Page 107 of Alexander: Alexander's Story

Emma

When he stopped to get a condom, that’s when I knew. As stupid as it sounds, it’s the truth. My heart sank with realization.He couldn’t risk being stuck with me.

And yet, once he was done fucking me like I was the other half of his soul, he had no qualms about keeping me in his bed all night. It was a wordless command, just a hand holding my hip tightly all night.

I always thought whenmyperson was fucking me, claiming me, it would be violent, rough. Desperate. It would be a clawing and clamoring to consume the other. Maybe, in the end, it was a little.

But whathadhappened was him fucking me like I wastrulythe other half. He had been tender, like I was thebetterhalf of his whole, and he wanted to take care. He wanted to treat me better than he would treat himself. He gave me everything he thought he’d never be.

Silly, really, because he was more. So much more, and I saw it the first time I laid eyes on him, from the very first moment.

Our story wasn’t one of love at first sight. Though maybe it was a little for me.

No, it was recognition at first sight.

I saw him. And he saw me. Not as I was. Not as some diner waitress, but asme. He saw Emmaline with the gentle soul, and she saw Alexander, the warrior. The good man. It was yin and yang finding each other after years of loneliness and despair.

And so our lives merged in the same fashion. It wasn’t violent and fast. It was a melding. A slow transition to be reacquainted with the other half of you. There was a push and pull to our story, highs and lows, ins and outs, but I always thought it was us in the end.

But it wasn’t.

He held my body tight against his until sunrise, when I felt our spell break.

We were this tangible living thing one moment, and then it was all gone in the next. Nothing changed aside from time moving forward. But for Alex, we passed some invisible threshold, and he released me. Literally and figuratively.

I could feel his body still near mine. He was still lying on the bed beside me, even though he was no longer curled around me. Somehow, I knew he was staring at the ceiling.

It took everything in me not to roll over and face him. To not face this head-on.

But I was still holding on. To him. To the idea of us. To the hope that I’m his tomorrow, and he’s mine. And if I rolled over, I knew definitively those dreams would die.

So I held tight to the delusion and continued lying on my side, not looking at him, until the mattress shifted under his weight as he got up.

He asked me if I would still go with him to the wedding…and apparently, I don’t know how to say no. Because am I going to hang on to this for as long as possible?Yes.Am I pathetic?Also yes.My age-old curse of not knowing when to leave was back with a vengeance.

I want to believe this is just a small lapse in judgment. I want to be absolutely delusional and hope beyond hope this whole wedding has just put him under undue stress.

But he pulled away from me. Ever since the accident, he’s been someone else. Maybe because I’m someone else, too, butwhatever the reason, he stepped back. And then took another small step, and then another, until we were worlds apart. Again.

Which is how we landed in this massive hotel suite, on opposite ends, getting ready for a wedding reception neither of us even want to go to.

Impossibly, I’m done getting ready first. After double-checking the living space and finding it vacant, I step back into my room to do one last once-over. I don’t want to risk not being absolutely perfect. Not for him, but forher.

I’m not dressed for Alex tonight. No, I’m dressed for her. The dress I chose says youth and sex, yet timeless and demure. I wanted a dress that left everything andnothingto the imagination. I wanted a dress she wouldknow.

I still remember my closet filled with her expensive clothes. Clothes I never had, but I knew. After all, I am the daughter of Darla Strait. She might be white trash, but she still had her Oscar De La Renta gown she’d worn to the Opry. She kept her first pair of Prada heels, remnants of the good ol’ days. I know what all the labels are and what they mean, but before now, I’ve never cared.

Never had a reason to care.

My silk Saint Laurent gown clings to me everywhere it should, then hangs perfectly like a sensual guessing game. I slip on the Amina Muaddi “glass slippers” and grab my vintage beaded clutch, the same one I wore on my wedding day. It feels like an iconic thing to do.

Perhaps I wasn’t a queen in real life. I wasn’t the one turning heads, but I would today.

My hair falls voluminously down my partially bare back, and my makeup — which I practiced no less than ten times — came out perfect. If my dress was white or ivory, people might have mistaken me for the bride. And yes, that’s on purpose.

I’m not petty by nature. Normally. But today, I feel like someone different. Less naive, more cynical. The glass isdefinitely half empty even as I stand in this suite, even in my $3500 gown.

With a last glance in the mirror, I fluff my hair and leave my room to wait for him. The living space is empty, though. Still.