War and Love

by Winter Renshaw

  “Love?”

  I follow the voice coming from my left until my gaze lands on a raven-haired beauty navigating a double stroller through a sea of tables-for-two.

  “Lo,” I say, heart ricocheting as I glance around to ensure it’s just her and the girls. “Hi.”

  “How’ve you been?” she asks.

  It’s strange that she would ask me that, given the fact that we only met a couple of times and only for the briefest of moments, but she looks at me like she knows me inside and out and the tenderness in her voice suggests her question is genuine.

  “Great,” I say, inching forward as the line moves “You?”

  Her eyes search mine, though for what, I’m not sure.

  “We’re doing well,” she says, biting the corner of her lip.

  The line moves again, but Lo is caught behind a display on the other side and a small table prevents her from wedging her way closer.

  “He fell in love with you,” she blurts.

  “What?” Michael Bublé croons over the speakers, and I’m not sure I heard her right.

  “He fell in love with you,” she repeats, this time a little louder. A woman reading on her tablet glances over at us before returning to her book. “I think he still loves you. And I think a part of him always will … for what it’s worth.”

  “Excuse me, sorry.” I push my way toward the end of the line, not wanting to have this conversation in this manner, and when I finally reach her, I ask, “If he loved me, why’d he just … leave? Without saying a single word?”

  Lo begins to say something and then stops, her shoulders falling. “That’s how it had to be, and that’s all I can say.”

  “All right.” I turn back toward the line, taking a new spot at the very back.

  “That guy … your ex … he made Jude sign an NDA,” she says. “He can’t tell you anything or he’ll get sued. Believe me, Love, he wanted to explain. He wanted to tell you everything.”

  Of course.

  “I know I’m his sister and I’m biased, but believe me when I say sometimes good people make bad choices. He made a mistake, Love. A huge mistake. A selfish mistake—honestly the first selfish mistake the man’s ever made in his life.” Lo lifts her hand to her heart, brows lifting beneath her dark bangs. “It cost him dearly, and he still hasn’t forgiven himself. I don’t think he ever will.”

  If she’s trying to make me reconsider my stance on forgiving him … it’s working. But only a little. And I keep that to myself.

  Ellie begins to squirm in her half of the stroller and Piper tugs at the hem of Lo’s shirt.

  “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you he loved you. That’s all,” she says before pushing her stroller toward the door. A hipster in a beanie holds the door for them as she squeezes through, and a second later they’re gone.

  I can’t deny how validating it feels to hear those words, but it doesn’t change what he did.

  Or the devastating profoundness of his betrayal.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Jude

  “Guess who I ran into today?” Lo asks when I get home from work.

  “Who?” I slide my shoes off and sort through a stack of mail, mostly bills.

  “Love.”

  Glancing up from the power bill in my hand, I’m surprised to find a wild-eyed grin on my sister’s face, like she’s harboring good news. But I don’t want to get my hopes up. Last week when I ran into Love at the hospital, it didn’t exactly go that well.

  “She was getting coffee,” Lo says. “Anyway, I talked to her for a few minutes.”

  “And?” I wind my hand, willing her to get on with her story.

  “I told her that you still love her and you haven’t forgiven yourself,” she says.

  Exhaling, I return to the mail in my hands. I said something similar last week and didn’t get anywhere with her.

  “Why are you so excited?” I ask.

  Lo moves closer, placing her hand on my shoulder. “Because she listened. She heard me out. And that’s got to mean something.”

  I passed the fountain at The Jasper again today after lunch, only this time I took a seat at one of the benches. About the time I was ready to leave, something shiny caught the corner of my eye. When I took a closer look, I spotted a quarter beneath one of the benches—the very same bench Love was standing next to the night I first met her.

  Heading to my room to change out of my work clothes, I pull Love’s quarter from my pocket and sit it on top of my dresser.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Love

  I lock the front door of the Agenda W building and slide my keys in my bag while Cameo orders a ride because she refuses to take the subway or walk more than a block in her pristine Louboutins.

