SEVENTEEN

Family Secrets

I poke my head out from behind the dumpster to see if there’s a truck outside the warehouse yet. There isn’t. It seems that whoever this Dyson person is, his idea of 7am is vague and inaccurate. It’s now 7:18, and there’s still no sign of him.

I’m torn about this mission to snoop on Max, especially considering everything that happened between us last night, but I can no longer let my emotions sideline my objectivity. No matter how charming and magnetic he might be, I still have a job to do, and with Derek breathing down my neck to see a partial draft of my story on Monday, I don’t have time for Max to keep stalling about his past. If he has skeletons in his closet, that’s fine, but I’d rather know about it now than be blindsided later.

“Any truck action?” Toby asks from behind me.

“Not yet.”

He sighs, loudly. “You wake me up at the asscrack of dawn, get me all excited about being spies, and now we’re just sitting around, waiting.”

I turn to him. He’s leaning again the wall behind the dumpster, sipping his soy milk latte and munching on a seven-dollar granola bar he picked up on the way. When I called him at 6:30 to see if he could help me out, he jumped at the chance, but I didn’t count on him dressing up in his best paramilitary gear. Of course, for Toby that means khaki skinny jeans, a grungy black T-shirt, a black beanie, and a camouflage-print cardigan. Yes, I said a camo cardigan.

“Have I mentioned what you’re wearing yet?” I ask. “Because seriously ... I have so many thoughts.”

He looks down at himself then back to me. “What? You said we’d be doing crime, so I wore my most crimey outfit.”

“Toby, first of all, you don’t ‘do’ crime; you commit crime, and the only person committing anything this morning will be me. You’re just my distraction. And second, never in the history of the world has any criminal thought to themselves, ‘Hmmm, you know what this felony calls for? A nice camo cardigan.’ Where on earth did you even find that thing?”

“I’ve had it for years. It’s both kickass and comfortable, so you can stop giving me shit about it.”

“You look like you belong in a retirement home for hipster bird watchers.”

He waves his giant leather-cuff wrist watch in front of his face. “Sching! Sching! Just deflected all of your negative energy.”

“How many cardigans do you own, anyway?”

He shrugs and has another sip of coffee. “The usual amount. Thirty. Forty.”

I roll my eyes and go back to staking out the warehouse. When I see a truck making its way down the alley, I elbow Toby. “Showtime, Soy Rambo.”

He comes over and looks out, his head sitting above mine. The truck backs up to the roller door right next to the mural stairs, and two guys get out. I recognize one of them as my former pool partner, ‘Pat’, the giant Irishman. I’m guessing he’s Dyson.

Huh. Actor and furniture mover. Multi-talented.

“You know,” Toby says, “if you wanted someone to distract those burly dudes, you should have brought your sister. I know she’s in France, but as attractive as I am, I’m not sure they’ll take much notice of me.”

“Sure they will. You know that stupid character of yours you do around the office?”

“Hertzog, the Particularly Dense German Tourist? Oh, ja.”

I hand him a map of Manhattan I snagged at a news stand on the way. “Feel free to make him extra dense today.”

“Ja, ja, ja!” He takes the map. “Wunderbar!”

After his buddy opens the back of the truck, Dyson goes straight to the keypad and punches in a number. Clearly, he’s in Max’s inner circle. The door buzzes as it unlocks, and he yanks it open before heading inside. Within a minute, the roller door opens, and he ushers the other dude, who I’m assuming is Rosco, to follow him. They emerge a short time later carrying a large and expensive-looking dining table.

“And today on Removalist Wars,” Toby whispers in a British accent, “Danny and Brett are going for the gold with an oak eight-seater. They’ve loaded it onto the truck, now let’s see what they do ... Oh, yes, I think they’re going back for the chairs. Well, this is good form from the New York boys. If they keep it up, we could see them in the final.”

I stifle my laughter as I nudge Toby. If I get arrested for trespassing, at least I’ll be smiling in my mug shot.

“You ready?” I say.

“I was born ready, fräulein. You want me to hang around until you get out?”

“Nah. As soon as I’m done I have to go and help Nannabeth at the markets. Thanks, Tobe. You’re a life saver.”

“Yeah, well, what can I say? I’m a giver. Still, if you wanna pay me back by taking a few pics of yourself in a Leia slave outfit, I’d be down with that. See you next week.”

