CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Maui, Hawaii
Sunday, December 24
Fuck, I should have stayed in Seattle. I could have sulked in the cold. It would have better matched my mood. Instead, I came to paradise for the holidays, where I married and first made love to Nia as my wife.
For some reason, my misery is more acute since it’s sunny and seventy-two degrees. Or is that my imagination and I’d be despondent regardless of where I am? Yeah, that’s the more likely scenario.
I’m not functioning well without Nia—and not because I can’t cook or clean or do my own laundry. I’ve learned to be a lot more self-sufficient because of her. But since we split, sleeping is a no-go. Concentration is even more laughable. Socializing is an absolute fail. And screw holiday cheer. I arrived in Maui yesterday, and I’ve barely mustered the energy to talk to Harlow and Noah. I’m staying with them because they have a ton of bedrooms in their palatial love nest, and I can’t sleep in the house I bought for Nia and me to spend our lives together. Nor can I bring myself to sell it. I’m not ready to let go of the memories. The minute I landed on the island, I went there, sat on the bed, and just…remembered.
She’s never coming back. I deeply suspect that. I’ve had a week to come to the conclusion that I irrevocably fucked up the best thing that ever happened to me.
An hour after I left Nia’s cottage that confusing, awful day, she texted to say my stuff was on her front porch. Twenty minutes later, I had two emails in my inbox. The first was a resignation letter, effective immediately. The second stated that she rescinded any and all claim to Stratus in the event of our divorce.
I spent the rest of the day mulling over everything, sorting through the facts to find a logical conclusion. But my common sense no longer functions properly when it comes to Nia. I’m not sure it ever did. Her conversation with Stephen Lund seemed to prove her obvious guilt, so I acted accordingly.
But as soon as she slammed the door between us for the final time, instinct kicked in. I started second-guessing everything.
Would Nia, the woman who’s been my invaluable right hand for years, betray me? Or try to separate me from Stratus for her own gain? Would she really cheat me? Would she bother to release me from my financial obligations if she was simply plotting to climb over me to brighten her future?
No.
She’s smarter than that. She’s also more honest.
Within hours, I was convinced of that fact, but I slept on it. The following morning, I resolved to call her to talk everything through face-to-face. Sure, I didn’t want to spend another wretched night like the previous one—in the condo I shared with Becca, feeling utterly lost and crushed. But it was more. I needed to be near Nia again. Only she can make me whole.
But when I rang, I discovered she’d disconnected her number.
She didn’t appear for work. In fact, her desk had already been emptied, and her badge lay next to my computer, along with a list of appointments, passwords, and files.
When I stopped by her cottage, prepared to beg her, she refused to answer the door.
I’ve tried to make contact with her every day since our breakup. No response. My Facebook messages go unanswered and unread, as do my emails.
She’s spending time with Lund Junior, according to her social media. They even publicly recognized one another as siblings and posed together for pictures in the park. In the photos, I see her smiling, but she doesn’t look happy.
I’m falling apart.
Why won’t she talk to me?
Because I was a douche who accused her of terrible shit. Because I didn’t listen to my heart.
“You okay?”
I turn to find Harlow lingering uncertainly in the doorway of their home office. I’ve been holed up here all morning, trying to focus on work…but there’s not a lot coming my way right now. It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m wasting my time. No, I’m hiding out.
“Sure. How are you?” I see her hand on her belly. “Is the baby active this morning?”
“He’s getting restless. It’s nothing new.” She shrugs. “Want to talk about it?”
No sense in pretending I don’t know what she’s talking about. “Not really.”
It won’t change anything.
“Well, that’s too bad. I hate to be the buzzkill at your pity party—okay, no, I don’t—but you need to figure this out. You and Nia are married.”
Yes, but for how much longer?
“More than that, you belong together. You two are having a baby,” she goes on. “You have a million reasons to work things out with her.”
“I don’t know where to start. She’s not speaking to me.”
“Whatever you did must have been messed up because that woman is in love with you.”
I close my eyes, but there’s no escaping the pain. “It was. And it was entirely my fault.”
Harlow sighs. “All of Barclay Reed’s children have an unfortunate genetic predisposition to mistrust and stupidity when it comes to relationships. Maxon took Keeley for granted and almost lost her. Griff threw Britta away once and nearly failed to believe in her the second time. And me? Noah is a saint for putting up with all my hot-and-cold mood swings and my skittishness in committing. My brothers and I have learned to admit when we’re wrong. For the record, it sucks, but the skill is admittedly helpful because we have to use it a lot. Tell Nia you’re sorry. She’ll listen.”
“I accused her of marrying me to swindle me. So probably not. Besides, I’ve tried.”
Harlow winces. “Wow, that’s a fucked-up low, even for a Reed. I don’t know whether to bow to you or just shake my damn head. What a dumb ass.”
“I deserve to be called worse.”
“Um…yeah, but I won’t heap on you when you’re obviously miserable. So you need to find a way to reach her, beyond the usual lame flowers and pitiful groveling.”
