THE STRANGER I LEFT BEHIND

CLAIRE ANDERSON 

The penthouse is beautiful and cold—all glass and marble, monochrome and empty. There are no photos, no warmth, no evidence of a life lived. It's like a museum, not a home. He walks to the bar and pours himself whiskey, his back to me. He doesn't drink it. He just holds it, staring at nothing.

I don't want the guest room. I don't want to be alone with my thoughts. I want to feel something other than the hollow space Greg left behind. I walk toward him, my steps unsteady, and when he turns to look at me, I step close and kiss him.

He's hesitant at first, still giving me chances to pull away. His hands hover at my waist, not gripping, not claiming. But I don't pull away. I press closer, my fingers finding the knot of his tie, pulling him down to me. A low sound escapes his throat, and something in him breaks. His hands grip my hips, pulling me against him so hard I gasp. The kiss is hungry, desperate—two people drowning, clinging to each other. I can taste the whiskey on his tongue, and I know he can taste it on mine.

His mouth leaves mine, tracing down my neck, my collarbone. His hands find the zipper of my dress, pulling it down slowly. The fabric falls away, pooling at my feet. He steps back, just enough to look at me, and his grey eyes darken with something I can't name. His fingers find the clasp of my bra. He fumbles with it, his coordination clumsy from the whiskey, and I feel a small, broken laugh escape my throat. He pauses, his eyes searching mine. "What?" he asks, his voice rough.

"Nothing," I whisper. "Just… keep going. Please."

He unhooks the bra. It falls. I bare myself to him, every insecurity laid open under his gaze. His mouth finds my breast, hot and demanding, and I gasp, my fingers threading through his hair. He's rough but not careless, clumsy but aware of my smallness. The whiskey has stripped away his control, but not his consciousness of my inexperience. The world spins around me, and I cling to him, letting him take me apart.

He lifts me, carrying me to the bedroom. He stumbles slightly, and I feel him catch himself, his arms tightening around me. "You're heavy," he mutters.

"That's rude," I mumble against his neck. "I'm delicate."

A low laugh vibrates through his chest. "Sure you are.”

He lays me on the bed, his body covering mine. I feel the heat of his skin through his shirt, and I reach for the buttons, undoing them with shaking fingers. The shirt falls open, and I see it—the scar on his chest. A thick, raised line of tissue, old and healed but still visible. It runs from his collarbone down toward his ribs, pale against his skin. The scar is shocking, a violent interruption of otherwise smooth skin, and I want to ask. I want to know how he got it, what happened to him, what other scars he might be hiding. But the question dies in my throat.

"What's this?" I whisper, my fingers tracing the raised tissue.

He catches my wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "Don't," he says, and his voice is flat, final. His eyes are suddenly clearer, sharper, like the question has sobered him slightly.

I don't ask again.

He hovers above me, his grey eyes searching mine. "Are you sure?" he asks, and his voice is rougher now, stripped of all pretense. He's struggling to focus, I can see it, but he's trying. He's trying to make sure I want this. "Once I…"

"Yes," I say. "I'm sure."

He enters me. It hurts. I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders. He stops immediately, his forehead pressing against mine, his breathing ragged. "Did I hurt you?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. He's still, completely still, waiting for me to tell him what to do.

"No," I lie. "Just… keep going. Please."

He moves slowly at first, watching my face, reading my pain. I'm glad he's drunk. I'm glad he's clumsy. It makes this feel less practiced, less polished. He's fumbling through this just like I am. The pain fades into something else—a strange, aching fullness that I can't name. I cling to him, let him take me apart, and when it's over, we lie in silence, the city glittering beyond the window. His breathing slows, and I feel the weight of his arm draped across my waist.

I trace the scar on his chest again. This time, he doesn't stop me. He just lies there, staring at the ceiling, his grey eyes empty. I wonder if he's thinking about whoever gave him that scar. I wonder if he's thinking about me.

I don't know his name. He doesn't know mine.

I wake to grey light filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows, and for a disoriented moment, I don't remember where I am. The sheets are tangled around my legs, and there's a weight across my waist—his arm, still draped over me like he's afraid I'll disappear. Then the memories come flooding back: the airport, the bar, the cab, the elevator, the sharp pain of him entering me, the way he stopped when I gasped. My stomach lurches, and I press a hand to my mouth, fighting the urge to be sick.

I turn my head slowly, careful not to wake him. He's on his back, one arm flung above his head, his face relaxed in a way I haven't seen. In sleep, he looks younger. Softer. There's a vulnerability to him that makes me feel like I'm seeing something I shouldn't. The scar on his chest catches the grey light—a thick, raised line of tissue that tells a story I don't know. I feel the ghost of his hands on me, his mouth on my breast. I feel the phantom ache of him inside me, stretching me open.

I look down at myself. My breasts are tender, sensitive. When I sit up, I see the marks—pink, almost bruised impressions where his mouth was. I touch one, and a sharp jolt of sensation shoots through me—not pleasure, but memory. I don't want to remember. Slowly, carefully, I push the sheets aside. My thighs are still damp. There's a smear of blood on the inside of my thigh—not much, but enough to prove what happened. I press my legs together and feel the soreness, the tenderness. I feel like I've been split open.

I have been.

I slip out of bed, my movements slow and careful. My body protests with every step—a deep, internal throb that reminds me of everything I did last night. I find my dress on the floor and pull it on with shaking hands. I search for my shoes, my fingers clumsy and uncoordinated. I need to leave. I need to get out of here before he wakes up, before I have to look him in the eyes and acknowledge what we did.

I turn to leave, but my eyes catch something on his nightstand—a silver cufflink, heavy and elegant, engraved with a letter I can't make out in the dim light. I don't know why I take it. I don't think about it. My hand just moves, closing around the cool metal, shoving it into my pocket. It's not intentional. It's not planned. It's like my body knows I need proof this was real, even if my mind wants to forget. I don't want to remember his face. I don't want to remember the sound of his voice. But a part of me—the part that's still drowning—needs to know this night wasn't a dream.

I find my shoes by the door and slip them on without tying the laces. I glance back at him one last time, still asleep, still peaceful, still a stranger. The scar on his chest rises and falls with each breath. I wonder if he'll wake up and remember me. I wonder if he'll even care. 

I open the door and slip out into the cold, empty foyer. The elevator takes me down through the glass walls, the city spreading beneath me in the grey morning light. I don't look back at the penthouse. I don't look back at him. I just walk out of the building and into the cold New York morning, the cufflink heavy in my pocket, the ache between my thighs a constant reminder of what I've done.

I don't know his name. He doesn't know mine. And I hope I never see him again.