I think what hurt the most was the realization that I may have been the one who was wrong. Ashton had tried to warn me about who he was. I’d just been too stubborn to listen.
My apartment was thirty days away from no longer being mine; I was about to be priced out of my hometown, from the only city I’d ever known. And, if Ashton really cared as little for me as his actions today had suggested, I might be out of a job as well—either he’d fire me, or I’d have to quit from sheer mortification.
I was back to square one, back to feeling utterly alone and hopeless, scared for my child, worried about money, and unsure of my future.
I let out another sob, and laid my head on the kitchen table, praying for sleep to come and take me out of this waking nightmare.
Chapter 17
Harley
Monday came. I had spent the days since parting ways with Ashton in total depression. It took everything within me simply to care for Levi; I had no energy leftover with which to care for myself. I was the walking dead, moving through the world with the inevitable, muscle-bound necessity of a zombie.
I hadn’t heard a peep from Ashton, not since he’d left me alone on the tarmac. In fairness, I didn’t actually try to reach out to him, but that seemed like a moot point at this stage. Abruptly cancelling our tropical vacation, flying me back to the States with no warning, and not even parting with a hug goodbye—all those factors seemed to pretty clearly indicate that he didn’t want to hear from me.
Is this what it feels like to be ghosted? I wondered. It was a hot topic at the moment, but I’d never experienced it. I guess Kyle’s total abandonment of me and his unborn son was “ghosting,” but that had felt a little bit more profound than somebody simply failing to respond to you on a dating app. No, that exit had been closer to complete and utter evaporation.
What frustrated me, though, at the real heart of the matter, was that I knew why Kyle had left: it was because he was, and presumably still is, a bad person. A through-and-through, no-good, son of a bitch.
But Ashton…
Was Ashton a through-and-through, no-good, son of a bitch?
Even after how he’d treated me, I didn’t think I could say yes. I’d seen the goodness in him. Sure, I suppose he could’ve faked it, but to what end? Billionaires don’t need to do the whole “emotional vulnerability” show to get a girl in bed. If he’d just wanted sex, Ashton could’ve phoned up any supermodel in the world and asked her to lunch.
Or, was I just a fleeting part of Ashton’s little family fantasy? Maybe he was trying to make himself appear more family-friendly, to improve the Swann Innovations image. Did he simply want all the fun perks of playing with a kid for a weekend, and having sex with a caring partner, but none of the consequences?
And that brought me to the question all recent dumpees eventually arrive at. Did he leave because I did something wrong?
I hated myself for even thinking it. No! Of course not! I’d been the very image of a good guest, to put it mildly. I’d said “please” and “thank you” at every turn, I’d made friendly conversation, and, oh yeah, I’d made love to Ashton for an entire, multi-orgasmic night. There was no way this was my fault.
Right?
Monday rolled into Tuesday, Tuesday into Wednesday, and so on, until it was Saturday, almost a full week since my Bahamas dreamscape had been shattered. I’d asked to work from home that week—the perks of working at a tech company. Though, given that I still hadn’t heard from Ashton, I wasn’t sure if I’d be working at said tech company much longer.
I spent the interim days kind-of doing my work, but only the parts that a robot could have accomplished. Email this, read that, the most automated of tasks. My brain was firing on a single cylinder, and I couldn’t manage the more intensive work, not when all I really wanted to do was get under my covers in a dark room and stare at the wall.
But neither of those descriptions are actually an accurate picture of how I passed my time. In reality, I did four or five hours of work a day and zero wall-staring; the rest of my time was devoted to finding a place to live. So far, the search had been a fruitless one.
I’d known that San Bravado was in the process of being gentrified; I could see it in the “going out of business” signs, in the shiny new apartment blocks popping up on every corner. It had always been a problem on my horizon, one that strummed at a low, dull tone nearly inaudible to the human ear. But, now, I was violently confronted with the reality of the housing crisis.
