by Havana Scott
“Nice place,” I said. I had to say something.
“Yeah, it’s a castle.” He led me into the living room with a small flat-screen TV paused on the bag of human fat scene from Fight Club. I cringed. He sank into a couch that seemed to wrap itself around its master, and I sat on a bean bag. “What brings you to these lands, Mr. J?”
I was miffed for two seconds. “Oh. G—G for Giovanetti.”
“Whatever.”
“Right. I, uh…I just came by to talk to you.”
“To ask me to leave Paris alone? To stop bothering her? Is that it? I get it.”
I had to make this worth both our time. “Dude, listen. I know all about what went on between you two. She told me everything.”
“Everything, kemosabe? She told you her side, I’m sure. There’s three sides to every story. Her side, my side, and the truth. Which side do you want? I know them all.”
“I don’t want any side.” It was true—I wasn’t a marriage counselor, and I didn’t give three flying fucks whose fault it was they’d split up, though clearly, it was still on his mind. “I just want to talk to you.”
“So, talk. I’m listening.” He let go of pause on Fight Club and watched. It was clear he wasn’t going gentle into the good night.
“Ben, Paris loves you. I don’t know if you know that.”
He snorted, gaze fixated on the screen. “Yeah, okay. If she loved me, she wouldn’t have done this to me.”
“Done this to you?” Could he not see his own fault in the dissolution of his marriage? Damn. This was what Paris was dealing with. She was beyond kind and loving, especially when she didn’t need to be. She’d gone above and beyond what most exes would do. “Ben, man. She left a vacation on a practically deserted island to come see you.”
“Only because I ended up nearly dead.”
“Whatever the reason,” I said. “I offered her money to stay. She didn’t take it. She said she needed to be here for you. Doesn’t that show you that she cares?”
“That was stupid of her then. She should’ve stayed with you and the dessert island.”
I wasn’t about to correct him that it was, in fact, a deserted island, not a sugary après-dinner island. I wasn’t sure what to think of this man. Part of me sided with him. Yes, she should’ve stayed with me in Sorendi, but she didn’t, because that wasn’t who Paris was. I’d learned that much. “She loves you as a friend. She did before you got married, and she still does. Doesn’t that give you any comfort?”
“Not really,” he blurted. I called lying through his teeth. “Let’s say that were true. Let’s say she loves me as a friend. So fucking what? What am I supposed to do with that? Cartwheels because my wife loves me as a friend while fucking another guy she loves more than me?”
I stared at him. Yes, I saw his point. “She’s your ex-wife.”
He pffted and finally looked away from Fight Club. “This has never happened to you, has it? You don’t get that she’ll always be my wife to me. Splitting wasn’t my choice. You didn’t come all this way just to tell me that, did you? What do you want, bro? What…the fuck…do you want?”
“What I want is to tell you that…” Gathering my thoughts, I sighed. “There’s middle ground. She can still love you, even if she doesn’t want to be married to you anymore. She can care about you as a friend, while choosing someone else as a partner.”
“Is that what you are? You’re her partner now? You know, it’s easy to love someone who’s made of cash, bro. Try loving someone with a ton of problems. Then you’ll know what love is.” He laughed sarcastically, like I was some idiot.
“I get your point, but she doesn’t want my money. I’ve offered it to her, and she won’t take it unless it’s in exchange for work. She wants to make it on her own. She’s got a chest full of pride.”
“Don’t describe my girl to me, dude. I know what Paris wants. I know how she is, and yeah, that’s her act—telling you money doesn’t matter. It’s all bullshit. Of course, it matters. If it didn’t, I wouldn’t be where I am now. I’m here because I couldn’t get a job, I couldn’t give her what she wants. You believe that crap about not wanting money? Dude, nobody wants to struggle. She might act like she’s not interested in you for that, but trust me, she’s seeing dollar signs.”
“Okay, now you’re just trying to hurt me.” I tried out a small smile.
