“There’s no reason for me to be causing you anything. Everything’s good. Sit down.” I direct her to the bench where she sits without any pushing. “Do you need me to get you some water?”
“No,” she snaps. “I’m perfectly hydrated, thank you very much.”
Something about her demeanor sparks a similar confrontation. Her rehearsal dinner. I’d pulled her away from her party then too. God, I’m such a fucker of a brother.
For old time’s sake, I ask, “Don’t you need to be with your guests?”
“I’m on a potty break. It’s fine.” Her narrowed eyes show a hint of humor, and I know she caught my reference. Then she’s animated again. “And what do you mean everything’s good? Did you talk to Alayna?”
I lean a shoulder against the door. “I did.”
“And?” She’s almost as eager as I am to have us back together. It’s nice to have someone in my corner.
“And I proposed.”
“Um…what?”
“You’d be proud of her. She said no.” It hadn’t been one of my finer moments. I’d been desperate and bold and brazen. I hadn’t had a ring. It had been the solution I’d concocted on my ride back into town. I thought that proving the lengths I’d go for her was the answer to our problems. As if lack of dramatic gestures had been our issue.
“Which is understandable.”
Alayna already explained it in hard-to-hear words—she loves me, but she can’t stand to look at me. She can’t ever trust me again. I’m an idiot to think that she’d want to spend her life with me.
But I’m feeling masochistic and think maybe I should hear it again. “Is it?”
Mirabelle’s nicer about her response. “You broke her heart, Hudson. You don’t fix that with a proposal.”
I want to ask, then how do you fix it?
But I don’t voice the question. I’m afraid the answer is you don’t.
So instead, I slump on the seat next to her and assume an air of confidence. “It’s good, though. I’m going to win her back. I’m not giving up until I do.” They were the words I’d shouted after Alayna when she’d walked away from me earlier. She didn’t look back. I pretend that doesn’t mean anything.
Mirabelle lifts her head to study my face, surprise etching her expression. “When the hell did you turn into a romantic?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t. I just remembered that I’m a man who gets what he wants.” And I want Alayna. Need, actually. I need her like I need air to breathe.
“Yeah, don’t use that line with her. That’s not romantic at all.” She makes a face to further prove her distaste.
I hadn’t meant to use the line, but now that Mirabelle’s scoffed so openly at it, I have to know. “Why not? It’s worked before.”
“Maybe to get laid.” She pauses for a second. “And now that I think about that…ew.” She shudders. “Anyway, cocky and dominating is not what’s going to win back trust and affection.”
“How the fuck do you earn back trust?” I don’t mean to be so crass, but I’m frustrated.
And, also, I get it. There’s nothing—nothing—that Celia could ever do to earn back my trust. Is that how Alayna feels about me? She probably should. As she said, there’s no forgiving that kind of betrayal. Now I know.
But she also told me that she still loved me. Even if she hadn’t said it, I saw it in her eyes, on her face. I felt it in the way she had to fight to keep from running into my arms. If she’d said she hated me, maybe then I could let her go on with her life. Without me. But because she still has love, well, I can’t give up on that.
Huh, maybe I did turn romantic after all.
“Time,” Mirabelle says. I hadn’t expected her to answer. “Give her space. Let her know you’re still fighting for her. But don’t do anything that will get you a restraining order.”
Time and space. Every second away from her kills me. Every inch between us feels like miles. But I can try. If that’s what she needs, I can do my best to give her that.
Mirabelle rubs a hand in small circles over her belly. “Do you have anything specific planned to show her you’re still thinking about her?”
In truth, that’s why I’m still sitting in Alayna’s dressing room—I was paralyzed, trying to figure out my next move. So far I’d come up with nothing.
Except as I’m caught in the hypnotic rhythm of my sister’s hand motion, I suddenly remember something from long ago. “Someone once told me,” I say, “that the way to win a girl’s heart is to do things that prove you’ve noticed who she really is.”
