by Elodie Colt
I bend over the bed to fish my phone from my bag. Twenty-four messages blink on my broken screen, reminding me that I shrewdly ignored all of Matthew’s texts yesterday. I open the last two.
Austin: Nice meeting your boyfriend last night. Ever planned on telling me before we landed in the sack? That guy almost ripped me a new one
Matthew: Call me when you wake up pls
That was four hours ago, and it’s already after noon.
Sighing, I hurl my phone onto the nightstand just as agitated voices from below echo up the hallway. I bury my head in my pillow, yanking the sheets over my ear. Not even a minute later, someone pounds on my door. Definitely Ruby. She’s the only one familiar with the word ‘privacy’ and doesn’t just barge in as if she owned the place.
“Sam, sweetie, I know you’re still in bed, but you’ve got a visitor.” When I don’t answer, she adds, “It’s Matthew. He wants to see you.”
Damn, that guy is about as pertinacious as the horde of ants that invaded my kitchen cupboards last year. Annoying as hell and impossible to get rid of.
“Tell him to fuck off,” I grumble.
“Uhm, yeah, he’s… very persistent.” Her voice conveys that she’d rather not be the messenger between us.
The shouts grow louder from below, prompting me to push away the sheets. “I don’t want to see him. Kick him out. This is my house, for God’s sake!”
Ruby sighs, her footsteps receding while I shimmy out of my dress and shove my feet into a fresh pair of jeans. I haven’t decided yet if I will hear Matthew out or not. I need to get a clear head first and make sure that my libido won’t monopolize the thinking part again.
Knowing that the guy has zero respect for boundaries, I walk up to the door, ready to turn the key, but just as I reach for it, the door bangs open. I jump back before the wood batters my nose only to come face-to-face with Matthew. He looks as if he’s about to breathe fire from every hole in his face.
“Hey!” I screech, just like Skyla running after him who apparently tried to keep him out and failed. My arms slam over my chest to cover my bra before I quickly snatch a random top from the floor.
Matthew arcs an eyebrow at me. “Seriously?”
“Get the hell out of here,” I snap, shoving the top over my head and realizing a second too late that it’s inside out. Matthew has the good sense not to point out that the wash care label is sticking out of my left hip.
“Oh, so we’re back to playing the same game as yesterday?”
“No, we’re not. I’m sober today.”
Ruby, Kendra, and Leo file in after Skyla, clearly under the impression that this is a public confrontation seeing as Matthew didn’t close the door behind him.
“What happened yesterday?” Ruby whispers to Leo who just shrugs.
“I thought you were with Austin,” Kendra throws in, causing Matthew to shoot her a scowl from hell.
“No, she was with me.”
“From the sounds of it, you were inside her,” Leo launches into the conversation. Sweet Jesus…
“You just stormed in, like you always do, in the middle of the night, and kicked my date out, something you had no right to do!” I join the group discussion, figuring it’s time to regain the upper hand here.
“You took him home because you were hurt.”
“I took him home because I wanted to,” I fire back.
“Funny, I don’t remember you complaining when I made you come ten minutes later.”
Someone sucks in a breath from behind him, someone else mutters a low ‘oh, dear.’ I just gape at him, ready to drive my knee into his balls so hard, they pop out of his back hole.
He has the decency to wince and exhales in one blow. The motion flops the strand over his crumpled forehead again. “Listen, I broke things off with Jillian. I—”
“Did you sleep with her?” I cut in. “Did you fuck us both at the same time?”
“Christ, no! I told you we didn’t go that far. We just hit third base, okay?”
Third base? Sounds just as awful, if you ask me, and Kendra seems to agree. Lips puckered, she shakes her head at Matthew, silently telling him that he put his foot in.
I huff, throwing my hands in the air. “What do you want from me, Matthew?”