“I’m just saying, who wouldn’t want to live without stress? That’s why there’s no hope for me. I’m made of stress. No woman would want to be with me. Paris was the one who came closest. I thought she was in, committed, ready to face the world together, but…I guess not.”
“But you didn’t make it easy either.”
“What are you talking about?” His eyebrows drew together. “I did everything I could for her. I treated her like a queen. I never cheated on her—” He stood and glowered down at me.
“That’s not what I heard. You were on some websites.”
“I only did that to get her attention,” he stammered. “She was drifting away, I knew she’d find those emails, but I never actually slept with anyone.”
“Sounds passive aggressive to me,” I said. “She had no way of knowing if you really cheated or not. She only had your promises that you hadn’t to go on, promises that had already failed her.”
“Think whatever you want. Like I said, three sides to every story.” He sat back down and kicked an empty soda can clear across the room. Nice!
“Whether it really happened or not, it was one more stress to deal with. You know what I mean? Bad finances, you losing jobs, watching you flirt with women, emails from a cheating site. Dude…come on.”
“Yeah, well, not having sex is stressful too. She never wanted to. How’s that going for you, by the way? Let me guess. She’s hot as fuck. Pfft, careful with that. All women are hot at first, then they lose interest in you. God,” he shook his head, “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with the new guy.”
I wasn’t about to kiss and tell, but I’d heard and read enough about successful marriages like my parents’ to know that keeping that spark alive was about trust and communication. “The problem was she gave up trusting and communicating with you. That’s why she ‘lost interest.’”
“Look, uh…King Triton?”
“Tristan.”
He forced a chuckle. “Whatever. Look, none of this matters anymore. I don’t even know why you’re here. She doesn’t want me, and now I have to deal with this shit called life by myself.”
“Don’t you have family? Friends back home?”
“I do, and they don’t care. Nothing can bring me out of this hole.”
“But you need support, you need therapy…”
“I can’t afford it anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”
Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter. That was all I heard this guy say. I was no psychiatrist, but clearly, depression was at work here. There was nothing I could do about that. He needed a professional to get him through that part. But…life with money so far had taught me that while it didn’t solve most problems…it could definitely help get through a situation.
Like Paris had told me that one time: money is not a big deal to you, because you have it. For those who don’t, it’s a huge deal. “No, but I can.” I stared at him. He watched me carefully. “I can afford it.”
“What are you saying? You want to give me money?” Ben narrowed his eyes. “You’re gonna pay me to get out of your way?”
“No, just enough to help.” I knew I was throwing money at problems again, but if I could get this guy set up with everything he needed to begin healing, it would help Paris move on with her life. And that’s what I wanted too. This wasn’t about me. If I could help Ben cope with his life instead of buy myself a new boat, bike, or car, wasn’t that using money for good?
“How much are you talking?” he asked warily.
“I won’t give you a lump sum to blow on beer and nonsense. But if you send me therapy bills every month,
I’ll cover them. If you send me bills for two months, I’ll cover them. Is two months enough time for you to find a new job?”
“This isn’t happening. You’re going to support me?”
“No. I’ll help you help yourself, but I won’t support you indefinitely.”
“Why would you do that?”
I was pretty sure this was obvious, but he was in shock, so… “Because I love Paris.”
For the longest time, we said nothing. He sat there, wringing his fingers, staring at the shuttered window of the sparse and dirty den. But then, I saw it—his shoulders shaking, as he dropped his head into his hands, then heard the muffled sounds of sniffling and mumbles about life and where it was leading him. “Can’t…unbelievable…”
I stood from my chair and sat next to him. Then I risked laying my hand on his middle back. “Hey. It’s okay. I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but it will be.”
“I loved her.” His whimper has high-pitched, the cry of a man who had lost it all.
“I know. You still can, and she can too.” I sat there with my arm around him for what seemed like forever, as long as it took to get this hulking big guy to stop crying. It didn’t seem like an act to me, or a cry for attention. It seemed like real pain, and just like that—I got what Paris was trying to tell me. “Can I tell you something?”
