by Taylor Dean
“I’m in love with you too, Ryker,” I say with no conviction whatsoever.
He glances at me, the corners of his mouth turned up in a pleased smile. “All right, then. Me and you. Are we good? Because I think we’re perfect.” There’s a sweet tone in his voice. Soft, caring, yet firm and commanding. He could be a politician and do very well. If he wanted to, he could smooth talk the coat off a freezing man.
“We’re good,” I somehow choke out, as though my lips detect the lie and are trying to push them back down my throat.
I might lick a few wounds when I return to the privacy of my own home, but at least I know a proposal was on his mind. The knowledge that he plans to propose when he returns home will have to keep me warm for the next three months.
“Would you like to sit?” Ryker asks, motioning toward a bench.
I let out a sigh. The longest night ever might as well be even longer. I console myself with the thought that it can’t get worse. “Okay.” I feel like humming This is the Song that Never Ends, replacing song with night.
“Back to the subject of my apartment,” Ryker says when we’re situated. “I would love for you to live there. I’m serious. It would mean a lot to me.”
I tilt my head to one side. “Just to be clear. Are you asking me to live with you or to live there while you’re gone?”
“To live there while I’m gone. I know living with someone is not your style.”
No, it isn’t. “I appreciate the offer, I really do. Apartment living is not for me, though. You know being a professional pianist means I have to practice the piano six hours a day. Can you imagine how annoyed your neighbors will be? Typically, I start at six in the morning. That’s why I rented the studio I live in now. Do you know how hard it was to find a mother-in-law suite that was separated from the main house by a backyard in this city? Plus, the homeowners said my practicing wouldn’t bother them, that they loved the arts. It’s the perfect arrangement for me. I’d rather not lose the place.”
“You probably won’t need a new place. Have you thought about that?” he says quietly.
My eyes move up to his sharply, as my breath hitches. If he proposes when he gets home, then I suppose I might never leave his penthouse, because it will become my home too. The implication is there, I don’t need him to spell it out for me.
Although if tonight is anything to go by, maybe I do.
Ryker goes on before I can object further. “As far as the piano goes, I’ve already thought this through. I live in an upscale high rise in the penthouse apartment at the top of the building. The soundproofing is amazing. The only wall I share with someone is the floor. The guy below me plays the electric guitar and has parties in his unit until the wee hours of the morning, and I never hear him. I’m not worried. Besides, I already checked with him. He’s an early riser, works long hours, and said he’s hardly home anyway. If he hears anything, it will be distant. It’s not a problem.”
I frown. “Are you sure? It’s my second season performing with the Marin Symphony. It’s an honor to be chosen to be a guest artist for a symphony. It’s imperative that I’m able to practice every day.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to live there if I thought you wouldn’t be able to practice. I know how important it is to you. I know your dream is to play with the San Francisco Symphony one day.”
I love that he supports my goals in life. “I don’t call it a dream, I call it a plan,” I remind him.
He covers my hand with his and entwines our fingers. “I know you do, and I have no doubt you’ll do it. Your talent is just waiting to be discovered.”
“Thank you, Ryker.”
“So, what do you say?”
Images of Ryker’s penthouse apartment wander through my mind. Floor-to-ceiling windows, gleaming hardwood floors, and white. Lots and lots of white. The kitchen almost hurts my eyes with its white cabinetry, white tile, and white countertops. The white doesn’t end there. His couches are white, his area rug is white, his sheer curtains are white. I’m scared to breathe, to touch anything, or to be human in any way, shape, or form. He keeps it pristine. I’m not a messy person, but I’m also not a squeaky-clean person either.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
“I’m worried about making a mess in your home. Your apartment screams, I’m going to need everyone to stop living here, please.”
He stares at me blankly. Ryker and humor are not friends.
“I know you’ll take excellent care of my home. I have no reservations on that front.”
No pressure. “Yes, of course I will.”
