“Bizarre dynamic? We fuck. That’s it. Stop trying to make it into something else.”
She licks her lips, exhaling. “We’re past that, Rhett. This is something else whether or not we want to admit it.”
I roll my eyes, rising out of the chair and moving toward the floor-to-ceiling window on the north wall.
“You want it to be something else,” I say, not asking. “That’s what this is about.”
In an instant she’s behind me, her hand resting on my shoulder, barely touching me. “I don’t. And I don’t expect you to believe that. I just want to be able to have a real conversation with you because I like you. And I don’t mean I like you, like I want you to be my boyfriend or something. I mean ...”
She exhales louder, her hand falling from my back. I turn to face her.
“Maybe this makes me sound like a jerk, but I don’t like a lot of people, Rhett. My whole life has been a series of disappointments,” she says. “I get my hopes up too much. Or I used to. Too many times I put my happiness in someone else’s hands only to be let down. But you? You’ve kept your word since the moment we met. Do you know how rare that is? So in that respect, I like you.”
“Great.” My tone is flat. “But what’s your point?”
“Do you like me, Rhett?” she asks.
I take a small step back, brows narrowing.
“In any capacity,” she says, “do you like me?”
“I don’t see how your question is relevant.”
“You want to see me all the time,” she says. “You blow up my phone. You demand my body every chance you get. But sometimes, the way you look at me ... the way you touch me when I’m lying in your bed ... it confuses me. I think you want to like me, Rhett. But I don’t think you’ll allow yourself. And that’s why you’re so closed off. If you let me in, you might fall for me, and that terrifies you. But guess what? I won’t let you fall for me. I’m just as terrified to fall for you too.”
Her confession sucks the air from the room for a brief moment. Falling for each other was never remotely a part of this agreement.
“I like what we have,” I say. “I don’t want it to change.”
“Because you’re afraid you might like me, and you’re afraid I might hurt you.”
“I’m not afraid of anything. I just don’t want it to change. Not sure why that’s so difficult for you to comprehend.”
Ayla lifts her fists to the air, clenching them tight before walking toward the kitchen. She’s getting nowhere with me and she’s frustrated, but this is how it has to be.
“Where are you going?” I call after her, following.
She grabs her bag from the kitchen counter. “Home.”
“So that’s it?”
All this because I won’t open up to her? Good fucking riddance.
Ayla turns to me, brushing her dark hair from her face and lifting her nose slightly. “Yeah, Rhett. I guess that’s it.”
She turns away from me, walking farther and farther away, across the apartment. It doesn’t feel real until she’s twisting the doorknob and disappearing into the hallway a moment later, the door almost slamming behind her, and suddenly there’s this cannonball-sized gaping hole in my chest.
I take a seat at the kitchen island to compose myself. Wasn’t expecting to feel a damn thing. I didn’t even think I liked her. Hell, I knew I liked her company. I liked her mouth. And her body. I liked the seductive smile on her face that appeared like magic every time I’d open the door. I liked the way she wasted no time pouncing on me and the way her body melted onto mine the second I touched her. I liked the way she smelled, like clean soap sometimes; sweet almonds other times. I liked the sound of her voice; velvety soft, calm. And her laugh; gentle and easy.
God damn it.
I think I like her.
21
Ayla
I never should have read his letter on the plane to LA.
Ayla,
If you’re reading this letter, it means we never got to meet. And for that, I’m not sorry. But before you crumple this paper and toss it in the trash where it probably belongs, hear me out.
I was nine years old when my father told my mother he had cheated on her. I overheard them in the next room. She had just finished her final round of chemo and her doctors had given her the all clear. You see, she’d been sick most of my childhood and the only thing keeping her going was her desire to watch me grow up. That, and her undying love for my asshole father. Correction—our asshole father. I listened through the walls as she cried all night. That one night turned into days. Those days turned into weeks. Months passed, and I would still catch her crying when she thought no one was around to hear her. Have you ever heard your mother cry? Have you ever known what it felt like to see the one person you love more than anything in this world succumb to intense emotional pain, knowing there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it?
Anyway, she never looked at him the same again after that. The color from her face was gone. Her eyes were gray and dull. After a while, I forgot how she sounded when she laughed; how her hugs felt. She became a shell of herself, yet she stayed by Dad’s side because she knew she would never love another man half as much as she loved him.
Years passed. She was doing better, though she was never quite the same. And then your message came through one morning while I was checking my Facebook. I read it in a hurry, and then I accidentally left my computer open when I saw the bus coming around the corner. When I came home, I knew. I knew my mother had also read it. And that’s when everything changed again.
We didn’t know you existed until that day.
Her tumor returned shortly after that, which I realize now was a coincidence. Only this time, her will to live was a fraction of what it used to be. She didn’t have it in her to fight harder this time. She slept all the time, and when she wasn’t sleeping, she was crying. My father was exhausted trying to make things right for her, but nothing worked. It didn’t matter what he said or how much he vowed to be the man she deserved, nothing could undo what had already been done.
