Holding (Moving the Chains Book 5)

by Kata Čuić

  Mike laughs. “That’s another thing I’ve learned about you that I didn’t find out from your social media. You never curse unless you’re seriously drunk. Why is that?”

  I latch onto the fact that he cares more about my sober vocabulary than what I look like stark naked. “My Dad was a captain in the Navy—something you did learn about me through social media. He forbade cursing as long as we were under his roof. Said it was an unimaginative way of showing displeasure, and he expected better of us.”

  Mike glances at me with a raised eyebrow. His gaze never strays south of my eyes. “There are plenty of studies that suggest otherwise. People who curse frequently are generally more intelligent and quick-witted.”

  “I’m not going to argue either perspective. My dad put food in my stomach and kept a roof over my head. He raised six kids all on his own and gave us all the love in the world even if he was stricter than most of my friends’ parents. I did what I was told, and it just kind of…stuck.”

  “Kind of like you did as you were told by doing whatever you had to do at the wedding reception to keep me out of trouble?”

  My cheeks flame. Not in embarrassment but anger. Mostly at myself. “It’s my job to keep you out of trouble because you have a bad habit of getting yourself into it. The methods might need some work, but they get the job done.”

  David’s similar words echo in my mind. He’s poised and waiting in Albany with a marketing campaign of his own to elevate Mike to the status the team is paying us to accomplish.

  Mike pulls into a parking garage on the Jersey side of the river that he’s apparently familiar with from visiting Evie’s apartment nearby. Even though he makes millions every year, he still prefers not to overpay for parking in the city. The very idea makes me chuckle, but I appreciate the knowledge that his substantial pay raise hasn’t changed who he is at all. At least not yet.

  I guess I’ll know for sure if he ever decides to hold my sins against me.

  He shuts off the engine but doesn’t unbuckle or make any move to exit the vehicle, instead staring out the windshield that’s facing a dilapidated building across the street. “I appreciate you being willing to get your hands dirty in the interests of keeping mine clean. That’s why I’m never going to say a word to anyone about what happened in the hotel room that night. I’m sorry I put you, myself, and the team in this position at all. I need this job. I love this job, and I’m not going to do anything else to jeopardize it. I’ve been stuck on this rollercoaster with Rob, Evie, and Alex since senior year of high school, and it’s…” He blows out a breath. “It’s fucking hard. I’m supposed to be the stable one, the problem solver, the man with all the answers, but the fact is I’m struggling as much as anyone. I’ve never been very good with change, and it’s been a hell of a lot of change over the past year or so. New city, new faces and names, new plays to learn, new…everything.”

  I’m so shocked by this level of sharing while we’re both sober that I can’t form a single word even when he pauses.

  “I have a hard time making friends because I don’t trust anyone. I learned that lesson a long time ago. Ever since confessing to you all the shit that’s been going on with my friends and our crazy night together, I feel a lot lighter. I didn’t even realize how much carrying their secrets was weighing me down. How much I needed a friend. We might both be embarrassed as hell about that night, but…it’s weird. It actually makes me feel like I can trust you more now. So, thank you. I know it’s not really a part of your job description to embarrass yourself for me, or to be my unpaid therapist, but you kind of are because I’ve learned you won’t use this shit against me. Just like I won’t use anything against you. I’m ready to do whatever hard work you have in store for me to turn my image around for real this season. There are too many people depending on me to fail now.”

  Any indignation building in my veins during this drive has fled the scene. I always thought marketing would be a rewarding job, but I never imagined it like this. Nothing I might say feels sincere enough to convey what it means to hear him admit these things to me. Especially after that night.

  Mike’s phone rings, taking the opportunity to apologize away from me again. He grimaces when he looks at the screen. “Shit. It’s Rob. Hang on.”

  I wait in silence as he lifts the phone to his ear, obviously listening to a voicemail.

  “Fuck,” he breathes then glances around the cab of the truck with building panic in his eyes. “Fuck! I gotta go!”

