Healed by You

by Christy Pastore

  Neither Ella, nor Holliday were fans of my ex-wife for reasons that involved Ronan. He held little regard for her and I couldn’t say that I blamed him. There were times—multiple times—when Heather had been selfish and manipulating. What she did to Ronan and me was almost unforgiveable, but I believed in her and that she was capable of change. When she begged me to help her get clean and sober, I did. I loved Heather in her darkest hours and it hadn’t been enough. I wasn’t enough for her.

  I shook my head. “There’s not enough bleach in the world to scrub that memory from my mind.”

  “We could try hypnotizing you,” Ella offered. “Or there’s always electroshock therapy.”

  “I thought electroshock therapy was used to regain lost memories,” Holliday said, stabbing a strawberry with her fork.

  “I believe it’s more commonly used to treat depression, and I remember Carrie Fisher saying that it causes memory loss.”

  Four pairs of eyes locked on mine, two sets narrowed the others wide-eyed.

  “Yeah, I know stuff,” I replied, cocking a brow. “Not just a pretty face. I do have a degree from Brown, you know.”

  Alex stood and then carried Will inside, placing him in his bassinet. He returned with the baby monitor or at least I think it was a baby monitor, it looked like a high-tech gadget from the MacGyver collection.

  “You know what you need,”—Alex pointed to me with this fork—“You need to get back in the game.”

  “I agree, our wedding is coming up in a few weeks.” Ella nudged Alex, and then plucked one of her famous homemade, raspberry-lemon, gluten-free muffins from the basket. “I can set you up. Honestly, it can’t be that hard getting over Lululamoan.”

  I groaned pressing my palms to my eyes. “Please don’t set me up, Ella.”

  “How about we give the man some time to heal before we pile on the hate for Heather and start compiling a list of eligible bachelorettes to be the next Mrs. James,” Ronan said.

  “Per Page Six and Hollywood and Tinsel dot com, Grady is back in the game,” Holliday interjected.

  “Yeah, I think I read something about you hooking up with a model,” Ella added, sliding her blonde hair over her shoulder. “You were photographed outside Vacancy in LA a month ago, with a certain dark haired L’Oréal model.”

  “A model, huh?” Ronan asked, draping his arm around Holliday’s shoulders.

  “Maybe you should date someone not so famous,” Holliday offered, before popping a grape into her mouth.

  I laughed, jutting my chin in their direction. “That’s rich, says the woman who is going to marry a movie star this summer.”

  “All right,” Alex said, scooping some fruit onto this plate. “So, are you dating the model . . . or just sleeping with her?”

  “I’m not sleeping with her . . . anymore.” I decided to give them a morsel and put them out of their misery. I returned my focus to the quiche and my great mood, tuning out the chatter around me. When I married Heather, I was ready for everything including serial monogamy. I had convinced myself, I wanted it all—the house, the two point five kids and the dog or cat, maybe both. Did I still want those things? It was hard to say that love and marriage was for suckers when I was sitting at table surrounded by happy in love soon to be married couples.

  “Well, I guess we know what has Grady in a mood,” Holliday announced, tapping at her phone screen. “The headline on Gossip Cop reads: Heather Young spotted leaving dinner with friends in Malibu after Wake Up with Stacy appearance.”

  “What happened on Wake Up with Stacy?” Ella asked, pushing her plate towards the center of the table.

  Normally this was Ella’s bread and butter, being clued in on all the celebrity gossip. “Read the article, I’m sure all the sordid details are there.”

  Their hands flew to their phones, as I scooped some red pepper, feta and spinach scramble onto my plate.

  Ella jumped up from her chair. “That cow!”

  “I’m disappointed, Ella, I thought you’d be right on top of my drama.” I smirked.

  With her head still focused on her phone, she flipped me the bird. “I’ve been a little busy, plus everything in the tabloids has been so boring lately. I’ve just been focused on Will, the wedding, and the shop.”

  Holliday huffed out a humorless laugh. “Emotionally abusive? That’s a joke—a total lie.”

