by Geneva Lee
I swallow, trying to calm my stomach, which is still churning a little.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“Yeah. I was walking and I smelled fish and now I think I need…” I wonder what the equivalent to Pepto Bismol is in the UK.
He looks me up and down, no doubt taking in my pale face, and chuckles. “I’ve got it.”
The man disappears behind the counter, and I wait at the register, pleased that the more time passes, the less queasy I feel. I’m digging out my wallet when he comes back and places a box on the counter.
I look at it and blink before laughing nervously. “Oh, I...no. I’m sorry I wanted something for my stomach.”
“Read you wrong! My apologies.” He pulls a bottle of chewable tablets out and replaces the box. “This should do it.”
He tucks the pregnancy test under the counter as it hits me as suddenly and fiercely as the smell had a few minutes ago.
“Actually…I’ll take that, too.” I pay for both quickly, shoving them into my purse as I try to get my bearings and make it back to the hotel, praying Ava and Poppy are still out flirting with Scottish boys. Praying that I’m wrong. Praying that I didn’t just find the piece of the past Sterling left behind.
11
Sterling
I never thought I’d come back here, but the devil must have a sense of humor because there’s no time to make it to New York before I head to the next part of training. Summer’s arrived in Valmont, and the campus is crowded with girls sunbathing on the quad and guys playing frisbee. The first summer session has started. It’s hard to believe I should be here, trying to get ahead on my degree by taking a six-week session of Biology or some bullshit. Why did I ever think I belonged here? It looks like one of the glossy pictures in the brochure that Francie brought home my senior year. That brochure failed to mention that under the idyllic appearance, there’s something rotten in Valmont. The money. The people. There’s hardly a difference between the two.
I turn a few heads as I walk through campus in my freshly-pressed uniform, my hair’s been cropped closely to my head. My face is cleanly shaven per expectation. I pass two girls who were in my lit class last fall and they smile at me, leaning to put their heads together. I can’t help but smirk. It seems a uniform is all it takes to have girls throwing themselves at you. Not that I’m interested in another Valmont girl. I’ve learned my lesson there.
I’m not sure what to expect when I reach my old dormitory. I hadn’t left much information about where I was going. Part of me expects to find the place empty. Maybe temporarily occupied by someone else, Cyrus long gone. I figure I might have to track down the residence hall staff to get the last of my belongings. But I guess, even rich kids need to get ahead on coursework, because Poppy leans against the wall, the door to the room cracked open. They’re still here. My friends. Probably so they can get their corner office at daddy’s firm and start their golf addictions. Seeing Poppy sends memories flooding through me. Not of her, but of eating hot chicken and birthday parties and the wedding. Memories of Adair.
“Hurry up! I’m starving,” she yells.
“Found it,” Cyrus calls, ducking out of the room with a book. He freezes, the door still half-open when he sees me. His eyes narrow, sweeping up and down me. “Sterling?”
I force myself forward. “I left a few books. I hope you don’t mind if I…”
It occurs to me that Cy might not have kept the books. Hell, he might have a new roommate. Why hadn’t I thought this through?
“Yeah, actually,” he says. He casts an apologetic look at Poppy. “A few more minutes.”
But she’s not paying attention to him, she’s too preoccupied murdering me with her eyes. I’m not surprised that she hates me. She’s Adair’s friend not mine, and she never seemed to particularly like me before I left.
“Hello, Poppy,” I say casually. My uniform feels stifling in the southern heat, but I’m glad I wore it, because her eyes flicker over it making mental notes.
Tell her where I am. Tell her I look good. Tell her I’ve moved on.
“I’m going to grab a bite,” she tells Cyrus, pecking him on the cheek. “I’ll see you in Finance.” She tosses one last searing glare my way.
“Grab me a sandwich,” he calls after her, but she’s already gone. Cyrus sighs when she doesn’t respond. “Sorry, man. It’s a girl thing. Come on in.”
