Black Rose

believe me, the wrath of this arguably psychotic ghost will be nothing compared to mine.”
    “You want a shot at me, take it. But I’ll damn well know why first.”
    “I’ve just told you. I don’t appreciate your invading my privacy this way, and presuming—”
    “And that’s bullshit. What led up to this? You’ve been brushing me off and evading me for days. The last time we were together, we were in that bed, and you were with me, Rosalind. I want to know what changed.”
    “Nothing. I’ve got my own life, just as you do.” In a deliberate and, she could admit, petty move, she walked to the terrace doors, flung them open. “I had a lot to do.”
    He simply crossed over, slammed the doors shut. Locked them.
    She wasn’t sure she could get words past the fire of rage burning in her throat. “If you think for one minute I’ll tolerate that—”
    “Just be quiet.” He snapped it out, and though blistering temper boiled inside her, she found herself measuring him in a new light.
    “On second thought,” he said before she could think of a response, “answer one question. I told you I was falling in love with you. Was that a mistake?”
    “Telling me? No. Falling, possibly. I’m a difficult woman.”
    “That’s not a news flash.”
    “Mitchell, I’m tired, I’m angry, I’m emotionally... I don’t know what the hell I am, but I don’t want to fight with you now, because I’ll fight dirty and regret it later. I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to be with you.”
    “I’m not leaving, because you’re tired and you’re angry, and in emotional turmoil. You don’t want to talk or fight, fine. Lie down, take a nap. I’ll wait until you’re feeling stronger.”
    “God. God damn it.” She whirled away, stormed toward the terrace doors, and unlocking them again, threw them open to the rain. “I need air. I just need some fucking air.”
    “Fine. Suck it in then, all you want. But this time, Rosalind, you’re going to talk to me.”
    “What do you expect me to say? What do you want to hear?”
    “The truth’ll do.”
    “The truth, then. She hurt me.” Emotion drenched her voice as she pressed a fisted hand to her heart. “She sliced me up and carved me out. Seeing John like that. I can’t explain it, I don’t have words for what it did to me.”
    She whirled back to him, and he saw her eyes were drenched, too. The tears didn’t fall, and he could only imagine the vicious strength that held them back. But the golden brown swam with tears.
    “She dropped me right down to the ground, and there was nothing I could do. How can I fight that? How can I fight something that doesn’t really exist? Even knowing why she did it doesn’t stop it from squeezing my heart into bloody pulp.”
    With an impatient gesture, she used the heels of her hands to swipe at any tear that escaped her control.

    “He didn’t deserve to be used that way. Do you see? He didn’t deserve it. He was a good man, Mitchell. A good man, good husband, good father. I fell in love with him when I was fourteen. Fourteen years old, can you imagine? He made me a woman, and a mother, and God, a widow. I loved him, beyond measure.”
    “She can’t touch what you feel for him. Nothing she can do can touch it. I didn’t know him, but I’m looking at you, Rosalind, and I can see that. I can see him.”
    Her breath released on a shaky, painful sound. “You’re right. You’re right.” She leaned against the doorjamb, stared out into the cool rain. “You didn’t deserve to be used, either. You didn’t—don’t—deserve what she tried to make you in my mind. I didn’t believe it of John, and I didn’t believe it of you. But it hurt, nonetheless, it hurt.”
    She took another breath, a stronger one. “I don’t equate you with Bryce. I hope you know that.”
    “I’d rather know what you feel instead of what you don’t. Why haven’t you wanted to see me, Roz?”
    “Nothing to do with you, and everything to do with me. Don’t you hate when people say that?”
    “Enough that I’m having a hard time not grabbing you and shaking out the rest of it. You’re not the only one with a healthy share of wrath.”
    “No, I believe I caught the leading edge of it just now. One of the things I like about you is you have a strong sense of control. I have such a vile temper, you’ve no idea. So I know all about control.”
    “Aren’t we just two mature individuals.”
    “Oh, you’re still mad at