Never Got Over You

by Scott, S. L.

  “Pretty much. Let me know how that all turns out.”

  Wrapping me in her arms, she says, “No matter what happens, you’ll always be stuck with me.”

  I release the suitcase to hug her. “Unless you actually give a guy your number.”

  “Maybe if I meet the right guy.” Stepping back, she adds, “The right guy at the right time, that is.”

  “Isn’t that the truth.” I tug the suitcase and start walking down the hall to the elevator. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

  “I never do. Take care, Nat, and send your dad my best wishes.”

  Still trucking to the elevator, I wave over my shoulder. “I will.”

  When I arrive at the hospital, the car pulls up behind Jackson’s black Range Rover. I hadn’t thought about the coincidence until now—Jackson’s new Rover to Nick’s restored model. Jackson hops out to grab my stuff from the back seat as the cab driver pulls my suitcase from the trunk.

  I fold myself into the SUV and run my hand over the dash. The two vehicles couldn’t be more different, but there’s something sophisticated about the leather and design on the inside. My brother is more of a sports car kind of guy, but after he wrecked the last one, my parents surprised him with the SUV. This car never fit Jackson like it does Nick.

  Jackson loads my luggage in the back, and I turn to ask, “Where’s Mom?”

  “She’s riding with Dad. They left about ten minutes ago.”

  Irritation burns through me. “Then why didn’t you pick me up?”

  “You’re in the opposite direction. I wasn’t going to fight traffic.”

  Annoyed, I grit my teeth and look out the window. The bench that Nick had been occupying is empty, and disappointment fills my chest. His constant presence has surprised me, but is that it? He’s gone? Forever? I can’t say that worrying about my dad hasn’t consumed me, but alongside that has been this war inside my head. Talk to Nick vs. forget about him.

  I breathe what I think is a sigh of relief. Not having to face your demons is always a good thing, but I can tell it’s something different. It’s not relief I feel, but empty, like the bench.

  Jackson gets in and starts the car. “Ready?”

  I glance back one more time. Maybe he went to get something to eat or use the bathroom. Maybe he was called away or asked to move. Maybe he’ll be back the moment we leave, and I’ll never see him again. I pop the door open, and my seat belt flies off. Hopping out, I look everywhere, everywhere for where my heart might be.

  “What are you doing, Natalie?” I hear my brother but can’t bring myself to leave.

  What if . . . He once tossed what-ifs around like he did I do’s.

  I hate that I smile thinking about him. I hate that I miss those phrases he used.

  But what I really hate is that I miss him.

  When there’s no sign of him anywhere, I climb back in the SUV and buckle in. “I’m ready.”

  30

  Nick

  I waited.

  For five days, I waited through the bad weather—light rain, cold winds, and occasional sun managed to shine, but not for long. Like my hope to see and talk to Natalie, it waned. But I would have stayed. I waited as long as I could until a hospital security guard told me to leave.

  John St. James has been discharged into private care. The rest is a mystery to me. And to him. I tried my best to convince them to dig a little deeper for information at the nurses’ desk. They are vaults, though, and rightly so.

  Although I don’t have much time, I decide to stop by her apartment. It’s a risk I’m willing to take because, after this, I’m going back to LA. The car stops at the curb, and I get out. I look up at the window I remember Tatum peeking out. One. Two. Three. Four. Fourth floor left side of what I presume is an elevator.

  The doorman doesn’t say anything when I enter the lobby. He stands, giving me a stern nod and disapproving once-over.

  I say, “Hi, I’m here for Natalie St. James,” and head for the elevator.

  “She’s not here. She left not forty-five minutes ago. Heading out of town by the looks of it, so you’re not going to find her upstairs.”

  “Out of town.” I repeat like the words are new to my ears. “Is Tatum around?”

  “I can ring her for you.”

  I stand there awkwardly in the modern-styled lobby juxtaposed against the historical architecture. I walk back to the door, looking down the broad avenue, wondering which way she might have gone. “Ms. Devreux will be down momentarily.”