I couldn’t find a single affordable place to move in the city. And it’s not like I was being picky; I only needed a one-bedroom apartment. It would be at least a year before Levi really needed his own room. Thus, in the meantime, a one bedroom—or even a studio—would suffice. I didn’t need central heating, an in-unit laundry machine, or a dishwasher. But each newspaper, each website, turned up nada. Not a single apartment that was even somewhat within my price range.
How could this be? I was a full-time employee of a multi-billion-dollar company. I’d gone to college, and I wasn’t a frivolous spender. Why couldn’t I find a damn place to live?
And, before you ask, of course I thought about moving back in with my parents—I’m not so proud that I would insist on living by myself—but they were facing the housing crisis, too.
A few years back, they’d found themselves hard-pressed to meet San Bravado’s baseline rent, so had moved into a one-bedroom place a few blocks up the road. It was cute, yeah, but I don’t think it was the retirement paradise they’d had in mind. In their perfect world, they’d have had a house with brick walls and a spiral staircase and lots of local artists’ prints—and plenty of room to house their daughter and granddaughter.
I couldn’t turn to my friends, either. Megan lived in a quaint but miniscule studio apartment, while my other girlfriends either had roommates or boyfriends and definitely no space for a mother with a baby and all the stuff that came with them.
My mom, ashamed that they couldn’t provide a room for me and Levi, suggested—more like insisted—that I get in contact with my cousin Jessie, who lived in Oxnard. At the beginning of the week, I’d scoffed at this; me, a grown woman, move across the state to live with my cousin? I don’t think so.
But that was Monday, and this was Saturday. I’d become a different, desperate woman over the course of the week. I picked up my cell and gave Jessie a call.
The phone rang once, twice, and I bit my nails as I waited. At last, the call connected.
“Hey, who is this?” a voice asked.
“Hi, Jessie, it’s me, Harley.”
“Harley! Oh my gosh, right! Your mom texted and said you might be giving me a call. I’m so glad you got in touch.”
Jessie was almost painfully nice. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve relished the chance to catch up with her. She worked as a public school teacher and part-time dance instructor, and always had great stories about her various students. But I wasn’t so much in the mood.
“Yeah,” I replied. “So, I guess my mom probably told you about…”
“Your situation?”
“Yeah.”
“She did. And I’m so on board. There’s not much space at my apartment, but you’re welcome to stay here for a few weeks while you look for something else in the area, and you know, get your bearings.”
I hesitated, ruminating on Jessie’s offer. Was I ready to declare defeat, and fully regress to being cared for by my extended family?
With a sigh, I asked, “Can I have a few days to think about it?”
“Girl, of course. No rush at all.”
“In the meantime,” I added, “thank you for the offer; it’s incredibly generous of you.”
“Oh, please, what are cousins for? Talk to you soon, so much love, bye-bye!” The line went dead—she’d hung up the phone.
I was too tired to think much more about Jessie’s offer. It was, as I’d said, very, very generous. But did that mean it was incumbent upon me to accept? Was I required to
meet generosity with unquestioning delight? I was overanalyzing everything, tiring my brain out trying to answer impossible questions.
To give myself a mental break, I sat Levi down to breakfast in his high chair, and placed some loose cereal on the little desk attached to the chair. It wasn’t exactly the height of glamour, I grant you, but what about our life was? His little fingers fumbled for the food, eventually slamming down on the table when he grew frustrated. A shriek rose out of his throat.
“Levi,” I said, more harshly than I intended, and his cries amplified.
“No, I’m sorry, baby, don’t cry,” I begged. “Please, Levi, don’t cry. Don’t cry, Mama’s sorry.”
Through the sound screen of Levi’s cries, I heard a knock at the door. My heart leapt into my chest. Could it be? Had Ashton come to say sorry? I could already picture him in the hallway, head hanging low, a bouquet of flowers in his hands. They would be red roses, or maybe tulips. Something attractive and elegant, just like him.
