I shook my head while I dropped my bag in the corner of the booth and removed my jacket. “No. I still have no fucking clue what I’m going to do.”
“Is it just your family that’s pulling you back to New York?” Eric poured us both a pint of cheap beer from the pitcher in the middle of the table, and I accepted mine gratefully.
“No,” I said again after taking a very long gulp. “There are other factors too.”
Eric raised his eyebrow with a knowing look, and I glared in response. “It’s not what you think.”
He chuckled. “Whatever you say, Crosby. But I know you, and you’re not exactly Lady Justice. I know you like working with women and everything, but those guys are intense. It won’t be anything like FLS. You’d be happier at Kiefer Knightly, where you can be choosier and make better money too.”
I sighed. He wasn’t totally wrong, but I wasn’t about to admit that. After all, someone else was Kiefer Knightly’s biggest client—someone I was trying—and failing—to put out of my mind.
“Hey kids.”
I turned to my right to find Jane waving at me as she joined our small group. She took a cozy seat next to one of the kids from my Family Law seminar, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulder in a way that indicated they were a lot more than just casual classmates. As I watched them, I envied her. Jane never made any commitments in Boston, especially since she was planning to move back to Chicago the whole time. She had fun, and as much of it as she wanted, no apologies to anyone. Ever.
I sighed and took another long sip of my whiskey. Regardless of where I chose to work this fall, I had to be out of student housing in five days, and I’d be staying in Flatbush for exactly as long as it took me to figure out what I was going to do and where I was going to live while I studied for the bar in one of the two states. Maybe taking a page out of Jane’s playbook wouldn’t be such a bad idea. A few short term flings might be the perfect antidote for Brandon Sterling.
As if my thoughts telegraphed his name directly to Jane’s brain, she looked up her from her man of the hour and pulled a small box and an envelope from her purse.
“Here,” she said with a knowing look, handing the package across the table to me. “It was on our mat this morning.”
I took the envelope and box with a sigh and set them down on the table in front of me, where I examined them as I polished off the last of my drink. The envelopes had been coming every day since Brandon had finally realized I wasn’t going to take any of his calls. Surprisingly, he hadn’t shown up anywhere he knew I would be, and after a few weeks, I had stopped expecting to find him leaning against entrance to the law school, FLS, or my apartment building.
But every day for nearly the last six weeks, a letter enclosed in a simple white envelope had been delivered to the doormat outside of my apartment. The only address was my name, written in bold, direct print across the front. And inside each and every one was a letter, hand written on legal paper, in which Brandon poured out his heart in the way of stories about himself.
The first one had made his case plainly:
Skylar,
I thought about sending flowers. I thought about sending gifts. I thought about kidnapping you to a deserted island where you’d be forced to talk to me and I could eventually win you back with my wit and charm. And maybe with a few little games too.
But you said you didn’t want any of that shit; you said you wanted to know me. So I’m going to tell you about me, as best I can, all the stuff that I would have had the chance to share with you on dates, in bed, over the normal amount of time we should have together. I don’t know what I did to mess up. Maybe it was the divorce. Maybe it was school. Maybe you were telling the truth, although I can’t shake the feeling that there is something more. But if you won’t tell me what changed between our last night together and the following morning, so be it.
I meant what I said, Red. You’re it for me. I’ll never stop chasing you. So this is me, and if I have to write you an encyclopedia a month for the rest of my life, I’ll make it my life’s work to make you fall in love with me again. I know I can be that man for you, Skylar. If you’ll let me.
I love you. Always.
Do you love me yet, Red?
B
They varied in length after that, from one page up to fifteen at the longest, each bearing a simple story that told me who he was. Memories from his childhood, good and bad. The feeling he had when he stepped into his first seminar at MIT. How he started his company. The one time he went looking for his mother again. When he found out she had died. The moment he knew he wasn’t in love with Meredith. How he felt when he married her anyway.
Some were easy and light, and others were incredibly difficult to read. But I read them—I couldn’t help it. And every single one ended the exact same way:
I love you. Always.
Do you love me yet, Red?
B
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Kyra, a girl from our seminar who was also Eric’s latest flavor of the month, pointed her beer bottle at the package. “What did you get?”
I set the letter aside and picked up the box—the first one he’d left since the chain of mail began. Slowly, I lifted open the small white lid, and found a bracelet sitting on a tuft of linen.
It wasn’t a Tiffany’s box, which was the first thing I thought. The bracelet looked nothing like anything you’d find there anyway. It was a sturdy, simple, sterling silver cuff, about an inch wide and solid through. It bore the obvious impressions of hand pounding across the top, but when I picked it up, I noticed that the inside had been polished smooth in order to bear an inscription:
“One man loved the pilgrim soul in you,” I read aloud softly. I gulped. Somehow I didn’t think the bar would be the best place to subject myself to Brandon’s latest letter.
“Nice,” Eric said as he nodded at the bracelet. “Yeats.”
