by Lauren Layne
Not that I’ve been doing much running. I don’t like it anymore. She took even that from me.
Once I loved it for its solitude. And now? Now it just feels fucking lonely.
“You take care of yourself, Lindy,” I say, ignoring her questioning gaze.
Then I do what once was unthinkable: I hug her. And I let her hug me back.
She clings a little too long, and maybe I do too. She’s the closest I’ve had to a mother since my own passed away forever ago.
But I can’t let myself think like that. An employee retiring is one thing. A pseudo-parent walking out on you? It’s crushing. So I don’t even go there.
“You need help loading the car?” I ask as I pull back, desperate to change the subject.
“Nah, Mick took care of it all this morning,” she says, adjusting her scarf and doing the blinky thing again.
“Where is Mick?”
Lindy fiddles even more deliberately with her scarf, not meeting my gaze.
My eyes narrow. “Lindy.”
“Well…”
I sigh in understanding. “My father’s coming into town, isn’t he? Mick went to pick him up from the airport.”
“Yes,” Lindy says with a sheepish smile. “I think Mick wants to feel needed just one last time.”
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.
I haven’t seen my father since the last time he came up to give me shit about daring to show my face in Frenchy’s. And actually, it’s because of that fact that I’m not dreading his arrival as much as I would have just a few months ago.
If anyone will understand why I couldn’t meet Olivia’s outrageous demand of shopping trips and movie theaters and vacations, it would be him. He didn’t even want me to show myself to a bunch of small-town locals in Nowhere, Maine. He’d probably have a heart attack at the thought of me following Olivia to New York, or, worse, attempting to rejoin my old life in Boston.
In the weeks that Olivia’s been gone, not a day has gone by when I haven’t second-guessed my decision. My nightmares are no longer about the war, but neither are they a clichéd montage of me fumbling around in the public eye while everyone points and laughs at my face.
No, my dreams are about her.
The bad ones are bleak, endless winters of trying to reach her and failing.
But the worst dreams—the ones that kill me—are the good ones. The ones where she’s laughing, or running along beside me with her little trot-trot gait, or sprawled out in my bed, taking up every inch of space.
Those are the mornings where I wake up wanting to go to her.
I smile grimly. For the first time in a long time, I feel like my dad can’t get here fast enough. I need a good dose of reality before I do something like chase after Olivia’s fairy tale of happily-ever-after.
I give Lindy a last peck on the cheek. “If I don’t see you before you leave…thank you. For being here.”
There she goes again, getting all watery. She pats my cheek awkwardly.
I watch her leave the kitchen. The second woman in a month to do just that.
I head into the office. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m actually watching the clock as I sit at my desk, awaiting my father’s arrival. I should have asked Lindy how long ago Mick had left, but that probably would have just made the minutes tick by slower. I should be getting used to it by now. Lately the days have been very long, and not just because it seems like it’s dark until noon and then dark again at three.
The days are long because I’m bored. I’ve racked my brain to remember how I used to fill my time. I’ve tried to rewind to a few months ago, where days and weeks and months passed in a blur. But even whiskey doesn’t help anymore.
The endless solitude is slowly stifling me. I’m letting it.
“Paul.”
I jerk a little from where I’ve been slouched over, clicking on random links on my laptop without actually reading anything. I’ve gotten ridiculously adept at surfing the Web lately. I had no idea there was so much mindless drivel on the Internet just waiting to be absorbed into vacant, bored minds.
“Dad.”
He pauses a little in his stride, giving me a puzzled look. Probably because it’s the first time that my voice has been welcoming. Hell, it’s the first time in many years I’ve called him Dad without a sarcastic edge.
“Sorry I didn’t call first,” he says, taking a seat across the desk like this is a business meeting. I intentionally ignore the little twist in my chest. What the hell was I expecting? A hug? After years of never returning his phone calls and going out of my way to show him how little I needed him?
I shrug.
“How are you?” he asks distractedly as he pulls his briefcase onto the desk and begins rooting around in the papers there.
“I’m good,” I lie. “Great.”
“Mmm-hmm,” he says, not looking up. “Oh good, here it is. I know I could have mailed it, but I wanted to see Mick and Lindy off in person, so I figured I might as well stop by.”
“Sure,” I say, refusing to be stung by the fact that he came all this way for his employees. Not for his son. Not for me. Never for me.
You reap what you sow, and all that.
He hands me a piece of paper, and I open it up, figuring it’s going to be some other stipulation or hoop I have to jump through in order to keep living here.
It’s far from it.
I frown. “Is this…”
“The deed to the house,” he says, shutting the briefcase with a click. “You fulfilled your end of the bargain. Three months with a caregiver.”
His voice is completely monotone. If he’s disappointed by how things turned out with Olivia, he doesn’t let on. It’s as though he doesn’t give a shit anymore.
I shake my head. “You’re giving me the house? Just like that?”
“I am.”
“What’s the catch?”
His expression is blank. “No catch.”
