by A. G. Riddle
That’s not true. Not one bit. I know him very well indeed. I feel like I know every inch of his soul, what kind of person he is. I knew it the first few moments I met him, when he came to the defense of Jillian before the plane crashed, when he stopped the stampede in the nose section and saved a lady who would have been trampled, and those cold, electric moments on the bank of the lake when he rallied the hesitant survivors to swim out to the plane. When he saved my life, at great risk to his own.
That’s the man I’m in love with.
But I have no idea how he feels about me. That’s what’s nerve-racking. I don’t know what this means to him: one sleepless night together.
It’s not something I’ve ever done without knowing someone for a long time. It’s a big deal to me, and I wonder if it is to him.
I hope it is.
But what if it’s not? What if it’s something he does all the time? What if this doesn’t mean anything to him at all?
The door pops open, and I spring up. God. I haven’t done a thing to the flat. It’s still a mess, and I’ve lain here naked in bed like a lazy tart the entire time he was gone.
He holds a brown bag up, and I motion to the kitchen area. I pull a tank top and some pajama pants on and stroll out, trying to look only 10 percent as crazy as the thoughts in my head.
“Breakfast is over. Apparently it’s eleven thirty.”
He spreads out some sandwiches on the table, four in fact—he wasn’t sure what I would want. We sit, nibbling them, talking about matters infinitely less important than the real question at hand.
We work up to more serious matters. The memories, for one. Nick figures dumping them at once in our minds must have presented a problem. Maybe the human psyche has limitations in how it deals with conflicting memories, or maybe the neurons in the brain needed time to integrate the new memories. He thinks the pieces were triggered by the four of us—Yul, Sabrina, him, and me. I was the last piece for him. I smiled when he said that, and he paused and smiled, too.
He’s not sure if Sabrina and Yul have recovered all their memories yet, but he’s in contact with both of them.
“But there’s another call I need to make first.” He punches at his cell phone. “What time is it in New York? Almost seven. Close enough.”
He drifts over to the window, stands by the chair that holds the poster board with FLIGHT 305 written across the top, and dials a number. He waits as it rings, staring out the window at the people milling about on the street, heading off to lunch.
“Oliver, it’s Nick Stone. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
A short pause.
“No, everything’s all right.” He looks over at me. “Better than all right, in fact. I’ve been thinking about Grayson. I think we should include him in the Titan Foundation. I think if we give him the opportunity, the chance to make a change, to be involved at the ground level in how the Shaw fortune is spent . . . I believe he might jump at it.”
Nick waits again, his eyes still, then darting back and forth. I like that—it’s almost like I can see the wheels inside his brain turning.
“I agree. I think it has to be framed correctly to him. But I have this feeling that if it’s presented the right way, if we just give him a chance and a say, he might surprise us. Let’s give him the opportunity to do the right thing. You want him to do something with his life, something he has to earn. So do that. Let’s start by trusting him and involving him and letting him make the decision.”
Another pause, and Nick’s voice changes, softens.
“No, it’s nothing like that. It might sound crazy, but I have this feeling that if you don’t give him one last chance, you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life.”
He rings off after that, and we sit, finishing our coffee at the small, square wooden table in my kitchen, its white paint chipped, a little too authentic to be shabby chic.
When he’s finished, and our conversation dies down, he pushes up and goes for his coat, which is buried in a pile of clothes that came off rather quickly last night.
“Don’t know what your schedule is, but I have a few errands to run. Should only take a few hours.”
“Right. Well, I’ll just be here. No plans.” Try not to sound crazy. “Nick,” I begin, my voice changed, the use of his name already weird, drawing his eyes. God. I’m that crazy chick the morning after, pressing the Talk. This can only end in disaster, yet I know I’m not crazy: this is definitely more than a fling. We’ve been exposed to each other, and not just in the bedroom, and I can’t let him leave—even just for a few hours—without knowing. I force myself to sound casual. “We writers, we don’t get out that much.” I shrug, trying not to look nervous. “Don’t date that much either. Well, I haven’t . . . recently.”
He scans my face, his expression serious. “Me either, Harper. Look, my work has pretty much been my life since college. Hasn’t been much time for anything else. Or anyone.” His eyes cut to the bedroom, the sheets still in disarray. “It’s a big deal for me, too. I’ll show you how big tonight.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Harper
PANIC LEVEL: ONE MILLION (ON A SCALE OF one to ten).
After those words—It’s a big deal for me, too. I’ll show you how big tonight—Nick kissed me on the forehead and was out the door before I could say a word. It took several minutes to collect my jaw from the floor.
I’m terrified. Even more terrified than this morning, when I thought he was going to roll over in bed, pinch me on the cheek, and say, “Fun times, Harp. Thanks for the memories.” Wink. “Catch ya later.”
I can’t decide if this is better or worse.
I don’t want Nick out of my life, but I’m not bloody ready to make a major commitment.