I pat him on the arm as he passes.

When he gets to the dock, the guys have their arms full with padded chairs. He waves the map at them and loudly says, “Excuse me! You can help me? Zis subvay system is most confusing, ja? Vere am I finding ze Times Square? It is near here?”

The guys put their chairs down and laugh. “Pal, you’ve taken about a dozen wrong turns. You’re not even in Manhattan any more. You have to get back on the subway.”

“You will show me vere to go?”

For a few minutes they try verbal instructions, but when Hertzog can’t understand them, they jump down off the dock to point to the map. Hertzog walks them away from the truck as he struggles with their directions, and as soon as they’re at a safe distance, I make my move. Running as quietly as I can, I dash to the dock, climb up, and duck inside the roller door. The urge to commando roll hits me, but I have no time for that right now.

As soon as I step inside the warehouse, I’m hit by the sheer size of it. For the most part, it’s a massive empty space that would make a fantastic mega skating rink. Then I notice that to my left are some overhead lights illuminating a stack of furniture and boxes, and the end of the area is blocked off with wire fencing like a security cage. I can see a collection of old office furniture in there, including bookcases that are being used for storage.

I quickly run down to the end, and when I discover the door on the cage is unlocked, I scoot inside and hide behind what looks like a tall clothing rack, covered in a dust cloth. Toby must have taken off, because I can hear Dyson and Rosco’s voices clearer now as they come to grab more furniture.

“We’d better hustle,” Dyson says. “Max will shit if we keep the old lady waiting for this stuff.” Not a hint of Irish today. He sounds like he’s from Queens.

“Where’s he been, anyway?” Rosco asks. “He’s missed poker night two weeks in a row.”

“He’s freaking out about some reporter who’s been sniffing around. I guess he’s trying to get rid of her or whatever.”

I take in a sharp breath.

Those words cut through the parts of me that had begun to trust Max. The parts that wanted to believe what he felt for me was more than just a con. Of course, the bitter side of me that’s been trying to avoid falling for him this whole time feels vindicated my mistrust was founded.

“Come on,” Rosco says. “Grab the end tables first, and we’ll come back for the credenza.”

“What the hell is a credenza?”

“That big thing with the drawers.”

“Then just say ‘that big thing with the drawers’. What are you? The King of England?”

I sit cross-legged on the floor as they finish loading the truck and try to tell myself that knowing Max has been playing me doesn’t hurt.

See? This is exactly why I don’t put myself out there. Men lie. They flatter and flirt and kiss you stupid whenever it suits them and fucking lie to make you feel things. And then they break you, the same way my father broke my mother. I shouldn’t be surprised that Max is no different from the rest of them, but I am. Surprised and more disappointed than I’ve ever been in my life.

I close my eyes and push down the hurt. It only fuels my determination to find out what the hell he’s so intent on hiding.

At last the guys finish up, and the warehouse is plunged into darkness as they turn out the lights and close the door. When the rumbling of the truck fades away, I grab my phone and turn on the flashlight.

“Okay, Max. Let’s see what all this stuff is.”

The first thing I do is find the light switch and turn the lights back on, so I can take a quick inventory of what’s underneath the dust cloths. Even after the Dyson and Rosco removed a truck full of furniture, there’s still some left, and from what I can tell, Max has a pretty swanky collection. It leads me to wonder why he’d want to sell it for cash with my Nan, when he could probably get more money through a dealer. He said he inherited it, but from whom?

Alongside the furniture are some cardboard boxes. I open the closest one and look through the contents. There are several trophies with the name Max Roberts on them–baseball, football, and even one for music. So, I guess the guy I spent the evening with yesterday was the real Max after all. I’m not sure how I feel about that, considering I’ve never felt so intensely intimate with someone before. Beneath the trophies is a certificate for achievement in music made out to Max Riley Roberts.

So, Riley is his middle name.

At the bottom of the box I find a few crumpled photographs of Max in high school. It’s strange, but the boy in the pictures looks quite different from the Max I know. Grown-up Max might be a little too smug for my liking, but young Max looks flat-out arrogant. And more than a little aggressive. In most pictures, he seems to be scowling, not smiling.

I go to another box. It contains files and some printouts of news reports about something called Fulcrum Financial. As I rifle through the faded articles, one of the headlines jumps out at me. Carl Roberts Faces Fraud Charges Over Fulcrum Financial Collapse.

