Chapter 3

I felt ... entangled. Her amber eyes, her plump red lips, those long legs, that dark hair; all of it, every damn thing, had me entangled in emotions I hadn’t experienced before. I felt a white-hot flame in my chest: jealousy. It was something I’d never felt before—I’d never felt that a woman had belonged to me the way I felt that amber-eyed, broken creature belonged to me.

She’d been made for me, decided eternities ago. Created from my rib, we might’ve come from the stars. She was the angel I’d never dreamt of; she was the angel that this demon did not deserve.

And yet I wanted her, because guess what? I’m a fucking bastard.

I was in a place where time and space didn’t end. I told my best friend about it, stupidly, and he called it love.

“There’s one problem,” I said, swirling my wine in the glass. We had an intimate table at a nice restaurant in town, meeting for a late lunch on a Sunday.

“Don’t tell me she’s married,” Garret-Just-One-T said. He hated when people spelled his name with two T’s. He knew me better than anyone.

I took a sip of wine, my eyes still clear. Garret was tipsy and fidgety.

“She’s married to my boss,” I said.

Garret let out a hiccupy sort of laugh. “You bastard.”

“She’s not your wife.”

“You wouldn’t be alive if she were,” he said, grinning. “So, she shame the stars or something?” My friend Just-One-T, the poet, everyone.

“She’s a goddess,” I said. “I can’t fucking stand it.”

He leaned in close to whisper, the idiot. The entire restaurant’s atmosphere was already quiet. “Fuck her yet?”

A woman seated a table over shot him a dirty look. I would have said something to her, except I liked this restaurant. Getting kicked out and/or banned was ugly, and I hated ugly. I gave her a smile.

“Excuse him, he’s had too much to drink,” I said politely. The woman looked offended that I’d even addressed her. She turned away, muttering something I couldn’t understand. I didn’t care. She was a worthless piece of trash, a botched botox whore, clawing onto the last vestiges of youth. She had the kind of face I wouldn’t do the courtesy of pissing on even if it were on fire.

I turned to Garret and gave him one of those fuck-that-bitch looks. He laughed.

“So?” he pressed.

“No,” I said, chewing on the inside of my cheek. “No, I haven’t.”

“Wow, that sucks,” he said. “Can’t say I’m not surprised. Usually, we meet up so you can tell me about your conquests.”

I sighed. “We kissed. That was about it.”

“Tongue?”

“Don’t you have a girlfriend at home?”

“Don’t remind me,” he said grumpily. “She wants a ring.”

“It’s been five years. Maybe it’s time to dump her,” I suggested.

We both laughed, Garret the hardest.

“Nah, I love her,” he said. “I might propose if she gives me an ultimatum. If your goddess was divorced, would you marry her?”

“No, I don’t believe in marriage,” I reminded him. “It’s a waste of time, money and resources.”

“So what do you think you’ll do with this goddess of yours?”

“Fuck her, fix her.”

“She broken?”

“As broken as they get. She tried killing herself the night I met her. Almost jumped off the balcony.”

“Sounds like Titanic,” Garret said.

I grinned. “I shit you not, her exact words, ‘this isn’t fucking Titanic.’”

“Feisty.”

“Kind of,” I said, remembering the way she’d flipped me off. “I want her.”

“Take her then,” Garret said, taking a big gulp of his wine. I should cut him off, but I decided I’d drive him home instead. He could come back for his car when he was sober.

“I just have to find her,” I said, tapping my fingers on the table.

“Do you have a plan?” he asked.

“Not this time,” I said quietly. “She’s not part of our social circle. She doesn’t come to the dinner parties. It was a wonder that she came to the Christmas party. I wouldn’t know how to run into her.”

“Look her up on Facebook,” Garret suggested. “She’ll be on there for sure. Probably on some mom groups and shit.”

It hadn’t even occurred to me that she’d have children. She probably did. I mean, why wouldn’t she? A rich wife, probably a PTA mom with a little girl into gymnastics and horses and a shithead son who blew up his toy soldiers in the backyard. I could see them, little dark-haired amber-eyed kids, and I toyed with the idea of spending myself in her and making one of my own.

“Facebook,” I repeated slowly. “That could work.”

I didn’t look her up until I got to the gym later that evening. While I was running on the treadmill, I found her. Inaya Davis, born in Kabul, a Berkeley graduate, a former teacher for a nearby school district, and for whatever reason I couldn’t pinpoint: no kids. She’d gotten married to Douglas the Rambler seven years ago, and they had a golden retriever named Mango. I saw her birthday, and did the math; she was a good fifteen years younger than her husband, and at twenty-five, a mere three years younger than me. Her husband had married her at eighteen, making him an even bigger bastard than me.

Why had she done it? Green card? Controlling family? Small town that she needed to escape from? There was so much I suddenly wanted to know about this woman with the amber eyes. I remembered how she’d been angry enough to flip me the bird, and it made me smile. She’d shown me some emotion; it was something lacking in all her photos on Facebook. Her eyes were soulless, dead.

But with me, for one short encounter, I’d seen a spark in her and that spark had been as bright as the sun.

When I got home, I sent her a friend request. She didn’t accept it, but she did send me a message.