  We must have interviewed at least seven people this afternoon, one after another after another from the moment I returned from grabbing a coffee, and I never had a chance to tell her about running into Lo at Starbucks.

  “Okay. Ride’s going to be here in five minutes,” my sister says before darkening the screen of her phone. “What’d you think of the candidates? I thought we had some good ones.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  She studies my face, thin brows meeting as she chuckles. “Yeah? That’s all you have to say?”

  “I’m just tired.” I amble toward a metal park bench by the curb and take a seat.

  Cameo follows.

  “I ran into Jude’s sister earlier today,” I say. “When I was getting coffee.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Ah. So that’s why you were so out of it all afternoon. Thought maybe you were coming down with something.”

  “I wasn’t out of it.”

  “Yes, Love, you were.” Her voice is louder, as if that gives her opinion more weight. “You asked the same question twice in a row when we interviewed that social worker from Queens and then you called the three o’clock by the four o’clock’s name.”

  “Oops.” I glance down at my folded hands resting on my lap. I suppose I was a little off my game this afternoon. I tried to focus on the interviews, but my mind wouldn’t stop replaying everything Lo said during our brief exchange at the coffee shop.

  “So what’d she say?” Cameo asks, angling her body toward me as if I’m about to give her some major gossip.

  Sitting up, I stare straight ahead, brows lifted. “That he’s sorry. That he loves me. That he’ll never forgive himself. You know, that kind of stuff.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  I shrug my left shoulder. “I don’t have a reason not to. I’m just trying to decide if how sorry he is even matters.”

  Cameo crosses her legs and clears her throat. “When you two were in town for the wedding, there was this night when I was sitting outside on Mom’s front steps, just sort of … reflecting, I guess you could say. Jude walked out to grab something from your car and he saw me. He could’ve just said hi and kept going, but he stopped and sat down and asked me if I was okay.”

  “He did?”

  Cameo’s red lips draw into a slow smile and she nods. “Yep. And Bob said when Jude went to his bachelor party, all these women were hitting on him, but he was just sitting there sipping his beer and going through his phone, looking at pictures of the two of you.”

  “Yeah, well it’s not like he could’ve hooked up with anyone else … he knows word would’ve traveled back to me and then his charade would be over.”

  Cameo rolls her eyes. “You know, one night I asked him how you two made it look like you’d been together forever and he said it was because his life didn’t begin until he met you, so he feels like he’s known you his whole life.”

  I pretend to gag myself. “He’s got some great lines. I’ll give him that.”

  “Say what you want,” Cameo says, tossing her manicured hands in the air. “It was cheesy as hell, but I believed him. And there’s our ride.”

  We leave the bench as a red Chevy Malibu with a Lyft sign on the dash pulls up to the curb, and then we clim
b in the backseat.

  “So what are you saying?” I ask my sister. “That I should give him another chance?”

  “I don’t know.” She glances out the window, nose wrinkling as if my question annoys her. “I can’t make that decision for you.”

  “Would you? If you found out everything Bob ever said or did was a lie and he had the nerve to marry you anyway?”

  Cameo sighs, folding her hands in her lap and staring ahead, though I think she might be checking her reflection in the driver’s rearview mirror.

  “Like I said, I don’t know. I wish I had some better advice for you, but you know that’s never been my wheelhouse,” she says, all but admitting she’s been a less-than-ideal big sister over the years—a first. “I just wanted to make sure you had all the facts.”

  Her opinions aren’t “facts,” but I don’t tell her that. I appreciate that she’s engaging in a conversation that doesn’t revolve around her. This is a rare and special moment between us, and Dad would be proud.

  “Aren’t there literally millions of men out here? Surely you can find someone else,” she muses. “Either stop dwelling on him and move on or find someone new.”