I looked back down at the inscription and back up with confusion. “I don’t know it.” Other than the required literature course I took in college, I wasn’t particularly well read in poetry, generally preferring novels over ballads in what little spare time I had to read.
Eric closed his eyes with a smile and recited the poem:
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
When he opened his eyes back up, the entire table had gone silent, and everyone was staring at him, astonished. Kyra looked like she was ready to devour him alive.
Eric looked around and shrugged. “English major. I wrote my honors thesis on Yeats.”
He took a long slug from his beer, and the conversations around the table erupted again. Kyra turned to Eric with obvious tears, which he studiously ignored. Well, if he wasn’t getting any before, he certainly would be later.
“So, Crosby, who’s the dreamer?” he asked, nodding at the bracelet still clasped in my hand.
I looked down at the gleaming silver, then hastily stuffed it in my bag along with the letter. Yeah, there was no way I was going to be able to read the latest installment of “Brandon Sterling Reveals His Soul” without tears after listening to the poem Brandon had quoted on a piece of jewelry. Pilgrim soul indeed.
“It’s no one,” I said quickly, tipping back the rest of my beer and quickly reaching for the pitcher. Eric watched with amusement, knowing I wasn’t usually given to binge drinking or cheap beer.
“No?”
he asked. “It’s not a certain Beacon-street dweller who—”
“It’s no one,” I repeated sharply, cutting Eric off before he could rouse the attention of the whole table to the state of my love life. I quickly poured another half pint down my throat to avoid my friend’s knowing look. Jane gave me a sympathetic smile from the end of the table; she knew she’d likely be getting me a cab at the end of the night.
I picked up the empty jewelry box that was still sitting on the table and turned to stow the bracelet along with the letter, but I stopped as the inner inscription caught my eye again. My head was already swimming with too much cheap alcohol, and for once, I didn’t want to push away my feelings I’d been fighting for the last six weeks. Giving myself permission not to think about it too much, I picked up the cuff and slipped it onto my wrist before tucking the box into my bag.
I ignored Jane’s gaze on my wrist as I raised my hand to beckon the waitress over to the table.
“Anyone up for another few rounds?” I asked my friends, and with jovial assent, the bracelet and its origins were quickly forgotten.
~
Jane and her “classmate” dropped me off in a taxi at our building after I reassured her at least five time that I was fine. She kept looking pointedly at my wrist and asking again, but I finally convinced her that maybe it would be better for me to read the stupid letter by myself this time. Half-soaked with cheap beer and tequila shots, I had a feeling the letter would make me cry—really ugly cry— and I preferred to do that sort of thing alone.
I plodded out of the elevator on our floor more than a little tipsy for the three more beers and two shots I’d enjoyed at the bar, and found myself disappointed that yet again, Brandon Sterling was not waiting for me outside my door. Again. It was strange to admit that for the last six weeks I’d been hoping to turn around to find him stalking me. I’d checked every lamp post, every stupid doorway twice before leaving classroom buildings, T-stops, or ever the library. But he was never anywhere to be found. Only his letters.
Resigning myself to being alone, I unlocked the door, slung my bag on the counter, and went about removing my ankle boots and light leather jacket. I immediately dug around the cupboards for the bottle of McCallan 18 I kept for special occasions and poured myself two fingers worth. This was the first piece of jewelry I’d ever accepted from a man, so it deserved a celebratory drink, right? Or so I managed to justify it to myself, although deep down I was looking for more liquid courage to read this letter.
I brought the drink and the letter in my bedroom and collapsed on top of my pillows with my back against the headboard. After taking a healthy sip of the scotch, I set down my glass and ripped open the envelope with my finger.
Dear Skylar,
Today is your last day of classes, and on Monday you’ll finish with school. You’ll be studying for the bar (sorry about that), but essentially you’re on the precipice. I remember that feeling. It’s exhilarating, a combination of the knowledge of your own accomplishments paired with the thrill of moving on to the next chapter, the next dream of your life.
When I graduated law school, my dreams were all business. I was going to continue to grow my own business, but I was going to devote more of my time to helping people who needed representation get it. I dreamed of building a legacy to which I could attach my name. I dreamed of my own building, my own staff, my own investments. I had a new kind of freedom I’d never had before—the power to be my own voice. But by that point I was already married to a woman I didn’t love—couldn’t love, and we soon found out we would not be able to have the family we thought we wanted. Eventually my dreams were only in the head, not the heart.
Then I met you, and my heart started to beat again. I could imagine a different kind of future. I saw us together, married maybe, raising a family or traveling the world. Pursuing our careers and coming home to each other. Growing old with each other.
It’s been six weeks. I thought at first that time would make my heart disappear again. Instead, being without you has only made me understand just how much you changed me. Now I understand how much I am truly capable of loving. I still dream that you might let me love you again. For now, I’m content to wait.
This will be the last letter. You deserve to pursue your dreams on your own without being chased. But should you ever want to share those dreams with me again, Red, I’ll be waiting to start the chase again. Because, Red, you are the heart of my dreams.