“Okay…” I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Dad gives an impatient sigh. “The house is paid for. You’re on your own for the upkeep, of course, but you’ll get your inheritance in a month, when you turn twenty-five. I thought you’d be happier.”
I should be happy.
I should be ecstatic.
I can stay here as long as I want, free and clear. No playing my father’s games, no trying to hide how much I’m drinking from Lindy, nobody to badger me about exercising or eating right or, God forbid, “getting out more.”
I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I know that. And yet…
“I feel like I’m missing something,” I say slowly.
My father rubs his eyes. “I’m just…I can’t do this anymore, Paul.”
The tension in my chest tightens. “Do what?”
“Help someone who doesn’t want to be helped. I thought putting Olivia out here to mess with your mind would work, and on some level I know it has. You don’t look like death, and you’re not half-drunk every time I see you.”
“I’m still going to Frenchy’s,” I interrupt. “Sorry if that pisses you off, but—”
“Stop.” He holds up a hand. “I was wrong to get mad about that. It’s only because I didn’t want you to get hurt. I thought it was too soon, but I was wrong. In fact, I only wish I’d pushed you to do it sooner. And I wish you’d push yourself to do more than skulk around a local bar in Bar Harbor for the rest of your life.”
I groan. “Not you too.”
My father’s lips tighten, but if he’s talked to Olivia and knows how we left things, he doesn’t say so.
“I love you, Paul.”
I swallow.
“I love you very much, and it’s because of that that I’m not going to watch you do this anymore. You want to live here all alone until you’re wrinkled and even meaner than you are now, I’m not going to stop you.”
“No more babysitters?”
“None,” he says, standing. “All but t
he last one were a waste of time, and even she couldn’t reach you in the way that I’d hoped.”
“Dad—” I take a deep breath and tell him what I should have told him a long time ago. Not because I want him to think me a hero, but because I can’t stand that he thinks I’ve been carelessly mooching off him for years. I want him to know that his money’s done something more than provide whiskey to his worthless son.
“You know Alex Skinner?” I say, not really knowing where to begin.
“I know.”
“Well, he has—”
“I know, Paul. I know all of it. His wife, his daughter, their situation.”
I barely stop my mouth from gaping.
“When? How’d you—?”
“I’m proud of you,” he says, not bothering to answer my question about how he knew. Knowing him, he probably blackmailed the CIA or something. “I didn’t tell you I knew because it was the one worthwhile thing you seemed to care about, and I thought if I stuck my nose in it, you’d abandon them just to spite me.”
I open my mouth to argue, but I’m half terrified he’s right. I really am that fucked up.
“I’ll take care of them, Paul. You have my word. It’ll be the end of you getting checks from me directly, of course. But you’ll have the house.”
My brain is still racing to process it all. I don’t give a shit about the money; I’ll get by. Or the house either, for that matter. But this feels like…abandonment. “Wait,” I say. “So no more badgering about psych appointments or doctor’s appointments or—”
“No more anything, Paul. This visit will be my last.”
I don’t get up from my chair when he does. “Hold on. You’re not going to come by? Not going to be my dad anymore?”
His face crumples for a second before regaining its indifferent expression. “I’m in Boston. I’m always there if you want me. Always.”
His expression tells me he won’t be holding his breath for a visit. Nobody will holding their breath for a visit from me. I’ve made sure of that.
“You’re just walking away?” I say, raising my voice as he starts to leave.
My father gives me a bland look over his shoulder. “Isn’t it what you’ve always wanted?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Olivia
I have my own place.
As in my very own I-pay-the-rent apartment, for the first time ever.
It’s a tiny, ancient studio on the border of the Upper East Side and Harlem. It smells like Thai food always and looks out onto a halfway house.
But it’s mine. I pay for it using my paycheck, which I get from an actual company, not an anonymous businessman who can’t be bothered to take care of his own problem child.
This time, I got a job working for Ethan’s dad. (I know, right?)
Like a total idiot, I’d gotten so wrapped up in my obsession with Paul that I hadn’t thought at all about what I’d do when the three months were up. And when I’d walked out the door I had a broken heart but absolutely zero prospects for getting a job.
So I’d done the unthinkable. I’d called Mr. Price and begged for a job…an internship, anything. After my spectacularly disastrous experiment with caregiving, I’d decided maybe the business world was the right fit for me after all.
I’m also taking a few night classes at a community college to get my degree. My parents are totally exasperated that I’ve come full circle. They’re right on one level: It would have been easier to just finish my senior year at NYU with my friends. But I don’t know how to explain to them that that simply wasn’t my path. There were things I needed to do first. Stuff about myself to discover before I could realize that, yeah, the original idea of entering the business world was the right choice for me all along.
Anyway.
The starting salary for a marketing assistant doesn’t leave much room for luxuries. Consistent hot water is a thing of the past, and the heat in my building seems to have two settings: off and try to start a fire.
But I’m doing it. On my own.
However…truth? When I see my parents for dinner once a week or so and they ask if I need any money, or mention that their friends are spending the rest of the year in Paris and wonder if I want a paid-for place on Park Avenue for that time, I’m tempted. Just a little.