His head tilts back, his chin jutting forward, a sure sign of confidence. I’m glad he feels so sure of me. I wish I felt the same.
“So, you’ll do it then? You can stay in my master bedroom. I think you’ll find it very comfortable. I’ve spared no expense.”
I sigh. His bedroom is whiter than the kitchen. I’ll cause something to smudge simply by looking at it.
Should I do this? A list of pros wanders through my mind. First, no rent for three months. That would help my finances a lot. That’s huge. Even though the symphony pays me well, rent in San Francisco is crazy high and I’ve been trying to build up a healthy savings account.
Second, I’d live in the lap of luxury. That one’s a no brainer.
Which leads me to the third reason this would be good for me. It would be the ideal atmosphere for concentrating on my intense practice sessions.
I wrack my brain and try to think of any cons. Other than the color white, there are none.
It’s an offer I can’t refuse.
“Okay, I’ll do it. Arthur will be my bodyguard and constant companion. How can I resist?”
Arthur is his teacup Yorkie Poo, a cross between a Yorkshire Terrier and a Poodle. He was chosen by Ryker, I’m sure, because the Poodle in him means he doesn’t shed all over his furniture. He’s the tiniest and sweetest dog I’ve ever seen. He’s scared of his own shadow and is almost always shaking. I was in love with him the moment he walked toward me on wobbly legs, while I coaxed him with my voice. He placed his two front paws on my left shin, begging to be held. He’s such a lightweight, I couldn’t even feel the pressure of his paws on my leg.
When Ryker announced that his dog’s name was Arthur, my heart melted in my chest. “Arthur,” I’d said, “You’re adorable.”
I remember chuckling because Arthur is such an old man’s name and here was this delicate creature looking up at me with literal puppy dog eyes. Once I picked him up and cuddled him in my arms, we were friends for life. He’s my buddy.
“Arthur worships you.”
“The feeling is mutual.” I sort of want to add, “Too bad yours aren’t.” But I bite my tongue and keep my thoughts to myself. Bitterness is so ugly.
If Ryker can tolerate a dog in his white space, surely he can tolerate me. Either that or my future is destined to be an episode of The Odd Couple.
“You’re going to love living there, Mila. And practicing with that view, it’ll inspire you.”
“I’m sure the acoustics are pretty amazing too.” I’m starting to feel excited about living in Ryker’s home. Although, at some point, we will need to have a serious discussion about color.
“I’ll make all the arrangements first thing in the morning.” He scoots closer and lines the back of the bench with his arm. He doesn’t touch my back or shoulder. “The future looks bright for us, Mila.”
“The future looks bright,” I repeat, wondering about the luminosity of that statement.
He doesn’t lean over and kiss me because he’s not big on public displays of affection. But I wish he would. I wish he’d kiss me like he doesn’t have a care in the world, like he’ll never see me again in this lifetime and he can hardly stand it. A kiss filled with so much passion, I’ll be swooning for days.
Strike one, no proposal.
Strike two, no kiss.
Disappointment swirls inside me.
Ryker is a careful m
an. Always a bit guarded, always overthinking his life, as evidenced by his proposition, and lack of a proposal, this evening. He’s always thinking three steps ahead. Maybe four or five. I suppose that’s why he excels in the business world.
“By the way, my mom wanted me to stop by this evening. Something about important paperwork she needs to give me. Will you come with me?”
Strike three, his mother.
Freddy.
Great. The never-ending night continues.
I try to force my lips into a smile, but it probably comes off more like a grimace. “Sure.”
I’ve nicknamed his mother Freddy. She’s a kind, gracious, loving person.
At first glance.
The first time I met her, I thought she was amazing. She told me I was beautiful, she told me I was lovely, she told me I must be so smart to play the piano so well and to have attended Juilliard.
I smiled and soaked it all in.
Then she bared her proverbial ugly teeth, reminding me of Freddy Fazbear on that creepy video game, Five Nights at Freddy’s.