“Yes, but what’s going to persuade her to forgive me? I’ve wracked my brain. I’ve got nothing.”
“One thing I’ve learned—that all us Reed kids have—is that actions speak louder than words. If you accused her of something seriously awful, you need to show her that you know better now. You need to prove that you believe her.”
“How do I do that?”
Harlow shrugs. “If I were in her shoes, I’d want something meaningful. And sacrificial. I’m not saying you should offer her your balls on an altar of apology literally…but figuratively? Absolutely.”
I would be willing to do that, but there’s that sliver of worry inside me that keeps asking if I truly know how to be that vulnerable with anyone. “Can’t she just believe me when I say I’m sorry? Understand that I’m miserable as fuck and would do anything to have her back?”
“How will any of that convince her you understand the gravity of your BS and that you won’t dive into another steaming mass in the future?”
Point taken. If Nia had accused me of dirty, underhanded shit, especially without listening to me, I would be disinclined to hear some feeble-ass apology. Words are easy. People say them every day. They schmooze. They charm. They lie.
A gesture that would not only tell Nia I know I was wrong but that I trust her in every way is what I need. Maybe then she’ll listen. Maybe not. But if I craft the right apology and give it to her with my whole heart, at least I’ll know I did everything I could to win her back.
“Think it over. It’s not a decision you can rush. Oh… Wait here.” Harlow runs down the stairs, then huffs and puffs her way back up before handing me a thumb drive. “Here are some musical inspirations from Keeley. It may sound corny, but she seems to know exactly the right songs to help someone move forward. Give them a listen. Maybe they’ll inspire you.”
This is probably a collection of schmaltzy love songs I would normally never listen to, but I don’t have anything better to do or anything to lose by trying another tactic.
“Thanks,” I say to Harlow. “I’m going to hang here and check this out.”
She pauses and nods. “I’m here if you want to talk more. No pressure or anything, but what you do next may determine your whole future.”
I’m well aware of that. “Sure. No pressure at all.”
“Just ask yourself what’s the most convincing, least dumb ass move. Then do that.”
Speaking of least dumbass moves… “Before you go, you should know that I probably ended Barclay’s days as a free man.”
She raises a dark brow at me. “Do tell. I don’t relish anyone’s misfortune, but after all the shit he’s pulled, he deserves to go down.”
Since I’ve already explained my contact with Bethany to my siblings, I don’t have to preface this much. “I found Barclay’s information on Stratus’s platform and turned it over to the FBI. It’s the direct link they’ve been needing between him and the missing money. The feds won’t be able to seize all of it, given where he stashed the funds. But some. I hope it will help his victims.”
And it will screw Douglas Lund out of taking it all for himself. So win-win.
“Good for you. Did you tell Bethany?”
I nod. “I called her earlier this morning.”
“How’s she doing?”
The only answer I can give Harlow is a shrug. “About as well as can be expected when you find yourself suddenly and completely alone.”
Something I know about too well.
“And it’s the holidays.” My sister holds out her hand to me. “Give me your phone.”
I reach into my pocket and pull the device free. “Okay, but you can’t call Nia for me. I don’t know her new number anyway.”
She scowls at me. “I wasn’t going to. That’s between you two. But Bethany needs someone now, and this gathering of ol’ Barclay’s children could sure use more estrogen. Between you, Maxon, and Griff, the testosterone cloud is choking. I know she said she wasn’t interested in meeting any of us…but it’s the holidays. I’m willing to be the bigger person and offer her a hand when she needs it.”
“I think she’ll appreciate it. If not today, then eventually.”
I unlock my phone and hand it to Harlow. She puts the call on speaker. Bethany answers on the second ring.
“Hi, Evan. Thanks again for sending all the evidence to the feds. It needed to be done.”
“Actually, it’s Harlow, your younger sister. I conned Evan out of his phone. I want to talk to you.”
“About what?” Suddenly, Bethany sounds guarded.
“Look, I don’t want to rip you a new one or anything. You fell for Daddy’s bullshit. Don’t feel bad. You’re not the first.” Harlow pauses. “Who are you spending the holidays with?”
“N-no one. I don’t… You know Barclay’s views on relationships.”
“Oh, I do. I’ve never met a more cynical, unromantic sociopath.”
“Right. I was pretty much a workaholic anyway, so I don’t have any other connections.”
Sympathy crosses Harlow’s face. “Come to Maui. Today.”
“What? I can’t barge—”
“You’re not barging. I’m inviting you. Say yes. You can join the small but distinguished club of Reed offspring Barclay has royally screwed. We’ll swap stories and sing songs. It’ll be fun.”
“You’re serious?”
“She is, Bethany. I only met this clan six months ago, but they’ve been awesome and welcoming. Trust me, they get what you’re going through.”
“Come,” Harlow says again. “Seriously. Don’t spend the holidays alone.”
“Um…how will I get there? Christmas is tomorrow, and I don’t have a plane ticket. I don’t have a job to pay for one, either. And the feds have frozen my accounts until my part in this mess Barclay created is sorted out.”
“I’ll handle it,” I tell her. “Start packing your bags, and I’ll send you the details in a few hours.”
