CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
STERLING
Hot tears fall down my cheeks as I sit at my desk. Remember the old nursery rhyme, “First comes love, then comes marriage?” I think I’ve rewritten it. “First comes sex, second comes love, third comes rip your fucking heart out in pain.” And I can only blame myself, but there was no other choice.
I don’t remember the last time I got any real sleep. Probably not since Rorke and I were in New York together, which seems like a lifetime ago. I’m desperate for a distraction. Normally, work does it, but I need something more, so I hit the music app on my phone. Machine Gun Kelly and Hailee Steinfeld start torturing me with “At My Best.” Last night was the cruelest thing I’ve ever done to another person. I don’t recall ever intentionally hurting someone before. But everything I said was designed to do just that. Hurt him. The only man I’ve ever loved.
My love for you won’t be enough.
That’s the lie I fed him yesterday. Only, it’s not a complete lie. I had to say something, give him just the right lie. The lie that would kill his love for me, but still leave him whole enough to love someone else eventually.
He thinks I meant I don’t love him enough, but that’s not what I meant at all. I meant my love won’t be enough for him if he loses what he loves because of me. He’s lost too much already.
Maybe we just aren’t meant to be. For whatever reason, we just can’t get it right. At least that’s the line I’m feeding myself this hour. Anything to try to close this gaping hole in my chest.
Miles sticks his head in my office, and I quickly wipe my cheeks. “Ms. Jamison, can I get you some lunch?” I shake my head. “Tea? Coffee?”
Rorke’s right. He is a little ass kisser. “No, thank you,” I say, and he excuses himself.
Shaking it off, I know I just need to keep busy. I have a conference call with my lawyer, who has squashed the copycat company into the ground. Wonder what the bill for that piece of work will be? He tries again to convince me of a prenup. I want to tell him the wedding is off, that the prenup is totally unnecessary, but I can’t manage the words.
The rest of the day, my body moves from meeting-to-meeting, but my head’s not in the game, and I left my heart back in Alabama. Sighing, I pull out a list of universities that have invited me to speak. Some want a onetime engagement; others would like for me to teach an entire semester. I stare at the list, noting none of the schools are even close to Alabama.
My cell phone rings. I keep expecting it to be Rorke, but it never is. It seems I finally crushed the stubbornness out of him, just like I know I crushed his heart. There was no other way. I knew he’d come after me unless I hit him where it hurt—his pride, his ego. The guilt I feel over hurting him is only bearable because I know it’s for his own good.
I pick up and immediately hear my momma say, “Rorke came by.”
“I know.”
“So you talked to him?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m fit to be tied,” she says, and I imagine her red hair blazing. “What in blazes are you thinking, child?”
“Momma, just do what I ask. Please cancel the wedding.”
“Hush your mouth. I will do no such thing. Not until you tell me why you’re hurting that boy. For God’s sake, his father just died, and you’re practically leaving him at the altar!”
“I have my reasons.”
She groans, and I hear her say, “Please talk some sense into your daughter.”
Then I hear daddy’s voice, “Sugar.”
There’s no good word for what happens next—crying? Yes, but it’s more than that. Sobbing? That’s not quite it, either. Wailing? I’m not making any noise. Bawling? I’m not sure that includes the snot running down my face.
How can one word from my daddy reduce me to this? It’s because he sees the little girl inside me. The one that’s scared. The one that’s trying to be brave. He waits on the phone with me. He’s used to sitting with people working through their pain. He’s good at it because he can be quiet, really hear the depths of despair. And when I’ve finally settled, he offers me only one word.
“Fight.”
I’d expected him to say love, sacrifice, truth, honesty, or prayer. I hang up, confused and too tired to try to figure it out. Not much gets figured out today.
I’m supposed to be deciding on the name for the new oral sex toy that’s in development. My team has come up with a few ideas, but nothing seems right. Their first choice is Inamorato or Inamorata, which are Italian words for male and female lovers. Those don’t seem to fit. Their second choice is La Douleur Exquise, which is French for unrequited love. I get they are trying to play off the company name by using foreign words, but the name should fit. I draft an email sending them back to the drawing board.
The cheesy tagline meets the same fate. Break the laws of attraction—Paramour. Perhaps it’s just my bad mood. I run it over again in my head. What are the laws of attraction? Some say opposites attract. Others say that similar personalities attract. Who knows? All I know is, that tagline sucks.
Heading home after what seemed like an endless day, my doorman Walker greets me and steers me inside. Strangely, he’s not in uniform, and it’s not his usual day. “I was just coming up to see you,” he says. “To say goodbye.”
“Goodbye?” I ask. “You’re retiring?”
