That afternoon Dylan had to go into the office at Hale Architecture and Design. He probably could have pushed off whatever project he was working on—he was the boss after all, and it wasn’t as though he was hurting for clients. But I had a feeling it was more about him needing to go and work on what he loved, to stay connected to his craft, to design. The more often he saw his dad, the more time he spent at Humboldt Park and at Hale Shipping, the more he needed to draft and, cruelly, the less time he had to do it.
While he was doing that, I settled onto the couch and called Daphne.
“So how are things with His Royal Highness?” she asked, never missing an opportunity to make fun of Dylan for his aristocratic title and life. She’d recently addressed an email to both of us: To my best friend and the Baron of the Bedroom, which prompted a conversation between Dylan and I about exactly how much I’d shared with Daphne about our sex life. I’d told him she was part of the package and that he got exactly zero say in what I revealed to her. After that he started referring to her as the Minister of Internal Affairs.
“Busy,” I replied quickly.
“Well, thankfully he wasn’t too busy to have Thomas arrange my flight over for Thanksgiving,” she said, “which was awfully accommodating of him. I’ll have to think of something nice to do for that duke and his court jester.”
“Which one is Dylan?” I asked, harboring a suspicion.
“The court jester. Obviously,” she said. “He—Thomas, I mean—said he needed a copy of my passport and my social security number first, something about security?”
I breathed through my lips, annoyed on her behalf. “I know. It seems ridiculous, but Dylan’s security people are taking things to a new level given this whole email situation. I’m sorry. Do you mind?”
“Of course not. It’s not like I have anything to hide, except you know, my porn-y search history on my computer.”
“Like you watch porn,” I said sarcastically as I removed the sea-green nail polish from my toes with a cotton ball, but she was mysteriously silent on the other end. “Wait. Daphne. Do you? Watch porn?” Silence. “Daphne!”
“I plead the fifth.” I could practically see her zipping her lips with her fingers as she spoke.
“No way! Like what? What are you into?” I’d abandoned the nail polish removing instantly. This was too good.
“No. I’m not doing this.”
“You so are.”
“I’m so not!”
“I told you about that night at Dylan’s country house!”
“But only because someone creepy emailed you about it!” She was protesting through an audible smile, giving herself away completely.
“You’re so annoying. I will so get this out of you,” I said, and I would. “Speaking of, I received another email last week.”
“Oh god. Really?” she asked, and I could hear all the concern in her voice.
“Yeah.”
“Are you okay? Wanna talk about it?” she asked, and I could tell she was settling in for a good long chat.
“Nah. I’m never without Dylan or Frank around, and I don’t really think I’m in danger anyway. The worst part is just having it be this open-ended thing that’s happening. Dylan’s dealing with all of it. He’s consulted with his security team, and they seem to be on it—out there gathering the passports of my best friends and who knows what else. But he hasn’t really told me anything about it.”
“What about the police?”
“He doesn’t trust the police anymore. Not after some of them were complicit in tapping his phone a few years ago. If it gets worse, or if anything too threatening happens, he said he’d bring them in, but he’d rather handle it on his own. And by ‘his own,’ he means him and his security. On one hand, I appreciate that he wants to protect me from the whole thing, but on the other hand, I hate not knowing what’s going on. This feels like it should be our thing to deal with, you know? I want to help. And it’s the same thing with everything else in his life.” I had abandoned my place on the couch and was now pacing a bit, making my way towards the kitchen, towards more wine. “Did I tell you that he’s working for Hale Shipping now?”
“What? No. How is he doing that and running his own architecture firm? And why? I thought he had no interest in the shipping business.”
“Thank you! Exactly! I should be able to answer these questions for you, but I can’t. Because he doesn’t talk about it. Not really. His dad is pressuring him, wants him to take over. But anytime I ask, he gives me some little tidbit and then distracts me. Asks me to trust him. It’s like he’s physically incapable of just saying ‘Lydia—’” I began, saying my name in my Dylan accent, deep and English.
“Damsel,” Daphne corrected me.
“Right. ‘Damsel, so here’s who I think is sending you threatening, terrifying emails, and by the way this is the history of why my relationship with my father is really complicated, and here is why I feel pressured about working with him, even though I have concerns about my own company, and I can’t really talk about it easily because no one in my family talks about these things, and I didn’t really get enough love as a child, and…’” My fake accent had fallen away, and I was silent for a moment. Now that I was saying out loud everything I wanted from him, it was bigger than I’d realized. “I guess these aren’t simple things to talk about.”
“They might not be simple, but talking about the tough stuff is important. Have you talked to him?” she asked, not-so-subtly reminding me that I had a tendency to do the same thing, especially recently.
“Yes!” I exclaimed defensively. “This morning! I told him a little about my dad, and I told him this whole not-talking-to-me thing was bothering me.”