She turned to me and casually mentioned how being a pianist was such a sweet hobby. What did I do in real life?
“Real life?” I stuttered, taken aback.
“Yes, dear, what’s your day job? Playing the piano will get you nowhere in life. Such a tedious instrument. It gives me a headache.”
She went on with the conversation as though she hadn’t insulted me and all of my hard work.
I soon learned it’s her modus operandi.
My brother used to play Five Nights at Freddy’s. By day, the characters are on stage, entertaining children, imitating a Chuck E. Cheese pizza parlor. Cute and sweet.
At night, they come to life, bare their creepy teeth, and terrorize the nighttime security guard.
That’s Ryker’s mom. So sweet—until she’s not. She’s scary, because you never know when she will bare her teeth and toss a barbed comment your way.
When I’m with her, I remind myself of the Eleanor Roosevelt quote: No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.
I refuse to let her mess with me. How she produced a wonderful man like Ryker, I will never know. I think it might be the love she smothers him with every day of his life. It’s amazing he can breathe at all.
Time to fortify myself to face Freddy on this never-ending night.
chapter three
~
DEBRA MARTEL OPENS the door of her ridiculously large home for only two people and greets us with a smile pasted on her face. It’s only nine on this everlasting night and she’s still dressed in a classy dress suit with her signature pearls at her neck, as though she’s about to go to the office.
She doesn’t work outside the home. She oversees the household. I have no idea why she dresses the way she does.
I wonder if sweats and a lazy night on the couch binge-watching Netflix are ever part of her agenda. I doubt it. Her bleach-blond hair is always perfectly coifed, her teeth so white, they hurt my eyes, and her forehead is clearly filled with so much Botox, her eyebrows can barely move. She’s a woman desperately fighting the aging process.
“Ryker, you look so handsome.” She air kisses each of his cheeks.
“And Myla, you’re simply stunning this evening.” I get one air kissed cheek.
“It’s Mila.” And she knows it.
She waves the air as though the pronunciation of my name doesn’t really matter.
“What have you two lovebirds been up to this evening?”
Her smile says, I love you, her eyes say, You’re not good enough for my son.
“Dinner at Acquerello,” Ryker says.
“Such a lovely place. You have excellent taste, Ryker.”
I doubt Debra believes I have a single smart thought in my head or enough class to choose such a place.
Debra turns and starts walking up the stairs with the assumption that we’ll automatically follow like faithful subjects.
We do.
“Your father’s not in bed yet. Come say hello.”
It’s tough to see James Martel, a once vibrant man, stuck in a wheelchair with half of his body paralyzed, and unable to speak intelligibly. His head leans to one side, dribble almost always resting on his chin. A result of a massive stroke.
His night nurse turns the TV off at our arrival. “I was just about to get him ready for bed, Mrs. Martel. I’ll give you some privacy.” She politely takes her leave.
Debra stands behind her husband, massaging his shoulders. “Sweetheart, it’s Ryker. He’s running Martel Investments and things are going as smooth as a lake on a clear day. If you could see him in action, you’d be so proud. As vice president, he’s the best right-hand man you have.”
With James incapacitated, the board of investors act as the president of the company, much to Ryker’s dismay.
Ryker sits in the chair next to his father, holding one hand. “Hey, Dad. Great to see you. You’re looking good. Don’t worry about anything. I have everything under control. Just get better, okay?”
James grunts and tries to speak, but we can’t understand him. It’s obvious the man they once knew is no longer present. He’s clearly frustrated with his limits. I feel for the poor man. It’s been a year and he hasn’t improved much, in spite of intense physical therapy.
I don’t think he will ever recuperate, but Ryker and Debra always speak as though a full recovery is just around the corner. I wouldn’t dare to be the one to discourage them and dash their hope.
“Come say hello, Mila,” Debra says, a subtle command.
I walk forward and sit in the chair opposite Ryker. I place my hand on James’ arm. “Hello, Mr. Martel. It’s Mila. It’s wonderful to see you. I hope you’ve had a good day.”
