by Shayla Black
I’m not surprised the intro to the first song isn’t familiar. I search around and discover Maxon’s wife included a list of songs on the portable storage device, so I launch it.
“Goodbye” by Natalie Imbruglia is up first. Never heard of her. Nice voice. The tune itself is slow and sad, and the female vocalist manages to convey melancholy desolation perfectly. It resonates on every level because I’m feeling it, too. When she sings that every day is the same and she feels them all merge, I completely get it. It’s only been a week without Nia, and I’m in this never-ending malaise I can’t shake. Oh, and the singer’s lilting high note when she croons that people are telling her she’ll be fine and it will all get better? Heartbreaking bullshit. She knows it—just like I do.
This song makes me certain I’ll be feeling this way for the rest of my life if I can’t figure out a way to tell Nia how sorry I am.
Next up, another ballad, accompanied by a simple piano-drum duo. It’s stripped down, and when the opening line is about the car being parked and the bags being packed, I know this is going to hurt. By the time Sara Bareilles starts singing that her lover is all she has and all she needs, the one she’s pining for is the very air she would kill to breathe, I’m choking up. That’s exactly how I feel about Nia.
Fuck, this song is an ax to the heart.
Suddenly, something wet drips on the desk. I look down. I see another drop. Then I realize the wetness is coming from me.
I’m crying.
I haven’t done that since I was five, when my mother died. Odd that I just realized I never mourned for Becca like this. I was lost, yes. But I didn’t feel this aching, empty hole in my existence because she was gone. I totally feel it for Nia. Every morning, every night. Every moment. Yes, it hurts to be here. And I hope I’ll breathe again.
But I can only do that with my wife.
The next song cues up immediately after the last one. Another female starts singing after a short musical interlude, almost whining the observation that they fell out of love, but they can fall back in. What can I do or change to make that happen? Good question. I’d like to know.
Here comes another onslaught of tears. They aren’t manly. They aren’t logical. And yet I can’t stop them.
Crap, I want to blame Keeley. She likes chick ballads, which are admittedly effective in dissecting a shitty situation. But I’m also feeling a bit like I’m having my heart ripped out through my ass. It’s not remotely comfortable.
“Fall Back In” by Plumb rolls on. Yes, everything used to come so easily for Nia and me. I could have found her in the dark. I could have found her blindfolded, wearing earmuffs, with my hands tied behind my back. When I was with her, I had this feeling of ease and peace and rightness. That’s all gone.
Really, what the fuck was I thinking when I opened my mouth and accused her of trying to hurt me? That I’d hurt her back? I don’t even know anymore.
There’s definitely something between us, like the song suggests, and if I throw it away, I’ll regret it like hell. I already do.
I close my eyes. How do I make this maudlin shit stop?
When the song ends, a rock tune blessedly hits my ears next. A guitar accompanies a man’s gravelly voice saying he was blown away. Daughtry. I recognize this song, though I haven’t heard it in years. Yeah, it did all seem to make sense—at the time. Becca’s betrayal. Bethany’s bombshell. Then Nia’s seeming stab in the back. It simply didn’t make sense in the end. He implores his lover that they should start over, swears they’re wasting too much time. Amen to all of that.
Weirdly, this anthem is giving me hope.
The last song on the list is from Lifehouse. I listen, letting the lyrics sink in, nodding along to the mellow tune before the chorus smacks me across the face. I will do whatever it takes to turn this relationship around. I have no doubt what’s at stake, just like I know I utterly let her down. I did worse than that, but I still relate to these words. The singer begs that if she’ll just give him a chance, he’ll do everything he can to keep them together. He makes another plea that’s brilliant: that they to hold on to each other above everything else. That they start over.
I want that, too. So badly. And suddenly, all of these songs blend together in my head and form a message. Ideas have been swirling as tears have been falling. Now, I wipe my face clean and stand. I know what I have to do to win Nia back.
