Chapter 14
He'd refilled it.
I hadn't seen him pour. One moment the tumbler in my hands was empty, or near empty, with just that thin film of amber clinging to the sides. The next, he was back at the edge of the living room, near the dark wood door, holding a fresh one. Same clear glass. Same amber liquid catching the warm ceiling light. His hand was steady. His face was still that same calm, polite mask.
I was still in the beige armchair. My dress had stuck to the back of my knees. The rectangular pillow was wedged behind my lower back where I'd pushed it. I hadn't made myself comfortable. That was the point.
The four women were behind me. I didn't need to turn to know it. The air back there had gone cold and still, the way it had in the beginning, before they'd spoken. They weren't leaning forward now. They were standing straight. Waiting. I could hear my own breathing, slow and shallow, and nothing else from them. No warning this time.
He stepped forward. Two steps. He stopped just outside the reach of the armchair, the way a good host does, giving me space.
He looked at me and smiled, small and practiced.
"Welcome, please make yourself comfortable, have this drink."
The same words. Exact. Verb for verb as the first time. But this time it wasn't an offer. It was flattened out, a little slower on the please, a little harder on the have. He extended the glass toward me, elbow locked, palm open underneath.
I remembered what the space behind the chair had shown me. What I was supposed to do. Not just refuse. Destroy. But I needed him closer and I needed a second. Politeness was the only weapon he'd left me.
I didn't take the glass. I folded my hands in my lap, fingers laced tight so he wouldn't see them shake.
"Thank you," I said. My voice came out dry. I swallowed. "That's very kind of you. But I'm not comfortable."
His smile didn't drop, but it thinned. He tilted his head just a fraction, like he hadn't heard me right.
"No need to be shy," he said.
"I'm not shy," I said. I kept my tone as even as his, as polite. I mirrored him on purpose, each word measured. "You've been so welcoming. I appreciate it. I just haven't made myself comfortable yet."
I let my eyes glance down at the armchair, at the pillow, at the way I was perched on the edge of it instead of settled back. I didn't relax my shoulders. I kept my spine straight. Every inch of me said I was ready to leave, not stay.
Behind me, I felt the stillness shift. One of them exhaled, or I imagined it. A soft, almost inaudible breath against the back of the chair.
He extended the glass another inch. The amber liquid trembled, just barely, and then stilled.
"I insist," he said, still calm. "You will be more comfortable once you have it."
That word again. Comfortable. He used it like a key. He wanted me to lean back, to soften, to take the weight off my feet. To belong to the chair.
"I don't think I will be," I said. I looked up at him directly. I kept my hands together. I didn't reach. "I think I'd be more comfortable if I stood up."
For the first time his polite calm cracked, just at the corners of his eyes. He didn't expect me to use his line back at him. He took a half step forward and lowered the glass slightly, so it was right at the arm of the chair, right where I'd have to take it if I moved at all.
"Take it," he said, quieter now. "Don't be rude."
Behind me, the four women moved. Not forward. They spread, just a step, two on each side of the armchair's back. I could see two of them now in my peripheral vision, pale gray skin, long straight black hair, those dirty white dresses. They weren't looking at him. They were looking at me. At the glass. Counting.
I understood. They'd all taken it when he said that line. They'd all made themselves comfortable. They'd sat back.
I put my hands on the armrests. The beige fabric was warm from my palms. I didn't take the glass. I pressed down, like I was about to push myself up, but I didn't stand yet. I held there, hovering, refusing to settle.
"I'm sorry," I said, and I made my voice as calm and polite as his had ever been. "I can't make myself comfortable here. I don't think anyone can."
His jaw tightened. He leaned in, and the glass was inches from my hand now, close enough I could smell the sweet, sharp tang of the amber liquid. He was going to press it into my fingers whether I wanted it or not.
I kept my hands on the chair.
May you like
I had the opening. I had the plan.
I just had to not take it.