“Good. Lead by example,” she said in her Daphne-knows-best tone. “Lyd, he might not be ready to talk about some of this stuff. You might have to be patient.”
“You don’t think this is a bad sign? That he won’t open up to me? That he’s always just saying ‘Trust me’ and expecting it to be enough?”
“Well, do you? Trust him, I mean?”
Why was that so hard to answer? I knew how wrong it would feel if I were to say I didn’t—I couldn’t even utter the words. They weren’t true. I did trust him. “I do, but I just also feel like I’m waiting. I’m waiting for the part when I get to support him through whatever it is he’s going through, when I get to feel more like part of a team and less like a…like a concubine,” I said indignantly. I’d been trying to make her laugh, and it had worked, but it was also honest.
“Daphne?”
“Yeah?” she said calmly.
“Do you think I’m right for him?”
“Lydia!”
“Stop—I’m not having a self-esteem crisis here. I mean, is this a good idea? Are we some ill-fated Romeo and Juliet situation?”
“Are you guys going to commit joint suicide on me?” Now she was just being snarky and a know-it-all, a classic Daphne tell that she was getting impatient with something she thought was unreasonable. A lecture wasn’t going to be far behind. Thank god. I probably needed one.
“You know what I mean! Don’t you think his life might be easier for him if he was with someone who was as high-powered and high society as he is? Someone who knows how to navigate all of this press and media without causing trouble or creating more chaos? And don’t you think my life would be easier if I wasn’t trying to figure out how to adapt to being in the press, to walking through the world without showing emotions?”
“Good luck with that. You’re the most transparent person I know.”
“Daphne! I’m serious. I feel like not only do I have to learn how to be in a relationship, but I also have to learn how to dress for things, like meeting the queen—”
“Wait, what? Seriously?”
“Yeah, see what I mean? I come from a—”
“You’re meeting the queen?! Like the real one?”
“Yes. But aren’t you listening? It’s the queen! And, I mean, who am I?”
“Lydia, stop. Holy hell. I can’t. Okay. I mean. What are you going to wear?”
“Daphne!”
“Okay, okay, okay. But we’re coming back to the whole queen thing. Lydia, you have a three-point-nine GPA from a leading university. You’re kicking ass at your first real job. You bravely moved to a whole other country and totally landed on your feet. So this is your first time at the rodeo when it comes to the paparazzi, but you’re a smart girl. Give yourself some credit. And cut yourself some slack. Dylan obviously doesn’t feel this way.”
I let out a slightly relieved laugh—I loved it when Daphne got onto one of her Shut-up-and-listen-to-me-because-I-love-you rants.. “You two can figure this out, if you want. Don’t lose yourself, okay? Don’t move in with him until you’re ready. And if you really can’t stand him not talking to you, well, only you can know your limits on that one. But remember that two months ago this guy told you you were going to have just a sex fling with no strings attached. Now he’s fending off paparazzi and sending jets to pick up your friends.”
I exhaled deeply, resigned to being baffled by this whole relationship thing.
“And I hear you about him talking to you about his dad and why that’s frustrating. But I kind of see his point with the email stuff—he has a whole team of people who can handle this stuff. This seems to fall into his wheelhouse. Lydia, why are you so on edge about this exactly?”
“I just—” I couldn’t finish the thought. I didn’t know why, but I just felt icky. I hated screwing up with the paparazzi. I hated being the target of these emails. I hated not knowing what was going on with Dylan, not being able to make him feel better.
“Oh, I get it,” she said before I could even get started.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said in a way that suggested she knew the key to my problems but didn’t think I’d want to hear it, in a way that made me want to throttle her through the phone.
“Daphne!”
She sighed, and then, as I knew she would, she caved. “This isn’t about you taking care of him. It’s about letting him take care of you.”
“What?”
“You’ve never done that before. I agree—he should open up to you more. And I understand that you want to support him—that’s, like, your natural habitat. But compared to where he was a month ago, he might as well be a guest on Oprah. You, on the other hand—you’ve never let anyone take care of you.”
I was silent. I didn’t like where this was going.
“It’s okay,” she continued, and all of a sudden she had her Daphne-knows-best tone again, which drove me really crazy. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re really annoying?” My toes were curling into the blanket at my feet, and I felt…I felt uncomfortable. I didn’t want to think about the idea that maybe I was resisting Dylan’s comfort, his desire for me to trust him, his protectiveness, simply because I wasn’t ready or it was too foreign. Because even if that was true, I was right to want more. I was right to want to be a team. I wanted to take care of him, and he wasn’t letting me. But I guess I wasn’t letting him either. All of a sudden what had just felt frustrating felt so confusing. Meanwhile, Daphne sighed and chuckled a little. “Daphne,” I said, quieter than I’d been all night, “this is hard. Harder than I thought it would be.”
“I know. But you love him, right?”
“So, so much.”