by Olivia Chase
And thank God, because I refuse to be that guy who’s pitied. I’m more than just the end-result of my mother’s murder .
Aren’t I ?
The thought niggles at me. That event has set me up on my path. Informed the person I am today. Someone too damaged to even let people glimpse into my past more than a peek before I freak out and push them away .
How is that not fucked up ?
I pause and suck in several breaths. Press my hand to my aching side. I’m covered with sweat, and my limbs ache. I’m supposed to be more in control than this, not letting everything around me determine my fate. I’m losing myself, and it’s scaring me to death .
That’s the core issue here .
That part of me wants to drop my wall and let her see me. Because deep down inside, I feel like Samantha would listen and understand. See why I’m so fucked up. But what could I possibly give a woman like her in return? A half of a man? She deserves better .
Me ending our relationship was the best thing I could do for her .
And what does that say about me and what I think I deserve? To be alone, to not inflict my own personal hell on anyone else .
I don’t know what to think about that, so I do my usual—I put that thought out of my head. And I run back to my place. My adoptive parents are throwing a dinner party to celebrate my mom’s birthday, and I promised to be there, of course. I’ll go for an hour and then bow out. Beg tiredness, or busyness, or something. No one ever expects me to linger at these things, thankfully .
* * *
“I just loved Catch a Tiger !” Mom’s best friend Valerie gushes. “It was the most intense thriller I’ve ever read.” Catch a Tiger was last year’s big release for us, and it already has film rights sold with major A-list Hollywood actors slated to star. Featured on several talk shows and the star of thousands of book clubs .
I remember when the editor brought the manuscript to us, telling us it needed work but would be an explosive hit. I’m glad our acquisitions board listened. Because of that book, our employees are going to have a good Christmas bonus this year .
“Thanks,” I tell her with a nod as I sip on my glass of red wine .
“So.” She leans forward. “What’s going to be your next big hit? Do you know yet ?”
I offer a polite smile. I’m asked this all the time. People love to feel like they’re in the know. That they have information no one else does. I guarantee that anything I say with an ounce of specifics will end up on Twitter. I’m too smart for this game. “We have a couple in the pipeline. Stay tuned—we’ll be doing some major promo soon .”
“And you can’t tell me any details ?”
“Valerie, stop hounding my son,” Mom says, saving me from the inquisition. She loops her arm in her friend’s arm and smiles, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I haven’t opened your birthday present for me yet .”
“Ooh, yes, you must!” Valerie says .
As Mom guides her away, she offers me a wink over her shoulder. I give a nod in thanks, knowing I owe her one for the save .
“Do you ever get tired of being important?” Dad asks me with a laugh. He’s holding a Miller Light. I love that Dad doesn’t worry about social fashion. He drinks what he wants, regardless of how fancy the party might be. I invited him to a book launch for a major release two years ago, and he wore the suit he had on at my high school graduation .
Dad comes from humble stock, and he’s happy to remain that way .
I shrug. “You get used to it, I guess .”
“I guess.” He gives me a knowing look as he takes a drag from his beer .
“What?” I can’t help but ask. I know better. I just opened the door for him to lay down some fatherly advice or something .
“Bentley.” Dad sighs and steps toward me. “I can tell you’re off. I don’t know what’s wrong, but you’re not the same .”
My stomach tightens. “ How’s that ?”
“You seem…” He lowers his beer and eyes me. “Sadder. Like something is missing .”
Something is missing. Has been since I was nine. But I know that’s not what he means, and I’m sure as fuck not going to talk about the past. Or about Samantha. “I’m fine,” I say evenly. “I’m just busy with work is all. It takes a lot of my time to keep a company that size running .”
“Okay.” He nods. “You’re strong. I know this. Your mom and I love you and we’re so proud of all the hard work you do and have done. But…” He pauses, exhales. “Don’t forget that in the end, we can’t curl up beside a pile of money at night. Money won’t hold us when we’re sick. Money can’t make us feel loved.” With that, he walks away .
I stand there for a moment, and the simple words he spoke seep beneath my skin. Wiggle their way past my ribcage toward my heart .
I could have had that with Samantha. If I had just taken a risk and let her in. I could have, but I let it go .
No, I sent it away. Big difference .
I made her feel like she was unimportant to me, dismissible, dispensable. And because of me, she felt forced to leave the job that was going to help her build a secure future .
I sink into a nearby chair, mind reeling .
I’m an asshole .
The whole time Samantha worked for me, she bent over backward to please me. To make me happy. To give me what made me feel good, without asking much in return .
And what did I do? At the first sign of her asking me for something, I rejected her .
Shame floods me, hard and fast and strong. I’m so sick over the realization of what I’ve done. How selfish I’ve been. I made everything about me, even when I tried to focus on her. In the end, it was still about me .
My entire adulthood has been this way .
My adoptive parents, they loved me in spite of me being closed off. They took me in and gave me a home, knowing the trauma I experienced. They never pushed me to talk about it, never asked me to be anything other than myself. And how have I repaid them for that care? I duck out early for dinners and parties. I stay closed off .