I’d used that wisdom to win me girls in the past. Always as part of a scheme, and that made it hard to consider it as a tactic now. Yet it had been good advice.
Mirabelle eyes me. “You’re seriously going to develop your game plan based on something I told you as an inexperienced teenager?”
I frown at her word choice. “Not a game, but yes, my plan is based on your suggestion.”
She raises a brow, and I assume she’s unhappy with my idea.
“Do you have anything better?” I hope my exasperation isn’t too apparent.
“No. The idea’s great. Simple. Romantic. It’s really the best you got.”
“Then what was that look for?”
She breaks into a grin. “You. Asking my opinion about your love life. I told you that you would one day.”
Her smile is contagious. “Don’t get cocky. It’s not good for the baby.” I poke at her ribs where I know she’s ticklish.
She bats at my hand and squeals. “Stop it. You’re making me laugh, and my bladder can’t take it.”
“Go take your potty break.” I stand and help her to her feet. Then I open the door and stand back to let her pass.
In the hallway, before she goes toward the bathroom and I toward the back door, she asks, “Are you going to be okay?”
I pause. “Yes. I think I am.” Because Alayna seemed like she was going to be okay. And that’s what matters most to my happiness. Still, until she asks me not to, I’m going to keep trying for another chance.
By the time I’m in my car, I’ve already bargained with myself regarding giving Alayna space. I can’t stay completely away, and though that’s perhaps the last thing she needs, I know she can understand being all-consumed. I decide that I can physically keep my distance, but only if I’m with her in other ways. A list of gifts is already forming in my head.
Most anything I’ll need can be ordered online, but there is one purchase I need to make in person. I head directly to Tiffany’s. Alayna said no to my first proposal, but I still have every intention of one day making her my bride. When I have the chance to ask again, I’ll be prepared. I purchase a three-carat brilliant cut diamond flanked by two baguette stones in a platinum setting. As soon as I see it, I know it’s hers. It’s beautiful and precious, just like she is.
That night, I start my gift giving. I have the Kindle delivered to her at work. She may hate it. She may give it away. She may throw it to the ground like she did her phone.
Or maybe she’ll accept it. Maybe she’ll even love it. I don’t know. I’ve never so easily second-guessed myself. Like everything new Alayna has taught me, this is another new concept—how to grovel.
When a text comes through a short while later, it’s her cell number. I close my eyes and say a silent wordless prayer before opening up the message.
Man, ur quite the talker. This is Liesl, btw.
I’m disappointed and confused for a moment. What did she mean by talker? Then I realize she’s referring to all the texts I’ve sent. Has she read any of them? I ask.
No. But I read a few. :)
I don’t care that she did. I’ll shout my words from the top of the Empire State Building if there’s a chance Alayna will hear what I have to say.
While I have Liesl’s attention, I take the opportunity to ask more about Alayna. I saw her today, but I want to know really. How is she?
Good. Considering. She won’t use the vibrat
or I offered.
I chuckle. And then I’m thinking about sex with Alayna. Missing it. I’ve tried not to let those thoughts enter my mind. We spoke to each other through our bodies, and remembering her beneath me, her mouth on me, her tongue sliding against my own—it adds a deeper level to the constant pain I feel for her. I’m hard at the memories, but I won’t touch myself. I’ll suffer because I know that beating off will only increase the loneliness.
Ignoring the ache, I concentrate on my texts. Is she eating? Sleeping?
She eats. She drinks. A lot. But that’s getting better. She’s sleeping on my couch. It’s a futon.
So we’ve both been sleeping on the couch. Somehow that gives me comfort. Are you home? Can you take a picture?
A few minutes pass, and then an image of a thin, worn mattress shows up on my phone screen. A message follows. You better not want this for something kinky.
Nothing kinky. And thank you. I just want to know where she’s spending her time. I want to be able to picture her as she sleeps.
If that’s not completely psycho, I don’t know what is.