  Glancing at him as he settles back in behind the desk, I reply, “Thank you.” Is this a fool’s mission? Natalie’s gone, and I have no idea where to even start looking.

  Tatum is my last hope of reaching her again.

  The ding of the elevator has me turning around. The doors open, and Tatum, dressed in a giant panda onesie, comes toward me. I cover my mouth, but the bark of laughter is still audible and echoes through the lobby.

  At least she’s not wearing the hood, but I’m not sure why that’s where she drew the line. She says, “Ignore my outfit. I was in for the night, and trust me, this thing is not only comfortable but cozy.”

  She still makes no apology for it, though. You have to appreciate that about her. She stops just a few feet shy of me and leans against the side of a large leather couch. “Natalie’s not here.” The irritation I expected to hear from a defensive friend crossing her arms over her chest isn’t found.

  “She’s heading out of town?”

  “To be with her family.”

  I don’t know why I feel so awkward. It’s nothing Tatum’s done to make me feel this way. She’s done quite the opposite, actually. So much so that I dare to ask, “How is she?”

  She nods toward the sitting area and moves around to claim the couch. I take a chair, resting forward on my legs. Glancing at the street through the windows, she replies, “This is tricky, Nick.” Her eyes return to mine. “I’m not sure what I should reveal to you. I’d hate to betray my friend.”

  “I wouldn’t ask that of you.” Sitting up, I inwardly sigh, not sure where to go with this. I figure I have nothing to lose, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll gain some insight if I’m lucky. “I love her.”

  Sympathy runs through her expression, turning the corners of her mouth down. “I know.” Unlike me holding my feelings in as much as possible, she doesn’t bother. “I like you, Nick. I like you for Natalie. I mean, even your names are cute together—Nick and Natalie. What’s not to like?”

  I remember my mom saying the same—Nick and Natalie like Corbin and Cookie—as if that could determine our destiny. For a too brief time, I believed in small signs like that, but I’ve started to lose faith.

  Appreciating the reminder of these little coincidences, I smile. “I like Natalie and Nick as well.” I sound like a kid, but Tatum makes it easy for me to feel sane with those admissions. “Is it a lost cause to hold on to hope?”

  She tucks a leg under her and leans forward. After making sure the doorman isn’t eavesdropping, she says, “I will always take her side. No matter what, I’ll have her back. But being a good friend who’s loyal also means telling her the truth, even when it’s not what she wants to hear.” She sits back again as if the secrets are all on the table. “I told her to talk to you.”

  “Thank you.” The words rush out when a wave a relief comes over me.

  “Not so fast, Nicky. I don’t know the dirty details of what happened. All I know is her side. Let me just tell you—that side of the big picture doesn’t look good for you. I’m not asking you to explain yourself to me, but I hope that if you ever have the chance to tell her your side of things, you tell her the truth.” She stands and comes a little closer. “Plenty of guys have lied to her. Be the man who tells her the truth.”

  She walks around the couch but stops with her fingertips still on the leather. “Go back to California. Live your life, the life you’ve built. If you’re still missing her in a few weeks or even months, you come bac
k to see me, and I’ll make sure you get to speak to her.”

  Bolting to my feet, I ask, “You want me to live life like she hasn’t already altered it forever?”

  “I want you to know for sure that you can’t live without her before you drag her back into this mess.”

  “She’s already in it, Tatum.” And I hate that for her. I hate this whole situation, that I didn’t look closer at the contracts that affect Christiansen’s bottom line as well as other’s. And right smack bang in the middle of this is Natalie.

  I’ve spoken to Andrew and my dad about these contracts numerous times, and it was always just business. Yet Natalie thinks it was personal, an attack on her family and her company. Bottom line? I fucked up as an attorney and her boyfriend . . . fiancé.

  “But she can find a way out.”

  “And you think she needs to do that alone?”