I scan through the article. From the picture of the handsome middle-aged man below the article, I assume Carl was Max’s dad. None of the other articles tell me what happened to him, so I do a quick search on my phone.

“Oh, shit.”

Seems like Daddy Dearest got hit up on a class-B felony for embezzlement and insider trading and was sentenced to eight years. The date indicates it was three years ago, and I’m guessing that was around the same time Max dropped out of college.

I spread the articles on the floor and photograph them. They may come in handy for background info.

Checking the time on my phone, I realize I need to speed this up or risk Nannabeth’s wrath, not to mention getting caught. I quickly put the boxes back where I found them and move into the fenced-off area. When I lift up the dust cloths draped over the clothing rack, I discover it’s filled with dozens of costumes. Max wasn’t joking when he said he had a cowboy hat and chaps. And yes, he also has a white navy uniform, similar to the one Richard Gere filled out so nicely in An Officer and a Gentlemen. I can see that would be a popular fantasy.

He also has costumes for a firefighter, biker, and army dude, among others. I wonder if he’s used all of them. Then I get powerful flash of jealousy at the thought of him playacting with other women.

Goddammit.

Why couldn’t I just resist feeling anything for him? Liking someone I’ll never have isn’t a feeling I’ve ever wanted to experience.

At the side of the room, there’s a small set of mahogany drawers sitting on a table. When I open the top drawer, I gasp. It’s shallow and lined with black velvet, and inside is a collection of stunning jewelry. By the looks of it, the stones are real.

“Whoa.”

This must be where he got the necklace he gave me last night.

All of a sudden, a horrible possibility occurs to me. Could Max be using his position of trust with these rich women to relieve them of their finery? A little involuntary tip for his services. Is that his big secret?

God, no. He wouldn’t.

The thought makes me queasy. I know I’m just speculating, but I can’t discount it as a possibility. His father was a thief and a criminal. Maybe Max is following in his footsteps.

I’m so focused on scanning my memories for further proof of corruption, I jump when I hear, “They were my mother’s.”

I whip around to see Max there, standing a few feet away with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. His expression is one of supreme disappointment. He looks like I feel, which is sick to the stomach.

“I’m not a thief, Eden.”

There’s so much raw emotion in his voice, I’m taken aback. “I didn’t think you –”

“Yes, you did. I know how your mind works by now.”

I feel my face flush in embarrassment. “There are a lot of beautiful pieces here. Your mom had good taste. Expensive, too.”

“My father bought them for her.”

I nod. “Ah, so he was Mister Romance senior?”

His face twists, and he laughs, short and bitter. “No. Not at all.” His shoulders bunch. “What are you doing here?”

I close the drawer and slide my phone into my pocket. “I’m just trying to find out the truth, Max.”

“I had every intention of telling you the truth.”

“When?” He stares at me, unblinking. “I know I shouldn’t be here, but you’re the king of stonewalling. For all the time we’ve spent together, I still know virtually nothing about you – the real you. Is it any wonder I’m having trouble trusting your motivations? Yes, we’ve been getting close, but you’re a fantastic actor. And let’s not forget, you gloated you could make me feel something for you as a way of killing the story. So the fun time at Maxwell’s apartment and then the kiss ... For all I know, this is all part of your grand plan to protect yourself.”

“My grand plan went out the window the moment I realized I was the one developing feelings.”

“That’s what you say, but according to the steroid twins who moved your furniture today, you’re freaking out about a reporter who’s been sniffing around and working your ass off to get rid of me.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks as he stares at me. “And you found it all too easy to believe, didn’t you?”

“I honestly don’t know what to believe anymore. My brain hurts, and for the first time since I was eleven years old, my heart hurts. And neither of those things feels good.” I rub my face, feeling tired and thoroughly confused. “All I wanted out of this arrangement was a story. That’s it. Not whatever the hell is happening between us.”

“Do you think I had any intention of feeling like this? Because in case you don’t already know it, you’re a pain in the ass. You complicate my life in the most intoxicating ways, and everything I used to want has been thrown into chaos because of my intense goddamn need for you.”

Every time he says something like that, he carves another chink in my armor. But if I accept him at his word, I have everything to lose, and he has everything to gain. Admitting I want him means he’s won, and the moment I kill my story, he’ll have a free pass to say, “Oh, oops. Never mind. All those pesky feelings have conveniently vanished. See ya!”

