Page 221 of The Professor's Wife

I suddenly wanted to weep for her because she was a bright light. Even when the world was hard and ugly, she was hopeful and innocent and filled with good intentions—

I sucked in a breath, lightheaded. “No…”

That was all I could push out. Just a breathless no out of numb lips that hung in the air between us, unfinished.

His eyes narrowed on me, and before he could see the tears fall, I whipped my head away, staring forlornly at the streets around us.

“You don’t feel that?” he whispered, awed. “It’s still there, Daze.”

“I don’t feel anything,” I whispered back, but I lied.

I felt lightheaded and dreamy. I felt warm and tingly. I felt like I knew what it would be like if he whispered Daze in my ear.

“I don’t want to be alone in this,” he replied, aggrieved. “I’m tired of being alone…”

I looked at him, and his eyes swam with emotion as he looked back. I could stare into his eyes for eternity and not growtired. There was something so enchanting about this broken man. I stopped breathing, wanting nothing more than to tell him he wasn’t alone.

“I feel it,” I whispered, though it was so quiet, I wondered if he heard me.

I didn’t get a chance to know because the restaurant door opened and the sound of laughter filled the air. I quickly turned around, severing the moment. Oliver was walking out with Angela, saying his goodbyes.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” she said, walking in the opposite direction. “With doughnuts and coffee!”

Oliver waved at her and turned his sights on me. His eyes ran over me, evaluating. “I hope I wasn’t long.”

I shook my head. “No.”

“I shouldn’t have sent you out here.”

He clearly wanted to speak to Angela alone, but it wasn’t just that. Oliver simply liked to have me waiting for him. It was his favorite thing to do.

Just to wait.

Wait in the house.

Wait for breakfast.

Wait for dinner.

Wait in cars.

Wait outside restaurants.

Wait chained up in a dilapidated shed.

It was Oliver’s thing.

He wasn’t drunk, but he was tipsy. He walked to me, his glassy eyes continuing to assess me.

“I wanted lipstick, Daisy. What happened to the lipstick?”

“Four hours is what happened,” I replied lightly. “Eating and drinking and wiping my mouth with the napkin—”

His hand reached out for me and wrapped around my jaw. It was light, and it didn’t hurt, but that was because I was lettinghim turn my face around. He inspected my mouth, his eyes narrowing.

“There’s a bit there, I guess,” he whispered, like he was trying to determine whether I was telling him the truth.

I was painfully aware the tortured singer was feet away. I felt his eyes on us. My face burned because I wondered how this looked to him. I was too embarrassed to catch a glimpse of him. I didn’t want Oliver taking notice of him, either. I didn’t want them to interact or exchange looks.