  She makes it sound like handbag shopping, like a replacement is one taxi cab ride and a credit card swipe away.

  “Hunter made him sign an NDA, I guess,” I say as we cross the Brooklyn Bridge. “He’s legally not allowed to tell me anything or talk about the terms of the agreement to anyone.”

  Turning toward me, she says, “You know, Bob’s brother is a family law attorney. Let me text him.”

  Cameo digs her phone out from the bottom of her Dior bag and fires off a text. A minute later, her phone dings.

  “A-ha.” She brings the phone closer, smiling like a high school mean girl who just stumbled upon some damning intel. “He says, ‘This could fall under spousal support fraud, which usually pertains to people lying about their income or job status to reduce their financial obligations, but it can be a gray area and it’s definitely worth looking into. If she needs any recommendations, I know some good family law attorneys in New York.’”

  “Knowing Hunter, he probably had the NDA drafted carefully and strategically so he’s fully protected. He’s slimy like that.” And undeniably savvy, which is how he got to where he is today.

  “Maybe … Give me two seconds.” She fires off another text, her nails clicking against the screen. And a moment later, he responds. “Yes!”

  “What?”

  “Under certain circumstances, if the NDA pertains to illegal activity, it becomes null and void and cannot be enforced,” she says, reading his message. “If your sister’s ex-husband’s arrangement falls under spousal support fraud, the NDA cannot be enforced and the signee of the NDA is free to report and/or testify.”

  “Yeah, but you’d think Hunter would know that,” I say, face tightening into an incredulous glare. “It doesn’t make sense. He’s smart. He wouldn’t put himself at risk like that.”

  “I’ve never known anything to stop Hunter from getting what he wants. Have you?” she asks. “Maybe the reward outweighed the risk?”

  Sighing, I say, “Yeah. I could see that.”

  I could also see him thinking his wealth made him immune to the law.

  “So this is good, right? If the NDA doesn’t hold, that means you can talk to Jude about everything,” she says.

  “It doesn’t change anything though. It doesn’t justify what he did. I think … I think I just need to let this go,” I say the words I’ve been telling myself every single day for weeks now. They’ve yet to sink in.

  “Do you miss him?”

  The car pulls up outside The Jasper and Cameo pays the tab on her phone before we climb out and stand beneath the black awning outside the entrance.

  I try to answer her, only I can’t.

  “You hesitated,” she says, pointing at me. “That’s a yes.”

  “Look. We had fun together. And I miss the fun we had when I thought it was real and that he liked me, but—”

  “—Love, it was real,” she cuts me off, eyes rolling yet again. “The pretenses might have been false, but he liked you. It was written all over his face the week of the wedding. I saw it every time he looked at you, every time he put his hand on the small of your back or brushed your hair out of your eyes or kissed you on your forehead for no reason.”

  I squint, trying to wrap my head around the fact that my sister was able to see any of that when she was stuck inside her Bridezilla bubble.

  Maybe I don’t give her enough credit sometimes …

  “And all those embarrassing stories I shared? I was testing him. And Love … he passed.” She chuckles, like she’s so proud of her prowess. “Bet you thought I was just being a brat.”

  “Amongst other things.”

  Cameo nudges me with a lanky elbow. “I know we haven’t always had a perfect relationship and we couldn’t be more different, but you’re my little sister and you’ve always been there for me, and believe it or not, I care about you.”

  Our matching eyes hold, and I can’t decide if I’m touched or weirded out by this Hallmark moment.

  “This feels … unnatural,” I say.

  Cameo’s serious expression fades and she bursts into laughter. “Extremely. Anyway, I’m going to head to my hotel because I’m exhausted, but call me if you need anything.”

  “Thanks, Cam.” I give her a wave because I think we’re both still too weirded out to hug right now, and I watch as her heels clip up the sidewalk, making the short walk to The Peninsula Hotel.

