The Edge of Us

by Veronica Larsen

  "Did I ever tell you what happened on the morning of my wedding?" she asks.

  She knows she hasn't. I don't want her to talk about him, not when it makes her eyes grow glassy with an anger I've never witnessed from her. The bitterness changes her features, morphing her sharp beauty to an even sharper, but menacing point.

  "The morning of my wedding was like a goddamn funeral. Every single person in my bridal party thought I was making a mistake. I could see it in their eyes, in their weak enthusiasm. Even my mother's Tarot cards predicted it would be a disaster. All I wanted was to prove them wrong. But…well, you know how that went."

  Our food comes and we eat in silence. I'm glad for the noises of the restaurant masking the buzzing of thoughts between us.

  I lift my drink to my lips, then gesture with the glass, extending a finger toward the bar's entrance. "What would you do if Cole walked through those doors right now and said he wanted you back?"

  "I'd tell him to eat his fucking heart out. I might kick him in the throat for good measure."

  "No offense, but there's no way you're getting your leg high enough in that dress."

  "You've always underestimated me."

  "Touché." I lift my glass and add, "Fuck him. Fuck Cole Van Buren—"

  I say it loud enough people sitting nearby glance in our direction. Mila's eyes grow wide and an embarrassed smile splits her face.

  She hates making a scene.

  She has no idea how much attention she commands even when she's silent.

  "Andrew, come on. Cut it out."

  I lower the glass a fraction at the way her expression wanes.

  Hearing his name stings her. I'm not a fan of the guy, either. There was a time the youngest Van Buren's impulsivity and recklessness had been documented in the tabloids. It was a source of entertainment for his father's competitors. I followed the stories with more interest than I'd care to admit.

  "What's with the face?" Mila asks.

  "I still can't believe you almost married a Van Buren."

  "Yes, I know. They're the definition of loaded, but this girl's got her own money, thank you."

  I lean back in my seat for a moment as I consider saying something else, something I've never told her before. It's a conversation that should've happened a long time ago. But now? There's no point in bringing it up.

  I sit up again and push my plate back. "Come on, let's get out of here."

  I pay our tab, after a short argument where I remind Mila I owe her a desk and she laughs in my face and points out we are nowhere near even for that. We head toward the front doors, but I steer her to the bar.

  "We need to finish our toast," I tell her.

  I order us a round of shots and Mila doesn't seem amused by the crowd that swallows us in all directions. I understand now why she insists on wearing high heels, she'd be lost if it weren't for those damn things.

  Someone nearly spills their drink on her while trying to talk to her but backs away at the sparks flying from her eyes.

  I clear my throat to bring her attention to the shot glass I hold out in front of me.

  "Fuck you, Cole Van Buren." My shout thunders between us but is drowned out by the surrounding crowd. Only a few people glance our way.

  Mila shakes her head.

  "Come on," I urge, keeping the glass in the air. "You know you want to."

  She bites her lip and glances around, then shrugs and lifts her drink up to meet mine.

  "Fuck you, Cole Van Buren. Fucking motherfucker," she shouts.

  We clink glasses then throw back our shots. Mila laughs and some of her drink spills down her chin. I lean in and wipe it away with my thumb. She tenses and her smile wanes a fraction at my touch, but her eyes aren't on me. They are on the large windows facing the street. Her expression drains over several seconds as though she's seen a ghost. I check over my shoulder but whatever she saw is gone.

  "Mila, what's wrong?"

  She points to the windows, then blinks and shakes her head.

  "Sorry, I think I'm hallucinating. For a second there I thought…" She trails off, shaking her head some more. "Never mind. Should we call a cab now? Or do you plan to continue tricking me into talking about my feelings?"

  "Hang on. You thought you saw Cole? Out there?" I eye what's visible of the sidewalk from the bar windows.