  A self-assured grin covers her face. “She’s not alone. She’s got me and her family. We may not be you, but we can help her heal the way she needs to.”

  I want to argue, to keep talking so she tells me more, or feels sorry for me for the pain I feel, but as she made clear, she’s Natalie’s friend. Though, under the hood of her words, Tatum is also an ally of mine.

  The elevator doors close, and I look at the doorman. He’s shaking his head like he’s heard this sad story before. Since he doesn’t seem to be making a move to open the door, I head there and push it open. “Hope is only as strong as the heart that wields it,” he says to my back.

  I twist back with my hands still on the door and look at him. “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s the problem, son. Listen to Ms. Devreux, and you’ll come to your own conclusion.”

  “Why can’t anything be easy?”

  “Most things are easy, but those aren’t the things you want.”

  “Now there’s something we can agree on. Have a good night.”

  Just before the door closes behind me, he says, “You too, Mr. Christiansen.”

  I stop again to look back. Through the glass, I can see he’s already caught up in whatever’s on a small TV on the desk. Checking the time, I know I should go before I miss my flight, but my curiosity gets the better of me.

  I only step a foot back in. “How do you know my name?”

  “You’re on Ms. St. James’s list of guests who don’t have to check in.”

  I’ve never been inside the building, much less her apartment, but I’m on the list? Her list? I know I’m being nosy, but I’ve never been on a doorman’s list before and feel bold after making this one. “Does she have a long list?”

  He chuckles, his jowls threatening to jiggle. “You’re it.”

  “I’m the list?”

  He nods and then points at the game. I raise my hand and then go back outside again. I see the car I hired come make the block again and get in as soon as he pulls to the curb. He looks at me in the rearview mirror, and asks, “The airport?”

  “I made the list.” I don’t know what I’m saying or why I’m telling him, but this seems like news that needs to be broadcast all over New York City. I. Made. Her. List.

  “That’s great,” the driver says, not as enthusiastic as I am. Actually, there’s no inflection in his tone at all. “JFK?”

  Doesn’t matter what he thinks. I made Natalie’s guest list. Me, myself, and I. “Yes.”

  * * *

  I’ll admit that the high I was riding from making her list didn’t last until touchdown in LA. I felt her absence growing with every mile traveled, and with a continent between us, I fear the worst—losing her altogether.

  I got a text that Andrew sent a car to pick me up. I expected a ride share like Uber or Lyft, but I got Cookie’s carpool instead. “What are you doing here, Mom?”

  “Andrew said you needed a lift,” she replies while getting back in the car. The traffic cops at LAX mean business and will make us move if we even try to say hi on the sidewalk. We’ll hug in the car.

  I load my leather duffel into the trunk of her Mercedes and then get in on the passenger’s side. She shifts the gear into drive, but we embrace quickly before she pulls out. I say, “I did, but you didn’t have to fight this traffic. A car would have been fine.”

  “I wanted to.” She lays on her horn when a Ford F-150 cuts her off. “People are the worst.”

  Did I ever mention she’s hell on wheels, suffering from a major case of road rage? I’ve had bouts of it myself in Los Angeles traffic, so I cut her some slack. I also double-check my seat belt and then hold on to the handle.

  “I appreciate it.”

  Though she keeps her eyes focused on the road, ready to attack anyone who has the nerve to enter her lane, she asks, “How are you?”

  I don’t have the energy to hide my feelings anymore. “Not that great.”

  Her gaze finds me briefly, and she nods. “It’s good to be in touch with your feelings. There’s no way to change if you can’t get to the root of your spiritual being.”

  When she deep dives into the psyche and universe stuff, I start missing the road rage mama. “I’m not sure I’m one to analyze. It’s pretty obvious that I fucked up and don’t know how to get her back.”

  “I’ve been worried about you, but I know sometimes we have to let our concerns run their course. I can’t fix this for you, but I have a feeling you can. It’s just going to take some time and innovation.”

