by Cassie Cross
“You know I’ve always made my own clothes,” I say, stating the obvious. “I started putting labels in them a few months ago. I had some made for fun, and félicité was really just a joke between Corinne and me, because French things always sound fancier.”
Marisa plants her elbow on the back of the sofa and props her head on her hand, listening intently.
“When it was time for the shoot on Monday, I had to clean up some of the mess from Oliver and Ben’s fight, then I got into this whole rearranging furniture tear. I was all sweaty from it and had to take a shower, and when I got out I just threw on the shirt because it was there and I was running out of time, and through a series of very unfortunate and emotionally trying events, it wound up in the shoot. I wasn’t trying to be sneaky and pick my own stuff to advertise on the site, if that’s what you were thinking.”
Marisa actually blanches. “We could dedicate ten spreads to your clothes if you wanted to, Felicity. You know I wouldn’t have a problem with that. I just thought maybe you were doing a soft launch of a line and didn’t tell me about it. Honestly, I was just a little hurt, that’s all.”
Oh, well…that’s definitely not what I was expecting to hear from her.
“Mario wasn’t happy with the way some of the pieces I chose for Lyla looked under the lights, so he basically just pointed at my shirt and told me to give it to her.”
Marisa’s eyes widen. “Really?”
“Oh yeah. He was a total pain in the ass. I wanted the whole thing to be over so badly that I just took it off right there and handed it over. Finished the shoot in my bra and a pair of khakis.”
Marisa busts out laughing, doubling over. “Oh my god. Well, it looks fabulous on her. It’s a good thing you two have pretty similar body types. It looked like it was made for her.”
“Thank you,” I say, fiddling with the cuff of my yoga pants.
In the time that I’ve been back from Portland, I’ve realized how silly it is to hide this dream of mine from the people who love me and can actually help me achieve it. I might not want the spread on the site, but I also don’t want to live the kind of life where I’m keeping important parts of myself hidden away from my friends and family like it’s some kind of dirty secret. The blow-up over my relationship with Oliver taught me that much.
“Since you’re taking this whole thing so well, I might as well come clean.”
“Come clean about what?” Marisa asks.
“I jumped at the chance to go to Portland when you mentioned that Poppy Argyle was going to be there. I didn’t go there to work on a feature on Janine for the site, I went because I was hoping that if I showed Poppy some samples of my work, she’d agree to mentor me.”
Marisa straightens her back and takes a deep breath. I can tell I’ve taken her by surprise.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you. I mean, I did go and get the foundations for our feature on Janine set up, but honestly…that wasn’t my main goal. And I’m sorry I used the site and my work on it like that.”
Marisa waves her hand. “I don’t care about that,” she says, scooting forward a couple of inches. “What happened with Poppy?”
I shrug. “Nothing much, really. We didn’t get that far. She’s kind of an asshole, actually.”
“Oh,” Marisa replies, deflating a little. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say, picking up a throw pillow and hugging it against my stomach. “The weekend wasn’t a total waste.” I think of those amazing days with Oliver, the promise of so much potential between us. And now, not even a month later, it’s all gone. That stupid, stubborn knot returns in my throat, and I have to work overtime to blink away the tears. “Well, I guess it was a total waste in some ways. But…I had been putting a lot of pressure on myself to make a name for myself, to get something going with the whole design thing. Since I’ve been home I’ve started making things for fun again, and having fun doing it, without some end goal that I don’t even know how to reach.”
“You know, we can always talk to Eloise and get some advice.”
Eloise is the manager who got us our deal for the home decor line. But she’s a friend of Marisa’s, and I never thought of reaching out to her. I probably wouldn’t have even if I had thought of it, because of my stubborn insistence on not taking advantage of connections I already had.
“Now that one of my things is going up on the site, maybe let’s just wait and see how people react to it before making plans to give them more.”
A nervous surge cascades in my stomach, realizing that without really thinking about it I’m putting my work out into the world and it could be accepted. Or…not.
Can’t think too much about that; I’ll give myself a nervous breakdown before the post even goes live.
“I’m not trying to pressure you or anything,” Marisa says, reaching out and placing her hand on my arm. “I just want you to know that I’m here for you, and I support your work, no matter what it is. Whether it stays a hobby or becomes something more.”
I give her the best hug that my position will allow me to. “I know you do. Thank you.”
“How are you doing otherwise?”
“Still pissed at my idiot brother,” I say.
She gives me an understanding smile. “Rightfully so. He feels terrible, and I think you made him see the error of his flawed thinking about your love life, specifically where Oliver is concerned.”
“Funny,” I reply with a bitter laugh. “He hasn’t called to apologize or anything.”
“He will. I think he’s just working up the nerve at this point. He’s already called Oliver, but I think it’s harder for him where you’re concerned.”
Well, apologizing to Oliver is a start. “Good. And, to answer the rest of your question, otherwise? I’m doing about as okay as can be expected, I think. It’s just difficult for me to understand how he can love me like he says he does and think us being together is a mistake. It took us years to admit we have feelings for each other, and now that it’s all blown up…I’m wondering if I should start preparing myself to have to move on.”