I was sixteen when she died.
And I hated you.
I hated what you represented.
I wanted nothing to do with you or your mother or anything relating to my father’s past affairs. Out of loyalty to my mother, I vowed I would never so much as acknowledge you, and I swore to myself I would never, ever love you.
You weren’t my sister.
You were the incarnation of the very thing that destroyed my mother’s will to live, and for that, I vowed I would never forgive you.
Maybe it seems petty. Maybe it seems irrational. But I was sixteen, and I was staring ahead at a future that my mother would never be a part of, and it hurt in ways that I could never put into words.
But my father—our father—died a few years ago (massive heart attack—died alone in his sleep if you’re wondering), and I came home one day after his funeral to a package filled with letters, all of them scribbled in pink gel pen in the kind of handwriting that belonged to a young girl. I read them all, along with the note your mother had attached.
I still hated you. But then I felt sorry for you. You had idealized me into this version of what you wanted me to be. And let me tell you, I wasn’t that guy.
Far from it.
This is going to be hard for you to understand, but I spent years and years hating you and what you represent, and while it isn’t fair or even rational, a part of me still does. I feel robbed. And I’m sure you do too. I’m trying, but I can’t get past it. Not yet anyway. Everything is still too fresh.
I’m twenty-four as I write this. And who knows? Maybe you’ll never see this. Maybe I’ll come to my senses in twenty years when I’m in the thick of my middle-aged existence, realizing I’m staring down the barrel of the second half of my life and I’ve still never met my little sister.
But if I don’t? If we never meet? Know that it’s probably for the best.
If I’m forty-fou
r and still not over this shit, you’re better off without me.
I’m not a nice person, Ayla. I’m angry and contentious. I have many acquaintances but only one close friend, because he’s the only person who puts up with my shit because he’s just as fucked up as I am.
I’ve done bad things. I’m selfish. I’ve spent my entire life numbing myself up so now I hurt people just so I can feel something.
I’m not proud of the person I’ve become.
But believe me. It’s better that we don’t meet because I’d probably fuck that up too. I’d hurt you. I’d say mean things. I’d let you down.
By the way, I looked you up a few times over the years, mostly through social media. You seemed really intelligent and witty, and you had nice friends in high school, and you went to a really good college. That boyfriend you had—Ethan—the one with the glasses and skinny jeans? He didn’t deserve you, and you deserved better than a hipster wannabe. I was happy when you dumped him. You write. I know because I found your blog. And you’re damn good at it. And you should know that although we don’t look much alike, we make a lot of the same facial expressions. And we both have the same ears.
So if you’re reading this now, it’s because we never met, and I need you to trust me when I say it was for the best. And while I’m still struggling to get over everything, I just want you to know that I’m trying to love you anyway.
I just might need a little more time.
Your brother,
Bryce
PS – I’m sure you’re wondering about your dad since you never had the great fortune of meeting the douche. I’ve included some photos, so you could see what he looked like, and I’ve written some things on the backs of them. I’m not going to glorify or idealize him. I won’t sugarcoat. He was a narcissistic asshole. He drank heavily and smoked like a chimney. He blew his retirement savings at the casino and my college funds on a brand new Corvette that he totaled within the first month of owning it. He didn’t cry at my mother’s funeral, and he married and divorced two more times after she died. I don’t know if he ever really loved anyone.
I fold the letter neatly and place it in my purse, glancing out the tiny oval window to my left as the plane soars through wispy clouds. My chest is tight and my eyes burn, but more noticeably there’s a stinging sensation all over my body, like a wound exposed to fresh air for the first time.
This must be what the beginning of closure feels like. First you’re ripped open, then you feel everything, and then you heal.
I jam the key into the lock of my condo, peeking my head in first to make sure I’m not going to barge in on a Vivian and Fernando impromptu sex romp. The place is quiet except for the dull blare of the TV from Viv’s room.
“Hello?” I call out.
A bra hangs over the back of one of the living room chairs, which doesn’t surprise me. I head back to my room, which looks precisely the way I left it weeks ago, and I switch out some of my clothes for other options. It gets old wearing the same outfits week after week.
I’m not sure how long I’ll be in the city once I get back. I’ve got a few more meetings lined up to deal with Bryce’s foundation, and I still need to pack up his place and ship everything into storage, but after that I should be done with everything. Done with New York.
I’m already done with Rhett.
I’m not proud of the way I ended things with him. Maybe I should’ve blurted out the truth and let it blow up in my face, but at the time it seemed a lot easier to pretend like I wanted more from our little arrangement. That’s always the easiest way to send a man running in the opposite direction.
Plus, I know he likes me. I know it. I feel it. I see it. He can deny it all he wants, but he was starting to fall for me.
And I was starting to fall for him too.
“Hey!” Vivian bursts through my door, flinging her arms around me. “Oh, my god! I can’t believe you’re home. I missed you so much.”
I hug her back. “You act like I’ve been gone forever.”