  “What?” So much for our moment of honesty. “Go where? What’s happening?”

  “Evie’s stalker tracked her down. I gotta go.” He pulls his keys out of the ignition then pauses with his hand on the door. “Shit. Peaches…”

  Maybe we do know each other better in good ways after that wild night because I hear all the things he leaves unsaid.

  I’m sorry. I’ll be back for you. Please understand.

  “Go!” I yell at him as I shove him toward the door. “The photoshoot doesn’t matter! Go!”

  Fading rays of sunlight filter in through small windows at either end of the dim hallway, creating a golden glow that makes the worn beige carpet seem pretty instead of dirty. My feet ache with every step toward relief. They mimic the unsettled feeling in my chest which grows as another hour ticks by without any word from Mike.

  I’m not even here to complete his little challenge anymore. I just need to get off my feet for a while. Ben promised we’d always be friends, and it’s time to put that to the test. I knock on the cracked wood door, then do it again. My hands shake with exhaustion and worry. The last train to Albany doesn’t depart for hours, but I don’t want to leave Mike to fend for himself after what’s surely going to be an emotionally draining day. I cannot possibly consume another cup of coffee while waiting though.

  “Can I help you?”

  I glance up at the unfamiliar female voice. Her expression looks as confused as I feel.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I must have the wrong apartment.” I offer her a sheepish grin and chuckle to ease her obvious distrust. “I’ve been walking around window shopping for hours, and I’m just dead on my feet at this point. I apologize for interrupting your evening.”

  She leans forward with a conspiratorial sparkle in her pretty hazel eyes. “Honestly, window shopping is so much more exhausting than actual shopping. Fantasizing about all those beautiful purses I can’t remotely afford? I’d rather run a marathon, and that’s saying something because the only reasons I run are for coffee if I’m out or if someone is chasing me.”

  This woman is a complete stranger, but in another life, we could be fast friends. “Oh, I agree. If only real life was more like the movies, I’d have no problem blowing half my rent money on a pair of Louboutins. I’m convinced I could rock the black patent leather stilettos look for every day wear if only I had a rich man buying me La Perla lingerie to wear beneath my Target business attire.”

  She shakes her head in mock disappointment. “Every woman’s fantasy, for sure. But why stop there? It’s the modern era. We should have billionaires falling at our feet and spoiling us silly while they ravish us in the bedroom with alpha dominance and also cook gourmet, Keto-friendly meals, so we can keep our slender feminine figures even as we pop out as many heirs to their fortunes as they desire.”

  I can’t help but laugh. There’s a kernel of truth to her ridiculous suggestion, and we both know it. What’s so wrong with wanting it all?

  “Ah, fantasy.” Her cheeks are tinted with a hint of embarrassment, but she winks at me. “Between you and me, I don’t consider it settling to find a man who works hard, loves me completely, and offers me the promise of a less than perfect future, so long as it’s together.”

  I couldn’t agree more. “There’s a time and place for everything, but yes. Reality is where we must all exist.”

  “Speaking of reality…” Her smile is warm and inviting. All traces of skepticism from when she first answered her door are gone. “Who are you
looking for?”

  “Oh.” I wave my hand like a completely exhausted idiot who’s lost all sense of decorum. As if having this conversation about female fantasies isn’t enough. Then again, fantasies aren’t far from my mind these days. “It’s the Big Apple. I don’t expect you to know all your neighbors. We’re modern women after all. Can’t be too careful.”

  She nods in agreement even as she shrugs. “True, but New York is friendlier than most people think. We’re not the stereotypical hardened city people who mind our own business to the detriment of leaving helpless victims to fend for themselves. Try me.”

  Why not? She seems nice; she’s entertained me for a few minutes and provided a far better distraction than window shopping ever could. There’s little chance she’ll actually know him. “Ben Sharp is a dear friend of mine. We don’t get to catch up nearly as often as we’d like, but since I was already in the city, I thought I’d drop by.”