  Heading inside, I stop first and take a detour toward the other side of the building, stopping at the fountain in the courtyard for no reason other than I’m not quite in the mood to hole up for the night yet.

  Taking a seat on an empty bench, I listen to the trickle of the water, wishing my dad were here so I could ask him what he thinks. He was always so good with relationships, his advice always heartfelt yet practical and always perfect.

  Pulling my bag over my head, I place it beside me and cross my legs. I don’t know how long I plan to stay here, but I’ve got nowhere else to be so it doesn’t matter anyway. A few moment later, I realize I’m sitting on the very bench I lost my quarter under the night I met Jude, but I don’t search for it.

  It’s got to be long gone.

  Just like everything else.

  Drawing in a balmy, summer’s breath, I think back to our last full day together before I was smacked upside the head with the truth. We were flying back from West Virginia and our flight was delayed six hours due to mechanical problems. Under any other circumstances, it would’ve put a damper in my day, but I didn’t think twice about it because I just remember thinking I could be anywhere with Jude and still find a way to enjoy it.

  We spent those listless hours playing Mad Libs, eating Starbursts, and reading magazines. In the middle of the afternoon, he bought a Cinnabon and let me have the middle. When we finally loaded onto our plane a lifetime later, I realized I’d lost my earbuds. He gave me one of his over the course of our flight, introduced me to some of the most incredible bands I never knew existed.

  Every time I looked at him that day, I just remember thinking, “How did I get so lucky?”

  The shuffle of footsteps heading toward the courtyard places me back here, firmly planted in a reality where those moments are no longer relevant.

  A young couple saunter up to the fountain, and the man digs into his pocket for some change.

  “What are you going to wish for?” he asks, placing a shiny quarter in her hand.

  I leave.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Jude

  It’s our last day on site at Lenox Hill. Next assignment will be some apartment building being renovated in the Meat Packing District, so I won’t be in Love’s neighborhood after today.

  For the past couple of weeks, I kept hoping I’d run into her one more time, but our paths never crossed—just like they were probably neve
r meant to cross in the first place.

  Heading back from the deli on my lunch break, I stop at the fountain by The Jasper one last time. This morning when I was getting ready for work and realizing it was going to be my last day on this job, I grabbed Love’s quarter off my dresser and dropped it in my pocket.

  I’ve never been a nostalgic person. I’ve never been one to hold onto material things and give them some kind of value based on whether or not they once belonged to someone … but this quarter is different. It represents mistakes. Heartbreak and fear, joy and loss, hope. But mostly it represents Love, and I need to let it go.

  Approaching the west side of the fountain, I spot a small plaque on the side that I never noticed before. The inscription reads, “A man, when he wishes, is the master of his fate.”

  I don’t know about that, but at this point, I have nothing to lose. Sliding the quarter from my pocket, I twist the coin between the pads of my fingers, trying to convince myself to toss it in and watch it sink to the bottom.

  But I can’t.

  * * *

  The apartment is unusually quiet for a Friday night, and I find a note on the kitchen table from Lo, letting me know she took the girls to the park. She’s got every other weekend off, so I don’t have to babysit the girls tonight.

  A bunch of guys from work invited me out tonight for beer and the sports bar down the street is playing the Mets game, so I might stop there on the way.

  I make my way to my room and strip out of my work clothes, tossing them into a plastic hamper in the corner next to my guitars—the ones I haven’t touched in weeks. I haven’t had the urge to play since I left The Jasper, and sometimes I worry if it’ll ever come back.

  I’ve thought about writing a million songs about Love, but it wouldn’t feel right exploiting her all over again, and for what? So every record company in New York can slam their doors in my face the second they realize who I am?

  Changing into a pair of clean jeans from a laundry basket on my bed, I locate an old Cure t-shirt and tug it over my head. I stop at the kitchen next, grabbing an Old Milwaukee from the fridge before settling into an armchair in the living room and flicking the TV on for the sake of not being alone with my thoughts.