I don’t let anyone in .
I rise from the chair and head toward my old bedroom. It’s dark. I leave the lights shut off and sit down on the full-size bed. Most of the room has been changed, and I haven’t lived at home since I was a teenager—but some things stayed. Artwork I made. Awards I received. Newspaper clippings about my company’s success .
What happens if I drop my walls and let people see me? The damaged me, the parts that are so raw and painful that it hurts to expose them to daylight? What happens if they see it and they’re freaked out by how fucked up I really am ?
How can I handle that rejection ?
Somehow, Samantha managed to handle it. You can too. My brain is relentless, chewing away at my arguments for self-preservation .
I fucked up. I royally fucked up. I had a chance with a woman who cares about me, and I blew it .
I lost the first woman in my life, my mother, and now I’ve gone and sent away the next woman who came along and truly cared about me, saw me for who I am and didn’t run away screaming .
Can I get her back ?
I don’t know how to open up, not the way Samantha wants and needs me to. But I sure as fuck need to try. I’ve already gone weeks without her, and I feel like the hole in my chest is getting wider .
A knock on the door startles me out of my thoughts. I jerk my head up and squint as the light from the hallway spills in .
It’s my adoptive mother .
Then I shake the thought from my head. Not my adoptive mother. Just my mom—the woman who took me in and raised me, cared for me the best she could despite my challenges .
“Hey. You okay?” The concern in her voice chips away at something in me .
“No. I…I messed up, big time,” I confess .
“Oh, honey. I was waiting for you to say something.” There’s no surprise in her voice at all as she joins me on the bed, wrapping her arm around my shoulders .
; “Something about what?” I ask cautiously. Surely she doesn’t mean …
“That you fell in love with your assistant and it ended, of course.” She says this so matter-of-factly that it makes my jaw drop .
“How the hell did you know ?”
Mom laughs. “Oh Bentley, do you think I’m blind? I knew the moment I saw you two together at your office. It was clear you had feelings for her but didn’t know how to deal with it. That’s always been how you work.” She squeezes my shoulder and drops her hand in her lap. “When people get too close to you, you run away. Or push them away .”
My face burns. How the fuck have I been so transparent and not known it? I’m ruthless in the boardroom, known for my cold calm. And here I am, being dismantled by my own mother. “Okay, so then what do I do ?”
Mom turns to face me, and from the light in the hall, I can see a gentle smile on her face. “You fight for what you need, and you prove yourself. You show her she’s safe with you—that you won’t hurt her ever again .”
I just stare at my mother, seeing her in a different lens. How is it I never knew how insightful she was? Probably because she never pushes me. She’s just been waiting calmly, patiently, for me to open up to her. All these years .
“I’ve hurt you, haven’t I?” I murmur .
She reaches up and cups my face, and the sting in my chest fades. “Oh, honey. What hurts me is to see you hurt yourself. You’re stronger than you know.” Mom stands, kisses the top of my head like she did when I was a kid, and leaves me to my thoughts .
Samantha
“O kay, I think I’m dying,” I groan to Delilah .
She looks over at me from her treadmill right beside mine. “You’re just as dramatic as I remember. Keep going. If you want to earn that ice cream cone, you gotta finish .”
“Damn you,” I grumble as I turn my attention forward. “You know my weaknesses .”
I can hear her chuckle but try to tune it out and focus on my workout. I joined the gym two weeks ago in an effort to reclaim my life and get it back on track. We’re working toward running a 5K next month, one Delilah guilted me into .
Well, she didn’t have to exactly twist my arm. I was ready for a new challenge to focus on. But still, I didn’t realize how out of shape I was .
The first day, I could only do ten minutes without almost collapsing. I wanted to crawl across the floor toward the exit, but somehow she persuaded me to stay and keep going. And I’m glad she did. It’s actually getting better, despite my whining .
I’m gaining more endurance, more strength. Every time I work out, I do something good for myself. And that was long, long overdue .
Taking care of me .
When we finish, we head to the changing room and shower, then change. Delilah fishes her phone out of her purse and beams. “Look, Finn sent me pics of John. He’s starting to walk!” She tilts her screen my way .
I’m so happy for her. Delilah found love with her high school sweetheart, and they have a kid, a life together. I’m happy, but it’s also bittersweet. Because it reminds me of how alone I am .
And how much I miss Bentley, as stupid as it seems. I know he never thought of me that way, but… I shake it off and focus on my friend. “You have the cutest kid in the universe,” I declare. He really is. I envy her life .
She winks. “I make pretty foxy babies, right ?”
We walk outside, and the warm sunlight hits me immediately. It would be a good day to lay out back and be lazy, one of the last days of good summer weather before the coolness of fall sets in. But I have things to do. I applied to NYU a couple of weeks ago and I’m waiting to hear a decision. I decided that just in case I wasn’t accepted, I was going to apply to other colleges as well. From Maine to California. Nothing really to hold me here in New York .
I have to be open to whatever possibilities are out there if I’m going to start a new life. Even if it feels wrong and sad .
Delilah drops me off on her way home. The mailbox flag indicates mail arrived, and I try not to be too excited as I open the door .