He waits for me to say something, and when I don’t, he walks over to the desk beside me and pulls a framed picture from the top drawer. “Okay, fine. It looks like we’re doing this.” He hands me the picture. “This is my fucked-up family.” I study the faces looking back at me. “At least it was. I don’t have a family anymore.”

The picture was taken in a garden, with what must be his mom and dad laughing as they hug their two tall sons. I recognize Max but not the other good-looking boy.

“That’s my older brother, Spencer. He died of a drug overdose when I was seventeen.” He points to his father. “That piece of shit is my dad, and he’s currently lazing around in a cushy white-collar prison for screwing hundreds of people out of their life savings. And that ...” He swallows as he brushes his finger over the pretty woman’s face. “That’s ... my mom.” He stares at her with a haunted expression. “She killed herself three weeks after Dad was arrested, which was six months after Spencer died.”

He opens the back of the frame and pulls out the picture. “Here,” he says. “You’ll need to scan this for the story. Spencer overdosed on heroin, in case your editor asks. And mom took sleeping pills. Dad’s due for parole in a few months, but I really hope he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t deserve to be free after everything he’s done. He’s dead to me.” Max thrusts the photo into my hand. “Take it. You’re right, I’ve been holding out on you. I promised you full exposure, so here it is.”

“Max ...”

He walks over to a filing cabinet and yanks open the drawer. “I have more pictures of Spence in here somewhere. Even a couple taken at a party where he looks like he’s out of his mind on drugs, which he probably was. And there’s a nice one of Mom that was from a charity event a few weeks before she died.” He rifles through a box of photos in the bottom of the drawer. “There are even a few of me at my high school prom. I’m sure you’ll get a laugh out of them.”

When I walk over and put my hand in the middle of his back, he freezes.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have come here. I should have waited until you were ready, and I –”

That’s as far as I get before he spins around and pushes me up against the filing cabinet as he kisses me. The unexpectedness of it shocks me into stillness for a second, but as soon as I register the warmth of his lips against mine, I moan and open my mouth to him.

Jesus, the taste of him. The white-hot hunger that flares when he kisses me as deep as he can. He groans in relief as I kiss him back, and then things go from hot to downright incendiary when he picks me up, and I wrap my legs around his waist. He shoves my back flush against the filing cabinet as he grinds against me. The metal clangs loudly when he plants his hand on top of it to get more leverage. The rock-solid feel of him, even through his jeans and mine, launches my body into a level of arousal it’s never felt before. I squirm and pull him closer, trying to get some relief from the incessant pulsing between my legs.

“God ... Max.”

I anchor my hands in his hair as he kisses my neck, nipping and sucking, his breath hot and ragged. I want to get naked with him. Tear off the clothes separating us and press my fevered flesh to his hard, warm skin. He talked last night about the difference between sex and fucking, and right now, there is zero doubt in my mind I need Max Riley to fuck me, furiously and with zero restraint.

With rough, desperate hands, I shove his jacket off his shoulders, and he puts me back onto my feet so he can help. My jacket is next, flying onto the desk as I press Max against the wire fencing and palm his erection.

He throws his head back and closes his eyes. “Fuck, Eden.”

“I need this,” I say, savoring the hard line of him. “Please.”

I fall to my knees and start on his belt, but before I can get it unbuckled, strong hands close over mine. “Wait.”

I look up at him in confusion. “You can’t tell me you don’t want this.”

“I’m not. I’d like nothing more right now than to fuck you until we both can’t see straight ... but I can’t.”

“Sure, you can,” I say as I stroke him through the thick denim. His eyelids flutter, and his fingers curl around the chain link fence. “You take off your clothes, I take off mine. We do what we want to each other and get relief from the hell our bodies are in. This doesn’t have to be complicated.”

He gently pulls me to my feet. “Whether we like it or not, it is complicated. And with what I still have to tell you, it’s about to get worse.” He retrieves my jacket and hands it to me. “When we have sex, Eden, I intend it to be the start of something special. Not some desperate quickie in a dusty warehouse. And once you hear my full story, you might decide even that’s more than you want from me.”

He pulls out the chair from behind the desk and gestures to it. “Please, sit.”