  “What a twat. That woman is a lying twat.” Ella began gathering up the plates, but Alex stopped her by pulling her onto his lap.

  “Wow, man,” Ronan said. “So, what are you going to do?”

  I shrugged. “Haven advised that I not say anything, she seems to think that Heather is just seeking attention.”

  “No shit,” Holliday scoffed. “There is one thing for certain—she loves the spotlight.”

  “I told Haven to set up some appearances with a few of my favorite charities over the next few weeks,” I said, reaching for the Bloody Mary pitcher.

  “Don’t forget Pour Fest is next weekend,” Ella added, pointing at me. “It’s no Glastonbury, but I guess we’ll have to make due.”

  “I don’t want to encourage the paparazzi to follow me around while I’m out with you guys.”

  Ella shook her head. “No, I didn’t mean it like that—we can post a few pictures of you on Instagram and twitter of you having fun with your friends.”

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Ronan said. “And you know I don’t normally get on board with this shit.”

  “Your fans will love seeing you surrounded by your support system,” Holliday added. “Fuck Lululamoan, gobble up all the positive press.”

  Yeah, and I wouldn’t mind getting some sense of satisfaction that it would drive Heather crazy with jealousy that despite her underhanded tactics I was out having the time of my life.

  THE KICKOFF TO SUMMER transformed this once sleepy destination for creative types and very old money into the likeness of party hopping Miami Beach. Afton surprised me with tickets to The Harbour Pour Fest and I somehow managed to pry my brother, Nicholas, away from Chicago for the weekend.

  Craft beers and couture cocktails from some of the best bars in the Hamptons were all nestled beneath three white tents. We knocked back our shots, and Nicholas continued flirting with our server.

  “I get off in thirty minutes,” she purred. “Maybe you’d like to get off with me? You can bring your friend too.” She eyed me up and down. “I’d be into that.”

  Nicholas nearly spit out his drink.

  Staring at her name tag, I waved my empty glass in the air. “I’m going to clue you in, Tara. He’s my brother and I don’t play for your team. He needs another beer, and I’d like a Cucumber Vodka, please.”

  “Sorry, sweetie, I didn’t mean to imply anything incestuous. I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

  I tucked my hair behind my ear, and counted to five suppressing the urge to roll my eyes. “Nicholas, how in the world you manage to find all the . . . sexually adventurous ladies boggles the mind.”

  He smirked, and waggled his fingers in front of me. “It’s because I’m a doctor, if shit goes awry they know that they’re in good hands, and the kinkier the better.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Dr. Trembley enjoys house calls, and I’m always ready to play.”

  This time I rolled my eyes. “Correction, that might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Before Nicholas could respond, Tara dropped off our drinks along with two more shots of tequila.

  Nicholas handed me a shot glass, and I picked up a lime wedge. I downed the liquid, relishing the burn as it slid down my throat. “Why do you think Monty disowned us?”

  His brow crinkled. “Interesting topic shift, Debbie Downer.”

  “Yeah, well, years of therapy still have me questioning my own self-worth.”

  “Do you really care?”

  “Call it a general wondering of why people are wired a certain way.”


  Nicholas tossed back his shot. “I often wondered why Mom loved him so much, in spite of the fact that he’s a first-class asshole. If she knew what he’d done to us before her death . . .”

  “No, it was better that we didn’t tell her—that fucking disease, in that capacity spared her from ever knowing what he did to us.” I laughed a humorless laugh, as my finger traced the rim of my glass. “When I was ten and he missed the choir performance, the one where I scored my first solo, Mom told me that he loved me in his own way and to give him more time.”

  “You can’t be serious,” he huffed, swirling the contents of his glass.

  Blowing out a harsh breath, I shook my head. “I hate that I think about him, and spend energy on him. Hating your children . . . I’ve read many articles over the years on reasons why this happens.”

  “Personally, I think he was jealous of all of our accomplishments.”