I follow him inside the room and realize for the second time that I deluded myself coming here. Pick up some books? Tie up loose ends? That might be easier if every step I took in this city didn’t remind me of her.
“It’s weird seeing you in that uniform,” Cyrus says. “It looks good on you.”
Spoken like a true trust fund kid. Next he’ll thank me for my service. I tug at my jacket, making sure there are no creases in it. “Thanks.”
“I don’t remember seeing any books. I think Poppy might have given them to Adair…” He moves a few piles of paper on the desk. It looks like he’s actually spending time here. Maybe he always wanted to, but not with me around. It’s not my room anymore. None of this is mine, so I just stand there awkwardly.
“And she probably burned them,” I say dryly.
“You aren’t exactly her favorite person.”
I smirk, ignoring the weight his words drop on my chest. “The feeling’s mutual.”
After a few more minutes, he finds a stack, shoved under the bed. “Here they are.”
It’s only half of the ones I thought I’d find. Adair must still have some, unless she really did burn them. She returned my copy of The Great Gatsby—the only I really cared about getting back. For some reason, I almost wish she hadn’t—like it would have meant shit for her to keep it. Her copy of Persuasion is gone along with the antique copy of The Sun Also Rises she gave me for Christmas. I shouldn’t be surprised. I shouldn’t be hurt. Those weren’t my books anyway. These ones are mine, notes and all. It’s not much reading material to take with me. Francie flat refuses to send me shit. She’s still upset about what she calls my ‘idiotic decision.’
“So, are you at bootcamp?” he asks.
“Finished. I have a few days before I head to Camp Lejeune for special ops assessment.”
“Special ops?” Cyrus whistles, running a hand over his hair. I guess I finally impressed him. “Wow, just wow. And then?”
“More training, get stationed somewhere.” I know the basics. I signed the paperwork. The details hardly matter though.
“Like Iraq or something?”
I suspect it’s all the same to him. “Something like that. I don’t really know.”
“How long are you going to be in town?” he asks.
“Only until tomorrow,” I say. “I figured I would tie a few things up. Say goodbye.”
“To me?” Cyrus grins widely. “Thanks, man.”
“I don’t think anyone else will miss me.” I have a fleeting fantasy of going to Windfall to bid Angus MacLaine farewell by pissing on the polished marble floor in the foyer. It might finally get Adair’s attention. Nothing else has: not my calls or texts or emails.
“You really didn’t come back to see Adair?” Cyrus presses.
“Would it matter if I did?” I shrug, ignoring how my heartbeat ratchets up at hearing her name. Sometimes, I think I dreamt her—that I dreamt all of this. But standing here now I know that’s not true. All of it happened. All of it.
“You have a day,” Cyrus says. “Look, I don’t know exactly what went down between you two. She won’t talk about it, even with Poppy. But I bet she wouldn’t want you to wind up at war or something without saying goodbye.”
“Doesn’t matter. She’s ignoring me. She has for months. She chose her family. You know that.” He’d been the one to tell me exactly how it worked. He knows that it doesn’t matter. She’s made her choice—and it wasn’t me.
“Write her a note,” he suggests. “I’ll make sure it gets to her. You’ve got twenty-four hours, right?”
�
�Yeah…” I hate the hope that surges through me at his suggestion. Cyrus might be the only way to reach her. Somewhere deep down I must have known that. I must have known that when I decided to come here rather than partying with the guys in Nashville on our last night in the states.
He grabs a notebook and a pencil for me. “I need to get to Finance and beg my girlfriend’s forgiveness for fraternizing with the enemy. If you leave it here, I’ll get it to her tonight. You’re leaving tomorrow, right?”
“Are you sure?”
“At least, you’ll know. Poppy told me something about girls wanting closure or some shit. I don’t know, but it can’t hurt.” Cyrus claps me on the back. “Good luck, man. Stay safe. Lock the door behind you?”
