Ethan

I stood there and did nothing.

I let her walk away from me.

I let her get in the car with Lars that was parked across the street and leave me. Not just at a diner outside Yonkers, but out of my life. For good.

How could I do that?

Why didn’t I stop her?

She would have hated me if I had made her stay.

Sitting across the table from Dariya, I’m having flashbacks of settling the case with Keith, and so many from the spring day at a party in the Bronx. I’ve been staring through her since we sat down. She’s been staring right back at me. I don’t see her though. She’s nothing to me, nothing but the woman who destroyed my life.

Reegan slides a package across the table to the judge, who asks, “What is this?”

“Evidence.”

“More? Explain and make it quick.”

Weeks after our first settlement hearing and two more meetings, Reegan says, “Video of the plaintiff and her lover together in front of the building where my client was setup.”

The judge takes the package and then glances to Dariya. “Do I need to watch this or can we save some time?”

She shifts in her seat and her lawyer clears his throat. After a silent conversation is exchanged with her, he sighs. “We’ll settle the case.”

Reegan interjects, “We won’t.”

Dariya turns to me. “Ethan?”

I have no sympathy. I’ve lost everything because of her. She deserves nothing more, not even my time. When I don’t respond, Reegan defers to the judge. “We’d like the paternity test results.”

Above the top of her reading glasses, she asks, “Are you sure, Mr. Everest?”

“I am.” I am completely confident Dariya’s baby is not mine. The math doesn’t add up for me, but for Keith—he’s about to be a dad. The thought makes me sad. A year earlier I would have been thrilled for him. Now I just pity this baby for getting stuck with Keith and Dariya as parents.

The clerk passes the envelope to the judge who is sitting at the head of the table in her private chambers downtown. Dariya’s eyes sway to the end, and I turn my chair to face the judge. Reegan looks back, no nerves, no anxiety. Full confidence. Ready to fight against the remaining charges or to fight for my child. My future decided by a test.

The judge unfolds the piece of paper and reads aloud, “There is a ninety-nine point seven percent chance the child is not Mr. Everest’s.”

Dariya smiles. “So there is a chance it can be?”

Her lawyer shakes his head. Leaning closer to her, he whispers, “Due to variations in testing and genetics, history of cultures, that is considered conclusive evidence that he cannot be the father.”

“But it’s not one hundred percent?”

“If he was the father it would be.”

She looks up as anger takes over. Holding her arm over her pregnant belly, she says, “He must be. He assaulted me.”

I’m about to argue, but Reegan stops me. “Do not speak.” Standing up to match her stance, he adds, “We are filing to have a lie detector test administered immediately to settle this once and for all. We will also be filing a one hundred million dollar lawsuit for slander and damaging Mr. Everest’s livelihood and standing in the community.”

“You can’t do that,” she says, slamming her hands on the table.

I sit back, letting Reegan shut this down once and for all. “We assume that your lawyer has spoken to you prior to filing against my client regarding the consequences of your lies coming to light.”

Turning to her lawyer, she yells, “You promised me I would win. Now look what’s happening. You’re fired.”

“You lied,” he says, stacking his files. “I would highly recommend you settle here and now before this gets worse.”

Her glare hits mine. “If I agree to drop the other charges, will you drop yours?”

Reegan leans down and whispers in my ear, “Rhubarb, banana, strawberry, curd.”

For a stuffy lawyer type, he sure knows how to entertain. I reply, “Oysters,” but it’s damn hard to keep a straight face.

When he stands back up, he says, “We’ll drop all charges if a few conditions are met.”

“What?” she asks.

The public apology comes the next day, making Page Six news as well as many online sites picking up the gossip. I can’t help but wonder if Singer has heard the news. We never intended to sue if everything went away and my record is clean again. Validation is reward enough.

Dariya went into early labor a week later. The father missed the birth, but she and the baby went home with him. It was the first time I’d seen Keith since we sat across the table as enemies. This time I only have to see them in the papers.

With this side of my life wrapped up in a neat bow, my reputation has been restored. I’ve gone from the bad-boy billionaire to most eligible bachelor in the headlines. I don’t need attention of any sort, but that makes me laugh. If they only knew that my heart isn’t taking applications. Even if the position has been vacated, I refuse to fill the job.

I’m free. My heart isn’t.

I received the call I’d been waiting for. Lars and I went straight to the police station. The police are holding the man who allegedly attacked Singer. I come to find out that Singer had come to identify her attacker while I was stuck in daylong meetings with my vengeful ex. Aaron had paid for her ticket. I paid Aaron. As much as I want to meet her at the station, see her, talk to her, I give her the space she needs.

When I see the fucker who tried to kill her, he matches the man on the video and her description. He’s going to prison, but we’re convinced Singer’s attack and Melanie’s murder are related, and he can lead us to Melanie’s killer.

The police captain assures us the suspect has been interrogated thoroughly, but I bet Lars could get the information we need out of him. Unfortunately, the bars that hold him captive now protect him. From us.

“How is she?” I ask Lars as soon as we get in the SUV.

“She’s quiet. We’ve been tailing her from the hotel and back, but she’s only left once.” When I look at him, he knows what I really want. “She got Indian food from the corner restaurant.”

“At least she’s still here. And eating.”

“I’m not sure for how long, sir.”

“Me either.”

* * *

Thirty-five days.

She’s been gone for thirty-five days. A clean break. Thirty-two from the city. Thirty-five from me. It’s better she left. I repeat that throughout the day like a mantra.

