Page 96 of Just One Look

* * *

He walkedout to the lobby less than ten minutes later, wearing another pair of shorts, a hoodie, and the ubiquitous flip-flops, which were called “jandals” here, with beads of water still clinging to his hair and all of him looking like he was heading out to play a rugby game. Upright. Set. Strong. He didn’t need the body language anymore, because Gerald was gone, but he hadn’t turned any of it off. He said, “Ready? Let’s go. I’ll follow you to your place, so I can drive you to dinner.”

It was like the lapse in time hadn’t happened, because they were right back there again. The wind had picked up a little, and the air between them felt as charged as if a thunderstorm was coming. Her heart was galloping all over again, too, and she clutched the keys in her hand like they’d offer some support and said, “I recognize what you’re doing, you know. It’s a dominance display, because you’re feeling powerless. What if I suggested we go to your house first, and that I driveyou?Bet that wouldn’t go over as well, would it? Why, though? Isn’t it enough that you beat the other guy?”

“No,” he said. “It’s not. Fine. We’ll go to my place. Follow me.”

“There you go again,” she said.

She’d thought he would think it was funny. Instead, his expression got harder. “What are you trying to do here?” he asked. “What’s the point? To let me know that you won’t sleep with me tonight? That you won’t sleep with me, full stop, because you only date doctors, or just because I’m rough as guts? Fine. I’m taking sex off the table. It’s off.”

“Then why are you …” She had to stop and take a breath. She couldn’t be wrong. She didn’t know men, but hadn’t this been obvious? “Why are you driving off the only person who’s willing to teach me to play squash? Of course, it was probably just because he actuallydidwant to sleep with me, looking for some quick points to score or maybe just the novelty of an American, but I could’ve strung him along for a couple more les—"

“No,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to tell me how that bloke wasn’t really interested.”

“Excuse me,” she said. “Do youknowme? I’m a wolf child. Also a neurosurgeon of the obsessive type. I’m not some … intoxicatingsiren.”

“You’re a piece of arse!”

It was more of a bellow than anything else. People looked. He put his hand to the back of his neck, and she said, “What’d you do? Don’t shout. It jars you. How bad is it?”

“Stop,” he said. “Just stop. Sorry I said that.”

“I think we should—” she said.

“I need to eat,” he said. “I’m driving to my house first. If you follow me, we can go together. If you don’t, I’ll turn around and go alone. But I can’t do this anymore. I can’t pretend anymore.”

* * *

He stalkedover to his car, grabbed the handle, swung inside in a way that hurt, and drove off. Not fast. Under control. He could still be under control. He was always under control.

She was right. He knew she was right. The knowledge wasn’t helping.

It had started off fine. It had started out funny, in fact. He’d known he could win, he’d won, and it had felt good. And when she’d challenged him, he’d kissed her in public. He’d kissed her hard, and she’d clutched his shoulder and lost her breath and had to hang onto the table. And then she’d called him on everything, and kept on doing it.

He didn’t want to care about any of this. He wasn’t helping her one bit, and he knew it. He was indulging himself, it was obvious, asserting himself in the most elemental way there was, because he was staring down the barrel of the end of rugby. If he needed to do that, though, he needed to find a woman who was down for it. It wouldn’t be hard. Elizabeth wouldn’t be coming with him tonight, because he kept showing her who he really was, and it wasn’t pretty. That was fine, though. That was best.

He did not need all these …emotions.Not the night before surgery. Not when the white-hot jabs of nerve pain were stabbing at him, and he was realizing that he hadn’t told anybody but his teammates what was going on, because telling anybody would bring too many questions, or, worse, would make them think he needed help. He didn’t need help. He needed dinner, and then he needed to watch something stupid on TV, preferably with explosions, and go to sleep.

He was prepared for tomorrow. He was prepared for anything. He always had been. Things happened. He coped.

He was making the turns by rote, his peripheral vision picking up pedestrians, bicycles, somebody opening a car door into traffic. His foot on the accelerator, his hands on the steering wheel reacting automatically. Up the hill, past restaurants filling with dinner patrons, past shopkeepers closing up for the evening. Dizengoff up ahead, and the turn for his place.

He passed it and kept going up the hill.

Turn around,he told himself.Turn around now.

He didn’t.