by Liz Durano
She used to share an apartment in Brooklyn with two women who worked with her in the Fashion District before she found another apartment in Manhattan with a view of the Empire State Building from her doorstep. Forget that it was the size of a postage stamp, she said, but I was living in Manhattan. Manhattan, Bee! Can you imagine that? But I was hardly home, so it didn’t matter that my place was tiny then. Thank God, I met Ethan, and he asked me to move in.
I sit on the couch and empty the contents of her clutch on the counter. I pick up her passport and flip through it. The stamps that fill the pages tell me of the places she's been since she met Ethan. The dates begin four months earlier. There's London, Paris, Berlin, Madrid, Geneva, and more. I sigh and set the passport down, imagining all the places she’s visited before I force myself to focus and pick up her iPhone.
But no matter what I do, the phone won’t unlock, and I set it down and pick up Blythe’s driver’s license. She's smiling at the camera, her make-up perfect. She'd probably be horrified when she sees my driver's license, the camera catching me in the middle of forming a smile, wearing no makeup except for lip gloss.
As the memories of the day return to me, from my first meeting with Heath at the shop to the last one at the bar, then to the moment Jackson realized I wasn't Blythe, my bewilderment turns to annoyance. How can Blythe do this to me? What emergency could make her just disappear without leaving me a message, or an explanation? What is going on?
If she has to cut short our reunion, all she has to do is tell me, and I'll be glad to be on the next flight back to Sacramento, with no hurt feelings at all. New York is not the city for me, not even with a private limo to spare us the subway or a penthouse high above the city with a view to die for—not when my sister is not with me to enjoy it.
The ringing of the phone on the bedside table wakes me up at 5:45 a.m. and the moment I see Ethan’s name, I’m suddenly awake. I grab the phone before the call goes to voicemail.
"Billie," says a familiar voice on the other line, though a little sternly.
"Blythe!" I scramble to sit up, pushing my hair from my face while getting tangled in the covers. "Are you alright? Where are you? You can't believe what a relief it is to hear from you! I've been-"
"What the hell were you doing making out with Heath?”
"Wait—what?"
"I saw you and him together when Jackson and I went back to the bar to get you, and he was all over you,” she says. “After everything I told you about him, how could you do that to me?”
“For your information, I was trying to get away from him. Besides, after everything you told me about him, why would I do that to you?"
“You tell me. You’ve always wanted to get back at me after what happened with Andrew—”
"Andrew was so three years ago!" I sputter. "Why the heck would I even do that? You told me how much you didn't like Heath, so why would I even-"
“-suck face with him? Because that's exactly what I saw you do, and Jackson saw it, too," Blythe retorts. "Not only that, but one of the girls at the shop, Amelie, told me that Heath talked to you while I was getting my dress fitted this afternoon, yet you never said anything to me.”
“I forgot,” I reply. “Look, Blythe, he thought I was you. Now you tell me; what would give him the idea to act the way he did with me? Like there’s more going on between you two than you’ve been letting on. And then there was Natasha, who said that you always had the hots for the brother with the most money.”
“And you believe that gold-digging bitch? Now that is low coming from you.”
"Low? What's low is you accusing me of whatever it is you think I've done without first asking me. You left me there by myself!”
“You and Heath were doing quite well by yourselves. You were so into him that you didn’t even see us walk by you. Are you so desperate to be like me that you’d settle for Ethan’s brother?”
I wish I could reach into the phone and shut her up but I can’t. And Blythe has taken it too far. I know she’s angry, but she’s mad at the wrong person. She should be directing all that anger at Heath, not me.
"Look, I'm not getting into an argument with you, Blythe," I say. "I was looking forward to spending a wonderful time with you. I let you do whatever you wanted, even turn me into your Mini-me or whatever, but I'm not doing that anymore. I can't believe you're accusing me of trying to you and not believing a word I’m saying because you’d rather believe the likes of Jackson Denman.”