There’s supposed to be all this pride in doing things for yourself, and I guess there is that, but I miss the trendy restaurants and endless clothes fund of my past life. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t easier before. But easy also feels hollow.
My time in Maine, while 95 percent disastrous, also showed me that I’d rather be doing it wrong on my own than doing it right for someone else’s sake.
That’s why things went amiss with Ethan. I was with him because I was supposed to be. It also happened at NYU. I was there because I was supposed to be the perfect little coed.
And now?
I’m on the right path.
Well, truthfully, I still feel a little lost. But at least I’ve started to figure out what I don’t want, and that’s a start.
I volunteer at the soup kitchen over on Eleventh Avenue every Sunday. Not because I want to continue punishing myself for past mistakes, but because it feels right.
I figure the best any of us can do is make amends the best we can to those we’ve wronged, and try to do better next time. One day at a time, and all that.
Now if only I could forget Paul. I push thoughts of him out of my head. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Or trying to, anyway.
It’s Friday afternoon. So not the time for moping. If I thought Fridays were awesome when I was a full-time student, they’re downright euphoric now that I’m part of the regular workforce.
Don’t get me wrong, I like my job. As marketing assistant, I’m really more like the assistant to the assistant to the associate marketing manager, which essentially means I make copies for a living, but even three weeks in, I can see a clear-cut career path, and that’s kind of cool. I don’t know that I’ll stay on this path, but so far it’s a hell of a lot better fit for me than caregiving was. I think it’ll be pretty difficult to get my heart broken in marketing, so already that’s a plus.
Still, great job or not, an end-of-the-week cocktail is sounding pretty perfect right about now.
Once I’m out of the subway tunnel, I pull out my cellphone to text Bella. As with the best of friendships, we picked up right where we’d left off, as though I hadn’t been in Maine and barely responsive for three months.
As always, she’s read my mind, texting me before I can text her. Wine tonight? I’m thinking a bucketful, at least.
I smile and text her back. My place?
Her response is immediate. God, no. My sweater still smells like pad thai from last time I came over. Heard about a cheap new wine bar in Hell’s Kitchen. Will text u details.
I don’t even bother waiting for the elevator in my building. On a good day and at off-hours it’s slower than molasses. At six o’clock on a Friday I don’t think I’ll ever see it, especially since there’s a moving truck outside. Some poor soul is about to realize that their bed, couch, dresser, and every other heavy item they own won’t fit in the shoe-box elevators. Poor thing.
I take the steps two at a time. I like to pretend it’s my exercise. I’m winded by the time I reach the sixth floor, probably because I haven’t gone for a run once since I left Maine. It’s stupid, but running makes me think of Paul.
So do turkey sandwiches.
And books.
And military uniforms.
And anyone with blue eyes.
I round the corner toward my unit and nearly collide with a pile of moving boxes. It would seem the new resident is on my floor.
Please, please, please don’t let them be a weirdo.
As long as it’s not an aspiring musician, I’ll be fine. I already have one of those living next door. She claims to have future in “folk rap.” Yup. That’s apparently a thing. And I get to hear her practice.
/> Like I said, I need that wine.
A burly-looking guy with tattoos comes out of the newly occupied apartment to pick up a couple of boxes. He gives me a blatant once-over and licks his lips. I give him a drop-dead look. He blows me a kiss.
Gross. I’m so not on Park Avenue anymore.
Bella still hasn’t texted me back, but I pour myself a glass of wine and settle onto the loveseat with my Andrew Jackson book after kicking off my shoes.
Yeah. I’m back to that.
See, I went to Bar Harbor, Maine with two goals: (1) heal Paul Langdon and (2) read this damned book. I’m determined to do at least one of those, and it certainly won’t be the first. He’s made that much clear in the weeks that have passed.
It’s not like I’ve been expecting him to chase after me or anything like that. I mean, if he’s too chickenshit to go to a movie in Maine, he’s definitely not going to show up at my office with some romantic gesture. To do that he’d have to care.
To do that, he’d have to love me the way that I love him.
Ha. Loved him, past tense. I need to put that behind me.
There’s a knock at the door. It’s Maria, the folk rapper.
“Hey. I need some cornstarch,” she says, snapping her fingers in a hand-it-over gesture.
Seriously?
“I don’t have any cornstarch,” I reply.
Maria wrinkles her nose in irritation. “That’s supposed to be a neighborly thing. A cup of cornstarch or whatever.”
“Actually, I think that’s a cup of sugar. Which I have, if you need it.”
I have a ton of sugar. I’ve been determined to duplicate Lindy’s cookie recipe, but so far I’m not even close.
“Well, okay. Hand over the sugar, then.”
I frown. “Wait—do you need sugar or cornstarch?”
“Cornstarch, but I’ll take the sugar.”
I shake my head in confusion. “They’re not substitutes for each other, you know.”
“What?” she asks.
Oh my God. I should have brought my wine to the door. “Sugar and cornstarch. So not the same thing.”