  “I read a few cases regarding parents having jealous or envious tendencies towards their children. Like Mrs. Robinson in The Graduate. She had to drop out of school, and get married because she was pregnant. That’s why she did all that hateful shit to her daughter.”

  “Are you saying I should keep any future girlfriends away from Monty?”

  “I think that you’re safe.”

  “Where is the old man these days?”

  “Last I heard he was drinking, gambling and golfing his way up the coast—somewhere in between West Palm Beach and Charleston.”

  Time has healed most of my childhood wounds or at least I wanted to believe that I was healed. I hadn’t seen or talked to my father since my senior year at NYU. He’d invited me to lunch at Ai Fiori in Midtown and I stupidly went. At a quiet out of the way table, I sat there and listened to him tell me that he was done being my father.

  “I’ve done all I was obligated to do for you, Harlow. You are not my financial, legal or emotional responsibility any longer. I’ve deposited the remainder of your inheritance into your account. I’m cutting all ties.”

  His eyes were cold, vacant and he spoke in a clipped tone with no emotion. At the end of the meal, he actually asked the waiter to split the bill. No other words were spoken, he walked out of the restaurant and out of my life. No goodbye, just a fuck you—I don’t want to be your father anymore. Monty wasn’t much of a father anyway, but it still stung. That was the day I decided that I actually hated my father.

  Monty delivered the same news to Nicholas with a voicemail. I didn’t even have time to warn Nicholas, our father called him immediately following our lunch that day.

  “How’s Harry doing?” Nicholas asked, dragging a hand through his dark hair. “He must be pumped for the World Cup.”

  “I am sure that he is, but I wouldn’t know.”

  “Did you two split? Is that why you’re hiding out in The Harbour instead of over in Europe with him?”

  I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “We did break-up, but I am not hiding out. I’m giving Harry his space so he can concentrate on his game.”

  The expression on my brother’s face told me that my story lacked a convincing measure. I didn’t want to share my “oh poor me” story—I was becoming a cliché. First my father left me, then my boyfriend. I missed Harry, but if he didn’t want to be in a relationship with me, I had to pull up the big girl panties and move the fuck on.

  “Are you planning to stay here permanently?” he asked, concern filled his eyes.

  I lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. I could always move back to Mom’s place in the city. It’s sitting there empty.”

  Nicholas tossed back his drink. “I think that we should put it on the market.”

  I didn’t want to think about selling Mom’s place. It held too many memories, plus it was like I still had a piece of her with me.

  Smiling, Tara approached our table. “Can I get you two anything else?”

  “Yeah, before you go, could I get another?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said, and bumped her hip against Nicholas’ arm.

  She leaned in close and he whispered in her ear, unfortunately I could still hear the words. “What I want isn’t on the menu.”

  God, those lines actually worked on women. Nicholas was smooth, I’d give him that. My brother apparently dealt with his issues by having casual sex. To my knowledge, he’d never had a steady girlfriend. It seems that med school left little room for serious dating. I could only imagine that working at the hospital was exactly like Grey’s Anatomy. The two of them made their plans and I busied myself by playing Candy Crush.

  “Are you sure it’s okay that I take off?”

  “Absolutely, go have fun.”

  Nodding, he slid some cash in front of me. “For the cab or you can have a few drinks on me.”

  I shoved the cash into my wristlet. “I really like the bar where Tara works, and I’d like to continue to be a patron of the establishment. So, if you could maybe not be a dick to her when you cut and run later, I’d appreciate it.”

  He chuckled, and hugged me tightly. “She knows what this is all about, but I’ll be sure to reiterate.”

  Once they left, I sidled up to The Harbour Brew Company’s bar in the VIP tent and ordered sparkling water and a pint of their summer ale. The combination of tequila and vodka left my brain feeling muddy. My eyes drifted to the other side of the bar. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Grady James sitting in a chair holding a glass of scotch. Possibly whiskey. Damn. He looked good wearing a grey t-shirt and dark denim jeans.

  Speaking of moving the fuck on.