“I want you to tell me that you accept my apology for hurting you. I want you to give me a second chance. I want…” He steals a furtive glance behind him where four girls intently soak up his speech, the cut below his ear stretching with the movement. Then he speaks the last words I ever expected to leave his perfect mouth. “I want you to believe me when I say that… I love you.”
There’s no way I can doubt him, not with the fierce look etched onto his face and the sheer vigor layering every letter coming over his lips.
Everyone waits for my response with bated breaths, five pairs of eyes riveted on me. Kendra takes a tentative step forward, trying to catch my gaze.
“Sam,” she says in an almost pleading tone, as if trying to get me to bury the hatchet and pull Matthew out of his misery.
“Don’t Sam me.” I keep my cool gaze on Matthew. “You would be the first to circumcise a guy if you learned he took an intimate picture of you without your fucking knowledge. A picture that landed in Jillian’s hands a few days later.”
Kendra straightens in alert. “How intimate? PG-13 or…”
“More like NC-17,” I deadpan.
“Hot. Can I see—” Leo starts, but Skyla flicks the back of her hand, shutting her up before she can finish.
“I deleted it!” Matthew hisses.
But he knows he’s grasping at straws when Kendra, Ruby, and Skyla shake their heads in unison, Charlie’s-Angels-style.
“You want me to forgive you?” I huff a low, humorless laugh. “Maybe I can, someday, but not now. Now, I’m hurt and mortified and fucking angry. You know my past, Matthew. You know how hard it is for me to build up trust, a trust you abused plenty of times over the few weeks we’ve known each other. I need a guy who is honest with me at all times. Who stands one hundred percent behind me.”
Baring his teeth, he points a finger at me. “I have been standing a hundred percent behind you before I even knew your name. I had your back when your mother raked you over the coals after I broke my back to fix your garden.”
Now, it’s my time to wince, but I cover it up by turning my back on him to pick up my bag. I fish out five-hundred dollars from the five-hundred-fifty in my purse. Guess I will have to put myself on a strict diet for the remainder of the month.
“I know. Thank you for helping me out.” To my surprise, the words come out fluidly even though each pierces my throat like a hot needle.
He doesn’t even look at the bills when I press them into his hand. “Jesus, Sam, I don’t want your fucking money.”
“And I don’t want to owe you anything.”
His eyes narrow into slits. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am. And before you say anything else, do me a favor and save your breath,” I say in a sharp tone. “You reek of booze.”
He snorts. “You’re one to talk. You couldn’t even stand straight yesterday.”
“I’m not a fucking addict!” I scream so loud that five pairs of feet jump back in shock.
Matthew’s lips flatline. “So, that’s how you want to end things between us?”
I tear my face from his, unable to meet his blank, unbreakable stare.
Silence expands over the room, curling over us like dark mist, until Kendra steps in front of me, hiding me behind her back.
“You should leave,” she says to Matthew in a cool yet steady tone.
For a moment, he doesn’t move, trying to draw my gaze over Kendra’s shoulder, but I keep my head down.
“Right…” he mutters in a frigid tone that gut-punches me before he throws the money into the air and pivots on his heels. The bills are still raining down when the door shuts behind him, mirroring the pieces of my heart fluttering to the gro
und.
“Oh, honey…” Ruby starts in a gentle tone, but I lift my hand.
“Leave me alone. Please.”
They file out with drooped shoulders and crushed faces, leaving me stewing in my heartache.
I don’t know how long I stand there, forcing one breath after another out of my lungs and staring at the bills on the floor until they blur behind a thick sheen of tears. It’s only about an hour later, when I hear the familiar rumble of a truck’s engine followed by screeching tires, that I sag down on my knees and let the tears flow.
A ringing sound interrupts my sobs, and I scramble up on shaky feet. I’d better block Matthew’s number before I crack, take one of the million calls that are sure about to come, and beg him to come back.
I grab my phone, blinking at the screen. For a moment, I wonder who Arthur Emerson is until I recall that he’s the guy who holds my future in his hands. I hastily clear my throat, making sure not to sound like a chainsmoker before taking the call.