And the reason has nothing to do with him. It’s me. I need to get my own life in order, figure out what I want to be when I grow up before I’ll be ready for anything like this. But it’s here, now, standing—just seconds ago, literally—in my flat. Will I regret it for the rest of my life if things fizzle out between us? I’ve regretted not being able to be with him before—for a whole lifetime.
Ahhhh!
Got to settle down. Focus. Think.
A solution. When he comes through that door, I will convey to him that I have things in my life I need to put straight, to get on track before I’m ready for anything that serious. It’s the truth. I feel like, for the first time, I have it together—I know exactly what I need to be doing in life.
I wouldn’t have that without the time I spent in 2147. I also wouldn’t have met Nick. I wouldn’t trade either for the world.
I know what I need to be doing with my professional life.
Alice Carter.
Because when you’re young, life is about pursuing dreams. I have the rest of my life to take the safe road. If I don’t write Oliver Norton Shaw’s biography, someone will. They might even be better than me. Or maybe a little worse. But it will get done.
No one else will write Alice Carter’s story. No one but me. She’s depending on me.
That’s what life is about: finding something you can do that no one else can, and working your hardest at it. It’s about finding someone you love like no one else, someone who loves you like no one else does. That person might be Nick Stone. But I don’t know him as well as I know Alice Carter. Not yet.
Now it’s about making a plan to ensure I get to know them both. It’s going to be risky.
MY AGENT SITS QUIETLY, LISTENING, nodding.
When I finish, he glances around his office, as if looking for the words.
I cringe, mentally bracing for the barrage that will cut me to the bone. Throwing your career away. Wasting this opportunity I worked so hard to get you. Irresponsible decision.
Those words never come. Instead I hear, “I respect your decision, Harper. I believe you owe it to yourself to follow your dream. I’ll do my best to help you.” The words are like a parachute I sway beneath, holding me up, saving my life as m
y feet land firmly on the ground.
One down.
MY FATHER PASSED AWAY EIGHT years ago from a heart attack. I miss him very much, and so does my mum. He was a schoolteacher in my small hometown, and the years after he passed have been tough, emotionally and financially, for my mum, who is a photographer. He left her two assets of value: our family home and a flat in London that he inherited from his parents, who had been quite well off at one time.
She rents that flat, and for the past few years, she’s rented it to me. It’s a good trade: I insist on paying her slightly more than the unit would fetch on the market, and on occasion, when I’m between projects and a bit late with the rent—well, she’s the best landlord a girl could have.
If I’m vacating, if I’m about to make the change I’m contemplating, something will have to happen with the flat. I want to present her with some options, a clear plan. I want to save her the trouble of coming to London and going through it all. She deserves that. Plus, she’s even worse at decisions than I am.
With that in mind, I sit in the estate agent’s messy office, listening to him rattle off figures and facts, some more comprehensible than others. The London market is up this percent over last year. The average price has risen to . . . Interest rates are hovering at . . . but they’re expected to rise this much more, especially if the BOE tightens next quarter, though the labor market has thrown that into question. Your particular neighborhood has this many properties currently offered, with the average days on the market being . . .
Finally I hold my hand up and try to get down to it. I’m not sure when Nick will be back, and he doesn’t have a key. “That’s all well and interesting, thank you, really—but what do you reckon my particular flat might fetch?”
He raises his eyebrows and leans back in the seat, as if I’ve really put him to the test on that one. “Tough to say. But I’ll tell you”—he leans in a bit, speaking a little more quietly, as if to shield this now-confidential conversation from passersby in the hall—“if we were to get it on the market directly, we stand a good chance of commanding top dollar.” He rattles off some numbers, which, to be fair, do sound quite good. More than I expected.
“If we wait—say, go further into winter—the market’s going to get soft. Might already be getting soft. There’s talk of a bubble in the paper all the time, and that’s got some buyers spooked.” He quickly adds, “But probably not for a property your size. There’s strong demand for those . . . at this very moment, at least.”
I nod. “And if I let it? What might I expect?”
He doesn’t like that idea. He would have to hand it off to the letting agent in his office, and when it comes off lease, he assures me it will fetch a great deal less at sale. He details various ways it could go wrong, from bad renters to the distaste in potential buyers’ minds. He reminds me that the property has been in my family for generations. That it’s remained a single-owner property will add a premium at sale—“For the right buyer,” he adds.
I remind him that my income will likely be nonexistent for years to come, that letting it is the only way to hang on to it, which would have been important to my father. I tell him I suppose he would have approved of letting it over selling it, even if it needs a paint job when the lease is up.
Still, the estate agent is sour on the idea, for obvious reasons.
I leave with one more decision to make.
But the bottom line is, I can either advise Mum to sell it or to let it to someone else. Either way, I’m moving back in with her until I can sell the first Alice Carter novel.
NICK ISN’T WAITING BY THE door when I get home, and I’m relieved. I do, however, see my neighbor in the hall, and she’s as happy as the day is long, bouncing around like she’s won the lottery.
And she sort of has. Apparently you don’t even need to list your flat to sell it in London.
She cups her hand over her mouth, “Unsolicited offer, Harp. Foreign buyer. All cash.”
Though she won’t tell me the price, she does say she didn’t even have to think about it.