She smiles sympathetically. “Oh, honey.”
“What?”
“There’s no moving on from this one.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, confused.
“You don’t move on from the one.”
I huff. “Generally the one has to want to be with you.”
“C’mon, Felicity. You’re hurt and you’re not thinking clearly right now.” Marisa narrows her eyes at me. “You know the wanting isn’t Oliver’s problem. He’s wanted you since before I even met him.”
“He has a funny way of showing it.”
She looks at me for a few seconds, like she’s trying to figure out if she should say what she wants to say. “I’ve talked to him about this. About you. More than once. This isn’t easy for him, and the issue isn’t a simple one.”
“Whose side are you on?” I try to sound teasing, but it doesn’t quite land.
“I’m on both of your sides. I love you both, I want you both to be happy. I thought this might hurt a little less if you understood.”
I throw up my arms. “I can’t understand what he won’t tell me, Marisa.”
“The whole thing with my idiot husband was part of his fear about pursuing a relationship with you come to life.”
If Oliver isn’t going to help me understand, maybe Marisa can. Maybe she’s right, and it will hurt a little less if I do. “Okay. Explain.”
She reaches for her wine and takes a long sip. “Oliver’s parents’ divorce did a number on him. Not just in terms of the way he deals with relationships, because to be honest? I don’t think he’s ever tried very hard. You know he and his family drifted apart after, and there’s been animosity between them ever since. That’s why he spent so much time with your family after it happened. He considers them his own now, too. Opening himself up to having a relationship with you ultimately means taking a risk at losing his family if it doesn�
�t work out.”
Well, that’s honestly not something I’d considered. And it hurts my heart that it makes sense, knowing what I know of Oliver. “Yeah,” I sigh.
“He’s never thought he was good enough for you.”
“What?” I can’t even believe that. Oliver is one of the kindest, most loving people I know. There isn’t anything not good enough about him.
“I know, it’s nuts. I’m pretty sure it’s just an excuse that he hasn’t wanted to look at the reasons for until now. The thought of you is scary to him in a lot of ways, because he knows that you’re it for him. There’s a lot riding on that anyway, but when you add in that Ben’s one of his best friends, that you’re one of his best friends, and that what he has left of a family also revolves around you two? He has a lot to lose if he messes this up, and Ben’s reaction was just a taste of that. He loves you, but he’s scared. He thinks that he can just make things right with Ben, and make things right with you, and maybe everything will go back to the way it was, when everything was safe.”
Unless Oliver did something completely un-Oliver-like, I can’t imagine anything that would make my parents not welcome him into our home. They love him to death. But I can’t imagine moving on, showing up to Christmas with a boyfriend or a husband, and seeing Oliver across the room, acting like nothing had happened. Like we hadn’t both lost so much with each other.
“Everything can’t go back to the way it was,” I tell Marisa. “It’s too late for that now.”
“I know that, and you know that. I think deep down Oliver knows that, too. But he’s stubborn, like you. It’ll probably take him a little while longer to figure it out.”
“And when he does, what next?”
She sighs. “Hopefully he comes to his senses, but I don’t know.”
Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of.
I push myself up off of the couch and walk toward the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” Marisa asks.
“To get that ice cream. I think I’m gonna need it.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Wednesday morning, I wake up from a restless sleep at the crack of dawn. I spent most of last night after Marisa left thinking about what she said. About supporting me with my designing, about my brother feeling bad about what he did, but mostly about Oliver’s reluctance to have a relationship with me because he didn’t want to lose my family if we broke up.
Even though it’s frustrating that he hasn’t wanted to share this with me, Marisa was right: knowing why Oliver did what he did does ease some of the pain. Hearing what people who know and love us have to say about the depth of his feelings for me have helped me not dwell on the I think we made a mistake that kept repeating in my mind after Oliver said it.
Knowing that a lot of the fear Oliver has about being with me stems from losing the family that he built for himself after the breakup of his biological one makes me understand why he so desperately wants that house on Shelter Island, why he needs to hold on so desperately to the good times in his past. Because I love him, I want to help him do that. And I want to help him get that house in the way that he wanted to get it.
I roll out of bed, turn on the coffee pot, and do a little Googling. I call Alexandra Van Owen’s office shortly after nine, and after a little bit of haggling with her secretary and a long hold time during which—I’m assuming—said secretary actually got Alexandra on the phone, I’m set up with a one o’clock appointment this afternoon.
When I hang up the phone, I hop in the shower and think long and hard about what I’m going to say.
I spend a little more time than I probably should painstakingly picking out the dress to wear to my meeting with Alexandra. I finally settle on a slim-fit v-neck dress with a belted waist, and a grey background splashed with large, white-bloomed flowers. I put my hair up in a no-nonsense bun to combat the humidity, and hop into a cab.
My stomach is full to bursting with nerves as I step into the 50th floor office of Phelps, Carrier, and Van Owen.
