53 Letters For My Lover (2 page)

We turn as Jayne and Matt make their entrance. I watch over the back of Troy’s shoulder, acutely aware of the way his hair grazes the top of his collar. He shifts, putting his hand on the small of my back, and guiding me in front so I can see better. It’s the lightest touch, but every part of me bristles. How dare he kiss Jayne? How dare he stand behind me and cheer and clap as if he hasn’t betrayed years’ worth of her family’s trust?

“There you are.” Long, red talons claim his arm as a chestnut haired beauty sidles up to him. “Did you forget about me?” she purrs.

Of course. A date.

“Heather.” He smiles. “Where’s Felicia?”

“Right here, darling.” A honey hued goddess coos, leaving a neon pink lip print on his cheek.

Huh. Two dates.

The clapping stops. It’s time for us to take our seats. Thank god. I wish he would just leave.

He walks his dates to the other side of the table and takes the empty seats next to Ryan.

No. Nonononono.

We sit across from each other, through the speeches and dances and toasts—me with Bob on one side and Ryan’s little girl on the other; him, flanked by twin bombshells.

“So explain to me what it is that you do,” says Bob as we’re finishing dinner. “This ‘internet’ that I’ve been hearing about.”

“It’s quite simple really,” replies Troy. “A system of computer networks that connects people around the world. It’s been around for a while, but it’s just starting to get interesting. My company designs and implements security protocol for businesses that want to establish their presence online, so that sensitive information exchanged on the internet stays secure.”

“It’s really taking off,” says Ryan. “Troy’s firm is doing so well, he needs to set up offices here in Toronto to cover the Canadian side of his operation.”

“Well that’s great,” says Elizabeth when Heather and Felicia leave for the ladies’ room. “What I want to know is, when are you going to settle down?”

“Oh no, no, no, mum.” Ryan holds his hands up. “Did you
see
those girls? Troy, buddy, live it up. For the both of us, man.” He clinks glasses with him.

“I’m just saying,” Elizabeth continues, unfazed. “It’s all fun and games until someone steals your heart from right under your nose. You should think about that, young man.”

“I don’t know,” replies Troy, twirling his glass. “What do you think, Shayda?”

He says my name like he’s been holding it in his mouth for a long time, savoring it, letting his tongue taste each vowel, each consonant, before releasing it with a warm ‘ahhh’.

Am I the only one hearing this? Seriously? Shaydahhh.

I lift my eyes and find him watching me. Intently. Like I’m some specimen he’s pinned to a cork board with brightly colored thumb tacks.

“Hey.” Jayne and Matt stop by our table. “Why isn’t anyone dancing? Come on guys. Let’s go, let’s go!”

Jayne seems relaxed, like she’s really enjoying herself. I steal another look at Troy. No reaction. It’s as if I imagined the whole thing between them.

Ryan and Ellen take the kids and follow the bride and groom to the dance floor. Heather and Felicia return, giggling. Nothing like a trip to the ladies’ room for some female bonding. They drag Troy away, one on each arm.

Elizabeth declines, pointing to her half-finished plate. “Why don’t you take Shayda?” she tells Bob.

“No thanks,” I reply. “I prefer to sit and watch.”

“Suit yourself,” says Bob. “But Milton Malone is making his way over and I have a feeling it’s not me he wants to dance with.”

“Oh Bob! Why would you invite him?”

“I invited a lot of our clients.”

“Let’s go.” I grab him, and we scoot off to the dance floor.

“She picked the perfect venue,” says Bob.

I nod. In spite of the extensive renovations inside the mansion, the graceful estate that Jayne chose for her wedding retains the glamour and romance of the 1920s.

“This is where I’m going to get married,” she said when the proprietor showed us the sunken garden. “And this is where we’ll have the reception.”

The room looks even more beautiful at night, with twinkling chandeliers and creamy damask curtains.

“Was this intentional?” asks Bob.

“What?”

“You match the decor.”

I laugh. I’m wearing a knee-length dress that reflects the soft, blush tones on the wall.

“I think you should get Elizabeth for this number,” I say when the DJ switches to a slower beat.

“Liz has her partner picked and it looks like she’s having way too much fun for me to cut in.”

“Where is she?” I laugh, turning around, and find myself staring straight at Troy Heathgate.