“Will do,” I say absently. I’m already thinking about the note—about what to say. The truth is that there’s too much to say—too much we left unfinished. I can’t put it all in a note, and it won’t tell me what I need to know: why did she turn her back on me? Why did she choose her family over me? I know what Poppy and Cyrus said about social status and expectations. They said these things happen like I’d gotten a flat tire. I need to hear her say it before I’ll believe it. In the end, I don’t even try to write it all down. I settle for something simpler. A time and a place. The only way we’re going to work through this is together, and if things are going to end, they should end face-to-face.
Maybe Cyrus is right and I was nothing more than a reckless fling to her, but he’s wrong about one thing I realize as I fold up the note and write her name on it. This could hurt. A lot. I just have to hope it doesn’t.
Hennie’s is dead for a Tuesday night. My options were limited when it comes to places that mean something to her and I. There’s no way I’m stepping one foot inside Windfall. Not after what her father did to me. I didn’t feel comfortable asking her to my old dorm room, since I don’t live there anymore. Plus, I don’t want to give her the wrong idea. I only want to know why. Why she let her dad ruin me. Why she turned her back on me. Why she changed her mind about us.
I’ve got a few bucks in my pocket thanks to my last paycheck from the Marines, so I order a plate of hot chicken. Despite the fact that it may be the last time I ever eat the real deal, I can’t find my appetite.
Henrietta herself is here, fussing in the back at the line cooks. I’d met Darcy’s mother the first time I came here with my friends. If she remembers me, she doesn’t say anything. Occasionally, she sweeps through the dining room and casts a look of disapproval at my full plate. But the more time that passes, the less interest I have in the food. I’d arrived early and taken up residence at a corner table. Between the location and the high-backed purple booth, the spot affords as much privacy as we’re likely to get.
Not that it matters, because it’s already twenty minutes past when I asked her to meet me. I can’t bring myself to leave, though. Maybe she’s running late.
“I know I don’t have a lot of customers to scare off, but watching you sit here with a full plate for an hour isn’t doing much for my self-confidence,” a silky voice comments.
I look up into Henrietta’s deep brown eyes. “Sorry, I’m waiting for someone.”
“Is the food for her?” she asks. “Because you aren’t going to impress a girl with cold chicken.”
“No,” I say. “It’s for me—and how do you know I’m waiting for a girl?”
“I recognize when a boy is mooning after a girl,” she says with a soft laugh. “When’s she supposed to be here, honey?”
“Twenty-five minutes ago,” I say after checking my watch.
She clucks. “That’s not a good sign. You want a hot plate?”
I shake my head. I don’t need her charity or her pity. “I guess I should get going.”
“Stay a few minutes. Have you called her?” she suggests. “Maybe she got the time mixed up. I’m going to get you a hot plate of food.”
She’s off before I can stop her. There’s a maternal quality to her voice that reminds me of Francie. It’s the tone she uses when she’s trying to soften the blow of bad news. Francie usually tries to feed me during those times, too. But she actually might have solved my problem.
I’ve been assuming that Cyrus already got the note to Adair. It would be like him to forget or wait until the last minute. He’s never had a striking sense of urgency. Why would he when the world usually comes to him? Pulling out my phone, I shoot him a text.
Almost instantly I see the typing icon. I try to squash the swelling hope building in my chest. Even if he forgot, there’s still time. I have until morning and Hennie’s closes late. I can wait here until he gets it to her. I’ll tell him to mention that I’m waiting.
His words prick the ballooning hope, and I deflate. Maybe she doesn’t know how pressing it is to open it now, but it doesn’t really matter. Poppy will have told her that I’m in town. If Adair can’t even bother to open a note, then there’s no way she’s going to the trouble of coming all the way down here to talk.
Standing up, I smooth out my uniform and drop a few dollars on the table. Not that I made much of a mess. The rest of my cohort are probably already screaming drunk somewhere on Broadway. If I hurry, I can join them and drink away the bitter taste of rejection. I’m halfway to the door when Henrietta catches up with me.