  She’s not able to quite mask the suspicion that returns to her gaze, even if it’s muddled with curiosity. She opens the door wider. “Any dear friend of Ben’s is a friend of mine. Come on in.”

  “That’s okay.” Awkwardness electrifies the air between us, and I’m not quite sure why. Only that I want to be rid of it. I have enough anxiety pecking at my brain lately. I was looking for refuge, not another layer of imprisonment over things I can’t control. “I’ll just move over and knock on the right door this time.”

  “You knocked on the right door the first time,” she insists. “Ben isn’t here just now. He’s at a study group. He texted to say he’d be back within the hour, so you’re welcome to come in and wait for him.”

  Much like earlier, I replay the past few moments over in my mind to be sure I understand correctly. “This is Ben’s apartment?”

  “One and the same.” The woman holds out her hand with a formality that didn’t exist between us seconds ago. “I’m Bethany. And you are…?”

  Her question stifles the air between us, far sharper than the awkwardness before.

  “Tori.” I clear my throat to be sure she can hear me this time, strangely wishing I could channel Mike’s quiet confidence in the face of anything life throws his way. “I’m Tori Russo. I take it you haven’t heard my name before if you didn’t recognize me.”

  Her eyebrows pop up into her stylishly sharp bangs. “I take it you’ve never heard of me before either if you seem surprised to find me here. Please. Come in.”

  Unlike when I shoved Mike out the door of his own truck, I hesitate. “I really shouldn’t. I don’t want to impose.”

  “I insist.” She gestures again for me to step inside.

  Not knowing what the next few hours may hold, my options are limited unless I want to wait at another cafe.

  The moment she closes the door behind me, I find myself in a new and untraversed territory. Ben’s apartment in college was the quintessential workaholic bachelor pad—sparse furniture, the bare minimum in home décor, and an empty fridge that only contained a nearly empty six-pack of craft beer and a few condiments left over from takeout.

  I have a feeling if I was to open that door now, I’d find the healthiest, freshest produce lining the shelves of his refrigerator. Much like the plants flourishing on the few windowsills and the framed art gracing the walls. And the art books on the coffee table. He has a coffee table now! Not just old milk crates holding up lamps in the far corners of the room. Those have been replaced by stylish end tables made from repurposed old library card catalogues. On top of the one nearest me is a photo of the smiling couple, their arms wrapped around each other in an intimate embrace as they stand in front of the Statue of Liberty. She’s holding out her hand. So, everyone who sees this picture can’t help but notice the shiny rock on her ring finger.

  They’re engaged. He’s been exploring his options all right. So much for being friends.

  “Can I offer you something to drink?” she calls from the kitchen as the sounds of her rooting through cupboards float to my cotton-filled ears.

  “No,” I barely manage to cough out through my shock. “No, thank you. I really can’t stay long. I’m meeting a friend soon on the other side of the river. It’s the whole reason I was even in the city today in the first place.”

  Using the word friend to describe Mike tastes so unfamiliar on my tongue, unlike the photographic image of the man who was my first…everything.

  His fiancée stands beside me, smiling as she gazes at the picture I can’t stop stupidly staring at. “That was months ago, but you’re the first friend I’ve met of Ben’s who isn’t mutual between us.”

  I have no idea what to say to that. In spite of—or maybe because of—the leading tone of her unasked questions.

  Who are you to Ben?

  How far do you go back?

  Why do you seem so upset?

  I’m upset, but not for the reasons she obviously thinks. Honestly, I’m surprised at how little this hurts. Shouldn’t it feel like a knife stabbing me in the chest?

  Still, uncertainty rolls off her in waves, and I feel genuinely bad about that. I didn’t come here to wreck another woman’s happiness. “I’ve known him since high school. We went to college together and broke up shortly after finishing our degrees at U of M, but we remained friends.”

  I wince when she gasps. That might have been a little too much honesty. I’m great at that lately.

  Her gaze burns the side of my face, but there isn’t any venom in her tone. Neither pity. “Not that good of friends if he didn’t even share the exciting news of his engagement with you.”