“Mind if I cut in?” he asks Bob. It’s more of a statement than a request. “Thank you for saving me a dance, Lizzie.”

“Oh no. Thank
you.
” She fans herself. “I hope you can keep up, old man,” she tells Bob, and is promptly rewarded with a smack on the bottom. They dance off happily.

Troy clasps my fingers in one hand while the other circles my waist. Jon B’s dulcet tenor mingles with the cool vocals of Babyface. ‘Someone To Love,’ they croon.

He leads me flawlessly, in a slow, lazy rhythm. The jacket has come off. I can feel the warmth of his body through the crisp cotton shirt—every turn, every twist, every flex of hard muscle beneath. My eyes are level with his collar, staring at the undone buttons, the tie that’s been loosened as though he can’t stand to be restrained. I keep my eyes on the silver cross resting in the groove between his collarbones. Some things never change.

“So.” His breath lifts the tendrils off my neck. “Here we are, Mrs. Hijazi.”

“You remember...” The words spill out before I can stop myself.

“Of course.” Like anything else was unimaginable. “Was it a girl, with sunset red in her hair, like her mother?”

“Yes,” I reply. “But she looks more like her father.”

We move silently, thinking of that other night, when we danced under fluorescent lights, between rows of magazines and toilet paper and chewing gum.

“Are you happy, Shayda?”

A second. That’s all it takes. A single beat of hesitation on my part.

When Natasha was a year old, Hafez and I had gone to see ‘Fright Night’. Jerry Dandridge was the dark, seductive vampire who couldn’t cross the threshold unless you let him in.

Here I am, ten years later. Troy Heathgate is at my door.

Let me in.

I falter.

Sometimes I wonder how many worlds unfurled in that one second.

“Roses.” He smiles and shakes his head. “I smell roses.”

“I’m not wearing any perfume.”

“I know.”

My heart quickens as his eyes roam my lips, pausing over the faint silver scar.

“Your dates are waiting for you,” I say.

Heather and Felicia have turned their chairs and are following our every move.

“Let them wait.”

We cover the floor, mingling with other couples. Dancing with him would be effortless. If I could relax.

“What?” I ask when the weight of his stare became too much.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he replies. “What. What is it about you, Shayda Hijazi? There’s nothing remarkable about the shape of your eyes or your nose or your face. And yet, when you put it all together, something extra-ordinary happens. Everything clashes. That cool rosebud mouth sets off whatever is percolating in your turkish-coffee eyes. Your eyebrows. Such a proud arch to them. Completely at odds with this demure nose. And when you look away, it’s as if some soot is going to fall off your lashes and smudge those chaste cheeks. You’re a mass of contradictions, Shayda. All these delicious curves, wrapped around a rod of steel.”

“It’s called a backbone, Troy. And you don’t seem to have one. Or do you just have a thing for married women?”

“I have a thing for women all right.” He laughs. “Delicious creatures, every one of you. Married? Maybe one...”

“Just Jayne then?”

I have to hand it to him. He doesn’t flinch. Or falter.

“You saw that, did you?” His eyes gleam with hidden mirth. “Did it offend your sensibilities, Shayda?”

“You think it’s funny?” My temper flares. “I wonder what Ryan or Bob would say if they knew.”

“I wouldn’t mention it to anyone if I were you.” His fingers tighten painfully around my waist.

The song ends, but the air continues to thrum between us.

“I’d like to sit down now,” I say.

“You know what I’d like to do?” His grip shows no sign of relaxing. “I’d like to loosen this tight little up-do of yours and let your curls fall free. I’d like to see what you’d be like if you weren’t so ruthless with yourself, Shayda.”

I shrug his hands off. “Stay away from me, Troy. And stay away from Jayne.”

I turn and head for the table, feeling him hot on my heels.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Heather intercepts him and leads him back to the dance floor.

“He’s got that whole alpha-male vibe going on, doesn’t he?” says Felicia as I collapse into my chair. “If Troy Heathgate locks in on you, you’re done for. Even when you know he’s so, so bad for you, it feels so, so good.”

Unbelievable. The Troy Heathgate Admiration Society.

“How do you do it?” I ask. “How do you...share?”

“Look at him,” she says. “Wouldn’t you rather have a piece than nothing at all?”

