Page 8 of Tears of Glass

He lowers his head and kisses the tip of my nose. “I needed it, too.”

Relief floods me. “So, you aren’t mad?”

“Maybe just a little that you didn’t have an orgasm.”

I shake my head and smile. “I never have an orgasm.”

“Really?” I might as well have just given him the keys to the cookie jar.

I can’t believe we are going to talk about it over coffee, but strangely since last night, I feel even closer to him than ever. More than friends now. Something even safer. “You know why.”

“Not even with His Lordship?”

I flush. “Can you not call him that? You know Eli wasn’t like that.”

Dan raises an eyebrow. “Really, are you defending him now?”

I think of Eli and all the sex he’s probably having with socialite Sienna Richards. Pre-wedding sex. “No, I’m not defending him.”

“Did you have an orgasm with him, though?”

My cheeks flame. “Not talking about it with you, Dan.”

His warm brown eyes harden for a moment but then he shrugs.

It’s best to change the subject, move away from what happened last night. It was a mistake for both of us. Just a dark need in the moment, nothing more. “Fancy coming to the shop with me and seeing if we can get some walk-ins?” I smile, trying to be my usual self. It’s like I’m acting in a terrible daytime soap. “I feel like inflicting pain on the opposite sex.”

Dan shakes his head. “You are one sadistic bitch.”

A loud laugh blasts from my lips. When did anyone laugh in this house? When did I even laugh? Not since I was with Elijah and he was promising me everything but giving me nothing.

“Come on, let’s do it.” I gulp down my coffee.

I need to keep busy. Now the funeral is over, I have nothing left to organise. If I’m not busy, then I may well have too much time to contemplate the mess I’ve made of my life. I’ve walked away from my degree. I’ve walked away from the offers I was receiving of continuing the art project on television, and I’ve walked away from all access to materials and resources.

So really, in a nutshell, I’ve walked away from everything.

I’d better earn some money so I can start again.

I can always start again.

Dan’s fingers catch mine, tethering me to him. “Are you staying here? What’s going on, Faith? What about your flat in London?”

My gaze is blank and I shake my head. “Honestly, Dan. I just don’t know.”

A small smile curves his mouth. “Okay. I’m glad you’re back though.”

“Me too.”

It’s good to be here. The music blares through the speakers and the door is open, the late August air filtering into the shop. It’s bright, alive, and the shop is gaining interest from a group of guys who are all standing outside watching through the windows.

Dan is cleaning. The place needed it, and I am sketching ideas as I lean over the counter. My hair is up, my ink on display. The woman I really am with no reason to hide behind long sleeved blouses and oversized clothes. This is me. Black vest, short denim cut offs and more ink than a sailor.

This is what home is. This shop, Dan’s tuneless humming I’ve been listening to for years. The only thing missing is Al.

If I keep my eyes focused on the pad, and the pencil in my hand, I can almost forget the fact that a couple of weeks ago I spent hours inking a blue ying and yang onto Elijah’s perfect back.

I bet he regrets that now.