With a grim smile, I pick up my phone and proceed to gamble my entire future on one apology.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Seattle, Washington
Thursday, December 28
Today is the day—my last chance with Nia.
I arrived in Seattle late last night to a voicemail from my Realtor. She has an offer for my penthouse—asking price, all cash. They want to take possession in two weeks. One quick phone call later, and the deal was done. After that, I crashed for a few hours, until sleep deserted me. It’s as if everything inside me woke up to the fact that lying in bed is an unproductive waste of my time right now. Sure, I have a condo to pack up.
More importantly, I have a wife to win back.
Still, getting up sucks. After traveling across three time zones twice in less than five days, I’m jet-lagged. The sun won’t be up for hours, but if I do everything right today, I might have the rest of my life to sleep next to Nia.
And if I fuck up, I’m doomed.
Shoving the thought away, I brush my teeth and get busy. I have to give her the apology she deserves and show her how much I love her. It’s my only hope.
In the hush, I assemble my setup in the kitchen. Tarp, easel, paints, and the canvas with the blob I tried to paint…was that exactly a month ago?
Yes. I have thirty days of mostly wonderful memories. But my situation has changed so much. Now, everything hurts, especially when it hits me that if I can’t figure out how to win Nia back, we’ll never make another memory together again.
No. Fuck no. I made mistakes—colossal ones. I’m learning from them. But we aren’t a mistake.
Our story can’t end this way, not when I’m still so in love with the woman who helped me create it.
When I try to lift my brush to canvas, the silence proves too soft to drown the thoughts in my head. The doubts rush in to overwhelm me. I need distraction. I need noise. Keeley seems to have the right idea. Music.
I grab my phone and scroll through my song selections. I don’t download many songs for myself, but I have for technically challenged Diana over the years. They’re mostly oldies I listened to in the car with her as a teenager. One song jumps out at me.
It’s perfect.
Putting the tune on repeat, I let the admittedly cheesy seventies intro roll between my ears and through my brain. “If” is an epically romantic ode from a man who shares an imperfect love with an unforgettable woman. His voice is—there’s no other way to put it—desperately yearning. He asks why, if a picture paints a thousand words, can’t he paint her.
Interesting point.
I’m going to paint Nia as I see her. As I see us.
The us we should be.
Inspiration rushes me. I grab my brush and let it find its path over the canvas. I still don’t know how I’ll depict what’s in my head, just like I don’t know what Nia and I will be someday. Loving spouses or bitter exes? We’ll always be soul mates, I know that.
I never put much stock in that concept before; it never made logical sense. The idea of having a single person as one’s destiny sounded preposterous on multiple levels. The logistics of that alone don’t add up. After all, what are the odds of finding that singularly perfect person on a planet of nearly eight billion people? But now I suspect that fate puts everyone on the right path to the right people at the right time to help us grow. To teach us to be better people. It’s up to every individual to embrace and value their soul mate.
I didn’t do enough of that, and I’ve got to now or I’m going to wind up a miserable fucking bastard.
As the song goes on
, I can’t disagree when the guy sings that if a man could be in two places at one time, he’d be with her. I’d be with Nia right now if she’d let me. And every day thereafter.
For the rest of our forevers.
It’s hours before my painting takes shape. Once I realize what this image needs to be, I can’t swipe my brush across the canvas fast enough. The good part? I’m centered. I see so clearly what I need to do and say. I may not win Nia back, but if I convey everything pouring from my soul, at least I’ll know I gave us my all.
And I’ll have empty decades in front of me to correct my fatal flaw: relying too much on logic and not listening enough to my heart.
When I’m finally done, my shoulder aches. I’m so tired my head feels stuffed with cotton. My eyes are gritty. But as I stand back and survey my work, a grin breaks across my face. I’m back—alert and present—but I’m changed, thanks to Nia. I’m reborn. I’m better for having loved her.
No matter what happens next, I’ll always be thankful to her for that.
I leave the canvas to climb back into bed for a couple of hours. When I wake at noon, I start dialing people, calling in favors, and even begging strangers until everything is in place.