He grabs another chair from near the wall and sits at the end of the desk, facing me. The positioning makes me feel like I’m conducting a job interview. In a way, I guess I am. With most men, the only thing I’m interested in is their body. Once the flush of arousal fades, so does my desire to have them anywhere near me. With Max, I want him near me all the time, whether he’s touching me or not, which is why I’m vaguely hoping that what he’s about to tell me will be so unforgivable, I’ll never want to see him again.

Max leans forward, forearms on his thighs, hands clasped together. His expression is so grave, I become genuinely concerned.

“I didn’t bring up my family before now, because I was ... ashamed. I wasn’t ready for you to know the person I used to be. But ... nothing I’m about to say changes how I feel about you. I need you to know that.”

“Jesus, Max, you’re really starting to freak me out. Did you kill someone or something?”

I expect him to laugh at that, because I was going for ridiculous to lighten the mood, but he doesn’t.

“What would you say if I did?”

I look for any sign that he’s joking and swallow nervously when I don’t find one. When he sees the horror dawning on my face, he looks away. “The first thing you need to know is that as far back as I can remember, my dad tortured my mom.”

That makes my skin crawl. “He was violent?”

“Not with his fists, but he pummeled the hell out of her with his words every damn day. Taunted her. Belittled her. Committed psychological warfare every chance he got. I’ve since discovered that he’s a malignant narcissist, so that should tell you something about how bad he was. And the most shameful admission I can possibly make to the woman I have feelings for is that ...” He takes a breath. “... there was a time when I wanted to be just like him.”

I’m shell-shocked. This man – the one who’s chivalrous and polite, who holds chairs and doors with such deference and care – he looked up to his abusive father?

“Max, I find that hard to believe.”

His expression turns steely. “Believe it. Before everything went to hell, people thought we were a great family. Rich, loving, successful. It was all a lie.” He gazes at a spot on the wall behind me, and it’s clear admitting this stuff is easier when he’s not looking at me.

“Dad treated Mom like she was a second-class citizen, while making Spence and me think we were gods. We were indoctrinated to believe that men ruled the world and women did what they were told, so we didn’t even question the way he treated Mom. It was natural. When we were old enough to realize that not all women were treated like that, it was too late.”

He shakes his head, angry at himself. “In our minds, Mom’s job was to keep us fed and the house organized, as well as look pretty and play nice for Dad’s rich, society friends. Her whole world was made to revolve around us, and that was the way we liked it. Especially Dad. Toxic masculinity at its finest.”

He looks over at the jewelry box, shame etched into his features. “There’s no doubt in my mind that we were the reason she killed herself. Her blood is on our hands. Especially mine.” He’s squeezing his hands together so hard, his knuckles crack.

I don’t know how he’d react to me touching him right now, so instead I try to make my voice as soothing as possible. “Max ... I can’t talk about the reasons your mom did what she did, but you can’t take responsibility for –”

“She asked for my help.” He clenches his jaw. “She tried talking to me about how she was feeling, and I ... I brushed her off. I didn’t have the time. I had more important things to do.” He goes quiet. “She tried to tell me she was struggling with depression, and I ignored it.”

I don’t know what to say. How can I possibly console him over that? It’s something he’ll have to live with for the rest of his life.

“I’m sorry.”

He stares at a spot on the floor. “I look back at how I treated my girlfriends in high school, even the few I dated in college, and I’m horrified. I’m disgusted that I allowed myself to be molded into my father’s image.” He looks over at me, a world of regret in his eyes. “I know you don’t trust me ... that you may never trust me ... but I’m genuinely trying to tip the karmic scales back to make up for what I did. I give my clients the man they need, whoever the hell that may be. I couldn’t do it for my mom, but I can sure as hell do it for them.”

It’s hard for me to think of Max treating women like possessions, but perhaps the anger I saw in him last night, the hard, dominating side of Maxwell, was a glimpse into how that might look.

“The phone call last night–”

“Was from my dad. He kept talking about all the things he wants us to do together when he gets out. I just want to beat him senseless for what he did to Mom. But as satisfying as I’d find that, it wouldn’t bring her back. And it wouldn’t change him. No matter how many people he destroys, he’ll always think he’s the sun, and the rest of the solar system should revolve around him.” He shakes his head. “I don’t care anymore. I have no father.”