Do you love me yet?
I’ll wait. And I’ll always love you.
B
I stared at the letter through tear-glossed eyes, afraid to move for fear it would unleash a tidal explosion of weeping.
“Damn,” I whispered. “Oh, damn.”
With a final gulp of the rest of my scotch, I pushed myself up from the bed and stumbled into the kitchen. Almost violently, I dug through my bag in search of my phone. Once I found it, I quickly scrolled to Brandon’s contact and pressed dial before I could talk myself out of it.
His deep voice answered on the second ring.
“Skylar?”
I tried not to thrill at the obvious excitement in his voice, but it was useless. The kitchen light caught on my new bracelet, and my heart quaked at the words I knew were inscribed next to my wrist.
“Hey,” I said softly into the phone. “I…ah…” Suddenly I had no idea what to say. “I got your present.”
“Oh.” His voice, thought deep, was also soft and tentative. “Did you open it?”
I nodded before I could remember through my whiskey-fog that he couldn’t see me. “Yes,” I said. “It’s…well, I’m wearing it. It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
“It was made by a friend of Susan’s,” he said. “She’s a local silversmith, and I gave her a loan a while back to help her start a business.”
Why did I break this off again? I walked over to the freezer and removed a bag of peas, holding it against my forehead in hopes of shocking myself awake with the cold. It didn’t work.
“Well, it’s beautiful,” I said again. “I love it.”
“Well, I love you, so that’s fitting.”
My heart again picked up a few beats at his matter-of-fact words. I shut my eyes, willing myself to be normal. Why, why did he have to be so amazing?
“You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?” I asked.
Brandon chuckled. “Not my style, Red, although you’re not exactly a pushover yourself.”
“I want to see you,” I blurted out before I could tell myself not to. I pushed the peas against my forehead and squinted my eyes in pain at the thought of my idiocy. Jesus, what was I doing?
“Brandon?” I asked when I realized he hadn’t answered. “Are you there?”
He exhaled a long, audible breath before answering.
“Yeah, Red, I’m here,” he said softly. “When?”
I shook my head, willing my foggy brain to think rationally. No time, this was a mistake, I don’t want to see you—I needed to say that!
“How about lunch?” I said instead. God, I was helpless. My stupidity was surreal, like watching a car wreck happen while I was the driver.
“I’ll meet you at The Yard at one,” he said in a brusque tone I couldn’t quite read. “See you then.”
Before I could answer, he ended the call. I stood in the kitchen for a solid fifteen minutes, staring at the black screen on my phone and wondering what I had just gotten myself into.
~
Chapter 43
At five minutes before one, I found myself pacing outside of The Yard, a chic bar-turned-restaurant that was built into the corner of one of the endless old brick buildings around Harvard Square. It boasted windows that could be opened like garage doors, pulling up into the ceiling of the place to connect the dark, modern interior with the heavily trafficked sidewalk, giving the place a pleasant al fresco atmosphere during balmy days like today.
It was a typically warm spring afternoon in Boston. After spending more time th
an I cared to admit rifling through my wardrobe, I ended up walking to the restaurant in just a short-sleeved, cornflower-blue shift dress made of eyelet lace that fell to about mid-thigh. I paired it with cognac-colored wedge sandals and the tan suede purse I had bought after making my first big commission on Wall Street. My hair hung in waves down my back, and I basked in the scents of blooming flowers all the way to the front of the restaurant. I paused before entering, taking a moment to mentally prepare myself. Somehow, I had a feeling this single conversation had the potential to change the rest of my life.
“You know, I think I’ve only ever seen you in shades of gray or black,” spoke a familiar voice behind me.
I spun around to find Brandon approaching the restaurant.
“Other than that red dress, of course,” he said with a smirk as he leaned down to kiss my cheek. His familiar scent of almonds and soap engulfed me, and I had to stifle a deep inhale.
He was dressed in light gray pants, a black tie, and a white oxford shirt that was casually rolled up at the sleeves. The whole outfit was effortless and sophisticated, tailored in just the right places to accentuate the contrast between his narrow waist and broad shoulders. He waved kindly to David, who nodded from his place at the curb before smiling politely at me.
“Hi David,” I said.
“Ms. Crosby,” he said with another friendly nod. “Sir.”
“I’ll call when we’re finished, David,” Brandon said, and we both watched with undue fascination as David slipped into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes and drove around the corner in search of parking. Brandon turned back to me with a smile. I tugged nervously at the hem of the dress, suddenly wishing I hadn’t chosen something that showed so much leg.
“You cut your hair,” I said through thick lips.
Brandon gave a grim smile and pulled a hand back through his hair, which was now cropped neatly around his next left a bit longer at the top and left to curl instead of being slicked back. “Yeah. Margie finally told me I was starting to look homeless and dragged me to a barbershop. She says it makes me look younger. What do you think?”
Legally Yours (Spitfire Book 1) Page 47
