by Sierra Hill
“I think I should go on holiday more often if this place is going to run as smoothly as it did.”
I look up to see a wide smile stretched across Graham’s tanned face. Sure enough, his sunburn evened out into a nice, golden tan. Motherfucker looks like a Greek god.
Pushing back from my desk, I stand and stride over to Graham, offering my hand as we clasp each other and go in for a bro-hug, slapping each other on the back.
“Welcome back, skipper. Good to have your lazy-ass back in the office.”
Graham takes a seat in one of the visitor chairs and stretches his long legs out before him as I round the corner of my desk and sit back down.
Graham shakes his head. “I think this was the first vacation I’ve taken in”—he ticks off his fingers—“well, since just after grad school.”
“It certainly seems to agree with you. You look like a fucking million bucks.” I let out a humoring laugh. “Oh wait, you are worth over a million dollars because that’s how much I made you in your absence.”
We both chuckle at my joke, but then his shrewd eyes pin me with a hard-assessing stare.
“You, on the other hand, look like you could either use some sleep or a vacation of your own. What’s up with this?” Graham circles an index finger in the air toward me, highlighting the obvious bags under my eyes from exhaustion.
I flip him my middle finger. “Bro, I’ve been working my ass off here while you’ve been sipping umbrella drinks in paradise.”
He chortles and gives me disbelieving raise of his brow. “Really, is that it? All work and no play makes Miles a sad boy?”
“Whatever, man. But hey, I have those reports you wanted to see for Wales and Crawford.” I type a few keystrokes on my laptop, hoping to divert our conversation into less choppy waters.
Albeit reluctantly, Graham gives me a nod and turns his attention toward the slew of financials I’ve been working on, and we begin hashing out plans for the coming month.
Redirecting works like a charm.
Later in the day, after I’ve finished up with a client call, I check my messages to find a few texts from Sutton.
The first one is a photo of her trying on a new dress they got in at the shop. She’s draped in a see-through gauzy floral dress, ruffles at the capped shoulders, and a scoop neck in the front to show off her cleavage.
She captions it with: Do I look like a grandma in this dress?
I can’t help but chuckle. Sutton could never look like a grandma even in a gunny sack, which I tell her in my reply.
Her reply back is immediate.
Button: I’m over at Lucy’s tonight cooking dinner for her kids. Can I bring you some extra?
Recalling she’d mentioned that Lucy and her family live in Brooklyn, I consider the distance and the time it would take to get to my place and decline the offer.
Me: Not tonight, Button. I’m beat. I’m sure you are too after moving back to Ben’s. Maybe tomorrow?
We didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye this week after she’d packed up and returned to her cousin’s place. Although she’s been frantically looking for a place to rent before her school year begins, she hasn’t been successful yet in pinning one down.
You could offer up your place.
The thought comes unbidden and out of nowhere. It’s not like I hadn’t considered it before now, because sleeping in the same bed every night with Sutton would be heaven. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to cuddle with a woman after sex, but holding my Button in my arms as we fall asleep is the most calming thing in the world.
Sutton is the most calming influence I’ve had on my life. But, she also scares me shitless.
And her response tells me that I’m making a mess of things and pushing away possibly the best woman I’ve ever met.
Sutton: Sure. No prob. Good night, Miles.
38
Sutton
Dear Ida,
I made a mistake. One that might have cost me something valuable.
You see, I’ve been dating this guy from my past who I’ve reunited with by chance. At first, he didn’t recognize me or remember who I was, because he hasn’t seen me in years, but that problem was resolved. After reconnecting, our attraction grew, and we started dating. And that’s been an amazing gift because he’s a wonderful man, not at all the stuck-up big shot I originally thought he was.
But here’s the problem. I opened my big fat mouth and the words, “I love you” came spilling out.
Falling in love with him was easy because I’ve always loved him. But it’s too soon and too early in this relationship to say it. And I think it freaked him out because he’s been distant ever since.
What should I do? Just hang tight and pretend it never happened? Or reiterate that it was a mistake in a moment of passion?
I don’t want to lose him. Please help.
Fool in Love
I wrote the letter and sent it via email yesterday, finding a response in my inbox right away this morning. I read it on the subway to the NYU bookstore, where I’m meeting Christiana to purchase our textbooks for the semester. The words in Ask Ida’s response made me realize what a fool I am. I plan to share it with Christiana and get her opinion. This will all be new to her since I’ve yet to mention that I began dating Miles.
Dear Fool in Love,
Love is never a mistake and giving it should never be a problem. If this wonderful guy doesn’t reciprocate your feelings or is too closed off to admit his own in return, then you need to cut bait and run.
Don’t stick around and try to love someone who isn’t willing to return that love in spades. You’re not the fool in this situation, he is.
Best of luck. I hope he realizes what he has before he loses it altogether.
All my best,
Ida
Honestly, I know all of this because it’s straight from the pages of a Psychology 101 course, and the “if you love something, set it free” old adage. There’s no going back once the words are out there. Miles needs to figure out what he wants from me in return.