Well, there’s something we both have in common. “Maybe your dad and my dad should get together and go bowling. Form a vortex of douche.” He tries to smile but doesn’t quite succeed.

“Vivian said you had to become Mister Romance because of financial problems.”

He nods. “Dad gambled. Compulsively. By the time he was caught with his hand in the company till, our house was mortgaged to the hilt, the business was dying, and he’d sold off most of our assets. Then the trial costs piled on top of that, and I dropped out of college, because I couldn’t afford the fees.”

He gestures around him. “Mom left me this warehouse in her brother’s name, but no one wanted to buy it. After I sold our family home and the house in the Hamptons, there was still a mountain of debt. Most of what I make these days goes to paying it off. A portion goes to the Valentine Foundation to help women like my mother, and every few months I sell off what’s left of our possessions and live off the cash. I haven’t started selling the jewelry yet out of respect to Mom, but I’ll have to one day.”

“The necklace you gave me ...”

“That was her favorite. At least, I think it was. I never asked. She wore it the most.”

I lean forward and put my hand on his. “God, Max, I’m so sorry.”

He plays with my fingers. “Last night, when you were talking about how your dad made you feel, it hit home. I wondered how many times my dad looked through Mom like she wasn’t there. I sure as hell know that Spence and I did it all the time. We damaged her the same way your dad damaged you, so ... yeah. I guess you’re right to be scared of me.”

He gets up and goes back to pulling out photos and putting them on the desk. “So, there’s a juicy backstory for you. Tortured son tries to make amends by helping women like his mother feel loved. Your editor will piss himself in delight from the possible headlines.”

“Max, I don’t have to write this. You’ve definitely changed my mind about your motivation, and according to our agreement –”

“Screw the agreement. Write the story, Eden. I’ll brace for the backlash.” His expression becomes hard. “I’ve run from all of this long enough. Time to face the music and move on. We all have moments in our lives when we have to decide if we’re going to stay comfortable in our bubble of ignorance or strive to be more than we were. I’m determined to be more. A better man than I was brought up to be. Only time will tell if I succeed.”

I want to hug him and tell him that sometimes, good people do bad things, because it’s so clear he’s already succeeded. But after so much truth he’s closed down, and when I go to touch him, he steps away from me.

“I have to go,” he says. “Don’t want to get on the wrong side of Nannabeth by being late to my own furniture sale.” He puts the box of photos on the desk and looks at them for a few moments. “Stay here as long as you like. Take whatever you need. Call me if you have any follow-up questions.” The look he gives me is of a defeated man. “Just promise me you won’t pull any punches. The one thing I don’t deserve is mercy.”

Then he walks away, and when the door closes behind him, I feel about as empty as the space around me.

* * *

After what just happened, I don’t really feel like collating the research, but I get the impression it’s important to Max that I write his story, so I promise myself to do it as sensitively as possible. After I shove the photos and documents into my bag, I turn out the lights and leave.

Knowing what he used to be like, my feelings for him are even more conflicted. He admits that he used to be exactly the type of man who inflicted so many scars on me. And yet, it hasn’t made it any easier to ignore the clawing, desperate need I have to be with him. Perhaps I’m more like my mother than I’d care to admit. Or, maybe, he’s less like my father than he’d ever believe.

I’m coming up the stairs from the subway station and heading toward the markets, when my phone buzzes. I smile at the screen before answering.

“I’m on my way, Nannabeth. Sorry I’m running late.”

“Darling granddaughter, it’s fine. The day you show up on time is the day I keel over and die of shock.” She laughs, which makes me smile. Nannabeth’s laugh is wicked and infectious, and it can make the most tragic of situations bearable. “I just wanted you to know that Sean the Lawyer has just arrived, and he’s looking even more attractive and single than usual.”

“Nan –”

“Wait, just hear me out before you dismiss this as meddling. It’s not. It’s lifestyle advice. Do you think someone like him comes along every day? Because I’m here to tell you, they don’t. He’s clean, has great taste in clothes, smells fantastic, is polite to old women – just stop me when I’ve convinced you – has a great body, his eyes are amazing, he has a killer sense of humor, he’s –”

“An imposter.” God, I hate throwing cold water on Nan, but here goes. “He’s not Sean, Nan, he’s Max, and he’s New York’s highest paid male escort.”

