CHAPTER 4: I CAN’T TOUCH YOU
972 Words
ANNY
The message disappears when Oliver opens the car door.
“Who is J.A.?” I ask.
He stops with one hand extended toward me.
The hesitation lasts barely a second, but I see it.
“Why were you reading my phone?”
“It lit up beside me.”
“That doesn’t make it yours.”
I step out without accepting his hand. “Someone told you to keep your hands off me, Oliver. That makes it my business.”
The hotel manager waits a few feet away, pretending not to understand English. Oliver gives him a strained smile and guides me inside without touching me.
We do not speak again until the elevator doors close.
“It concerns an old business agreement,” Oliver says.
“Did you sign it?”
His eyes remain fixed on the changing numbers above the door. “Yes.”
“With J.A.?”
“No.”
“Then who is he?”
Oliver looks at me. “This is not the place.”
“Neither was your parents’ house. Apparently, there is no place where I deserve the truth.”
The elevator opens before he answers.
Our last-minute reservation has earned us the hotel’s final available suite. The bedroom is larger than our room at home, but it contains only one bed. Beyond a pair of glass doors, the sitting room offers an elegant sofa that is much too short for Oliver.
He places his suitcase beside it.
“I’ll sleep here,” he says.
“Because J.A. told you to?”
“Because you need rest.”
“I am tired of you deciding what I need.”
Oliver removes his jacket with controlled movements. “We have a meeting at nine. We can fight after you’ve slept.”
“How efficient.”
“What do you want from me, Anny?”
“An honest answer.”
His expression closes. “I can’t give you one tonight.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
I take my suitcase into the bedroom and close the glass doors harder than necessary.
Sleep does not come.
For an hour, I stare at the ceiling while fragments of the last two days circle one another: the man removed from the photograph, the brass key, Roberta’s warning, and the message signed with initials Oliver refuses to explain.
Keep your hands off her.
The order should humiliate me. Instead, it gives shape to something I have felt since our wedding.
Oliver’s distance is not indifference.
It is obedience.
At one thirty, I leave the bedroom and find him on the balcony. He has changed into a white shirt and dark trousers, but sleep does not seem to have touched him either.
Buenos Aires glows below us, headlights moving along rain-dark streets.
“You’ll freeze,” he says.
Before I can object, he drapes his jacket over my shoulders. His fingers graze the back of my neck, then vanish.
Always an accident. Always followed by retreat.
“Are you afraid of J.A.?” I ask.
Oliver leans against the railing. “No.”
“Then why do you obey him?”
“I don’t.”
“The message suggests otherwise.”
His gaze settles on the city. “Some agreements have consequences for people who never consented to them.”
“People like me?”
The silence answers.
Anger pushes me closer. “Was our entire marriage designed around this agreement?”
“Not the entire marriage.”
“Which part belongs to us?”
His attention drops to my bare feet, my sleep shirt beneath his jacket, and finally my face.
“You should go inside.”
“That isn’t an answer either.”
“It’s the only one I can give you.”
I step between him and the balcony door.
Oliver goes still.
“Roberta believes I might mistake your performance for something real,” I say. “Was she right?”
“Roberta doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“She knew about Argentina. She knows about the promise you made on our wedding day. And she knows you don’t touch me.”
His eyes darken. “You think I don’t touch you because I don’t want to?”
My heartbeat stumbles, but I refuse to retreat. “What else am I supposed to think?”
Oliver moves toward me.
One step.
Then another.
My back meets the glass door. He plants one hand beside my head without letting it touch me. The warmth of his body passes through the thin fabric between us.
“You have no idea what I want,” he says.
“Whose fault is that?”
His gaze drops to my mouth.
This time, he does not hide it.
I lift my hand and press my fingertips to his chest. His heart is beating as hard as mine.
“If I kissed you,” I whisper, “would that break the agreement?”
His jaw tightens. “Don’t.”
“Don’t ask, or don’t kiss you?”
“Both.”
I rise onto my toes.
Oliver’s free hand closes around my waist. He pulls me against him before either of us can pretend it is part of a performance.
His breath touches my lips.
For one reckless second, I believe he will finally choose me over whatever promise has controlled our marriage.
Then his grip loosens.
Oliver steps back as if touching me has burned him.
“I can’t do this.”
The rejection hurts more now that I have felt how badly he wants the opposite.
“You can’t touch me,” I say.
His expression fractures.
“Not the way I want to.”
“Why?”
Oliver opens the balcony door but pauses beside me.
“Because wanting you has never been the problem.”
- Writer
- chap_listContents
- likeADD