“Giving up?” she asks.
“She’s not coming, and I’ve got a plane to catch.” I force a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks, though, and sorry about the trouble.”
Henrietta shakes her head and holds out a to-go bag. “You’re not shipping out without a proper meal. I know they aren’t going to feed you properly,” she insists when I try to refuse. “And this girl? She’s going to regret letting you leave.”
“I doubt it.”
“I don’t,” she says, wisdom twinkling in her smile. “Good luck.”
Good luck? Nah. I’m done with luck. I’m done with her. Some things don’t need to be said like goodbyes to ex-girlfriends, and some questions don’t need answers like why you betrayed someone you loved. The answer to that is simple: you can’t betray someone you love. You can only betray someone who means nothing to you. Maybe Adair thought she loved me. Maybe I was just some romantic idea to her—the bad boy she wanted to save. I don’t know. I don’t care. It’s time to be done with her, with this town, with hoping my luck will change. From now on, I’m looking out for myself. There’s no one else to worry about. I decide my own fate from this day forward.
12
Sterling
The Present
I fold up the sheet, painfully aware of how the light paper feels heavy in my trembling hands, and tuck it back in the book. Then I place it back in the box—next to a pair of over-sized flip-flops I bought in another life. “I need to go.”
“Sterling, I'm sorry. I...” Adair begins. She takes one step toward me, her green eyes wide with panic as a million scenarios play out on her face. Fear and hope and desperation and sadness.
And suddenly, I understand the woman standing before me now in a way that I never have before—in a way, I never realized she needed to be understood. And finally, I understand what's really at stake.
Turning away from her, I unknot the sash at my waist and shuck the robe from my shoulders. I hear every word she's not saying. They hang in the air between us—unspoken and unsatisfying. I don't trust myself to look at her. Not yet. I don't know if it takes me a minute or an hour to get dressed. I'm too absorbed in every motion, coaching myself through each button, each tuck, each knot. When I finally stand from lacing my shoes, I force my gaze up to where she stands like a statue next to a room service cart piled with cold food.
But statues don't cry, and there are tears in Adair's eyes. Part accusation and part heartbreak, looking at her rips a hole in my chest and exposes the missing piece of it I didn't know existed. I've carried a hole in my heart for years. I thought it was down to losing her. Now I know what I really lost when I left all those years ago.
And now I know why
Adair's walls were so high when I came back, why she tried to stop me from scaling them, why she was scared to let me breach them. She couldn't let me back into the places she'd carved for me in her heart. That space no longer existed. I couldn't be the person she loved most in the world.
“I need to go,” I repeat. Can't she see that? Can't she understand why?
Her head bows in defeat, a single tear falling freely through the air.
Sometimes, I forget that for a woman who was born with everything, there's one thing money has never bought her: forgiveness.
I cross to her, closing the distance between us in three long strides. Folding her in my arms, I pull her against my chest. Even this close, her body remains rigid. She's holding on to all of it: the truth, the secrets, the pain. I can't take that away from her. Not yet. I can only give her something else to cling to for now.
“I love you,” I whisper into her hair. “Nothing changes that, but I have to go.”
A choked sob escapes from her throat, and she sinks her fingernails into my forearms. “I can explain,” Her voice cracks. “I should—”
“No,” I stop her. I grip her chin and tilt her face to mine. Tears flow freely now—two currents pulling her into the past and threatening to take me with her. “There's nothing to explain.”
“But—”
“I want to know,” I reassure her, brushing away her tears with my thumb. “I want to know everything that you want to tell me. But you don't owe me shit, Lucky. Not an apology. Not an explanation.”
“How can you say that?” She shakes her head, her copper waves slipping over her shoulders. “Why don't you hate me?”
“Isn't it obvious? I've never hated you. That's why.” My palm rests on her cheek, hoping she understands what I finally do. “Love doesn't come with conditions. Not true love. Not our love.”