She rolls her eyes. “When you’re used to seeing someone every single day for months, you start to miss them when they’re gone.”
Viv’s platinum hair is piled on top of her head, and she’s not wearing a bra. Must be the one from the chair in the other room. She plops onto the center of my bed and crosses her legs, watching as I unpack my bag.
“Everything go okay in New York?” She worries her bottom lip, blue eyes wide.
“Yeah.” I force a smile. I’d fill her in on everything, but I’m exhausted, and I don’t have the energy. I’ve been traveling all day, and I just want a nap. My mom’s going to be calling any minute now, making sure I landed, and I’m supposed to pick her up for dinner in two hours.
“Did I tell you my script is being optioned by Paramount?” she asks, slicking her hands together.
“What?! No! Viv, that’s great news. Oh, my god.” I cup my hands over my mouth. Viv is an insanely talented scriptwriter, and she and Fernando are an amazing team. They’ve spearheaded several projects, and he’s a staff writer on this supernatural horror show that’s the hot new thing in Hollywood right now.
“So, I was going to tell you…” She lifts her finger to her mouth. “I think Fernando and I are going to move into this rental house in the Hills.”
She studies my face, expecting disappointment, but I’m anything but. Those two have been an item for years, and he practically lives here anyway. Our condo is small for two people, but three makes for close living conditions. Plus, she’s worked so hard. She deserves to live in some fancy house with a privacy fence and a security gate and an indoor pool.
“That’s wonderful, Viv,” I say.
She smiles. “You sure?”
I nod. “I was thinking of maybe getting a house or something too.”
Her smile twitches. Last she knew I was a struggling writer. There’ve been times I’ve had to pay for my half of the rent with IOUs, laundry, errands, and housework. Freelance writing isn’t the most reliable source of steady income.
“You sure you’re going to be okay, Ayla?” Her head tilts.
I give her an emphatic “Yes” and toss a dirty t-shirt into my hamper. “Please don’t worry about me. I’m going to be fine. I promise.”
“Hey, hey,” Fernando says from the doorway. His v-neck t-shirt hugs his muscled runner’s body, and his dark hair is damp like he just showered. He smiles, dimples and big teeth, and gives me a nod “hello.” “Look who’s back. You missed us?”
“Only for a week, then I’m heading back,” I say. “And yes, I missed you both. Congrats on the script.”
“Thank you.” He grins ear to ear, his eyes lighting. As a writer, I know that feeling—someone deemed your work worthy and entertaining. It’s validating, and it puts you on cloud nine with a high twenty times more addictive than morphine.
“You want to go out tonight with Fernando and I?” Viv offers.
“I’m meeting my mom tonight,” I say.
Viv pouts, climbing off my bed and heading to her man. She slips her arm under his, her hands resting around his hips, and he leans down to kiss her forehead. I’ve never met two people more perfect for each other than these two. They click. They fit. They just work. It’s so effortless, it’s scary sometimes.
He gets her. She gets him.
Sometimes they stay up all night just talking.
And he listens. He clings to her every word like it’s the most important thing he’s ever heard, even if she’s talking about guacamole recipes or some new bag she wants to buy. Last I knew, he was teaching her Spanish.
Sigh.
I want that. I want that contentedness, that diehard, inseparable, effortless love.
Viv and Fernando leave me be, shutting my door behind them, and I finish unpacking. My phone buzzes in my bag, and my mind immediately goes to Rhett before reminding myself that it wouldn’t—couldn’t be him.
I think about him, wondering what he’s doing right now, this very seco
nd. Wondering what we’d be doing if I were still there and I didn’t walk out the way I did yesterday. And then I wonder if he’s thinking about me, missing me like I’m missing him.
Taking my phone, I tap my code in and check my messages.
Mom: CALL ME WHEN YOU LAND, PLZ.
I send her a quick message confirming our plans for tonight, and then I pull up my old messages from Rhett. An insanely irrational urge to text him washes over me, and my fingers begin to peck out a quick message.
But I stop myself, deleting the words like they were never there to begin with.
We’re over.
We can’t proceed without the truth.
And once he knows the truth, he’ll want nothing to do with me anyway.
22
Rhett
She’s not my fucking girlfriend.
I exhale, hovering over my phone, re-reading old text messages from Ayla.
It’s been a week since she left to go back home, and to be honest, I don’t even know when she’s coming back. Or if. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want her to know I cared because, goddamn it, I cared.
I don’t want to care.
I shouldn’t care.
Maybe the tiniest sliver of me feels guilty for not holing up in my apartment, mourning Damiana. They say time heals all wounds, but I suspect time heals them quicker when you’re not thinking about that gaping gash in your chest—when your time and energy and thoughts are concentrated on something else altogether. I also suspect that one day you look down and those wounds are healed over, nothing but fading scars you can trace with your fingertips.
Ayla’s an invisible salve that dulls the pain, hides the scab, and heals the cut.
And I found every excuse I could to let her go.
She left, and I didn’t try to stop her. Instead I justified it every way I could.
Cold Hearted Page 11