  "No, it wasn't him. Last I heard, Cole was living in Chicago." She straightens. Tucking her purse under her arm, she adds, "That was years ago. Anyway, it doesn't matter. Even if he were in the city, he'd know better than to come anywhere near me."

  FOUR

  MILA

  THE ENVELOPE IS SOLID black and draws my attention long before Janet sets it down on my desk. I stare at it for a few seconds before picking it up to read my name. It's addressed in the careful white lettering of someone with messy handwriting trying to make an impression.

  Janet is halfway to the door when I set down the phone, ending the call I'd been on.

  "Hey, Janet, who sent this?" I ask, turning over the envelope. There is no return address, no logo, or branding.

  "Not sure." Janet clutches her tablet to her chest. "I didn't open it because it looked personal to me."

  She waits for a follow-up question, but my attention is back on the envelope. I yank open a desk drawer and find my letter opener. Slipping the blade through the seal of the envelope, I rip it open until the seams separate to reveal a thin, electric blue card inside. I'm unsettled by it. The color brings me back to a time I held a different invitation in my hand. It was a deeper, more sophisticated blue, with a glow to it much like this one.

  It'd been a cold, rainy day in Manhattan, and I shivered slightly as I got out of bed and wrapped a blanket around myself. I found Cole hunched over the dining room table, which was littered with stacks of cardstock and envelopes.

  "You," I started, sitting down beside him, "are seriously insane."

  He didn't look up, a pensive expression on his face as he expertly wielded the calligraphy pen to form the words:

  We request the honor of your presence for the wedding of

  Mila Zelenko & Cole Van Buren

  Cole didn't answer me until the final loop of the last letter was completed. Then his green eyes flitted up to mine, a small smile twitching at his lips.

  "Good morning, beautiful."

  He set down the pen and leaned in to kiss me with the type of sweetness he never showed in bed. Not that I could complain. Cole was intense in everything he did. His kisses were the type of tender that would melt me. His lovemaking was the type of passionate that set me on fire.

  He sat back in his chair and I picked up one of the finished cards to examine his work.

  "Your lettering is gorgeous. I didn't realize you knew calligraphy."

  "I don't. I'm just copying a font I found online."

  I snort. "You do know we can pay someone to do this, right?"

  "No need, I've got maybe seventy left."

  Sighing at his stubbornness, I reached over to weave my fingers through the hairs at the nape of his neck, and watched him go back to work on the invitations.

  I'll never forget how content I felt that morning. As though the whole world lay at my feet. My heart was full, my mind relaxed. All of my desires fulfilled.

  For a brief moment in time, I had it all.

  But none of it was real.

  The click of the door closing behind Janet snaps my instincts into place. Still, there's a vague sensation of Cole in this piece of mail, the way it draws attention to itself.

  It's a stretch.

  He's never written me, he's never so much as texted.

  Still, the thought sends a flurry of hope and anger through my stomach.

  Just last weekend, I said his name aloud for the first time in a long time. Andrew somehow recognized how much I needed that moment—maybe because he can picture his own ex in a bar somewhere, lifting a glass and sending him to hell. If I were as superstitious as my mother, I would think the angry t
oast had summoned my ex right back into my life.

  Cursing Cole's name was childish, but I'll be damned if it didn't feel amazing. It was cathartic to express my frustration at the part of him still lodged in me. I need to get him out. Out of my head, out of my skin. Even the simple act of saying his name made a vision of him materialize before my eyes. I thought I saw him walking along the street outside the bar. It was one of those moments I have occasionally, where I'm sure I see his face in a crowd and time lurches to an excruciating stop, only to realize it was just a mirage.

  Oh, to live in a desert of resentment. And to be its queen.

  My fingers are unsteady as they fumble to retrieve the card from within the envelope. When I read the printed text, there's no denying the sinking disappointment, slight though it may be.

  It's just a random solicitation, an invitation to a gallery opening in Brooklyn. I toss the card onto my desk and it lands on top of a stack of notes. What had I expected? A handwritten apology letter? A page for each year he's left me with no answer and unable to truly move on?