I can’t push him if he’s not ready, and sadly, I don’t think he is ready to get close to me or anyone else. He’s still battling the demons of his sister’s death and, for whatever reason, thinks he has something to do with it. Which is crazy because unless he gave her the heroin that she OD’d on, then he has nothing to blame himself for.
Christiana waves at me from the entrance of the bookstore, waiting for me with two coffees in hand as I approach her through Washington Square Park.
“Hey, Chica,” she greets, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek before shoving an iced macchiato in my hand. “You look like shit. What’s the matter with you?”
Leave it to Christiana to give me the no-filter blunt greeting. I give her a look of mock outrage and take a sip through the cup’s straw.
“It’s a good thing you come bearing gifts, otherwise I’d slap you,” I tease, opening the door so she can walk into the building as I follow behind.
Her long raven hair bounces over her backside before she whips her head around to glance back at me.
“You want to sit down at a table for a bit before we get our books on?” She points with a finger toward the far right of the store where there are some empty tables.
After hanging my backpack over the back of the chair, I sit down to face her as she gets situated. I pull out my phone and place it on the table, opening up my email account so I can show her my Ask Ida messages.
“What’s this?” Christiana nods toward the phone and then tips her head, brows furrowing in question.
Inhaling a deep breath, I let it out slowly and begin to tell her the story.
“Remember I told you how I ran into Miles the night of the fire alarm?”
She knows who Melodie is and is aware of my crush on Miles, which I shared one drunken night early on in college, and how I ran into him the night of the fire alarm, but knows nothing of what’s been going on since.
She nods, waggl
ing her brows suggestively. “Of course, the hottie you crushed on hard. But wasn’t he a dick to you?”
I may have also mentioned how rude he acted toward me. My goodness, how things have changed.
The thing about Christiana is that she holds back nothing when she’s excited, angry, happy, or sad. All her emotions are worn on her sleeve, so it comes as no shock to me when she lets out a shriek of delight when I tell her we’ve hooked up.
“Holy shit, girl. You hoochie mama. Why the hell didn’t you tell me this before? When did this happen? And when are you going to marry him and have his babies?”
Her voice is loud and carries through the area, so I slap my hand over her mouth and glare at her.
“Shh. Good lord, do you not have an inside voice?”
She snaps at my finger with her teeth playfully, and I pull my hand away, picking up the phone and handing it to her to read the Ask Ida inquiries.
“Here, read all about it.”
She sifts through the messages, occasionally voicing commentary and ooh’s and ahh’s, and then slips in a few motherfucker curses in between. Finally, and with remorse written in her dark eyes, she hands it back to me as I chew on my lip, waiting for her wisdom.
We may have only been friends for a few years now, but she’s like a sister to me, and I trust her for her blatant honesty and sage advice.
“I have to agree with Ask Ida. He’s a sucker if he doesn’t feel the same way about you and a coward if he slinks off because you said those three words. That’s bullshit.”
“But—” I try to interject, hoping to shed some light on Miles’s good qualities and the potential reasons for his discomfort over this subject. Yes, I’m making excuses for him.
Her finger tick-tocks like a metronome in the air between us. “No buts. He’s the one being a douchecanoe if he’s dicking you around. Which means, sadly for you, no more dick unless the future becomes clear, and he admits his feelings.”
I choke on the cold liquid I’d just sipped, furtively looking around to find a few people grimacing in disgust at Christiana’s colorful language.
She snaps her head to the side and glares at a store employee and in a scoffing tone, asks the rhetorical question, “What? You’ve never had a guy be a dick to you?”
I return the phone to my purse, hunching my shoulders in defeat.
“I know I have to end things if he doesn’t feel the same way. But in my gut, I feel like he does have the same level of connection. It’s just tangled up in the other emotions that have a stranglehold on him since Mel’s death.”
Christiana draws me into her with an arm slung around my shoulder, side hugging me against her.
“You and I both know he’s going to have to work that out on his own. You can’t force it. He’ll either come to the conclusion that he needs help in dealing with his unresolved grief, or he’ll remain in the same pattern of loneliness that will only turn him into a bitter old man.”
I avert my eyes, staring down at the table, my lips pressed in a firm line. I know she’s right. She’s smart and understands men since she has three brothers. But it doesn’t make it any easier for me to let Miles go.
“Granted, he’ll be a hot bitter old man, but bitter nonetheless, and it won’t change things for you.”
39
Miles
The dinner meeting Graham and I had tonight with a potential client went well. Melissa Shauschenberg is the CEO of an online retail business that just went global, and she’s looking to us to help her invest and increase her profitability through some strategic investments.
The only concern I have with Melissa as a client is that she is extremely flirtatious and handsy. The minute it came up in conversation that I was single, she angled and maneuvered her body so she’d inadvertently touch me or brush up suggestively. And she kept at it the entire time.
“If you have any questions about our proposal or the investment plans we can offer your business, please call us. Graham or I would be happy to review the terms with you in more detail,” I say to her while we stand in front of Capicio’s, the small Italian restaurant on the same street as our apartment building.
