by T. K. Leigh
Of finally starting this next chapter.
I trudge up to my apartment, shaking off the winter chill as I step inside, my heart flying into my throat when a voice greets me.
“How was the date?” Chloe asks, lounging on my couch as if she lives here.
I take a minute to steady my breathing, my hand covering my chest. She should know better than to startle me like this. I’m a single woman living by myself in New York City. It’s not exactly the safest.
“Please, make yourself at home,” I quip once my pulse has gone back to normal.
“I did.” She raises a glass of wine off the coffee table. “So, how was it?”
I shrug out of my coat and hang it over one of the stools by the kitchen island before heading into the living area and flopping onto the couch beside her. “I ended things.”
“I had a feeling.”
I snap my eyes toward her. “Why do you say that?”
“This was date five.” She sips her wine. “You seem to have a five date max lately.”
“At least I’m dating,” I remind her.
“That’s true.” She pauses. “But are you dating for the right reasons?”
“What do you mean?”
She blows out an exaggerated sigh. “You know what I mean. Are you dating because you want to meet someone? Or are you doing it to forget someone?”
My silence is the only answer she needs. I wish I could tell her I’m genuinely interested in forming a connection with another human, but the truth remains. There’s only one person I want that with. Even though I should never trust him again. My heart is still at war with my brain. I fear it always will be.
“Okay. That’s it.” Chloe shoots to her feet. “I thought you’d eventually come to your senses and realize what’s important, but apparently that was wishful thinking.”
I give her a sideways glance. “Come to my senses about what?”
“What you walked away from.”
“Walked away?” I stand, although my five-four height doesn’t intimidate her short, five-two stature. What Chloe lacks in height, she makes up for in tenacity.
“Prince Gabriel! Anderson! Whatever you call him.”
“Did you forget he’s the reason Hunter died? That I lost the baby? That he knew who I was when he fucked me but kept me in the dark?”
“I didn’t forget. You won’t let me forget. You remind me at every turn.”
“So what? You think I should forgive him? How the hell can I do that? Better yet, how can I respect Hunter’s legacy when I’m in love with the man who killed him?” I exclaim, the words spilling from my lips like lava as I say everything I’ve kept to myself for weeks. “Can you please tell me how I’m supposed to come to terms with that? Because I would fucking love to know!” My voice reverberates against the walls of my apartment, tears streaming down my cheeks. I can only imagine what my neighbors must think of me right now. These walls aren’t exactly soundproof.
“That’s what it all boils down to, isn’t it? This is still about Hunter.”
“No. I…,” I stammer, struggling to find the words I need to make Chloe understand. I’m not even sure I understand. Could she be right? Is this still about Hunter? I thought I’d let him go. His ashes no longer sit on my dresser, but I still wear the necklace with his engagement ring, refusing to take it off. Did I trade one crutch for another?
“You are so goddamn stubborn sometimes,” she groans. “Let me put this in terms you’ll understand. Your favorite movie. An Affair to Remember. Every time we watch it, you yell at the screen during a certain scene. Which one?”
I swallow hard, my face heating. “The theater scene,” I answer timidly. “When Nicki Ferrante sees Terry McKay.” I release a long sigh as I lower myself back to the couch. “I always scream at him to open his eyes. To realize that she doesn’t stand. To figure out the truth.”
“Exactly.” She sits beside me and pushes what appears to be the January edition of her magazine toward me. “Consider this me screaming at you to open your eyes.”
A knot forms in my throat as I stare at the cover, Anderson’s soulful blue eyes staring back at me. But there’s something missing. The spark I once saw every time he peered at me.
I lift the magazine and flip it open to where Chloe placed a sticky note, reading the headline and tagline.
An Exclusive with Prince Gabriel: Heavy is the Head That Wears the Crown
The Bachelor Prince opens up about his recent Multiple Sclerosis diagnosis, and what it means for the future
Inhaling a sharp breath, my chin quivers as I lift my eyes to Chloe’s. “He has MS?”
She nods. “His publicist reached out to me a few days after you returned home from your trip. At first, I told her I wasn’t interested in writing any story about the fuckhead who broke my friend’s heart.”
I blow out a laugh. I can picture her saying that.
“But then I started thinking. In my initial dealings with his publicist, she mentioned Prince Gabriel — Anderson — had been diagnosed with MS back in September, but had been displaying symptoms and having flareups as far back as ten years ago.” She pauses. “So I looked into what an MS flareup is. Do you know what I found out?”
I stare forward, remaining silent.
“Pins and needles sensation. Muscle weakness or numbness. Blurred vision. Sometimes blindness in one eye.”
“What he described happened the night of the wreck.”
Chloe places her hand on my bicep in a reassuring manner. “He refused to come right out and say it, but it appears that’s what happened.”
“That must be what Creed was talking about,” I breathe, then glance at her. “When I learned the truth, I’d asked his chief protection officer how Anderson could have no memory of forcing Hunter’s car off the road. He said he wasn’t at liberty to say. He must have known about the MS.”
