Burned

Chapter 8

Thena's POV
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Archie and I arrange for the meeting to take place at an ice cream shop central to both of us. I tell him I only have fifteen minutes, and he says he's sure Alistair will be able to make that work. Then I tell him, he has to be there, sitting in a corner or something. As confident that I am that I've made progress, I don't think I'm ready to be alone with Alistair, and having Archie there guarantees things will remain reasonably sane. I get to the shop ten minutes before our meeting time, but remain seated in my car. I have a death grip on the steering wheel, and only let go when the sweat on my palms becomes uncomfortable. Breathe in. Breathe out. I can do this. I can. He's just a man. A man. Two arms and legs, just like me. Nothing to be scared of. Except of course that he could reach into my chest and rip my heart out. Again.

There's a knock on my window, and I almost jump out of my skin. There he is, standing there. He looks somber, like someone walking in a funeral procession. And his eyes, his beautiful eyes are duller than I've ever seen them before. He smiles a half smile, and I realise I must be staring at him like a deer caught in the headlights. I shake my head, snapping myself out of the trance, and unlock my car doors. Like clockwork, he has my door open, and it makes my chest constrict. I don't think I've touched a car door - any door, in fact - even once in his presence.
"Hi", he says in greeting.
"Hi" I say back, the word coming out almost as a whisper.
"Wanna go in?"
I nod in response, and he begins to lead the way to the shop. As we enter, I spot Archie in a corner, trying to look inconspicuous, but he's the only other person in the shop, so his attempt is pointless.

"Hi Archie", I call out, and he waves at me enthusiastically with a big grin on his face, but makes no attempt to come towards us. I'd hoped he would, and we'd chat a little, just so I can delay the inevitable, but it looks like he's refusing to play ball.
"Is it okay if I order?" Alistair asks, peering down at me. I nod, and he turns to face the guy behind the counter.
"Hey, how are you? Can I get a cup with one scoop vanilla, one scoop cookies and cream with caramel sauce on top? And can I get a cone with one scoop strawberry, one scoop pistachio?"

This was one of the good parts of being with Alistair (not that there were many bad ones) - the fact that I could just turn off my brain and know he'd make the right decisions. With all the ice cream choices on display, I'd have been hung up on what to choose. Vanilla is my favourite, so that would have been a no brainer, but choosing a second scoop could have taken me an eternity. He pays and hands me my ice cream, and then we make our way to a booth in the corner, and sit silently for a few minutes eating ice cream. I don't know how this conversation is going to start, but it sure as heck won't be me starting it.
"How's your ice cream?" He asks.
"Really really good", I answer honestly.
He sits up a little straighter at my words, as if taking pride in something as small as me enjoying the ice cream he chose; it makes me smile.

"I'm ready to tell you the truth about the wedding." He says, diving straight into the deep end and wiping the smile off my face. I feel my heart momentarily cease, though it knew this moment would come. It feels as if Pandora's box is about to be opened, as though demons beyond my imagination are about to be released. And like Pandora, I refuse to heed the warnings to resist and turn round. I want to know what's in the box: they say curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back - though I don't know that there is any possibility for satisfaction in this situation.
"My father arranged our marriage."
The statement is absurd. For it to be arranged, both our fathers would have had to be in on the agreement.
"He orchestrated our meeting. My mother didn't just choose you as our interior designer, father demanded it. He wanted me to marry you."
I feel my mind whirling as it goes through every interaction I've had with Alistair's father. The man doesn't like me. I'd say he barely tolerates me, and simply feigns politeness.
"He doesn't even like me", the thought that's been raging in my head is voiced through my lips.
"But he likes your money", Alistair responds, the expression on his face letting me know this is no joke. "He wanted me to woo and marry you, and wanted the marriage to last a minimum of five years. Enough time for me to have become indispensable to your father's company, and be a controlling shareholder. Maybe we'd have a kid or two."