I ran to the door, then thought, Make him work for it. So, I took a moment to wipe a hand across my face, and pick the cereal out of my hair. Better. Sort of.
With a flourish, I yanked open the door, hoping I looked cool, calm and collected in the face of Ashton’s remorse.
Instead, I was greeted by my landlord, an aging man whom the years had not been kind to.
“Ms. Phillips?” he asked, pencil mustache quivering above his lips.
“Hi…Mr. Gorsky,” I said haltingly, suddenly worried by his surprise appearance. “Is something wrong?”
Through chewing gum, he said, “I just came by to tell you that, during the last apartment inspection, we found mold in the bathroom.”
My eyebrows furrowed as I attempted to understand his meaning.
“The mold has been there since I moved in,” I pointed out. “And I’ve been emailing you guys for months, asking for you to handle it. Why are you bringing this up now? Are you finally going to do something about it?”
“I’m telling you now, Ms. Phillips, because the mold is what we call ‘evidence of neglect.’”
“What does that mean? And when was this ‘inspection’ you mentioned? Why wasn’t I informed?” The questions spat rapid-fire from my tongue.
He ignored me, and repeated, “The mold is evidence of neglect.”
“But you hadn’t even told me it was there; how does that qualify as—”
“It’s neglect,” he interrupted. “And because of that, your tenancy is being terminated early.”
I leaned against the door frame for support, nervous that I might be on the brink of collapse.
Hoarsely, I whispered, “How early?”
“You have twenty-four hours to vacate the premise.”
“But—”
“Twenty-four hours, or we call the cops. Do you understand?”
I felt my head move up and down. Was I nodding along to this? Was I about to take this definitively illegal bullshit lying down?
The answer, seemingly, was yes.
I slammed the door in his face without uttering another word. If he was kicking me out of the apartment on false grounds, then I didn’t have to be polite; my misery should afford me at least that respite.
Well, I’d spent the morning asking the universe for a sign, and here it was. This clearly was a message from some higher power that I needed to leave San Bravado. Looked like Levi and I would be packing up our few belongings and hauling ourselves to Oxnard.
From there…who knew? HR Advisor was a pretty fluid title, and paved the way for me to do any variety of work for a company. It shouldn’t be too hard to find another job.
At this point, there wasn’t much else I would miss in San Bravado. My parents would visit me occasionally in Oxnard. Megan and I had become less close since I’d had Levi, and none of my other friends were that involved either, given our drastically different lifestyles.
The city had chewed me up and spit me out. Clearly, I wasn’t meant for the cosmopolitan life. I’d settle down in the suburbs, and try again. Something quieter, simpler. I just wanted things to be…easy. Was that so much to ask?
Time was of the essence. I sent two texts: one to my parents, letting them know I’d be dropping off Levi in half an hour, and one to Jessie, telling her that I’d be thrilled to accept her kind offer.
With that taken care of, I got ready, changing out of my sweatpants and T-shirt for the first time in days. One quick shower later, I was feeling at least somewhat refreshed; I certainly smelled better. Not long thereafter, Levi and I were in the car, making the short drive over to my parents’ house. I dropped him off, and moments later, I was back on the road.
In no time, I was pulling up to the Swann Innovations building, ready to hand in my notice. I was surprised to find that I felt good taking these concrete actions. At least I wasn’t wallowing anymore.
That’s right about when I spotted Ashton’s beautiful sports car in the parking lot.
And that’s when the wallowing returned.
No, let me be more specific. That’s when the all-consuming anger returned.
Today was all about closure, right? Right. So, I wanted some damn closure. I deserved to know whether Ashton had really had a business emergency, or whether this entire thing was just an elaborate ghosting scheme.
I jumped out of my car, flipped my hair, and stormed into the building. I was a warrior, an Amazonian princess on a mission of revenge and recompense. Ashton owed me an explanation. After the nights we’d shared together, he had to answer for his behavior.