“It’s not that he couldn’t remember. He just couldn’t see. Couple that with the trauma of losing Kendall Davies and it’s no wonder his brain tried to protect him from the truth. Just like yours did.”
I stare straight ahead, processing this, wondering why Anderson didn’t tell me. But would it have made a difference?
For months after I lost Hunter and Ember, I was desperate to find someone to blame for what happened. So I put that blame on me. If I hadn’t been late getting ready, hadn’t selfishly wanted to rest my eyes, maybe I would have seen the car driving toward us and could have prevented what happened.
But once Anderson came clean, I could stop blaming myself. I had someone else I could blame.
If I forgive him, who will I blame?
“I won’t pretend this is an easy decision,” Chloe soothes, cutting through my thoughts. “You have to do what’s best for you. No one else.” Her gaze catches on my necklace before returning to me. “So you need to ask yourself…”
Standing, she reaches into her pocket. Then she sets a penny on the open magazine next to a paragraph in the article announcing the opening of Anderson’s photography exhibit in the Village titled Faith. Hope. Perseverance.
When I jerk my head up, she gives me a sly smile, wordlessly answering my question about where she could have gotten this exact penny. One with the same blemishes as the one I flipped on Route 66. She got it from Anderson himself.
“What do you want?” She allows her question to linger before turning and leaving me alone.
I shift my attention back to the penny and the article, studying Anderson’s smile. But it’s not the same one I remember. The one that greeted me good morning. The one that beamed at me when I agreed to travel along Route 66 with him. The one that curled into a smirk when he shamelessly flirted with me.
Swallowing hard, I grab the penny off the table, the weight of the coin feeling much heavier than normal. Probably because of the truth it holds in its rigid edges and tarnished face. The truth it held all those weeks ago, too. And like all those weeks ago, I know how to solve this predicament.
“Heads I stay. Tails I go.”
I briefly close my eyes, then toss the coin, watching as it flips and topples until it clatters on the magazine. I don’t even bother looking to see how it landed.
Like I told Anderson back on Route 66, I already figured out what I truly wanted while that coin was in the air.
Chapter Forty-One
Anderson
Soft jazz music plays, creating an upscale and trendy ambience as people float around me in the open space that’s reminiscent of a refurbished warehouse. Every so often, someone takes a break from mingling with other New York socialites to congratulate me on my photography, as well as my latest venture of founding an organization, the main purpose of which is to encourage those with disabilities to persevere through them, to not limit themselves. I still have a great deal of work to do, but I hope to have an annual sporting event featuring only children and adults who are less abled than most people. Kendall used to volunteer with a similar charity here in the States, teaching them how to play volleyball while sitting on the ground. I’m happy I can now follow in her legacy.
“It appears people are enjoying it.” Esme sidles up next to me, handing me a glass of champagne, which surprises me.
Ever since I returned home, she’s been adamant that I control my diet, since the research she’d done demonstrated that some of my symptoms can be managed with diet. That meant giving up alcohol and coffee, along with a few of my other guilty pleasures. If it allows me to remain active one day longer, though, I’ll do it. It’s a stark contrast to what I thought when I was first diagnosed. It took meeting Nora to help me realize that life is still worth living, even if from a wheelchair. For that, I’ll always be grateful.
“I hope so.”
“Well, if this whole king thing doesn’t work out, at least you know you can always fall back on being a professional photographer.” She draws in an excited breath. “You could shoot weddings! Bet you could meet some nice single girls in the bridal party.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not king yet. And hopefully that won’t happen anytime soon. But at least now I know it’s what I want.”
She loops her arm through mine, steering me away from the makeshift bar and toward part of the exhibit I’ve avoided most of the night. “Probably a good thing you have no desire to take up professional photography. You really have no eye when it comes to beauty, do you?”
She stops in front of a series of photographs that make up the “faith” component of tonight’s exhibition. Some people probably expected to see images of churches or other religious establishments, but that’s not faith to me. I’d lost my faith in everything. In love. In hope. In living. It wasn’t until I met Nora I learned to have faith again.
I smile as I admire the collection of photos I chose to show my version of faith. It’s an innate response whenever I look at Nora, even if only in a photograph. Esme was just joking, but there’s a hint of truth to her statement. These images truly don’t do Nora’s beauty justice.
I pull away from Esme, getting lost in the photos. Each one causes a memory to rush forward. Of scaling a fence and dragging Nora into that abandoned drive-in. Of spray-painting our names on a Cadillac in Texas. Of eating greasy diner food and feeling not a single ounce of remorse. Of laughing. Of living. Of loving.
I approach the image I’d taken that morning in Santa Monica as she slept. I run a finger along the silhouette of her frame, only the shadow of her body visible in the dark light. What I wouldn’t give to touch the real thing. But that ship has sailed. A part of me had hoped Nora might show up tonight, especially when her friend, Chloe, had agreed to write an exclusive piece about my MS diagnosis. But it’s nearly eleven o’clock. Nora’s not coming.
With a sigh, I reluctantly drop my hand, taking one last chance to appreciate Nora’s beauty, even if it’s in the form of a photograph. “My favorite moment is you,” I murmur to no one.