I stare at the image a moment longer. I have the idea for my next gift now. I’ll order a new mattress for her. And one for me, just so I can feel we’re connected in our sleep.
Another message comes through. R u going to keep texting her?
I am. Do you think that’s okay? God, when did I get so needy?
Yeah. I do.
She sends another right away. I’m putting this down now. So u can go back 2 ur pining. I’ll try not 2 read 2 many of ur messages.
I know Liesl is on Alayna’s side, but I let myself think that maybe it’s also our side.
I’m restless before I even attempt to sleep. It’s the couch and the sleeping alone. I haven’t slept well in days.
Tonight, I decide to try something different. I pull out my iPad and look for a radio station. I tend to usually listen to the classics—Mozart, Brahms, Wagner. Alayna, on the other hand, loves to listen to modern songs, songs with words, music with a beat. Tonight I want to listen to what she’d be listening to if she were here. Something like it, anyway. I don’t know which label best describes what she usually plays so I select one at random from the Adult Contemporary section.
I don’t pay too much attention to the first song that plays—it’s halfway over and I’m settling in with my pillow and blanket. But the second song comes on, and I’m caught up in it immediately. The piano is lonely, haunting. A male tenor enters with the melody. It’s simple. Bluesy. Soulful.
And the words…
They tell the story of a man who’s drowning in his love for a woman. Drowning, but he can still breathe fine. The woman’s flawed, but to him, she’s perfect. She makes his head spin. She’s distracting and inspiring. And he’s so enamored with her that every part of him loves for every part of her. It’s a song about being open, about having no barriers. About loving with “all of me” and asking for “all of you” in return.
It’s everything that I feel for Alayna. Everything I want to say to her.
I sit up and look at the artist’s name and song title. John Legend, “All of Me.” I purchase the album and put the track on repeat. I have it memorized before I fade to sleep.
As I straddle the line between consciousness and unconsciousness, I decide that tomorrow I’ll go back to Tiffany’s. Alayna’s ring needs an inscription, and I know just what to say.
Sunday, she starts returning some of my texts. I’m elated, but I think I manage to keep my cool.
I continue sending her daily gifts, reminders from our relationship. I leave each one on her desk for when she arrives at work. Thursday, though, I leave nothing. Instead, I come into The Sky Launch during her shift and take a seat at the end of the bar. She barely speaks to me, but I’m happy just to sit and watch her. It’s meant to be reminiscent of the first time I spoke to her. The night before her graduation.
It seems like a lifetime ago now. So much has changed, and yet so much hasn’t. Her smile still lights up my world. Her eyes still draw me in and keep me hostage. She still is the most intriguing thing I’ve ever encountered.
I nurse a Scotch for an hour. Finally, I leave her an envelope with a hundred and a gift certificate to my Poughkeepsie spa. Then I leave.
I’m halfway to the parking garage when she calls after me. My heart pounds against my chest as I wait for her. I’m worried about the reasons she wants to talk to me. Also, I’m so fucking happy that she wants to talk to me.
When she gets nearer, she holds the envelope out toward me. “I can’t accept this. I’m in charge here. I can’t leave for a week to go to a spa.” She lowers her gaze. “Unless you’d rather I wasn’t working here.”
I practically snap in response. “Don’t ever think that.” The only reason I have the club is because of her. “If you think you can’t work with me as your owner, I’ll give you the club.” It’s hers anyway. In my head, in my heart. Where it counts.
She blinks a few times. “I just want to keep my job, thank you.”
I’m relieved. I’d been so afraid she’d quit. Not only because I’d lose access to her, but she’d lose the job she loved so much. I’m grateful she’s staying. “It’s yours as long as you want it.”
I push her hand and the envelope back toward her, a blatant excuse to touch her. “And the certificate—keep it. You can use it any time you want. There’s no expiration.” Even with just the brush of her finger, sparks travel through our skin.