  “No. I guess not.”

  She faces me fully. “Be straight with me—woman to woman. Should this raise red flags for me? You were obviously together for a long time. I’ve never heard of you, and you’ve never heard of me.”

  I study her expression. She’s not gunning for my imminent death as she would be completely justified to. There’s an underlying tension in the current between us, but also an openness that can’t be denied. “Do you have doubts? About how much he loves you?”

  “I don’t know,” she confesses, splaying her hands wide. “It all happened in the blink of an eye. We joked in the hallway about fantasies, but it was exactly that. A whirlwind romance that happened so fast, I didn’t have time to second-guess myself until just now. I’m suddenly terrified I know nothing about him. Not really. Should I have doubts?”

  She poses a genuine question, so I pause to give a thoughtful answer. Nothing sticks out in my mind to warn her about. Ben was good to me. I can’t deny that. He never promised marriage, white picket fences, or a happily-ever-after. When he wasn’t feeling it anymore, he broke it off rather than string me along. “No. He wouldn’t have asked you to marry him if he didn’t mean it. Ben is nothing if not a man of his word. Of honor.”

  “Are you okay?” She places a hesitant hand on my shoulder.

  I want to hate her so much, but I can’t.

  Because I am okay. She said it in not so many words. For some reason, they just clicked. He offered her everything, and she felt confident enough in that moment to grab his promise with both hands.

  We should all be so lucky.

  I don’t get a chance to answer because my phone dings with an incoming text.

  Mike Mitchell: Where are you?

  “I need to go,” I tell Bethany. “Please tell Ben I said hello. And…don’t doubt the love between you because of me. But, if at any time, you feel like you’re not getting his one hundred and ten percent then be a modern woman. Don’t settle for less than everything. We can have it all now, right?”

  “Right.” She nods, but it’s more sad than resolute. Woman to woman. I like her more than ever. She leads me to the door she welcomed me through in spite of her misgivings. We both know it will be the only time we’ll ever meet. Some open doors lead to closed ones and all that crap.

  “I wish you the best,” I tell her with sincerity.

  “I hope you meet a billionaire who buys you La
Perla. And who’s an animal in the bedroom.”

  “Ben prefers vanilla missionary.” I hate myself so much in this moment.

  The sparkle in her eyes speaks volumes. “Not with me.”

  She closes the door, and I walk away. Down the stairwell, out into the suddenly damp New York City air. I gulp in lungfuls of it. There’s something inherently cleansing about knowing for sure where I stand in the world. Soon, the rain will come.

  Tori Russo: Just left Ben’s. I can meet you wherever you are.

  Mike Mitchell: I’ll come to you. Text me your GPS location.

  “Tori!” Even on a crowded sidewalk with my back turned after years apart, he still recognizes me. Just as I know his voice above the constant din of the city.

  I turn around, and he’s there. The finest droplets of a light mist sparkle in the air between us like the most poetic montage of first love. His memory will always make me smile.

  “Goodbye, Ben,” I whisper then turn around and make my way forward through the throngs of people.

  “Tori, wait!”

  I don’t. I have my closure.

  It’s pouring. I never knew monsoons were a thing in New York City until today, but by the time I find Tori sitting in a window seat at a crowded cafe in Manhattan, my clothes are soaked through.

  There’s no way I can go in there. I’ll only make a scene dripping water all over the shop, and I need to stay out of sight as much as possible. I knock on the window.

  She startles, and her phone clatters to the tabletop. The second she locks eyes with me, she jumps up and collects her things then hightails it out of there to meet me on the sidewalk.

  “What the fuck happened to your face?” she shouts over the noise of the downpour and car horns blaring through stalled traffic.

  “Got in a fight with a frying pan and lost.” I shrug and add another item on my mental list about what will make Peaches swear.

  She reaches out to touch the claw marks that are plain as day across my cheek then thinks better of it and lets her hand fall to her side. “Frying pans don’t leave marks like that.”