There’s a large white envelope .
My heart slams so hard against my ribcage that I think it’s going to burst its way out. That looks like college-related mail, maybe. I take it out first. The address is from NYU Department of Admissions .
Oh God, oh God .
It takes all my strength to bring the whole batch of mail inside. Sit down at the dining room table and flick the envelope open .
D ear Samantha ,
Welcome to New York University !
I whoop. Loudly. I’m in, I’m in! Tears flood my eyes, and I let them fall .
Footsteps pound down the stairs. “What’s going on?” Mom asks .
With a shaking hand, I show her the letter of acceptance. She scans it, then looks up at me, pride in her eyes .
“Congrats!” she says, giving me a big hug. “I knew you’d get in. You have fantastic grades. I bet you can qualify for a scholarship , too !”
The packet gives information on how to apply for financial aid. Without delay, I dart to my computer and apply. I won’t have all of my tuition covered, of course, but I can take out loans to pay for the rest .
I’m going back to college. I’m really doing this .
I quickly fire off a text to Delilah, letting her know, and the exclamation point-ridden text message she sends me makes me laugh out loud. Her excitement for me is palpable. Another message dings: WE ARE CELEBRATING TONIGHT. NO EXCUSES. CLEAR THE EVENING AND GET READY TO GET YOUR DRINK ON .
Well, when you type in all caps like that, I can’t say no ;-) , I reply. Guess I’d better dig up something to wear .
* * *
T he next couple of weeks go by in a blur. I’m busy planning what I’m going to do—looking at living options, jobs in the immediate area so I can make money while earning my degree. Mom and Dad are happy to see me active and not moping, and they offer to help however they can .
And then one day I hop onto the NYU student website and check the status of my financial aid. What I see makes me pause in shock. Surely I’m reading that wrong .
It says my tuition is paid in full. Not by scholarship. Just outright paid .
Clearly someone applied money to my account by accident. I call the registrar’s office to correct them on the issue. After briefly summarizing the information, I’m asked to hold and then transferred to the head of the department .
“Hi, Miss Bridges?” the woman says .
“Yes, this is me .”
“I understand you’ve been trying to address the status of your account, and I can assure you there’s been no mistake. I checked it over again just to make sure. Your account was paid in full yesterday. In person, actually, and with cash. I confirmed it with the clerk who took the payment .”
“But…” My head is spinning, and nervous excitement flutters in my chest at what this could mean. There’s only one person I know who could do something like that. No way would he, though …
Why would he pay for me to go to school? Unless he feels guilty about cutting off my means of income .
That fluttering sinks away. I can’t accept this payment. I’m not taking his money. I’ll pay for it on my own. I refuse to take pity money .
But when I ask about rejecting the payment, the confused woman on the other end of the phone explains that the funds are nonreversible. In order for me to reject them, I would likely need to start a lengthy legal process with the school and it would probably delay my entry by at least a semester .
I finally just thank the woman for her help and hang up .
What do I do? Delilah would tell me to take the money and run. It was the least he owed me for heartache. But it feels wrong to let him pay like that. I didn’t work long enough for to earn that amount of money .
I let the knowledge of what he did sink in. I told him early on that I was saving for college at NYU. He remembered—and he looked me up to see if I was still intending on going there. H
e paid my way. I don’t know if it’s an apology or what. Someone like him can afford to just hand over cash and cover my tuition for the year. It would have taken me years to save up that much extra money .
I don’t know why he did it, but I at least owe him a thank you, since there’s very little way to force him to take the money back .
My chest aches with all the pain I’ve packed down for weeks and weeks. The loss of him, the rejection, it festers right back to the surface, along with the realization that despite the way we ended up, Bentley still tried to right a wrong .
Tears pour out of my eyes, and I let myself cry. Let myself feel. I’ll write him a letter, thank him for what he’s done .
I grab a blank piece of paper. What can I possibly say? My hand is shaking as I struggle to hold a pen. I have to calm myself down. This isn’t anything more than him extending a kindness, I remind myself. I can thank him for that and not read into the gesture .
He likely felt guilty and thought this would fix things. It isn’t even about the money for me. It’s the fact that he tried something to help me. Money is the only language a guy like Bentley can speak. I can’t ever expect more than that .
I start about ten different drafts, discarding them a couple of sentences into each one. Everything I say sounds trite. Or too emotional. I need to find the perfect balance. I sniffle and wipe my eyes, trying again .
“What in the world is all that noise?” I hear my father say as he walks in the hallway and clomps down the stairs. “Jennifer, do you hear that ?”
“Of course I do,” Mom scoffs. I hear the door open, and there’s dead silence .
“Who are you ?”
“Bentley Strongwell,” comes a voice so achingly familiar that my lungs seize and I freeze in shock .
Bentley is here? At my house ?
I’m out of the room and down the stairs before I realize what I’m doing. I stop right behind my parents. My mom is shooting daggers at Bentley, and my dad has a hand on her shoulder—I don’t know if it’s in support of her anger or to hold her back from punching him in the face .