  I hadn’t seen him since the evening at Hutton House. Now, he was here at the festival and talking to a tall blonde. I couldn’t see her face. Were they on date? I’ve barely stopped thinking about him since that day and I’ve had a reoccurring fantasy that involved the two of us on a secluded beach. Not very original, I know.

  Armed with my beer in one hand, I made my way to the other side of the tent to Grady. If he wasn’t on a date, perhaps he could help me with the sex part, literally my “to do” list.

  I pushed through the crowd and the gawking gazes from a group of “fitness is my life” fuckboys, only to be halted by Afton’s tequila induced state.

  “Hey, girl.” She shimmied up to me, and grasped my arm. “Having fun?”

  “Um, yes, and it looks like you are too.” I nodded in the direction of the yummy Paloma she was holding in her left hand.

  We were the same age, born exactly one month apart. The two of us met at freshman orientation at NYU. After an epic conversation that spanned our love for all things Murray’s Cheese, gel manicures, and cab-to-curb heels, we were instant besties.

  “I thought maybe you’d picked up a hottie and jetted out, but here you are.”

  “You’re funny. Not me, but Nicholas left with a sexy redhead, Tara from Castle Hill Beach House.”

  “Hmm, I don’t think I know her,” she replied, before licking the salt from her glass.

  My eyes darted towards where Grady was sitting. Just my luck, he was gone.

  “You want to go check out the band?” she asked, lifting her glass towards the south lawn.

  “Yeah, let’s go.”

  I followed Afton through the throngs of people crowded around the stage. She swayed to the beat of the music, the afternoon sun bounced off her shimmering gold shorts. Afton was insanely beautiful with her sun-kissed skin and long legs. By my count there were at least ten guys with their eyes on her.

  “I love this song,” Afton yelled. “I want to go to Glastonbury this year. You want to go with me? We can make it a whole ‘traveling through Europe’ thing.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I yelled over the music, and looked up the festival dates on my phone. What I wanted to tell her was that traveling through Europe from one music festival to another wasn’t really my thing. Public toilets, drunken people sloshing their drinks on me, and listening to loud music that I couldn’t decipher the words to gave me anxiety. This festival was okay b
ecause it wasn’t too crowded, the weather was perfect, and the portable toilets were private trailers. These units looked better than some of the hotel bathrooms I’d been in while on spring break.

  Closing my eyes, I sipped the beer in my hand and lost myself in the rhythmic melody of the music. I didn’t usually sign up for outdoorsy events. My preferred outdoor enjoyment consisted of cocktails on the East Terrace of the Salon de Ning at the Peninsula in Manhattan or Le Bain in the Meatpacking District. Now, I was compiling a mental list of the ten best rooftop bars in New York City.

  The DJ announced a quick break as the low hum of drum beats came over the speakers. Glancing in Afton’s direction, she was wrapped up in a conversation. A guy with wavy blond hair, wearing a pair of dark grey pants and a white and grey button down shirt listened intently as she discussed why cities should stop building concrete buildings and focus on music festivals. When the words “cheaper more equitable path toward creating culturally vibrant cities” came out of her mouth that was my cue to exit stage left.

  Upon my exit, I came face to face with Grady James. His blue eyes landed on mine and that boyish smile tugged at something deep inside of me.

  “Harlow, hey.”

  “Hey, Grady, I didn’t take you for the beer festival type.”

  “Oh.” He arched brow. “And what type do you take me for?”

  A nervous laugh bubbled in my throat as I formulated my answer. “I picture you as more of the club type, the kind of guy who listens to techno or the latest mixes from the hottest DJ’s in Europe. I bet you have an Idris Elba playlist.”

  My reasoning was solely based on what I read in the tabloids. Grady always made the headlines. Years ago, his feud with movie star Ronan Connolly was a hot topic. As a couple, Grady and Heather managed to keep a relatively low profile, but when they were spotted outside Vacancy or Indigo Row the paparazzi were never far behind. Before and after Heather, Page Six had photographs of Grady with some leggy brunette, a swimsuit model or European socialite nearly every weekend.