Page 80 of Jetmir

I danced, ignoring a thousand thoughts clawing their way through my head and emotions filling my chest. Every lyric seemed to find some tender, bruised place inside me and press against it.

I laughed under my breath, shaking my head as I took another drink.

Moonlight poured through the window, silvering the floor and catching on the rim of my glass. For a moment, everything felt strangely unreal—the music, the alcohol warming my veins, the shadows stretching across the room, and the ache I was desperately pretending not to feel.

I refused to think about memories that could still make my heart stumble even when my mind was screaming at me to let them go. I refused to feel the emotions that wanted him. The man—my husband—who held me prisoner here.

So I danced harder.

I reached for the door handle and pulled it open, slipping through without bothering to close it behind me. The cool night air brushed against my skin, instantly raising goose bumps along my arms. My yellow boy shorts and tank top weren’t enough to keep me warm in the cool fall night, even here in the Caribbean.

The terrace stretched before me, bathed in pale moonlight. I stepped farther outside, lifting my glass as if making a toast to the night, and then turned in a slow circle.

The song followed me through the open doorway.

I tilted my face toward the sky.

The moon hung above me brightly, its light spilling over everything and making the world seem softer than it really was.

I closed my eyes. And danced.

Barefoot against the cool terrace beneath me, drink in hand, hair brushing against my face as the night breeze moved around me.

For those few minutes, I let myself feel everything.

The anger. The longing. The hurt. The ridiculousness of still caring.

Every lyric felt like a direct accusation, calling me out on every emotion I had spent so much time burying.

Why did it have to be like this? Why wasn’t life simple? Why couldn’t we go back to where it all went wrong?

I wished there weren’t so many lies and wrongs sitting between Jetmir and myself because beneath all the violence, obsession, and ruin, I only wanted him.

I opened my eyes and stared up at the moon.

“Are you kidding me?” I whispered.

“Are you talking to the moon, my angel?”

My feet faltered and I whirled around to find my husband leaning against the doorway, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants. His arms folded against his muscular chest, his biceps flexing while he watched me with hungry eyes.

Slowly, like a predator not wanting to scare its prey, he walked over to me. His one hand slipped around my waist, resting on the small of my back, and his other took my free hand, lacing our fingers together.

We started slow dancing.

We barely moved, but I held on to him and my glass of alcohol. Maybe I wanted to have something to blame it on when I woke up in the morning. It had to be tequila. Or this night and the bright moon.

“I missed you, wife.”

My heart shuddered. That stupid organ missed him too. But I couldn’t utter those words and admit it. Instead, I said, “Did I wake you up?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“How did you know I was up, then?”

“Every exit door is alarmed. I get notifications when they open.”

“Ahhh, I forgot I’m in prison.”