We watch as he leans in to catch something Heather is whispering in his ear.

“I’m going to get a drink.” Felicia gets up.

A woman doesn’t like to share, no matter how well she’s convinced herself otherwise.

I see Milton Malone making a beeline for the table. It’s too late to make my excuses so I say no to the dance and suffer through the conversation. Bob rescues me a little later.

“Jayne and Matt are looking for you,” he says. “Hey, Milton. How’ve you been?”

I escape to the head table to say my goodbyes.

“What? No way!” says Jayne. “We’re just getting started.”

She pulls me back to the dance floor. It’s fun until I notice Troy Heathgate’s eyes on me. Every time I turn around, there he is, following me with brooding eyes. Having shots at the bar, looking at me. Listening to his dates, looking at me. Toying with his drink, looking at me. Like a hunter stalking his prey. Watching and waiting.

By the time everyone returns to the table, my legs feel unsteady.

“I have to pick up the kids,” I say, gathering my things.

“Don’t forget to take the centerpiece with you.” Elizabeth points to the ivory orchids in the glass vase.

“I thought the centerpiece goes to the person whose birthday is closest to the wedding date,” says Ryan.

“Yes. That would be Shayda,” replies Elizabeth.

“No, that would be Troy.”

“Shayda.”

“Troy.”

Elizabeth sighs. “Shayda’s birthday was yesterday.”

“No shit! Troy’s was yesterday too.” Ryan slaps the table and laughs. “You guys have the same birthday?” He looks at Troy and then at me.

Troy watches my discomfort with tipsy amusement. Or maybe that’s just how he looks when he’s completely sloshed.

“What do you say, Shayda? Arm wrestle me for it?” He reaches across the table.

His ‘s’s are shlurred. Um, slurred.

“How about we go by birth year then?” suggests Elizabeth. “Troy?”

“1962.”

Nineteen shixty two.

“Shayda? You don’t have to say. Just before or after?” She asks with a sensitivity that makes me smile.

“Same,” I reply.

Elizabeth sits back. “Now isn’t that something?”

“My grandma used to say that people born on the same day are two halves of the same soul,” says Heather.

“You hear that, Shayda?” Troy props his elbow on the table and rests his cheek on his palm. “We’re shoulmates.”

Everyone laughs. He sounds like Sean Connery on Her Majeshty’s Shecret Shlurrvish.

“Well, I’ll be on my way,” I say.

“Please.” He picks up the orchids and stands, surprisingly steady on his feet. “I prefer prickly roses.”

I reach for the flowers.

“I’ll walk you out,” he says, holding on to them.

“That’s not necessary.”

“I insist.” He points to the door.

Milton Malone is checking his breath.

He’s not a bad guy. Really. Troy is much worse, except that he could charm the tux off a penguin.

God. I miss Hafez.

Troy leads me to the coat check and waits while I pick up my wrap.

“Here.” He puts it around me as I juggle my keys and purse.

His knuckles graze my nape, lingering there, a fraction longer than necessary. And then I feel something else, something soft and warm on my skin.

I spin around, clutching the back of my neck.

“Did you just...?”

“Sorry. My lips may have...” He points to his mouth and then to my neck.

“You’re not sorry at all!”

“No, not really.” He grins. It’s completely lop-sided.

“You’re drunk.” I can still feel my skin tingling.

“Guilty.” He raises one hand.

“Hey, Shayda. Are you leaving?” Milton Malone catches up with us.

“I am. Goodnight, Milton.”

“Yes. Goodnight, Milton.” Troy picks up a mint from the counter and hands it to him.

“I can take it from here, Troy,” I say.

“As you wish.” He hands me the vase and holds the door open.

I step outside, thankful for the slight chill in the air. He follows me out.

“I
said
I can take it from here.” I glare at him.

“Just getting a smoke,” he replies, holding out a pack of cigarettes.

A shmoke. I roll my eyes.

I cross the parking lot, acutely aware of his eyes following me, and don’t let my breath out until I get in the car. I hope it’s another twelve years before I see him again. Maybe he’ll have tobacco teeth by then. And thick, bushy hair growing out of his ears. And, please god, a beer belly. Yes, a beer belly would be quite nice.

I round the exit and catch the red glow of his cigarette. His dark silhouette watches me from the stairs as my tail lights disappear into the night.