“Samantha Kent, hello?”
“Ms. Kent, Arthur Emerson here. I have amazing news for you. I’ve found two publishers who are willing to sign you on. Both offer excellent contracts and very good advances near the six-figure range.”
The wheels in my brain start to spin so fast, I fear they will cause a short circuit any moment.
“Wow, that’s… that’s great,” I stutter with as much enthusiasm as I can muster, cringing as soon as the words are out.
This is what you’ve been dreaming of for half a lifetime, and all you have to say is a half-assed ‘Wow?’
Thankfully, Arthur doesn’t pick up on the strain in my voice. He ends the call after letting me know that he’ll email me all information by tomorrow. Alarmingly catatonic, I set my phone aside and crouch down to collect the money.
I feather through the bills, trying to imagine how it would feel to have hundreds of them in my hand. You’re not poor anymore. Within seconds, you turned from rags to riches. You can buy yourself whatever you want.
A pity that the only thing my heart desires isn’t something you can buy.
Twenty-Four
Matthew
I wait for the coffee maker to fill my oversized mug, my eyes still half closed. I’m starting work at ungodly hours these days and usually finish breakfast before the rooster has time to wake the entire neighborhood. Sofia had to fire more than two-thirds of our employees, so I’m flogging myself to death day in and day out to get work done for half a dozen people at once.
After the last hot drop has landed in my brew, I grab the mug and deflate into a kitchen chair in front of my laptop. Taking a few sips, I wait for the device to power up. Tastes like piss compared to the stuff from Christina’s fully-automatic machine that prepared my coffee completed with milk, cream, sugar, and damn chocolate sprinkles with just one button.
I shake my head. No matter how much I miss the daily luxury of living high on the hog, nothing can top the fresh country air mixed with the omnipresent scent of citrus fruits.
Propping my head onto my fist, I whiz my right hand over the mouse pad to open my bank account. I close my eyes for a moment, bracing myself for a shit-load of red numbers, but when I open them again, all I see is…
I blink, leaning closer to the screen. Nope, the image doesn’t change. Still five zeros tailing a lonely number five.
Half a million dollars? Did Sofia win the lottery, or is someone pulling a really shitty prank on me here?
Frowning, I click on the details of the transaction. My jaw pops open. Christina has sent me the money with the note ‘A little thank you’ attached.
“Is this a joke?” I ask my screen. It gives me an answer the moment I navigate to my emails where an unopened one from Christina is waiting in my inbox.
Dear Matthew,
First of all, I owe you an apology. I’m sorry for pushing you to marry my daughter, and while I wish for nothing more than for Jillian to find herself a man who is remotely as good a guy as you are, I understand that she has to make her own choices. Whether she will stay forever single or tie the knot and throw a dozen kids into the world, I know she will make the right decision, without my constant interference.
Jillian and I have worked things out. We’re trying to catch up to all the years we’ve grown apart. Oh, she is my daughter alright and made me a deal—we’re spending one day together every week, in exchange for me undergoing therapy to come to grips with my depression. I wanted to go on vacation with her, spend three months on a yacht and sail through the oceans, but Jillian said I’d better invest the money in something useful. Something meaningful.
And what better way to start than saving this country’s citrus industry?
When you read this, you probably already know that I’ve stocked up your bank account. This is a donation, not a payment. Don’t even think about paying me back. We both know you need it far more than I do, and if I am to get over that damn alcohol addiction, I need a good, healthy replacement, so you better make sure your Valencias will continue to grow.
I will check on you next time I drive through Tampa. Until then, I wish you all the best. Say hi to Harry for me.
Xoxo, Christina
I hadn’t noticed I’d been holding my breath, and I sag back in my chair with a loud exhale.
Half a million dollars. My plantation is safe. My future is settled. My people can feed their families. My heart…
A memory invades my mind, one of a beautiful blonde flashing me an even more beautiful smile as she holds a package of oranges. ‘Your Valencias are the best!’