He wiped his nose with the inside of his T-shirt. “What?”
“You know Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz?”
He looked at me, like why the fuck was I mentioning them. “Yeah. Lucy and Ricky from that old TV show.”
I nodded. “Yes. They were married in real life. A real Hollywood couple, but Ricky was a macho philanderer and Lucy wasn’t your typical ‘50s woman to take that shit, so people didn’t give them long. Yet they were married twenty years. And after their divorce, they stayed friends, got remarried to other people, and kept in touch ‘til the very day Desi died. And you know what his last words to Lucy were on his deathbed?”
“You finally killed me, you evil bitch?”
I laughed. “He said, ‘I love you too, honey. Good luck with your show.’”
Something about that set him off crying again, one silent shaking sob after another. I hadn’t come here to upset him, just to tell him it was possible for them to morph into a new dynamic, a friendship of mutual respect and love. He didn’t have to fear letting go of Paris, because Paris’s heart, in some ways, would always be his.
I didn’t know if that comforted him or not, but it was all I had. We agreed he would call his family and make arrangements to move back to Pittsburgh to start his life over again. It was in everybody’s best interest. “I won’t stand in her way,” he said, as I was leaving. “I love her too much.” Then he gave me a man-hug, and I climbed into the new Uber car.
“Bye, man.” As long as I lived, I’d never forget that hulking big guy standing in the doorway with a tissue pressed to his red nose. Maybe big, new things were in store for him. Maybe a great job, an understanding woman, a reality TV show. Who the fuck knew?
When I arrived at my hotel, I was bushed but sent Ben a payment to get him started, just enough to get by for a bit until he could stand on his own two feet again. Enough to stop the creditors from calling, for him to gather himself and decide which way to go.
And then I called Natasha to tell her I was getting the next flight home, to keep Paris at bay a little while longer. She might possibly be mad at me for “going to Miami,” but I had to do this. I wanted her to feel free and know that Ben was taken care of. Seemed I didn’t have to tell Tasha anything, after all. According to her, “Paris left. This evening, on a flight back to Dayton.” She’d been upset about something, but Tasha couldn’t tell me what.
Tatianne. I’d left her there with Tatianne like an idiot. Fucking A. I postponed my flight, informed the Hilton I’d be staying a few nights more, made a few money transfers, and called Tatianne to tell her it was time to go. She didn’t fight it—she just agreed and said she was bored there anyway.
Good, because I had plans for that villa for a long time now, and they didn’t include her.
Chapter 23
I’d never traveled out of the country until the day I left for Sorendi Isle two months ago, unsure of what life had in store. In fact, I’d never even been on an airplane more than a handful of times. But now, in just eight weeks, I’d made two round trips between Sorendi Isle and Dayton, Ohio. Was there a full moon?
As I left my apartment for work the next day, I paused at the corner. Force of habit. Don’t do it, Paris. Don’t do it. My legs and brain itched to go left and check on Ben, but doing so would be harmful to him, I reminded myself. All this time, I thought I was helping when I was actually making it worse. Go figure. Instead, I turn right and head to Gem City Travel, arriving early and sitting in front of my computer with a dead feeling in my heart.
Hello, desktop, my old friend…
Without Grace or Mrs. Porter there, the agency was quiet and lonesome. The window unit air conditioner rattled and spewed out coldish air toward the plastic orchids hanging in the window. I’d seen real wild orchids. They were velvety and airy, and if I closed my eyes, I could still see them dancing in the warm tropical breezes.
Do not cry. Do not.
I missed him. I knew how terrible that sounded after he left with barely a trace, but I did. But Tristan was an enigma to me. He said one thing then did another, disappearing without explanation, and I was supposed to just accept it? Aside from pretty words and a penchant for outdoor adventure, he hadn’t done anything to prove his love. Yes, he’d hired me money to write a book, in part because he wanted to help me out. Big deal. That wasn’t love, that was commerce.