"I wouldn't have believed him if I didn't see it for myself," she retorts. "And, honestly, Ethan is not happy that my sister is sleeping with the enemy."
“Enemy? What are we? In certain camps now? Are we on some reality show?" I say as I roll my eyes and sigh. It's useless arguing with Blythe, not when she's set on believing only what she believes, even if it's wrong. "When I saw him at the shop, he thought I was you, and at the bar, he still thought I was you. Now if anyone should have questions, it should be me. What would make him feel so comfortable with you, Blythe, that he'd assume he can do all the things you're now accusing me of?"
There's silence on the other end of the line, and I swear I can hear the ocean in the background. "You're doing this to get back at me for what you think happened between Andrew and me even though you have no idea what really happened.”
“Not again, Blythe,” I mutter. "I don't even care about Andrew anymore."
“You’ve never forgiven me for that day—"
“How can I forgive you for screwing your sister’s boyfriend," I snap. "You couldn't even wait till I got out of the hospital—"
"I knew it!" she exclaims. "This is about Andrew! Why am I not surprised that you'd wait all this time to get back at me even after I told you that whatever it is you think you saw was not what actually happened?"
"I give up, Blythe. Believe what you want to believe, that this is all about Andrew, or that I was so busy sucking face with Heath and that I’m sleeping with the enemy, but I'm done here. At least, I know you're not lying in a ditch somewhere, but alive and well. And not only that, but you're the same Blythe I've always known—selfish. Come to think of it, not once have you even asked me how I'm doing. Not once."
She doesn't speak for a few moments, and in the background, I hear a man's voice asking her who she's talking to. Just my bitch sister who wants so badly to be me, she says, her words hitting me like a kick in the gut.
"Well, obviously you're fine, so there's no point asking you, is there?" she says coldly, and this time, I know it's useless to keep talking to her.
"No, there isn't," I say, realizing that I have nothing more to say though Blythe isn't done yet.
“Ethan says that when you see Heath again, tell him that his days leading Kheiron Industries are numbered, and as for that thing that he wants back, Ethan’s keeping it for safe keeping in case Heath thinks he can intimidate us,” Blythe says. "So if I were you, Billie, I'd be careful where I hedge my bets because I'd hate to see you go down with a loser."
4
Not-Blythe
"I'm sorry, Miss, but this card's been declined," says the woman on the other end of the line. "It's been reported stolen."
"Excuse me?" I sputter, Blythe's Gold card clattering on the kitchen counter. "How can it be stolen? I just used it last night!"
"I'm sorry, miss. I'm only telling you what the screen tells me," she says. "Do you have another card we can charge the flight to Sacramento to?"
The only credit card I brought with me was in the other clutch, the one that Blythe is now carrying along with my driver's license and passport. "How long can you hold the reservation?"
"I can't keep it without a credit card, miss," she says, and I thank her and hang up.
What was I thinking, believing that I could reserve a flight bound for Sacramento in Blythe's name since I have her driver's license—and use her Gold Card to charge for the flight that same day? Apparently I’m not thinking rationally at all, not when I’m still seething from my phone con
versation with Blythe hours earlier.
But how does Blythe expect me to return home? I call my shop, Thyme and Lavender, and listen to my voice stating our store hours and asking the caller to leave a message. But realizing that it’s barely seven in the morning, Pacific time, I don't leave any message. I don't want Mick and Norah, my two part-time employees now running the store while I'm gone, to worry about me the moment they hear my message. I figure I'll call them when the shop opens at ten and ask them to wire me money—in Blythe's name—so I can pay for my return ticket.
After setting the coffee maker on brew, I figure I might as well prepare for my flight home as soon as Mick can wire me some money. I take a shower, taking the time to enjoy the many shower heads that spray water on me with each press of the button, coming at me from above and from the sides. I’d heard of such shower fixtures, but never tried them till coming to New York, and I have a feeling that I’m going to miss them.