He flashes me a smile. “It’s time.”
Wrapping my arms around his neck, I squeeze hard. “The building should be giving you a party or something. Let me at least take you to dinner. No takeout this time.”
“Not necessary,” he says. “I came here today to tell you how much those takeout meals meant to me.”
“Me, too.”
“You’ve got someone to share all your dinners with now,” he says. “I’ve been married a long time. We’ve had some great dinners, some burned ones, some when we barely had enough on our plates.”
A sad smile crosses my lips, remembering Rorke’s dinner that left me on the bathroom floor. “I’m going to miss you,” I say.
He gives me another hearty squeeze. Then he heads for the door, the door he held open for me so many times. I rush to get it for him, holding it open with a smile on my face, even though tears are running down it. Then I head upstairs to my apartment, knowing it’s going to feel lonely now—once again.
Opening the door, my heart sinks. I used to love this place, but now I can only see what’s missing. Rorke. I wish we’d spent more time together here. We only had a couple days, and not nearly enough of him remains. He didn’t leave anything behind, not a shirt for me to wrap myself in, or even a pair of socks to keep my feet warm. His writing isn’t on my grocery list. His dishes aren’t in my sink. It’s just me.
Shuffling into my bedroom, I kick off my shoes and head into the bathroom, flicking on the light. A little yelp escapes before I cover my mouth.
A zillion pink heart sticky notes cover my bathroom mirror, and they’re forming one big heart.
I stifle a cry and slowly step towards it, seeing blue ink on each sticker. It’s Rorke’s handwriting. Each sticker is different, but they start the same way.
I love . . .
My eyes, my touch, holding me, laughing with me, listening to me snore, my obsession with sticky notes. The list is endless. Everything he loves about me written in his own hand, all shaped in one big heart.
This is the first time anyone’s ever left sticky notes for me. And I decide right then and there that I won’t ever take a single one off the mirror, but I do gently lift each one to read the one below it.
My heart flutters, my stomach flips. He was here. When? How long ago? How did he get in? I can’t believe I missed him. Maybe it’s good I missed him. I’m not sure I can keep up this charade face-to-face, even though I know I have to. He didn’t fly all this way to decorate my mirror and leave. He’ll be back. I have to be ready.
Suddenly, I see his blue eyes in the mirror. I’m not ready. My heart fills with love for him. It’s hard to contain, but I must.
“Walker let me in,” he says softly, and I turn around to face him. After what I’ve done to him, it’s the least I can do—face him.
“You shouldn’t be here. I told you not to come.”
He reaches into the front pocket of his jeans, pulling out a folded-up piece of paper—my check.
Carefully, he unfolds it and places it down on the vanity beside me. Is this why he came? To return the money? Even though we aren’t getting married, he’s keeping his word to leave our relationship with nothing more than what he came into it with. “Please keep it,” I say. “Use it for the farm, the camp.”
I pick it up and reach for his hand to force him to take the money, but he closes his fingers around mine. His eyes lift, and the intensity there holds me hostage, unable to move or even glance away. He squeezes my hand harder, and I hear the check crumple between our fingers. “I’m not going anywhere. Not without you,” he says, pulling the check from my hand and tossing it in the toilet.
“Oh, my God!” I cry, lunging for it, but he beats me to it, flushing it down. “What are you doing?”
“I had to see you. I know you love me,” he says, stepping towards me.
“I never said I didn’t love you,” I say, my voice cracking. I try to step back, but my butt hits the sink. “I want more than you can give me.”
“I don’t believe you,” he says, waving his arm. “You have everything, yet you came home to Alabama—to your parents, to me. Why? Because this, here is what’s not enough.”
He’s too damn smart and knows me too well. He doesn’t wait for me to respond, perhaps because he knows I can’t. Smirking, he turns and walks out of the bathroom. I can’t help myself and turn to follow him, finding him plopped down on my bed, hands behind his head, feet up.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m staying.”
“You can’t stay!”
“You gonna call the cops on me?” he asks with a grin.
The man is unbelievable. He knows I won’t call the police. “Get out of my house.”
“Nope,” he says, settling in deeper. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me the truth.”
“I told you the truth.”
“Right, you don’t love me enough,” he jeers. “If that’s the case, then I’m staying until I make you love me enough. Either way, you aren’t getting rid of me.”
“God, you are so stubborn.”
“My dad told me that’s the only way to love someone—with stubbornness. That’s the only way you can hold on to them.”
“Well, he’d be pretty damn proud of you right now.”