She pulls away from me. “Fine. Whatever.”
Our conversation seems to be over now, and I’m disheartened that she’ll leave. But she surprises me. “There’s another thing.” She takes a deep breath. “I need to get my stuff from the penthouse.”
My stomach sinks. I’ve been dreading this. As long as her things are sitting safely at The Bowery, it feels like we’re still together. It’s still our home. We still have a chance. The minute she moves out, all of that is over.
I tighten my jaw. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
She ignores my statement. “I want to come get the rest of my things Monday.” Her hands fidget, and she stares at a spot behind me. At least this is hard for her too. That’s comforting.
“I can have it packed and moved for you, if you’d like.” My packing would consist of buying a lot of new items and putting them in boxes with her things. She’d have new clothing, new jewelry…
As if reading my mind, she says, “I’d rather pack it myself.”
Each no she delivers is another rejection. It’s silly how they feel so personal. I plead with her, “At least let me arrange a truck.”
She closes her eyes briefly. When she opens them, she lets out a reluctant sigh. “Okay. You can do that.”
“It’s done.” My lip ticks into a smile. “This doesn’t mean I’m done trying to win you back.”
“I didn’t think for a second that it did.” Was there a bit of flirtation in her tone?
I tilt my head and study her. Her features are softer than the last time she spoke with me. Her eyes have a hint of amusement, and she’s on the verge of a grin. I decide to push my luck. “You say that as if you almost enjoy my groveling.”
She rolls her eyes and gives me a wave as she turns back toward the club. She calls back to me over her shoulder, “I couldn’t say, H. I haven’t really seen you grovel yet.”
The rush from seeing her and talking without fighting stays with me until I get to the car. Then all at once it leaves. I sit behind the wheel of my Mercedes and try not to let the reality of the situation pull me under. Alayna’s moving out of the penthouse. Even though we’ve been apart, as long as her things are at The Bowery, as long as her bathroom products co-mingle with mine and her clothes hang on my hangers, then in my mind, we’re still together. The house is still ours.
Now she wants to end that.
It feels final. Like closure. And I don’t want closure.
Suddenly, I have to be there. I drive to T
he Bowery and enter my penthouse for the first time in weeks. The first thing I notice is the quiet. The tick-tock of the grandfather clock is the only sound stretching across the expanse of my four-thousand-square-foot condo. I walk into the living room and flick on the light.
Even with the glow of the high-wattage bulbs, the place feels cold and empty. There have been other occasions that I’ve been away on business for long periods of time, and yet when I returned, it never seemed so unlived in. It’s her absence I’m feeling. It’s all around me, everywhere I go, but here especially.
I slowly scan the room, taking in everything. That window where she stood, moonlight streaming on her face, the first time I saw her in my home. The dining room table where we reconnected over wine and food after a long day apart. The floor beneath where we fucked like rabbits.
Every inch of space has a memory but nothing from before Alayna. Four years I’ve owned this property, and the only life that’s ever occurred here has been this summer. After her. Was there ever anything before her? Could there ever be anything without her?
Since the truth came out, I’ve grieved. I’ve mourned and ached and felt her absence both physically and emotionally. But I’ve yet to let myself be angry. Until now.
Rage bursts through me, spiraling through my veins, heating my skin, tightening my jaw. I’ve earned my circumstances. I deserve these consequences. But I want it to not be fair. For just a minute, I want someone else to blame. My mother and her drinking. Jack and his absent parenting. Celia and the fucked-up game she played. The stone-cold asshole that occupied my life until Alayna came into it.
Him.
He’s the real person to blame.
This house without her, these things, this furniture—it all belongs to him. Perfectly placed according to the suggestions of Celia Werner. The two of them. Old Hudson and Celia. Weren’t they a pair? Twisted, broken narcissists who didn’t give a shit about anyone or anything but their own entertainment.
Complete Fixed: The Complete Fixed Series: Books 1-5 Page 123