She falls very quiet, and I only know she’s still on the line because I hear her breathing and what sounds like a sniffle she’s trying to suppress. “Thank you. Really, I appreciate everything.”
“You’re welcome,” I say gently. “See you soon.”
We hang up, and Harlow smiles. “This will be a good thing. I’m going to go tell Noah to expect one more for dinner. You go figure out how to get your wife back soon, huh?”
As she leaves me with a kiss on the cheek, Diana texts me from Tokyo to wish me a Merry Christmas. I don’t have the heart—or the balls—to tell her that the marriage she attended mere days ago is already in shambles. Instead, I text back my holiday well wishes, promise we’ll get together when she returns to the States again, and stare into my bottle of water.
I shake off my maudlin thoughts and make calls until I find a charter flight for Bethany. It’s going to cost me a pretty penny to get her to Maui by tonight, but she needs to meet people who will truly be family to her—if she lets them.
But now that task is off my to-do list, and I have to figure out how to fix my own damn life.
With a sigh, I slide on my noise-canceling headphones and pop in the thumb drive Keeley made for me.
I’m not surprised the intro to the first song isn’t familiar. I search around and discover Maxon’s wife included a list of songs on the portable storage device, so I launch it.
“Goodbye” by Natalie Imbruglia is up first. Never heard of her. Nice voice. The tune itself is slow and sad, and the female vocalist manages to convey melancholy desolation perfectly. It resonates on every level because I’m feeling it, too. When she sings that every day is the same and she feels them all merge, I completely get it. It’s only been a week without Nia, and I’m in this never-ending malaise I can’t shake. Oh, and the singer’s lilting high note when she croons that people are telling her she’ll be fine and it will all get better? Heartbreaking bullshit. She knows it—just like I do.
This song makes me certain I’ll be feeling this way for the rest of my life if I can’t figure out a way to tell Nia how sorry I am.
Next up, another ballad, accompanied by a simple piano-drum duo. It’s stripped down, and when the opening line is about the car being parked and the bags being packed, I know this is going to hurt. By the time Sara Bareilles starts singing that her lover is all she has and all she needs, the one she’s pining for is the very air she would kill to breathe, I’m choking up. That’s exactly how I feel about Nia.
Fuck, this song is an ax to the heart.
Suddenly, something wet drips on the desk. I look down. I see another drop. Then I realize the wetness is coming from me.
I’m crying.
I haven’t done that since I was five, when my mother died. Odd that I just realized I never mourned for Becca like this. I was lost, yes. But I didn’t feel this aching, empty hole in my existence because she was gone. I totally feel it for Nia. Every morning, every night. Every moment. Yes, it hurts to be here. And I hope I’ll breathe again.
But I can only do that with my wife.
The next song cues up immediately after the last one. Another female starts singing after a short musical interlude, almost whining the observation that they fell out of love, but they can fall back in. What can I do or change to make that happen? Good question. I’d like to know.
Here comes another onslaught of tears. They aren’t manly. They aren’t logical. And yet I can’t stop them.
Crap, I want to blame Keeley. She likes chick ballads, which are admittedly effective in dissecting a shitty situation. But I’m also feeling a bit like I’m having my heart ripped out through my ass. It’s not remotely comfortable.
“Fall Back In” by Plumb rolls on. Yes, everything used to come so easily for Nia and me. I could have found her in the dark. I could have found her blindfolded, wearing earmuffs, with my hands tied behind my back. When I was with her, I had this feeling of ease and peace and rightness. That’s all gone.
Really, what the fuck was I thinking when I opened my mouth and accused her of trying to hurt me? That I’d hurt her back? I don’t even know anymore.
There’s definitely something between us, like the song suggests, and if I throw it away, I’ll regret it like hell. I already do.
I close my eyes. How do I make this maudlin shit stop?
When the song ends, a rock tune blessedly hits my ears next. A guitar accompanies a man’s gravelly voice saying he was blown away. Daughtry. I recognize this song, though I haven’t heard it in years. Yeah, it did all seem to make sense—at the time. Becca’s betrayal. Bethany’s bombshell. Then Nia’s seeming stab in the back. It simply didn’t make sense in the end. He implores his lover that they should start over, swears they’re wasting too much time. Amen to all of that.
Weirdly, this anthem is giving me hope.
The last song on the list is from Lifehouse. I listen, letting the lyrics sink in, nodding along to the mellow tune before the chorus smacks me across the face. I will do whatever it takes to turn this relationship around. I have no doubt what’s at stake, just like I know I utterly let her down. I did worse than that, but I still relate to these words. The singer begs that if she’ll just give him a chance, he’ll do everything he can to keep them together. He makes another plea that’s brilliant: that they to hold on to each other above everything else. That they start over.
I want that, too. So badly. And suddenly, all of these songs blend together in my head and form a message. Ideas have been swirling as tears have been falling. Now, I wipe my face clean and stand. I know what I have to do to win Nia back.
With a grim smile, I pick up my phone and proceed to gamble my entire future on one apology.