Chapter 18
Harley
I strode past the receptionist, flashing my ID card for what would probably be the last time, and slid through the closing elevator doors. The people in the elevator looked confused, and possibly frightened; in their defense, I was radiating rage.
Each one of them seemed to have a stop on a different floor, and with every pause, I only grew more furious, convinced of the righteousness of my mission. How dare they slow down the swift axe of justice!
At last, I was alone, and I rode the remainder of the way to the 43rd floor. The penthouse.
Most offices have some kind of key code on the elevator to prevent random folks from wandering into the executive suites, but Swann Innovations was the only company in the building, and more importantly, nobody in their right mind would meander into Ashton’s office. His terrifying reputation loomed too large.
I’d never thought I would come face to face with the reality of that reputation, but here I was.
The doors dinged, and without so much as a steadying breath, I stalked out of the elevator, down the hall, and right up to Ashton’s office door. I rolled up my shirt sleeves, in a rather literal display of my resolve, and pushed open Ashton’s door. Distantly, I could hear his secretary—or one of them, at least—try to stop me, but I was well past the point of caring.
The doors swung back, revealing a placid Ashton, seated at a vast oak desk. He looked up from his computer, made eye contact with me, and said, “Hey there, Harley.”
His tone was as mild and noncommittal, as if he were addressing some distant relative at a wedding.
“Hey there?” I repeated incredulously. “That’s all you have to say?”
This asshole had the nerve to look confused.
I pressed on, “You cancel our trip with no warning, saying you have some kind of ‘business emergency’—” I emphasized this with air quotes, “and now all you have to say is hey there? I don’t think so.”
“I apologize for being out of touch these past few days,” he said with no discernible emotion in his tone. “But I had a death in the family.”
My flaming fury was doused by the cool water of this announcement.
“What?” I questioned. “What happened?”
Ashton remained seated, and swiveled his chair towards the window. In profile, he was the image of a haunted man—features drawn, skin pale.
In a low voice, he began, “That morning in the
Bahamas. The phone call…I was informed that my father was on his deathbed.”
Despite myself, I gasped.
“Apparently, he wanted to see me before he passed,” Ashton continued. “I was more startled by this than anyone else. As you know, my relationship with my father is rocky, at best. We hadn’t spoken in years, though I’m not sure how many exactly. It was just too painful a count to maintain.
“In any case, I knew I had to do the responsible thing—I had to fly back and see him. Regardless of how poorly he had treated me, he was still my father, and the one close relation I had left. I was told that the clock was ticking, and if I didn’t hurry, I’d miss my final opportunity to speak with him.”
I breathed, “So that’s why we had to leave so fast?”
“Yes,” he affirmed.
His face morphed into a mask of grief, then, just as quickly, reverted to that of an implacable statue.
He went on, saying, “I had to fly back to San Bravado first, to make sure everything was in order at the office. After that, I was on the plane once more, racing to my family home in Texas. The flight…it might have taken ten minutes or ten hours, I couldn’t tell you. I kept willing the plane to go faster, to defy gravity and wind and weather and get me home.”
Ashton paused, took a deep breath, and lowered his head as if in prayer.
“But I didn’t make it,” he said in a hushed tone. “I landed on the tarmac, raced off the plane, and drove the SUV myself. I drove like a maniac, and arrived at the ranch fifteen minutes after landing; the drive usually takes 35. The place looked exactly the same. That was the eerie part, you know? Usually, things change, they grow old, they shift. But not the ranch.”
His frown deepened as he prepared to continue. “You can believe this next part or not, but it’s true: I knew, the second I arrived at the house, that he’d died. That I’d just missed him. Maybe it’s because the ranch was so much his that, without his presence, the entire property didn’t make sense. It was the same place, but it was no longer alive.
The Baby Bargain Page 11