The sound of a gentle clanging catches my attention. I look down, my brow furrowing when I notice a penny between my feet.
But not just any penny.
I whirl around, surprised when my sister no longer lingers a few feet away. In her place stands Nora. My Nora. Wearing the same gorgeous dress she did on our last night together.
My heart ricochets to my throat, my breathing increasing as I stare at her. I want to reach out, make sure I’m not dreaming, that this isn’t some flareup and I’m hallucinating, although I don’t think that’s possible. Still, I didn’t actually think this was possible, either. That she’d actually show up.
I start toward her, but she holds up a hand, preventing me from taking another step.
“I’m going to ask you this once, and I need you to tell me the truth.”
All I can do is nod.
“That night,” she begins with a quiver as she clutches the necklace around her throat. I recognize that chain. The same one I kept in my possession for years. My talisman. My good luck charm. She toys with the diamond ring, rolling it around her fingers. “When you swerved into the wrong lane…” She brings her eyes to mine, pain filling her expression. “Was it because of the MS?”
“You read Chloe’s article?” I arch a single brow, to which she nods. Then I expel a breath. “At the time of the crash, I didn’t know I had MS. Since my diagnosis, all the doctors I’ve spoken with have agreed the symptoms I experienced that night indicate it was most likely a flareup.”
She peers beyond me at the photos adorning the walls as she absorbs my response. Then she returns her gaze to mine. There’s still not a single hint of emotion within. Her demeanor is calm and even, like she’s asking me the time of day or my favorite color, not about the details of the night that ruined her life.
“And when you told me about your involvement, you already knew about your MS.” It’s not a question.
“That was why I was driving across the country. I’d just been diagnosed. I knew it was a very real possibility I’d lose the ability to drive at some point, so I wanted to take advantage of it while I still could.”
“Oh.” Unease registers on her face.
I step toward her, but still keep a respectful distance between us. “At no point were you in danger,” I explain hurriedly. “The doc told me what warning signs to look for, and I didn’t have a single flareup or relapse while we were together. I have a type of MS called remitting-relapsing, and mine hasn’t progressed that much yet. I’m now on a course of treatment to help control it, as well.”
“So you knew you had MS when we said goodbye. And you knew the MS caused the wreck.”
Her tone is akin to an an attorney cross-examining a witness. And that’s what I feel like. The accused on the witness stand pleading for my life.
“Yes.”
“Yet you didn’t say anything?” She spins around, meeting my gaze.
Finally, there’s a quiver in her voice, indicating she’s not just an unfeeling robot. That despite the passing of over two months since we last saw each other, she still feels this same connection, same electricity, same love.
“Would it have mattered?” I ask, my words coming out strong. “Would you have felt any differently if I told you the truth? It still doesn’t change anything. Still doesn’t erase what happened. And…I don’t know…”
I exhale a breath as I shake my head, running a hand through my hair.
“There was this tiny part of me that hoped you would forgive me. That you would be able to see past the biggest mistake of my life. That you’d soon realize that yes, while what happened was a goddamn tragedy, I was also the person who saved you. Who ran toward a smoking car to pull you from it, completely ignorant of the fact that I caused it. That I ran toward it because, deep down, I am a good person. A good person who made a horrible fucking mistake, but a good person, nonetheless.”
My voice seems to ring out around us, my breathing labored. For months, I thought about what I’d say to her if I got the opportunity. I didn’t think I ever would. But based on the blank expression on
her face, I fear it’s not enough. That nothing will make her see the guilt that plagues me. That guilt I’ve sworn to carry with me the rest of my life.
On a long sigh, Nora turns from me, stooping to grab the penny from the floor. “I flipped it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Tonight. Chloe brought over a copy of the magazine. And left a penny.” She brings up the coin. “This penny, which I assume she got from you.”
I nod subtly.
“Do you know I can’t even look at a goddamn penny without being reminded of you? That every time I do, all I think about is some arrogant bastard who tried to impress me with his knowledge about the plan to steal Lincoln’s body.”
A smile teases my lips. “Sounds like a complete arse.”
“You have no idea.” Her eyes shine with unshed tears as she closes the space between us. “I should hate you. I shouldn’t be able to stand being in your presence.”
“But you don’t,” I manage to say. It’s a mixture of a statement and question. When she doesn’t respond, I press further. “Why did you flip the coin?”
“To help me decide.”
“Help you decide what?”
Her chin trembles. “About you.”
“And what did it tell you to do about me?”
Tears well as she shakes her head. “I didn’t need it to tell me what I’ve known all along.” She takes my hand in hers, the warmth of her fingers interlocking with mine for the first time in months sending electricity humming through my veins. I swallow hard, doing my best not to get my hopes up. It doesn’t mean anything. She’s here, but Hunter’s ring still hangs from her neck.
“And what’s that?”
“That you may have pulled me from that wreck all those years ago, but it wasn’t until you struck up a conversation with me in Chicago that you truly saved my life.”
She moves her hands to my cheeks, clutching them tightly as her lips inch toward mine. Her breath kisses my skin, a tingle of anticipation filling me. My pulse increases, my mouth growing dry.