No doubt the estate agent will call tomorrow with this bit of news, pointing out that it just increases the value of my place and that the new neighbors might be dreadful. “Sell now,” he’ll say, “or risk losing even more.”
Inside my flat, I tidy up some, but I can’t help checking the window every few minutes, hoping to catch a glimpse of Nick on his way up.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Harper
I’M LYING ON THE FLOOR, WRITING IN THE Alice Carter notebook, when the door swings open and Nick strides in, carrying brown bags that waft delicious smells into the flat: chicken and mashed potatoes.
How does he do that? Always get past the front door?
He smiles. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
I look back and watch him pass the fire and the large windows that look out on the street, where the last rays of sunset paint the shops and bustling pedestrians in an orange glow. He sets the bags on the shabby table in the kitchen, and my nerves rise as one last mental rehearsal of my speech plays in my mind.
“Got dinner,” he calls.
“Great, I’m famished.”
I push up and join him in the small kitchen.
He reaches into his pocket, and my heart stops.
His fingers fumble for something. He looks up, grinning. His hand comes out . . . with his cell phone.
“Listen to this.” He places the phone on the table and clicks play on a voice mail.
“Nick, it’s Oliver. I just got through with Grayson. It was incredible. He’s excited, Nick. It was the best two hours we’ve ever spent together. We talked about the foundation some—he’s got so many ideas, so much energy for it. And we talked about everything else, his mother, things we should have talked about a long, long time ago. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you called me this morning. I’m not a religious person. Never have been. But I believe things happen for a reason, and I think people come into our lives at the right time for the right reasons. I think that’s why we met, Nick. Anyway, I’m feeling sentimental, and I’ve been drinking.” Shaw laughs quietly. “So you might want to delete this. Give me a call right after you do.”
Nick glances up, his eyebrows raised.
“Amazing,” I say. This is the perfect segue. “It’s great news. And hopefully it’ll soften the blow when he hears I’ve said no to the biography.”
Nick begins unpacking the takeout. “So you’ve decided.”
“I have. Alice Carter. I’m going to pursue her. My dream.”
I pace behind the table, my hands shaking. I stuff them into my pajama pant pockets to hide them—or am I subliminally trying to remove any targets for expensive metallic devices that hold precious gemstones? I imagine I look like a mental patient with my arms strapped to my waist. Despite that, I try to make my voice normal. “I’ve been doing some figuring all day. Meetings and such. Trying to get my affairs in order.”
He looks up from the bags. “Really? Me, too.”
Oh no.
“Also,” he says, unwrapping a side of mashed potatoes that I can’t smell, I’m so nervous, “I talked to Yul. He’s remembered a little more. I told him I wanted to get the four of us together. I’ll see him when I go back to San Francisco to pack my things for the movers.”
Pack my things for the movers.
“I’m moving, too,” I blurt out, an act of desperation. “My mum owns the flat. She’ll have to let it to someone else—someone who can actually pay the rent.” I manage a weak smile. “I’ll be pretty strapped while I finish the first Alice novel. Will take some time. I’m in such a transition period. Lot of moving pieces. Will be hectic for a bit. So many decisions. Can’t imagine making one more, not a single one. My mind’s about to explode as it is.”
I wait.
Seconds tick by. All the food’s out now. Mashed potatoes, carrots, and chicken.
“Do you want to wait?” he asks.
; “Waiting is good, I think.” The words come out harsh, defensive. I try to soften my tone, appear casual. “For some things. Gotta wait until the time is right. Doesn’t mean you’re saying no.”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“I’m not.” I say firmly.
“Right.” He glances around. “Well, I could put it in the oven.”
Is he crazy? “Why would you do that?”
“To keep it warm.”
I stare at him.
He shrugs. “I just can’t eat cold chicken.”
“Oh.” Dinner. He’s talking about waiting on dinner. I take my hands out of my pants, freeing myself, trying to look less like the mental patient I seem to be at the moment. “Well . . . we can eat now. Certainly no problem with that.”
We sit, and he digs in. He must not have eaten all day. I pick at the chicken and roll a few carrots around my plate, unable to eat.
He motions to the living room. “Seems like you’ve got a good start on Alice. How long do you think for the first novel?”
“Hard to say. Inspiration keeps its own schedule. Maybe a year. Maybe more.”
“Your mom owns the flat?”
“Yep. I saw an estate agent today, wanted to get her some options. He says the flat will fetch a good sum. That will last her a while, maybe to her retirement. Letting it is also a good option, but she’ll have to pay a management fee, and there’s a bit of uncertainty there. The London market’s a madhouse. Flat next door just sold—unsolicited, in fact. Bloody foreigners. They’re buying up every square inch of London. Heard Norway bought a big chunk of Mayfair the other day, Savile Row included. Pretty soon there won’t be any Londoners left in London.”
“Everybody’s looking for alternative investments. That’s been the topic of my day, in fact. I’ve been thinking about what to do. About the Titan Foundation. In particular, I’ve asked myself what I can learn from what I saw in 2147.”