The whole place is imposing, the far side of the office featuring floor-to-ceiling windows showing off the skyscrapers of the financial district. A receptionist greets me, and asks me if I’d like something to drink. I have the dry mouth that usually accompanies my nerves, but my hands are too shaky for me to even dare attempting to drink something. Surely I’d spill it all over myself.
I politely decline.
The receptionist leads me to a small conference room at the back of the office, and I’m left sitting at the table writing my hands in my lap until Alexandra walks through the door.
“Felicity?” she says, drawing my attention to her. “Hi.”
“Hello, Alexandra.” I stand and offer her my hand. She takes it and gives it a firm squeeze before she rounds the table and sits across from me.
“I’m not sure what you’re here for, but I can almost guarantee that I’m not the kind of lawyer that you need.”
“Actually,” I reply, folding my hands on the table to steady myself, “you’re exactly the kind of lawyer that I need, because I’m here to talk to you specifically. I don’t need your services.”
“Well then,” she says, shifting forward in her seat and resting her elbows on the table. “Consider me intrigued.”
“You own a house on Shelter Island,” I say, my heart beating in my throat.
Her eyes narrow as she gives me a shrewd look. Like she had an inkling of an idea that this is what I’m here for, and her whole demeanor changes now that her suspicions are confirmed.
“Yes,” she says icily. “I’m selling a home on Shelter Island. But I’ve told Oliver several times that I’m not interested in selling it to him, so I don’t appreciate him sending you here—”
“Oh,” I interrupt. “He didn’t send me. He doesn’t know I’m here. Honestly, I haven’t even spoken to him in almost a week.” I do my best to school my features so that she can’t see the hurt that threatens to flash in my eyes.
“Then what exactly did you want to talk to me about?”
“I am here to talk to you about selling the house to Oliver, but I wanted to come and appeal to you myself. Oliver doesn’t know what I’m doing, nor would he approve of it. When he first showed me the house—which is gorgeous, by the way—he was adamant that he wanted to buy the house on the up and up, provided there came a time when you were willing to sell it to him.”
She leans back in her chair and folds her arms across her chest. “I’ve told him several times that I’m not interested in that.”
Not that I thought this was going to be easy, but my nerves wash away as determination to make this thing go my way rushes through me. I hadn’t really given much thought to the fact that Oliver screwed her over on a business deal, and she somehow owns the very house that his most cherished childhood memories with his family took place in.
“He bought your family’s hotel, and you just so happen to own the home he spent his summers in with his family?” I say, sounding vaguely accusatory.
“It’s a coincidence, I assure you. One that I relish, to be completely honest, but a coincidence indeed. I got the house in a divorce settlement.”
That surprises me. For some reason I was expecting a story much more…nefarious than that.
“Miss Williams, what exactly is it that you think you can tell me that’s going to change my mind?” She sounds amused by my presence here, which kind of pisses me off.
Being a bitch to her isn’t going to help my case, so I tamp that instinct down. Seeing the emotional connection she had to that hotel firsthand makes me realize that my best chance of reasoning with her is to explain Oliver’s emotional connection to her property. Of course, that could backfire and make her want to make Oliver suffer even more, but there’s no point in playing it safe here. At the very least I’ll wind up back in the same place I started.
“Oliver told me about what happened between the two of you.”
Alexandra looks surprised at that. “Has he?”
“In very vague terms, but yes. And I don’t want to put words into Oliver’s mouth or assign feelings to him that I’m not positive he has, but…he loves that hotel, and I don’t believe he has any regrets buying it, even if doing that costs him this house. But it was sold to a person who wants it to be successful, and is willing to put in the work to keep it beautiful and make that happen. I know it must hurt that you aren’t the one making the decisions, but you can still visit. Your memories are there, and you can go back and relive them whenever you like, resting comfortably in the knowledge that someone is doing well by your family’s legacy. You can’t argue that Oliver hasn’t done an amazing job with the property.”
Alexandra’s eyebrows knit together as she takes a deep breath. “No, I wouldn’t argue that.”
“I know it’s not the same thing as having that property still in your family. My family doesn’t own hotels, but as you probably know, we’re all very active in the business world. I don’t know how I would handle seeing the businesses that contributed so many wonderful things to my life in the hands of someone else. So…I understand your struggle here.”
I hesitate for a few seconds, considering exactly how much I want to reveal about Oliver. I decide it’s now or never, and I can tell I’m getting through to her.
“Oliver wants that house for sentimental reasons. Owning it would mean a lot to him, and I totally get the feelings of power and vindictiveness here that are probably difficult to ignore. Oliver has happy memories with his parents there from before their divorce, and he wants to hold onto those memories. I think you can probably understand that feeling. But…unlike you, he can’t visit that home any time he wants to, unless you sell it to him.
“So, I came here hoping to appeal to your sentimental side. You could probably ask double and he would pay it,” I tease, hoping to loosen her up. The right side of her mouth tilts up, and that’s about the best I could hope for. “That’s how badly he wants it. And coming here and pleading with you on his behalf is how badly I want him to have it.”