Finally, evening unfurls when the delivery truck I hired pulls up in front of Nia’s cottage. I’m relieved to see her car here and the lights on.
“You got everything, man?” the driver asks as I lift the unwieldy rectangular bundle I brought for her, wrapped in plain brown paper.
“Yep. Thanks for letting me hitch a ride with you…what was your name again?”
“Garth. It’s no problem.”
“Here’s the five hundred bucks I promised you.” I withdraw the cash from my pocket. “I hope you don’t lose your job over this.”
“Nah. It’s the end of my shift, and it wasn’t even half a mile off my route. If anyone asks, I’ll say I took a wrong turn.” He glances down at the cash. “But, um…you could keep that if you’d look at my résumé.”
“Your résumé?”
“I know who you are, Mr. Cook. And I don’t want to drive a delivery truck for the rest of my life. I’m a coder. Self-taught, but I’m damn good. And I used to break into systems for fun, just to see if I could. So I can think like a hacker. I’ve written some pretty complicated viruses, too. Not that I ever unleashed them on anyone.”
He reminds me of myself a half dozen years ago. Normally, I don’t look at anyone without significant work experience, but my gut tells me I’d be passing up someone valuable.
“Take the money and email me your résumé, Garth. I’ll take a look as soon as I can.” With a grin, he hands me a pencil, and I jot my personal email address on the back of the envelope.
As I press the bundle of cash into his hands, his eyes widen. “Wow. Thanks! And hey, I hope this girl lets you in. You seem really into her. When I first heard your plan—before I knew who you were—I was thinking you’re a crazy bastard to be so hung up on one chick…”
“She’s worth it.”
Garth, who’s barely legal to drink, doesn’t get it yet.
“Sure. Good luck,” he says with a wave as I hop off the truck. “I’ll be in touch. You sure you don’t want me to come back and take you to your car?”
“I parked two blocks down the road, but thanks.”
As I nod at him, I position the package in front of my face and head up Nia’s walk. If she’s looking out the window, she’ll see nothing but a giant delivery. I never imagined I’d be making a plea to my wife not to leave me forever while wearing a brown uniform. But if that’s what it takes, I’ll do it.
My heart jerks and hammers as I ring her bell. It kicks up another notch when she opens the door between us. I can’t see her, but I sense her, smell her. It’s like coming home. Like my heart is awakening from a dark slumber. I have to exercise all my restraint not to grab her in my arms.
“Oh, my gosh,” she exclaims. “Is this for me?”
“Yes. I’ve got more, too.” I muffle my voice.
“Okay. It’s kinda big. You want to set it in the foyer?”
“Sure.”
By mutual agreement, now that I’m inside Nia’s cottage, I hear Garth drive off in a screech of tires.
“Um, is your partner driving away without you?”
I drag in a breath and lower the package, setting it on end at my feet and revealing my face.
With hungry eyes, I take in every detail. Nia is barefaced and already in her pajamas for the night. She looks a little tired, but still so beautiful I can’t find words. My knees almost buckle. I’m filled with sharp, bittersweet agony.
“No, honey. I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”
She gapes at me, looking utterly stunned. “Evan… What are you doing here?”
“Apologizing to you. Fighting for us.”
The words are barely out before her face closes up. She opens her mouth. Nothing good is going to come out of it.
I have to cut her off before she says something we can’t take back.
“Please don’t kick me out before I admit I was a complete asshole who can’t give you a good reason why I accused you of ugly things. I’d just like to try to explain as best I can.”
Nia bites her lip and stares. She says nothing for excruciating moments while she gauges my sincerity. Finally, she sighs. “Fifteen minutes. I’m supposed to fly out early in the morning.”
That stops my heart cold. “Where are you going?”
She hesitates, then shakes her head. “Evan, why would I stay here? I don’t have a job, and my rental is too expensive with no income. And to be honest, the memories are…too much. I’m from Georgia originally, so I thought maybe I’d fly home and see if—”
“Douglas Lund isn’t hiring you or helping you or…” He’s her fucking father, after all. And now that the truth is out, why wouldn’t he?