  "Mila?" Janet calls through the speaker of my phone, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Mr. Kreisler is here. He wants to know if you have a few minutes."

  Frowning at the announcement, I rush to tuck the invitation back inside the envelope and slide it into one of my desk drawers. The act should shove the damn thing from my thoughts, but a nagging feeling remains. Something about it still doesn't sit right with me.

  The unsettling feeling joins a fresh concern over the impromptu meeting. Clients don't drop by unannounced to inform me everything is going well.

  Then again, Tobias Kreisler is not just any client.

  "Yes, of course," I tell Janet. "Send him in."

  The door to my office opens and Tobias Kreisler ambles in, older and thinner than the last time I saw him. I get to my feet and round my desk to meet him. There are bags under his eyes and his body language is distracted and tense. The man who grew a modest inheritance into one of the largest fortunes in the country now moves as though his entire net worth sits in pennies on his shoulders.

  I've known him since I was a little girl, from when he would visit my mother for Tarot card readings. As he and my mother grew close, he developed an interest in helping my family. It was on his recommendation that I was awarded scholarships to one of the best prep schools in the city. He seemed indebted to my mother for her sage advice. And though I've always sensed his affinity toward me, there's been a subtle distance between us from the moment my mother passed away.

  "Good morning, Tobias," I say, shaking his large hand.

  He clasps his other hand over our handshake, a subtle symbol of power I'm accustomed to from him.

  "Good to see you, Mila."

  His greeting is typical but his tone muted. I gesture for him to take a seat and move around to take my own. A genuine smile forms on his face, and he lifts his hands in a gesture of surprise.

  "Congratulations on the nomination," he says. "Female entrepreneur of the year. Your mother would be proud."

  "Thank you," I say, bowing my head.

  "I only wish she were around to see you receiving it."

  "So do I."

  He goes on to ask me questions about the awards ceremony, questions that only serve to highlight the fact he didn't drop in for a last-minute meeting to discuss my nomination.

  It's too easy to tell when someone is hiding or avoiding something, the tricky part is figuring out what that something is. There are ways to read between the lines, listening to not just what someone says but what they don't say. To put their body language in context of their words, to piece together true intentions. But most of the time, the quickest way to a direct answer is to ask a direct question.

  "What really brings you here today? I don't think you came all this way just to congratulate me."

  Tobias steeples his fingertips and brings them to his lips as he stares past me at the wall-to-wall windows. There's a long-standing weariness to his face, deep lines and coarse skin hinting at the years of drugs and partying that destroyed his reputation and shrouded his company name long after he'd straightened out his life. My mother's advice helped him turn it all around in just a few years.

  "I'm going to come out and say it, Mila. I received a grim diagnosis from my doctors a few days ago. They say I should begin to settle my affairs."

  I glance at my hands and swallow, resisting the urge to apologize for his circumstance. Tobias Kreisler is not a sentimental man. He does not appreciate being pitied, but he has to notice the sting in my eyes when they meet his. I keep my tone steady when I respond.

  "How can I help?"

  "Legally, everything's taken care of. My son is set to inherit my fortune and take over the business. And that..." He rests a hand on his chin and taps a finger to his lips. "That is the problem."

  "You don't believe your son is ready?"

  "It's not a matter of ready," Tobias says. "I was once in a similar position, coming into a large sum of money unexpectedly. Granted, it was only a fraction of what he stands to inherit, and yet it almost crushed me simply by showing me who I really was."

  I resolve to keep my responses short, sensing all Tobias needs is a sounding board. He has a Trust and Estates Attorney to work out the details of his will. But he's here because he has something else in mind.

  "Tell me, Mila. What do you make of Grant?"

  Grant's the type of guy who thinks the world belongs to those who can afford anything it has to offer. I know him well. In fact, I've known Grant for as long as I've known Cole. I met them both on the very same day.

  It'd been such a bizarre day.