  “God,” I say, my head dropping against the headrest. “Does everyone have to speak in riddles? Can’t someone just give me the fucking answers to make this better? First, the doorman, and now you. Just help me.”

  I’m glad her eyes are back on the road again when she says, “I will if I can. What did the doorman say?”

  “I spent five hours on that flight, trying to figure it out and failed. Here goes. Hope is only as strong as the heart that wields it.”

  Nodding, she purses her lips. “Oooh, that’s a good one.”

  “Yeah, but what does it mean?”

  “I’ll think about it and get back to you. In the meantime, you have a lot of loose ends to wrap up.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  31

  Natalie

  The first snow is always the most magical.

  Sitting in the window seat of the library with a half-eaten piece of pumpkin pie next to me, I lean my back against the bookcase and watch as the snowflakes fall from the sky, hoping to find peace in the sight. Something is off this year.

  Pressing my palm to the cold glass, I want to feel the chill seep into my skin. In a house with three fireplaces and a thermostat set at a constant seventy-three degrees, I’ve been missing the warmth that reaches my bones. Maybe this will remind me that it’s still there. That he’s still with me.

  Numb is no way to feel, but the winter storm that blew in last night doesn’t change my confusion regarding Nick. I’m still not sure I’m ready to have a conversation that finalizes our ending. What will he say but what he thinks I want to hear? Rearranging words to make them sound prettier doesn’t change the meaning.

  The whole situation is ugly, and I feel caught in the middle. The thing is . . . the empty bench comes to mind again. I’ve struggled to get the image out of my head. I may have told him to leave for good, but I realize now that I might have acted in haste. I had other priorities at the time, the only one I should have had—my dad.

  My mom comes silently into the room to drop off a glass of water for my dad, who’s sleeping soundly, checks the logs in the fireplace, and smiles at me before disappearing again. My parents have always been . . . just my parents. But seeing how gentle she is with him and hearing him say it was her touch that guided him back to life puts them in a whole new light.

  They aren’t just the parents of Jackson and me. They aren’t two powerhouses in the financial world. They’re John and Martine, two lost souls who found their mate sitting in a coffee shop, and two people still in love after more than thirty years.

  I’ve had a
great example of what love looks like, how it behaves, and most importantly, how it grows through the years. How it grows even when there are disagreements and fights. Their opinions have conflicted many times, yet . . . they always come back together. That takes patience and humility . . . and deep love that weathers storms.

  Is this a storm that Nick and I can weather?

  I still have my company, though I’m not sure what’s happening behind the scenes at CWM. Nothing has shut me down yet, not a certified letter, email, or even a voicemail. Professionally I have no idea where I stand, so I keep going—business as usual.

  Personally, I’m not having as much luck. It’s hard to figure out how to move around the aftermath without getting further injured. He’s said it a million times—we moved fast. But was it too fast, or were we moving at our own pace, one that was right for us?

  The snow begins to cling to the edges of the window, and warm winter nights have me recalling eyes that held that same magic and arms that made me feel safe. Call it a momentary breakdown, but I’m tired of guessing and weak to the romantic ambiance outside my window. Picking up my phone, I decide to text Nick.

  I have no idea what to say, but I think I should start with the basics. Me: Are you still in the ci…

  Scratch that. I delete it, and then type: I love you . . .

  There’s no way I can send a mixed message like that. I backspace, ridding my screen of the words that come off as an offensive tackle in my current emotional state. The reality is, I can love him, but is it strong enough to last? Despite what he says, love can’t always be the answer.

  Life’s too complicated for that. Hearing what Tatum once said in my head—talk to him—I take a deep breath to steady my shaking hands and text one question: Did you sign that contract?

  It’s the one question with an answer that can change everything. I heard about it, but I’ve not seen anything with my own eyes. I didn’t want to, storing my faith in a secret hope chest buried in a cranny of my heart that we could be together again.