”
I turned to open the door. The next second, he called my name, his voice choked and hoarse.
“Clara, Happy birthday.”
My heart cracked open.
stood frozen, unable to move. Countless images flooded my mind, none of them clear, but all of them painfully familiar. A two- year relationship that ended in a clean break. I would have preferred it if we’d drifted apart after the passion faded. At least then it wouldn’t be this… this addiction that tortured me on lonely nights.
And there was a child.
I hadn’t wanted to see him during the pregnancy, and he had been considerate enough to stay away. But I knew he’d been there. At first, his massage skills were terrible. My swollen legs felt even worse after he was done with them. But as the months went by, his technique improved.
When I was seven months pregnant, he came to rub stretch mark o oil on my belly. I was awake. I knew the baby had kicked him. Adrian had just sat there on the edge of the bed for a long time, his eyes red, locking completely lost.
I cursed myself for being so soft.
It was just a “happy birthday.” Just a simple phrase. Why was I thinking about all this?
I slowly sank to the floor, covering my face with my hands.
Footsteps approached. He knelt behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist.
“Adrian,” I said. “Just this once.”