“No. Stephen is happy to recognize me as his sister. Douglas…” She shrugs. “We’ve talked. We’ll see what happens. He’s spent twenty-five years denying I exist. I don’t know that he’s eager to shout to the rooftops that he did his maid or has an ethnic daughter or whatever.”
“Then he’s a douchebag. But I was, too. I should never have spit all those awful accusations at you. My only defense is that I’d found out mere minutes prior that Becca was brewing plans to divorce me and force me to sell Stratus so she could be with Sebastian.”
“You said that. Was he in on it, too?”
“He had no idea,” I assure her. “But it was a shock to know that, even after I’d genuinely tried with Becca, she was willing to stab me in the back and sell me out for a chance at a life with someone else. I didn’t love her, and she didn’t love me, either.”
“I get it. You were in a bad headspace when you followed me home. But—”
“That’s not all. I was literally standing in front of the cafe when Bethany called me. She’d figured out earlier that day that Douglas Lund was your father. She put the suggestion in my head that you’d married me to screw me out of Stratus. I didn’t really believe her. After all, she doesn’t know you. And Barclay Reed had just destroyed her every illusion, so she was brittle. But then…I overheard you and Stephen talking about making your plan work and it being best for everyone but me. He argued it was for your future, and you agreed that you couldn’t have everything you wanted if you didn’t go through with it. Instantly, my thoughts went to dark places.”
“You thought I was willing to sell you out to be accepted by the Lunds.” She frowns. “That I’d rather have them over the family you and I were building together?”
The tone of her voice says that’s ridiculous.
I wince. “He’s your father, and I thought you would—”
“Throw you under the bus for a man who walked away from me before I was even born?”
Sighing, I shake my head. “I knew shortly after our fight that I’d been dumb. But I didn’t quite realize until now just how stupid. For the record, I couldn’t imagin
e what else you and Stephen were talking about.”
“Douglas,” she answers. “Stephen has known about his dad’s illegitimate daughter for years, and when we literally ran into each other in Stratus’s lobby, he wanted to get to know his sister. When you and I came back from Maui after the wedding, he reached out to offer his congratulations and said he needed to see me. I was wary until he explained. After some talk, we decided we want to be family. So we hatched a plan to approach our father together and see if he would accept me.” She shrugs. “But no. He only said he wanted to keep me on staff because it seemed to yank your chain. That day we fought, I imagined you wouldn’t like the plan Stephen and I had concocted because of the negotiations. And because you never liked Douglas.”
“I like him even less now,” I grumble. “Funny how we’re both in the same place—wealthy, powerful men as fathers, neither of whom wanted to recognize us. I don’t need Barclay, and you don’t need Douglas.”
“I don’t.” She nods. “If he comes around, fine. I’ll listen. If he doesn’t, I have a brother in Stephen. He’s been really great.”
“Thanks for explaining.” Even though anxiety is grinding up my guts, I take her hands. “If having him in your life brings you happiness or peace, then I’m glad. You deserve…everything. I didn’t give you that, so I need to rectify the situation. I’ve given this a lot of thought, Nia. I had a miserable Christmas without you.”
She presses her lips together. Her expression says she had a craptastic holiday without me, too. But she doesn’t admit it aloud.
“The thing I trashed most the day I walked away from you was trust. The thing I took most from you was your voice. So I’m here to give those back to you. I know you would never have sold me out and now I need to prove that to you.”
Nia folds her hands together. “Are you sure? The accusations you hurled at me—”
“Were terrible and unfair. And I know this world doesn’t often give second chances. So if you don’t feel like extending me one, I understand. But I have to ask.”
“You can’t just say and do those awful things, then sprinkle a few words of apology around like pixie dust, and poof. All the goodness and trust come back.” She shakes her head. “I don’t work like that.”
