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Ugh, what is wrong with me?
“I’m actually going with Hayden.”
Which means it’s serious. Hayden doesn’t travel as much anymore, and they usually split up Angel, Inc. duties whenever possible. I know there’s another lab they work with in Rochester, and while a part of me wants to ask what happened, the other part knows it doesn’t matter.
This just isn’t working.
“I have a baby shower the weekend after that,” I say, grasping at straws. “But maybe you could come to Bridgewater?”
I know his answer even before he gives it.
“I can’t get away, not with everything going down at the moment.”
And there it is.
But I promised myself not to give up easily on him. So I keep trying.
“The weekend after?”
His eyes, always so expressive, give me the answer. He at least has the decency to look as devastated as me, although I doubt it. Only one of us is in love here, as far as I know. I’m beginning to wonder if Enzo is capable of loving anything like he loves Angel, Inc.
“So much for that,” I say, not even feeling the need to ask why that weekend won’t work either. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter.
“I told you, on the way back from Switzerland . . .”
I don’t blame him for sounding defensive, but I do blame him, maybe irrationally, for not making the situation clearer before he took complete control of my heart.
“You told me . . .” There’s a definite edge in my voice now, the kinds that cuts, but I can’t help it. “. . . you work a lot. Not that you work every waking moment.”
He grinds his jaw tight.
“But I suppose it’s my fault.”
If I’m lashing out, it’s because of the disappointment that feels like a lead weight in my gut. All the progress I’ve made this week, all of the grand promises to find myself, and it’s glaringly apparent I’ve failed. One cancelled weekend, and my world is shattered.
“I should have known better. If you can’t find time to come home for your family, then why did I think you’d find time for me?”
Enzo is getting angrier by the second, which is fine by me. Because I’m good and angry too. How long was he planning to jerk me around, exactly?
“I’m not gallivanting around New York with my new friends and leaving my family, or you, in the dust, Chari. I’m working. Building a company. Aside from Wednesday night, I don’t go out. I live in my office. You know that.”
I hate that I’m saying this. “And your special relationship with Faustini’s daughter?”
It was a stupid thing to toss in his face, but my anger has taken over.
“We’ve talked about the press, Chari. That was nothing.”
“I know.” And I really do.
But my chest feels like one of Devon’s prized bucks is lying on it. I can’t breathe right, because another thing I know is where this conversation is heading.
Maybe we can avoid it. Enzo is worth fighting for. I still believe that. Iknowthat. Maybe . . .
“There are trade-offs,” he says. “I bring my family on a cruise every year. Tris got to open his restaurant ten years earlier than he would have on his own. And we”—Enzo looks me straight in the eyes, or as close as he can through a piece of glass and metal—“we have Switzerland. Or anywhere else in the world you want to go, Char.”
So that’s his peace offering.
We may not see each other very often, but when we do, fancy dinners and 5-star hotels await. Does he seriously not know me at all?