Now I was back where I started. What had I gained from all this?
A new perspective? The experience of living in the most breathtaking place on Earth for almost two months? One last night with Tristan before we parted ways? I was stuck with wonderful memories I’d never be able to erase from my mind. Whoever said it was better to have loved and lost than never loved at all was full of horseshit.
Beautiful memories were the most painful.
It was only eight-thirty in the morning when I got the call from Ben. First call since before he’d landed in the hospital. I shouldn’t answer it. I knew I shouldn’t. But he called again, and I worried it might be another emergency. Old habits die hard. I answered, “What are you doing up so early?”
“Hey, Sugar Bear. I, uh…I just wanted to talk to you. You have a minute?”
“I don’t have any soup for you today, Ben. I have a lot of catching up to do.”
“Oh, no, no. I don’t want soup. I mean, soup is great, especially yours, but that’s not why I’m calling. Wait, you’re back in Dayton?”
“Yes, what do you need, Ben?”
“Paris…I won’t be calling you anymore.” His voice was strong and resolute, like he’d rehearsed this. I liked hearing him believe in his own strength. “Don’t take it the wrong way, but I can’t.”
“I understand.”
“No, I don’t mean for me. I mean, for you. I wasn’t letting you live your life or breathe, and I’m real sorry about that.”
“It’s okay, Ben. You needed someone to talk to.”
“No, it’s not okay, Paris. It’s not. But I appreciate every time you’ve ever texted back, called, come by. I appreciate every moment you’ve ever spent with me, because you didn’t have to. It was a choice. But now I have to be strong for both of us.”
“Okay…” He was saying goodbye. He was saying goodbye, and wasn’t that one of the signs of someone about to commit suicide? “Ben, are you okay? I’m a little worried here.”
“I’m fine. Seriously, I am. I mean, I’m gonna keep going to the head shrink, obviously, but I’m okay. Paris, I don’t know if I’m ready to say goodbye to you, but I have to start somewhere. If we become friends again later on, that’s cool. But for now, I have to do this.”
Head shrink…become frie
nds later.
Those words sounded more hopeful.
I fought back tears. All this time, I wanted him to let go, and now that he was, it hurt to hear it. I swallowed hard. “Okay. Well, take care of yourself, Ben. Who’s going to watch you? Have you called your mom? I mean, I…” Flustered. I was flustered.
“I’ll figure something out. I always have, haven’t I?” I could hear the smile in his voice.
“Yes, you have.”
“So, don’t worry.” For some reason, his words comforted me, instead of me comforting him. Was I just as dependent on him as he was on me? Scary thought. “You keep writing and traveling and doing what you do. I’ll always love you, Sugar Bear.”
This was it. “Ben?”
“I’ll be alright. Bye, Paris.”
The line went dead, and my heart exploded into shiny shards, scattering all over my desk. I sat there with the phone in my hand, listening to the muffled sounds of my own sobs in the empty office. This must’ve been something they told him to do while in therapy. They must’ve advised him to cut this relationship and make it final. Didn’t they know we were still trying to be friends?
His voice, though. It sounded…calm. Truly at peace.
My shoulders instantly felt lighter, my head a lot emptier. Because if Ben was fine, then I felt fine too, and holy shit, Tristan was right. My own guilt was weighing me down. One less thing to think about. I could concentrate on my life now, which was currently a mess. But still, knowing Ben felt better made me more ready to deal with whatever came my way.
It was a miracle—it really was.
Grace arrived, pushing through the door wearing some swishing, clanking bracelets and a bandana holding up her hair. Summery and breezy Grace. She pulled down her sunglasses. “I didn’t think you’d be here so early. I figured you’d want to sleep from your trip home.”
“Ben called me.”
“What?”
“Ben called me. He said he was ready to move on.”
Her face twisted into a knot. “Really? Because I was there a few days ago and he was a God-awful mess.”