I set the coffee mug to my lips, downing the hot brew in one go. The liquid burns every taste bud on my tongue, and with it the haunting memory. Sure, my cognac would do a better job, but alas, I’ve washed every drop of alcohol in this house down the toilet.
I slam my empty mug back onto the table and quickly check my phone in case someone texted. Someone who’s been giving me the cold shoulder since we dueled with heart-slicing words two weeks ago. Someone who seems to be better off without me.
You already knew she wouldn’t come crawling back to you, a voice in my head reminds me. You knew you two were done the moment you stepped into your truck and left West Palm Beach behind you.
The soft scraping of fluffy slippers on the floor announces Sofia before she shuffles into the kitchen, clad in a peach-colored bathrobe. I slip my phone into my jeans pocket.
“Morning, boy. Had a good night’s sleep?”
No. Sleep tends to avoid me these days. “Yeah.”
I stand to put my mug into the sink while she perches her hip against the counter. “Are you ever going to tell me what happened in West Palm Beach?”
“Sure.” I give her a peck on the cheek. “Call Owen and the last five men we fired and tell them I want them back. Give them an advance to show our good graces. And then get me three-thousand new rootstocks from our nursery in South Africa. Express shipment, please.”
“What are you… Holy Christ!”
I leave her gaping at my laptop screen and set to work. Of course, my newfound sobriety didn’t go unnoticed by Sofia, so naturally, she’s been assailing me with questions since I returned to Tampa. Questions I’ve expertly avoided so far, just to bury my head in the sand. In truth, I’ve been hoping that things will make a U-turn in my favor. That Sam will grant me her forgiveness and come back to me, so I can introduce her to Sofia as the woman I want by my side. That my engagement ring—the one clearly made for her with all the flowers and sapphires—will soon glitter on the same hand that left a burning imprint on my cheek not that long ago.
I haven’t buzzed her up again. Sure, I typed about fifty texts but never found the guts to send them off. Considering I never received a reply from the last twenty-something, I figured it would be a waste of my nerves, tattered emotions, and non-existing patience.
Hence why I grabbed a pen and paper and sat down to write her a letter a few days ago, figuring, as a writer, she might be more willing to r
ead my handwriting. The papers landed in the trash after a couple of failed attempts to put my feelings into words and the realization that I probably included five spelling mistakes in three sentences. Sorry, but I’m not the one with the grammar skills here.
I come to a halt in front of the first rows of trees, taking a moment to bathe in the orange-pink sunrise and the relieving sensation that this land will be mine for a few years longer, thanks to Christina and her incredibly gracious donation. Old habits die hard, and I find my hand wandering to my pocket flask. A flask that landed in the trash for good reason, I remember when my fingers come away empty.
Exhaling through my nose, I turn to the first tree and give it a nod. “We don’t need booze, do we? Just water. That’s all we need to function, right?” I lift my hand and stroke a leaf. “Great. Now I’m talking to my plants, too…”
And so I set to work, going through the routines Dad taught me since I was a kid. I uproot at least fifty old, dying trees and prepare the soil for the new ones that should arrive next week. By noon, my cheeks show red splotches from a fresh sunburn, and sweat pools in every fold of my body.
I decide to take a break and walk back into the cool shadows of the house to get myself an ice-cold drink. It’s Diet Coke these days. What can I say, Jillian rubbed off on me.
Low mumbles waft down the hallway, and I strain my ears. Dad is talking to himself again. With a sigh, I set my drink aside and leave the kitchen to check on him.
“… sorry. I’m sorry…”
I gently nudge open the door to see Dad lying in his bed, looking down to where his feeding cup has landed on the floor.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to… I…”
“It’s alright, Dad.” I pick it up and sit down on the bed next to him as he mumbles one apology after another. He’s been weird since yesterday. No temper tantrums, very listless, and slurring to a degree I find it hard to understand what he has to say.