As if to distract myself from my current predicament more than I already am with the various shower nozzles, I amuse myself with the little things—like just how devoid I am of hair everywhere else but my head. I find myself giggling as I remember the waxing session two days earlier that left my skin feeling as smooth as a baby's butt. I'm sensitive, and for a few moments, I dare to enjoy the feel of my fingers against bare skin, even slipping them between my thighs, the sensations leaving me gasping for breath. It doesn't help that it's been forever since I've been with a man and the realization embarrasses me. Have I really allowed Blythe's betrayal kill my sex life, too?
By the time I emerge from the shower, I’m feeling quite relaxed as I make my way towards the guest bedroom with just a thick towel wrapped around my torso. With the only choice of clothing being something of Blythe’s, I make my way towards the master bedroom and walk past the office.
“Good morning.”
Even my scream of surprise doesn’t make it out of my lips though I don’t need to turn around to see who just scared the crap out of me. His deep voice is unmistakable. Just how long has Heath been in the penthouse?
"Did you enjoy your shower?"
Leaning against the office desk, he’s wearing a black t-shirt over a pair of jeans, his long legs crossed at the ankles. I clutch the ends of my towel tightly around me as his gaze moves down my bare legs.
“Haven’t you heard of knocking? How dare you think you can just waltz in here like you own the place!”
"Because I do own the place," he says, “or, at least, the corporation does."
It takes me a second to digest his words, and I can feel my throat turn dry. “How long have you been here?"
"Long enough," he replies as my eyes widen, the realization that he must have heard everything earlier making my face turn even redder. "You were enjoying yourself so much I didn't want to interrupt you."
I glare at him. "Are you always this crass?"
"What's so crass about my question?" Heath asks, walking towards me, his hands now inside his pockets. "Ethan outdid himself when he hand-picked the bathroom fixtures and overall designs with each guest room having different styles, each one ranging from two to three hundred thousand dollars.”
“Did you say hundred thousand?”
“I did, yes. However, the master bedroom has the best bathroom in the building," he continues, though he pauses, as if for dramatic effect, pinning me with his gaze, "Billie."
The sound of my name emerging from his lips make my belly tighten. It's low and deliberate, and I find myself licking my lips though I hate myself for doing it. I’m embarrassed to say that if the mere sound of my name on a man's lips make my knees go weak, then it has been a long time since I’ve been with a man.
"How do you know I'm not Blythe?"
"Well, let's see, Not-Blythe, if you were indeed her, you'd have bitten my head off for startling you. Besides, the real Blythe would never be caught dead using any of the guest bathrooms, not when her bathroom has way more amazing features. Not my taste personally as I'm more partial to the barest necessities myself.”
“But how do you know I'm not Blythe? I could be fooling you right now-“
"Because you're not," Heath says, pulling out his phone and tapping on the display. "I may have been completely wrong yesterday, but as of this morning, I know for sure you're not Blythe."
"How?"
"Because according to her Instagram, the real Blythe is enjoying an excellent breakfast of papaya and orange juice, with a lovely view of the Pitons. And she's always been known for her captions—though this one seems to be directed at someone in particular," he says, holding his phone in front of me so I can see the screen.
When someone close to you betrays you, there's nothing like a little R&R to console you. Wish you were here, Bee, though I'm really glad you're not.
Her message stings and I fight back the tears, turning away from Heath, so he doesn't see my reaction.
"I hope she’s enjoying herself," I say, my throat tightening. I need to get out of New York as soon as possible, for I know when I’m not wanted. "Anyway, I need to get dressed."
"A falling-out between sisters? How unfortunate.”
“No thanks to you!” I say as I spin around to face him, his taunt the last straw. “If you didn't have your hands all over me yesterday, none of this would have happened. But no! You had to drag me into this damn fight between you and your brother over some fucking corporation! If this is the kind of life my sister wants, then she can have it. I may not have a million-dollar bathroom back home, but at least, people don't shit on me anytime they want or use me as some pawn in their sick games for money."