Melissa crowds me as if we’re inside a packed train instead of the open sidewalk. She stands so close, in fact, that the firm curve of her breasts pushes against my arm every time she leans in to speak.
“Miles, you have no idea how much it means to me to be in such strong, capable financial hands with my investments. You and Graham seem so experienced and knowledgeable in these matters. I need men like you in my life.” She says this in a throaty, raspy voice that is overtly sexual, sending fingers of dread trailing down my spine.
“Mmm-hmm,” I absently agree, checking back over my shoulder to see what is taking Graham so fucking long to pay the bill.
Her hand suddenly leaves my chest, sliding over my dress shirt, groping my pecs and purring seductively. I think I’m a bit in shock, but just as she finds my belt, I grab hold of her wrist, stopping her progression.
This doesn’t seem to deter her in the slightest, and she seems to take this as consent, moving closer and pressing herself against me as I look wildly around wondering if I’m being Punk’d. Is this what some women feel like in the workforce who are inappropriately fondled and degraded?
If so, #MeToo.
I’m about to speak up and push her away when I hear Sutton’s soft, confused voice behind me.
“Miles?”
I turn, but the movement only brings Melissa along with me, who is still in my grip. I drop her wrist so fast she loses her balance and topples forward. I move to catch her and stand her upright, then let my hands fall to my sides. My hands clench into fists.
All the while, Sutton looks on with shiny, hazel eyes, blinking past the tears threatening to fall underneath her lashes.
“Sutton. What are you. . . ?”
There’s a moment where I think she’s going to turn and run, her fingers pressed to her mouth to cover her quivering lips. I know what she thinks she’s seeing, but she’s wrong. So, so very wrong.
I extend my arm to reach out, but she dodges it and steps back, all the while staring at me with eyes that tell me everything.
You’re an asshole.
You hurt me.
I trusted you.
How could you do this to me?
I’m unable to respond to any of those questions or correct the misunderstanding because as people walk around and between us, a few times her face disappearing from my view, she finally steps forward and slaps me, figuratively, with her accusation.
“How could you, Miles? I thought I meant something. I thought you’d changed. If Melodie were still with us right now, she’d be so ashamed of you. You’ve humiliated me once again. I can’t believe what a fool I’ve been. Thanks for letting me see the real Miles Thatcher.”
The crowd dissipates just when Graham walks out the restaurant door to witness the conclusion of this scene. Sutton turns swiftly around and books it down the sidewalk as Graham steps up next to me, blocking my view, and stares at me.
“What did I miss?”
I have no words, but Melissa pipes in, “I think Miles just got dumped.”
And sure enough, there’s a first time for everything.
40
Sutton
Tears taste like salt.
Salt can be bitter.
Bitter is how I feel.
Bittersweet is the feeling of not seeing Miles again.
I don’t want to feel anymore.
My head remains buried under a pillow as I sprawl across the couch, where I’ve taken up residence for the past week since moving into my new apartment.
With the help of Ben, Christiana, and a couple of loads boxed up by Taylor, I moved into my new three-hundred-eighty-five square foot apartment in the West Village. With the money I’d saved from the Morgan’s pet sitting job and the extra hours I’d taken on in Lucy’s absence at the store, I was able to find a great second-floor walk-up in a cu
te red brick building, complete with a balcony and a window flower box. Plus, I’m just a few short blocks away from one of my favorite music venues, Webster Hall.
If only the beauty of that blooming floral arrangement and the possibility of seeing great upcoming acts at the theater was enough to make me feel better right now. To help me get over this heart-wrenching pain of what happened with Miles.
That night, I’d grown impatient and fed up with waiting for Miles to reach out to me, so I took the train to the Upper West Side and walked down the street to his apartment. But before I even made it to his building, I saw him coming out of the Italian restaurant he’d actually taken me to not even two weeks ago. And he was with another woman.
A beautifully dressed woman who was all over him.
I didn’t want to overreact. That’s not in my nature.
But something split open inside me, a chasm of frustration and disgrace, knowing that I’d been waiting by the proverbial phone to hear from him, all while he was apparently going out with other women.
God, I felt so broken and angry. I was inconsolable for days, while Christiana was at my side helping me pack and listening to me cry hot, embarrassing tears over a man I fell in love with.
And the part that hurts the worst?
I’ve received only two texts from him and one phone call, which I ignored.
Granted, the first one he did leave the ball in my court when he wrote: Sutton, please let me explain. Call me. We need to talk.
The second one read: It’s not what it looks like.
Christiana scoffed when she read them as I cried my eyes out with my head in her lap, sniffling like a baby who’d just lost her binkie. She commiserated with me, suggesting that I should let him hang because a “let me explain” approach was just a player’s way of scheming their way out of being caught. It was a fabricated lie meant to gaslight the one who was cheated on.
So, I did what she said and let him stew in silence. The unfortunate problem for me, however, is that the plan backfired. I’m the one now sitting in silence, waiting to hear from him again. Waiting and hoping he’ll have a logical explanation for what I ran into that night.