I’ve tried to leave her alone—really fucking tried—but she is still everywhere—in my heart, taking up space in my soul, my dreams, a few things around the penthouse I can’t bring myself to throw away or send to her. I can’t let go. I won’t let her go.

I pay her rent hoping for her to return, but she took the clothes from the suitcases that had been brought over and I think that might be all she ever wants. Maybe in time, she’ll return to collect the things she misses.

Maybe in time she’ll return to collect me.

The two times I called her I hung up. Damn caller ID. I’m not sure if I’m more upset that I made the call or that she didn’t answer or call me back.

When I walk into the living room, Aaron has his leg propped up on the coffee table and is flicking through the TV channels. I ask, “Anything good on?” I’m starting to get used to having him and Caroline around. And when I say starting to, I mean, I’m used to opening my fridge and seeing new stuff stocked in there and finding junk food in my pantry. I love a good treat like the next guy, but teenage girls love their ice cream and cookies. Aaron says it’s what girls eat when they’re upset over boys. I’m staying far and clear of that business.

“No. Looking for sports. How can someone have over two thousand channels and only ten are sports?”

I sit down in the chair, and ask, “Have you decided what you want to do long-term?”

The TV is clicked off, and he scoots his body upright on the couch. “Your offer is generous. I’d like to keep driving for you, but do you think I can do the job you need me to do?”

The real question he wants to know he’s not asking, but I’ll answer it anyway. “I think you’ll be capable of doing the job, or I wouldn’t have offered it.”

“I might not move as fast.”

“You might move faster.”

Optimism is generally his forte, but I know the recovery process is going to be long. I also know he wants what’s best for me. I want the same for him and for his daughter. “And Caroline’s college tuition is still included?”

“Whether you take the job or not, she’s covered.”

“I want her to get the best.”

“If she keeps her grades up, I can write a letter to Princeton on her behalf.”

He swings his uninjured leg down, keeping the other on the coffee table. “Do you mean that?”

“Yes. I mean it or I wouldn’t have offered. She’s a smart girl. Let’s get her interning this summer at Everest Enterprises and get her on the fast track to the college of her choice.”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t owe me thanks. I’m to blame for your injuries.”

“No. You’re not. You take the blame, but it lies squarely on the shooter’s shoulders.”

I appreciate him trying to lessen the load, but I owe him so much. He says, “If you’re dumb enough to hire this injured soldier, I need to be smart and say yes. So yes, I’m on board.”

Our hands fly together as we shake on it. “This is good news. I needed some.”

When I stand, he says, “I should have told you before, but I didn’t know how you would feel about it.”

There’s this feeling, an instinct, or your gut guiding you, when something seems not quite right. I’ve been living with that feeling since the night of the shooting, but he sure knows how to twist it. I sit back down and wait.

He says, “Singer came to see me the night she left.”

Singer.

Singer Davis with the red lips and the blue dress. My whole heart is wrapped in that beguiling package. I wait again, though I want to ask a million questions.

Looking straight at me, he says, “I’m not saying anything new, but she’s special. Have you talked to her?”

“I haven’t.”

“You should.”

“She hasn’t talked to me either.”

“Are you going to play a schoolyard game of he said, she said or she didn’t, so I’m not?” I stand, wanting to get a glass of water and get back to work, but he says, “She loves you.”

“I love her.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Giving her life back to her.”

“What does that do to yours?”

“Aaron, come on, man. I don’t want to do this.”

“I told her what happened that night and guess what?”

“What?”

“She cried for her friend but comforted me. Me? The man who let her friend die.”

“You were shot trying to save her. Singer knows you risked your life for Melanie.”

Reaching for his crutches, he lifts and ambles up, balancing on them. “I’m not looking for reassurance. The guilt from losing an innocent life I could have protected will never go away. What I do know is she told me to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” I reply defensively.

“You’re not. You’re burying yourself in work, and while there’s nothing wrong with working hard, it’s all you do.”

“I have to deal with skyrocketing rents for my cargo holds in East Bay that are stalled in negotiation. I can’t sit around and shoot the shit. Sorry, no offense, so if you’ll excuse me.”

“No. I won’t. You know why? Because you’re a wealthy motherfucker, but money didn’t buy the happiness you had.”

“Happiness isn’t tangible. It slips right on by if you’re not keeping tabs on it.”

“Not even thirty and already so jaded. I’d give anything to have one more day with my wife. Anything but my daughter. So when you say happiness isn’t tangible, it’s a lie you tell yourself. I get to look at my happiness every morning and every night. I get to hug and watch her grow up before my eyes—too fast if you ask me. So when lumping everything that hurts you or makes you feel something bigger than that inflated ego of yours, remember, they’re not just words for tossing around casually.”

He goes the long way around the couch. I think to avoid passing by me. I say, “Singer was real. She’s tangible, but she’s not mine.”

Turning back, he asks, “Who said?”

“She did.”

“Did she? Or did she need time to grieve?”

“Stop giving me hope when there is none.”

“Hope is a tricky emotion,” he says with a smile. “Sometimes it’s the only thing we have left to hold on to. And sometimes, it’s just a mirage, leading us to nothing. The only way to know if something’s real is by going after it. You’re a smart man, Ethan. Hope didn’t build your billion-dollar businesses. You did. How did you do it?”

“I went after it.”

“I’m going to take a nap.” The wink reinforces how clever he thinks he is. I see through him. I know what he’s doing. “It was good talking to you.”

And it might be working. “You too.”

When I leave, his words about grieving make sense. Maybe I can move forward while grieving the loss of Singer . . . or maybe I can’t. Maybe she’s lost to me forever, and I won’t be given a choice.