I start walking towards the master bedroom, but Heath grabs my arm and spins me around to face him. "What do you know about this damn fight? What has Ethan told you?"
"I haven't even met him, and I don't ever want to. I just want to go home, and that’s exactly what I’m doing,” I reply, not caring if tears are streaming down my cheeks as I talk.
"Oh, and Blythe told me to inform you that your days of being president of Kheiron Industries are numbered and that Ethan is keeping whatever he took for safekeeping, just in case you were going to go after him.”
Heath lets me go; his face grows distant. He frowns, takes and deep breath and exhales, then dials a number on his phone. He doesn't even say hello, or introduce himself.
“Tyler, find out who among the board is currently in St. Lucia, and let me know as soon as you find out. You can text it to me if you have to.”
I don't wait for him to say anything else, I hurry to the master bedroom and slam the door behind me. I need to get dressed, and I need to do it now. No more distractions. I don't even care if I have to wait at some corner store till Mick or Norah wire me the money, but I will do it. I will be on a plane back home before the day is over.
I'm wiping my tears with the back of my hand when I hear the soft knock on the door. I also see at least three eyelash extensions on my hand, remembering too late that I'm not supposed to rub my eyes or lie face down anywhere because I'd lose the lash extensions quicker. When the knock comes again, I shout.
"What the hell do you want now?"
"Why are you in Blythe's bedroom if you’re not Blythe? Are your clothes in there, too?”
I don’t even know why I’m in Blythe’s bedroom. I’m simply here out of habit. But I also don’t have any idea where my luggage is.
“No, it’s because I have nothing to wear," I reply as I lean my forehead against the door. How difficult should it be just to get out of New York?
"Women always have nothing to wear, so what's new?”
I fling open the door and face him. “I have nothing to wear. Like, seriously, alright? Blythe took away my luggage because it embarrassed her."
"How could your wardrobe choices possibly embarrass her?"
"Huaraches and patchouli. Put two and two together, Mister Business-Tycoon-Fashion-Plate-whatever,” I mutter as I pick up the bedside phone. "Anyway, the staff should know wh
ere my luggage is. I just need their extension so I can get it back and go home. Do you have it?”
He's looking at me with a baffled expression. “Wait. So you're just going to leave, just like that?"
"I'm clearly not wanted here."
"Aren't you worried about your sister?"
"Why should I be? She's clearly not worried about me if she's having a nice breakfast of papaya and OJ with a view of the Pistons-"
"Pitons."
"Pitons, pistons, whatever! I just want to go home," I exclaim, my arms flailing in exasperation. "What's the extension?"
But Heath doesn’t tell me the extension. He just watches me, an amused smile forming on his lips as he studies me.
"What?!" I almost shout at him, all my frustrations from the last 48 hours finally bubbling to the surface.
"You certainly are not Blythe," he muses. “Blythe’s been in New York so long she’s become a total New Yorker. But you…you’re different.“
"Are you making fun of me?”
He shakes his head.
"Then what the hell are you talking about?"
“There are no pretenses with you, Not-Blythe, and somehow, it's quite refreshing. I would assume that while your sister decided to take on the big bad world of New York, you chose to stay home. You love her,” he murmurs, and his words completely disarm me.
I return the receiver back on the cradle and exhale. “She's my only family left, and hard as it is to believe, when she's not distracted by beautiful things, she's got a good heart."
"What changed her then—besides all the beautiful things?”
"Our parents…and other things,” I reply, not knowing why I'm telling him this, for he’s cold and calculating. But just as he’s sensed something different about me, there’s also something else about him—a softness that catches me by surprise. Heath seems compassionate, though I fear that I'm just desperate to find some form of it since arriving in New York.
"I'm sorry," he says.
"Blythe hasn't been home in three years, not since our parents died and…and other things. And now that she's got Ethan and everything he gives her, her Gold Card and this penthouse, apparently she doesn’t need me for anything.”
