I can’t sit still. I can’t be satisfied with just wondering what he’s doing in there, if he’s ok, if he’s finally gone too far this time. My reputation may be on the line, but, hell, so is his life. And cold bitch or not, I can’t not care about him.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, unsnapping my lap belt. When Tucker doesn’t respond, I tap him on the shoulder to get his attention.
“Yeah?” he says, pulling off his headphones.
I point toward the lavatory. “Bathroom.”
After Tucker’s moved into the aisle to let me out, he quickly sits back down to get back to whatever he’s doing. I know there’s some investigating that goes along with the passing of his patient, so I assume he’s still dealing with that.
When I get to the ugly, beige folding door, I tap lightly, as not to draw attention to myself or the person inside.
“Yeah?” replies a strained rasp.
“It’s me.”
A long moment passes before I hear the lock slide open, yet he doesn’t open the door. I look up to see that Tucker is still deeply engrossed in his work, and then I do the unthinkable. I step inside the tiny airplane bathroom with another man.
Ransom is leaning over the sink, palms pressed to the edge of the makeshift cabinet. His head is down, but I can see that his skin appears to be slicked with a thin sheen of sweat that looks clammy to the touch. I peer around his massive body, which takes up the entire space, save for the spot I’m standing in, and search for any signs of drug usage. But there’s nothing. Not a trace of paraphernalia.
“I don’t have anything on me,” he mutters, without lifting his head.
“I didn’t think you did,” I lie.
“I know why you’re here, Heidi. I know what you’re looking for.”
“Well, if you know, why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me you were a drug addict, Ransom?”
He chuckles under his breath, causing his hunched back to vibrate with mirth. “I’m not addicted to drugs, H.”
“Then what is it? Alcohol?”
“I wish.” The sound of his voice is so weak and defeated in this enclosed space, it seems to amplify every unsaid word and every rejected sentiment. I just want to lift my hand and touch him—for his comfort and for mine. Whatever is eating him up inside—whether it be pills or coke or booze—is hurting him. And he’s hurting himself to dull the pain.
“Ransom, you can talk to me,” I whisper. “Whatever is going on . . . I’m here for you.”
“Are you? Like you were there for me Saturday night?”
“That’s different. I needed to be home, and you were fine—”
“I know what you wanted to talk about, H. I know you wanted to leave me. Just like everybody else.”
My first reaction is to deny, but his words stun me into silence. I know you wanted to leave me. It sounds like so much more than annoyance at having to find a new publicist. So much more than just business. There’s pain behind those words—pain deeper than I could ever reach. And while I may not have initially caused it, I’ve become a physical reminder of it. An itchy, stinging scab over the secret laceration over his heart. And I don’t know why. I don’t understand why he’s given me the power to hurt him, when I never asked for that role.
“I’m not good for you,” I hear myself say on the edge of a whisper.
“I know. Nothing fun ever is. But I want you anyway.”
I look past his back to find that he’s looking at me through the tiny mirror, those dark, glassy eyes rimmed with even darker circles. I believe him about not using. I believe him but I don’t want to. The truth seems even worse.
The plane hits a rough patch of air, and we remember where we are. The haze of raw emotion retreats and we both sober with self-consciousness. Ransom turns on the miniature sink to splash water on his face. I fiddle with my hair as if I were actually doing something in here to mess it up. When I place my hand on the handle of the door, Ransom turns to look at me expectantly.
“Try to get some rest, ok? We’ll be in Arizona in a couple hours.” Then I escape that tiny closet filled with our secrets and skeletons, and hope that none have followed me out.
When I return to my seat, I find that Tucker’s eyes are still glued to the screen of his computer. He nods when I approach and gets up to let me in without letting his fingers leave the keyboard. I sit down and lean my head against the window, suddenly exhausted.
“Is he ok?”
I turn to my husband, his expression impassive, his attention still tuned to his work. When I don’t answer right away, he simply lifts a brow and gives me a mere fraction of a glance. That’s it.
“Yeah.” It’s a lie. Ransom isn’t all right. I’m not all right. And we . . . we haven’t been all right for a long time.
He nods. “Good.” Then he acts as if we hadn’t spoken at all.
Ransom returns to his seat minutes later, his color less pale and his face more relaxed. That alone is almost enough to soothe me into sleep. And just as the first caress of slumber starts to pull me under, I feel warm, callused fingers brush against the back of my right hand. The hand by the window. The hand that Tucker can’t see.
I fall asleep that way—my husband at my side, completely oblivious, and my one-time lover running his fingertips over my knuckles. And it feels like we’re fucking. Only this time, Tucker isn’t watching.
Chapter Twenty
Arizona is fucking hot.
Not New York hot, which is pretty damn miserable in the summertime. But West-coast-so-goddamn-dry-I-can’t-breathe-blink-or-swallow hot. I hate it. But the heat doesn’t compare to the way my hand still kindles with Ransom’s touch. Or the way Tucker’s shrewd stare burns right through me, picking me apart, sifting out the secrets and leaving behind the shame to fester and rot. I hate that too.
The limo ride to Justice’s compound is uncomfortable to say the least. But we try to make the best of the long journey by completely tuning one another out. Tucker goes back to whatever the hell he’s typing up on his MacBook. Across from us on the bench seat, Ransom slips on his headphones and pulls a notebook out of his bag. I watch with rapt fascination as he taps his fingers against the blank, paper canvas, head nodding, eyes closed. To watch him create—to breathe life into oblivion and somehow compose greatness—is probably the most intimate experience I’ve had with him to date. And even though I must look like a moron staring at him like he’s some rare, exotic piece of art, I can’t force myself to look away. He’s beautiful in his element—unguarded, pure. It’s like I’m truly seeing him for the first time.
His eyes suddenly open, and lock on to mine. He frowns for half a second before the corner of his mouth twitches. He mouths the word, What?, and the unspoken question, coupled with the flash of his tongue, unleashes a swarm of silk-winged butterflies inside my ribcage. Reflexively, I look over to my husband, who, as I expect, is none the wiser. When I turn back to Ransom, I simply shake my head. He lifts a challenging brow, tempting me to tell him what’s on my mind. But then again, I don’t have to. He can see the way my skin is flushed like it’s just been burned by the stubble of his chin. And the way my chest rises and falls with every single ragged breath as if he’s squeezing my lungs with his bare hands. And he surely notices the way my gaze runs over him, trying to capture every detail and download them to the forbidden file folder inside my mind.
He can see all these things, because in some convoluted way, Ransom has gotten inside of more than just my body. He’s watermarked my heart, and now he can read me like I’m splashed across the front pages of The Post.