*
RORKE
She disappeared into the bathroom twenty minutes ago. No door slam, no mumbled curses, she simply walked inside and shut the door. I haven’t heard the shower turn on or the sink or tub. She’s probably in there ripping up the hearts into tiny little pieces and flushing them down the toilet. Come to think of it, I haven’t heard the toilet, either.
What’s she doing in there?
Crying? Just that thought makes me spring out of bed, but the bathroom door opens before I can get to her. She’s standing there in a long t-shirt and loose-fitting pajama bottoms that swallow her, reminding me how small she is. How much I want to take care of her. For the rest of my life.
She pulls her sleeve down over her hand, hiding even the smallest part of her from showing. I have to wonder what else she’s hiding from me. “Are you alright?” I whisper.
There’s the slightest quiver of her bottom lip. Someone who didn’t know her really well would’ve missed it. She stands a little taller. “Perfectly fine. I’m going to the guest room.”
She starts to move past me, but I step in front of her. “You’re not sleeping in your own guest room.”
“Well, I’m not sleeping with you,” she says. “And you don’t seem to be going anywhere tonight.”
“You’re right,” I say. “But I’ll sleep in the other room. You need to rest.”
“Don’t tell me what I need,” she snaps.
I reach for her, but she heads right for the door. Following her, I place my hands on her waist. Her back to my front, I let my body gently press into hers, lowering my lips to her neck. “I know what you need.” She doesn’t say a word. She’s barely even breathing. “You need a kiss goodnight.”
She quickly turns around, I’m sure to tell me to go to hell. But I pull her closer, kissing her hard. “I love you, Sterling.”
“And I need you to stop,” she says, cupping my face in her hands and then slipping out the door.
*
I try to get comfortable in her bed, try to sleep, but the smell of her shampoo prevents me. I roll over, and the scent seems even stronger. I can’t shake it for what seems hours. And the sheets don’t feel right without her under them. I can’t get settled.
I get up and stand in the doorway of her bathroom, staring at the sticky notes on her mirror. They’re still there. She didn’t rip them down. That means something, doesn’t it? But what the hell is going on? Henry James said in The Europeans, “There were several ways of understanding her: there was what she said, and there was what she meant, and there was something between the two, that was neither.” I think he must’ve known Sterling.
I haven’t felt this unsettled since Dad died. If I were at home, I’d be walking the dirt paths of the farm, staring up at the sky. I head to the door of the terrace, opening it up to what has to be the quietest night in New York City, ever. There’s no pulse of the city beating tonight. There’s a stillness, silence, like the farm. I open the door wider, stepping out onto the cool tiles.
Her green eyes shoot to me through the darkness like two little emeralds.
“I need to walk,” I say.
“Well, I’m pacing,” she says.
I smile at her. It’s impossible not to. I motion for her to continue, and start slowly walking the length of her terrace, keeping a watch on her out of the corner of my eye. If anyone is watching us from their apartments, we must look insane. Her pace is fast, walking to the end then quickly turning to start again.
I’m moving much slower. The point of walking is to slow my mind. The point of her pacing is to outrun hers. I’m trying to understand. She’s trying to escape.
I make it to the end and start to turn. She snaps her fingers at me. “Uh-uh, you stay on your side.”
I nod, then look up into the starless sky, asking, “You awake?”
“Of course I am,” she says bluntly.
“I wasn’t . . .”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“I’m not talking to you,” I say. “Sometimes when I walk, I talk to Levi.”
She won’t deny me talking to my dead brother. I don’t start talking right away. This isn’t for her benefit. It’s for mine. So I just walk, slowly, making sure to stay on my side of the terrace. She’s not talking out loud, but I’m sure her mind is full of relentless chatter. I wonder how long until she cracks and tells me what the hell is really going on. Another day? A week?
It really doesn’t matter because I’m not letting her go. Not this time.
“You were never much of a night owl, Levi. Sorry about the ring. I know Sterling feels bad about that. She was trying to send me a message, but fuck if I know what it is.”
Sterling’s pacing slows a tad as I keep talking. “I need my big brother right about now. Don’t go running to Dad, either. I’m still kind of pissed at him about the farm. Yeah, yeah, I know life is short, and I shouldn’t hold onto things. But that’s not who I am—like I’ve been holding onto Sterling since I was five years old. Even when the only thing to hold onto was the dream of her.”
Stopping at the end of the terrace, I lower my head to my hands. “I need your help, Levi. I didn’t have a choice when I lost you or Dad or even the farm. But I have a choice now. Hell, it’s not even a choice. I have to love this woman. Even if she doesn’t want me to. There are no other options for me. She’s it.”
A huge wind barrels across the terrace, forcing me to look up, and I find that Sterling’s no longer there.