There’s silence for a few beats, then she sighs. “Oh, Eden. You and your bizarre sense of humor.”

“Nan, I’m serious. I’m doing a story on him. I’ve been researching him for weeks, and he’s just told me his father was a malignant narcissist who brought him up to be a sexist pig. He says he’s changed and is trying to make up for all the harm he’s caused, so …”

“But he seems so ... lovely. You’re telling me he used to be an ass and now has sex for money?”

“No. It’s a long story. Anyway, I have to reevaluate how I feel after receiving this new information.”

“Has he ever mistreated you? Your radar for assholes is pretty good, honey. Goodness knows you’ve slept with enough of them. What does your gut say?”

I look both ways before crossing the busy street. “I don’t know, Nan. I think he’s worked really hard to become a good guy, but part of me still doesn’t trust him.”

“Could that possibly be the part of you who’s a pathological commitment-phobe?”

I roll my eyes as I get in line at a coffee place near the subway station. “I suppose that’s possible.”

“I’m not telling you what to do, sweetie, but you seem to have a genuine connection with him. Maybe you should give him a chance to prove what kind of man he is.”

“That sounds an awful lot like telling me what to do.”

She pauses. “Edie, I just want to make sure you don’t screw things up with him, because you’re too pig-headed. I never want you to make the same mistakes I have.”

“Men mistakes?”

“Yes, men mistakes. Haven’t you ever wondered why I never remarried?”

“I ... well, I – ”

“Let me guess. You think I loved your grandpa so much, I couldn’t face replacing him? Oh, Edie.” I hear a quiet sigh. “Your grandpa was a good man, and I did love him in my own way, but his death didn’t break me. I just never felt the need to replace him. Hearts are funny things. If they spend too much time being one size, they end up stuck that way.”

I finally reach the front of the line and signal to the barista for a large latte. Nan will be hankering for caffeine right about now, and this place is her favorite. “So, you’ve dated over the years?”

“More than you could possibly know. But I’d told myself so many times I didn’t need anyone, I started to believe it. Sound like anyone you know?”

“Nan ...” I hand over some cash before moving to the side to wait for my order. I’m feeling way too raw to have this discussion this morning, especially after what just happened.

“Sweetie, let me just say this one thing, and then I’ll shut up. Being alone for too long isn’t healthy. Loneliness is like a big, empty room inside you that echoes with the sounds of the life you’re not living. So you fill it with stuff – work, friends, pets – and over the years it becomes bearable, then comfortable. And after many years it’s so safe and warm, it becomes the new normal. And the worst part is, it’s so full of fake comforts, there’s no room for anyone else. But you deserve more than that. You deserve the world, and this Max ...”

I lean against the wall and close my eyes. “Nan, please don’t tell me he can give me the world. My feminist heart couldn’t take it.”

“I was going to say he could be your world, and you could be his. If you let him.”

Is that all I have to do? Let him be my world? She might as well ask me to catch the moon and slingshot around the stars.

“I’ll think about it, Nan, okay?” The barista calls my name, and I grab the coffee and head out into the street.

“That’s all I ask, muffin. I want to see you happy. When I was your age, I was –” She stops abruptly and makes a noise I’ve never heard her make before.

“Nan? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she says, but her voice wavers. “I’m just ... a little dizzy. Haven’t had much to eat yet. Or my coffee.”

“I’m bringing it now. If you’re really lucky, I’ll also stop to grab one of those double-choc brownies you love so much, but only if you promise to drop all topics related to men.”

“Sounds ... good. I –”

She goes quiet, and then I hear a crunching sound and cries of alarm.

“Nan?” My heart leaps into my throat. “Nan? Are you there?”

I hear running footsteps and scuffling, and then Max’s voice cuts through the rest of the noise. His tone is wrong. Too hard and way too panicked.

“Nannabeth! Nannabeth, wake up. Hey, come on. Just wake up for me.” There’s a pause. “Shit. She’s bleeding. Someone call an ambulance! Now!”

There’s a scraping sound before he comes on the line. “Eden?”

“Max, what the hell is going on?”

“Nannabeth collapsed. I think she cracked her head on the pavement.”

“Is she okay?” The half a second he pauses is a lifetime too long. “Max!”

“I don’t know. I have a pulse, but it’s weak. The ambulance is on its way.”

Without hearing anything else, I drop the coffee and break into a run.