He looks directly at me, his eyes droopy and sad. I can’t help but think it’s a tender mercy that he’s not all there anymore. I can’t imagine how horrible it would be to be stuck in a body that’s refusing to work. He tries to say my name, but it’s garbled.
“Isn’t she lovely, James? Mila and Ryker make such a beautiful couple.”
I’m surprised to hear her say that, since I always feel like she thinks I’m not good enough for her son.
“Our son was always the kid who wanted to bring home the lost and broken puppy. So sweet.”
There’s the Freddy I’ve come to expect. I should’ve known a dig was coming next. She smiles, and all I see are Freddy Fazbear teeth. I hide a small shiver.
Ryker spends the next thirty minutes talking to his father, telling him about daily business dealings, as he often does. James calms down and doesn’t seem as agitated as he did earlier. I doubt his father’s peace comes from hearing about work, but rather the soothing sound of his son’s voice.
The nurse returns to prepare James for bed, and we leave her to it.
Once the door is closed, Debra immediately launches into business mode. “A few items of paperwork arrived in an email today. I thought you might want to see them right away.”
Or she could have simply forwarded the email, but I don’t say that out loud.
We follow her to the office, where she hands Ryker a file folder.
“Thanks, Mom.” He opens the folder, peruses the contents, scoffs, and snaps it shut. “By the way, Mila has agreed to be the caretaker of my apartment while I’m gone.”
My mind reacts with a skidding halt.
Caretaker? Is that what I am? Earlier, he made it sound like he was doing me a favor by letting me stay in his apartment. Is it really the other way around?
I suppose it’s mutually beneficial. I’m not crazy about being called the caretaker, though. I’m his girlfriend and future wife caring for our future home, a home that I will one day blast with some serious color.
“That’s a relief. It’s not good to leave a home unattended for a long period of time, and Mila will take good care of it. Besides, Mila needs a job.”
Ah, Freddy makes an appearance again. Those teeth are sharp.
“Oh, come now. Playing the piano is a hobby.” Debra heads for the stairs.
“Playing with a symphony is hardly a hobby,” Ryker says as we follow like lambs to the slaughter. He mouths the word sorry to me.
I’m glad he noticed. Most of the time he seems a tad oblivious to his mother’s cutting remarks. Or maybe he’s used to them and doesn’t let her faze him. I’m not sure. I’ve never brought it up because I don’t want to talk trash about his mother. Ryker adores her. He’s a late bloomer when it comes to that horrible childhood moment when you realize your mother isn’t perfect.
“I’m about to have some tea, would you join me?”
Again, Debra doesn’t pause to hear our answer. She simply heads for the living room and takes a seat. In truth, it is expected that we join her.
She’s a piece of work. I’m not sure how Ryker turned out remotely normal. As my future mother-in-law, Debra will be a permanent fixture in my life. But I’m marrying Ryker one day, not her. And he’s pretty darn amazing in all of his polite, careful, and classy ways. I can put up with her, as long as I have Ryker by my side.
Even if I do have to explain jokes to him. Every time.
We take our seats on the couch and Ryker holds my hand. We share a small smile. Their private cook brings out a tray with three steaming mugs of herb tea.
Debra picks up her mug. “It’s chamomile. Helps me sleep at night.”
Maybe because she needs a break from her nagging conscience, the one that’s trying to tell her to play nicely with others.
I take a sip. “It’s soothing. Thank you.”
She doesn’t comment on the sparkly ring on my finger that makes me look like an engaged woman. I find that odd. She probably already knows it’s a promise ring. Ryker discusses everything with his mother. I don’t want to come between them, but when we marry, I hope he’ll cleave unto me and me alone. Three’s a crowd. I think that’s a discussion we need to have in the near future. Long before marriage. Regardless, one of the things I love about him is how much he loves his mother. It says a lot about him.