  Tobias had invited me over for a New Year's Eve party. It'd been the first time he'd invited me to his estate in all the years I knew him, and I was confused why the invitation did not include my mother. But when I arrived, his intentions became clear. There was an awkward excitement in his eyes when he introduced me to his son.

  "Grant, this is Mila. The one I've been telling you about."

  "Right, yeah. Hey there," Grant said, shaking my hand. But his greeting was distracted, his attention fixed on another party guest.

  An older woman in a skin-tight black dress stood just outside of the living room. She was breathtaking, oozing sex appeal, and stared at Grant like he was something she could eat.

  I remember a pang of envy at the way Grant eyed the woman with such tantalizing, carnal intent. Not because I wanted Grant, but because no one had ever looked at me that way. Ever. Then again, I was wearing a cardigan over a sweater dress precisely because I hated drawing attention to myself. I didn't know then that my femininity could be one of the sharpest weapons at my disposal, one I should've wielded with pride.

  Not wanting to force Grant into small talk, I quickly excused myself to the restroom, allowing him the room to pursue the focus of his desire. I never made it to the restroom. I grabbed a drink from a server passing by and sulked at how out of place I felt surrounded by these beautiful, powerful people. Manhattan's elite.

  "You look like you want to be here less than I do."

  The gravelly voice came from behind me, low and strangely appealing even before I saw whom it belonged to. When I turned to face him, I gave a small start.

  "Oh."

  I wanted to slap myself for my reaction, at the breathy way I'd spoken the word.

  My eyes widened at the sight of the most gorgeous man I'd ever seen. His bone structure was stunning and masculine, and his lips were full and inviting. But those eyes. Dark brows framed a pair of intense emerald eyes I struggled to stare into, but couldn't look away from. The expression in them made my stomach tie into enticing knots.

  He was the kind of guy who made you blink and stutter if you weren't prepared to see him appear in front of you.

  "I'm Cole." He reached out a hand for me to shake. "Cole Van Buren. I don't think we've met."

  The name was familiar, but I wasn't in a state to immediately work out why. I was too bu
sy piecing together exactly why he'd left me flustered. It couldn't have been his face alone—everyone at the damn party had a perfect face. No, it was something about the way he carried himself…

  "Uh, Mila. Mila Zelenko."

  I shook his hand, feeling stupid for mentioning my last name—like it would mean anything to anyone here. All the while, my gaze moved down his body. He wore a black t-shirt and faded blue jeans, while everyone else dressed in formal attire. And yet he managed to fit right in, giving off the impression it was everyone else who was ridiculously overdressed.

  Tattoos ran up both of his toned arms. The sight thrilled me. I'd never met anyone with full sleeves of ink. But then, I'd been pretty sheltered most of my life. By my overbearing mother, but also by my own fear of making mistakes. Everything about Cole screamed he was exactly what I'd been sheltered from. It didn't matter. Nothing could work against his insane allure.

  "Mila," he repeated, and I liked how my name rolled off his tongue. "That's a beautiful name for a beautiful woman."

  "Thank you." I blushed.

  Was he flirting with me or just being polite?

  Someone cackled with laughter and Cole looked over at the small group of people standing right next to us. He edged closer to me, bowing his head so I could hear him speak without him needing to raise his voice.

  "Are you here with someone?"

  "Oh, uh, Tobias invited me. He's a family friend. But, honestly, I think he wanted to set me up with his son…" I glanced over my shoulder and caught sight of Grant sweet-talking the woman he'd been staring at. When I looked back at Cole, he was staring at me.

  "You don't want to date Grant."

  "I don't?"

  "We've been friends my whole life and I love him like a brother. But he's not the kind of guy you date."

  "Oh? And you're…what?"

  Mischief gleamed in Cole's gaze.

  "I'm a guy who knows how to treat a woman right."

  I wanted to roll my eyes, but God, the way he said those words only made me want to call his bluff…