Never Got Over You

by Scott, S. L.

  Ah, fuck it.

  I put on my shoes and head out to search for Harrison. If I can find him, I can find Tatum, and that leads me back to Natalie. I hurry to the lobby, practically jumping over suitcases left near the bellhop station, but skid to a stop when I see Harrison coming toward me from the other hallway. “Where’s Natalie?”

  “Good to see you, too.”

  “Sorry, I don’t have time for jokes.” I look over his shoulder, hoping to see the girls coming. “I have to find her.”

  That surefire smirk reveals how his night ended or morning started. We don’t discuss these things usually, but let’s just say the dude scores a lot. But there’s a sincerity about Harrison that not many see. He may not talk about it, but he’s been burned by plenty—family, friends, and gold diggers. The swagger is dropped, and he asks, “What’s going on with you, Christiansen?”

  “I should have told her my last name. Or gotten hers. Exchanged numbers or made plans. I should have done something to keep in contact, but I didn’t.”

  “Okay,” he says, shrugging, still appearing not to catch on to why I’m panicking. “Why not?” Why. Not?

  That’s a good fucking question.

  I don’t know why I didn’t when I felt more than lust for a woman for the first time in my life. With Natalie, I want to spend time talking with her rather than simply fucking or doing the foreplay dance leading up to it. Because I think I found someone real.

  She was real with me.

  She. Was. Real. And I let her fucking slip through my fingers while I slept. Fuck. I run my hand through my hair. “We were playing games when we should have realized it was more. Last night was more.” Maneuvering around him, I head in the direction from which he came, ready to bolt to their door. “What room are they in?”

  He’s already shaking his head before I finish asking the question. "They’re already gone.”

  Stopping, I look toward the large exit doors, not ready to admit defeat. “I can catch up to them. How long ago did they leave?”

  “At least an hour, probably longer.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Tatum said goodbye when it was still dark outside. I fell back asleep and just woke up. Figured I should get back to the room to pack.”

  I look down at the tile beneath my feet, the same flooring that led Natalie away from me. Should I try the ferry? Maybe call the airlines at LAX? Will anyone give me information about another traveler?

  I know the answer already.

  When he moves out of the way of other guests, my attention drifts to his hand. And his phone, a new option coming into play. “You can text Tatum.”

  His expression falls when he flips the screen toward him to look at it. “Yeah, it was kind of left back in the bedroom. We didn’t exchange details. It was . . .” he says, glancing toward the exit, “nothing more than a vacation thing.” Lowering his phone, he shoves it in his pocket. “I need to pack.”

  When he turns to leave, I say, “Are you sure about that?”

  He stops to look back. “Yeah, we have to check out soon.”

  “I meant about Tatum.”

  “Doesn’t matter, man. We live on opposite sides of the country, and I’m not the pen pal type.”

  “We just move on like last night doesn’t matter? Like they don’t?”

  His brow furrows, and he hits me with a glare. “Yes.”

  Left standing there wondering what options I have, I sigh, wishing I could ask at the front desk about Natalie. But given she couldn’t even get into her own room last night, there’s no chance they’ll give me any information. That’d be a fool’s errand.

  A fool. That’s what I am. A fucking fool for letting her go.

  The walk back to the villa feels longer than usual, with my feet dragging beneath me. What can I do? There’s nothing left but to return to my life.

  I let myself in, the door slamming behind me. The terrace would usually call to me, the ocean just beyond, but that’s not where I spent most of my time with Natalie. I walk into the bedroom and do a quick scan to find any trace of her. Anything that would give me a clue to who she was or even if she was real.

  There’s nothing but a crumpled sheet. Standing there, I try to recall what sidetracked us from, as she put it, “properly introducing” ourselves. Frustration sets in when I realize it was me. I changed the topic by bringing up how much I liked our beginning. That still holds true, but I fucking hate our ending.

  * * *

  “How was Catalina?” my mom asks, stirring a cup of tea when I walk in the back door that opens into the kitchen. It must be two—her routine runs like clockwork. “I always find it so relaxing there.”

  I close the door, dropping my bag on the floor, and go to her. I’m not sure how to reply. The truth isn’t something I’m ready to acknowledge, but I also don’t like to lie or worry her. Kissing her on the cheek, I say, “It was good.” I go with neutral, unoffensive, and generic.

  Before I turn to head upstairs, she touches my cheek. “Well, that doesn’t sound like you.”

  “Me having a good time?”

  “No, the lack of emotion behind it. What’s wrong, darling son?”

  Cookie Christiansen reads me like a book. I equally love and hate it. “Just a lot on my mind.”

  Picking up her teacup, she takes a sip, then says, “That’s understandable. This is a big move. Are you ready?”

  I lean against the counter. “I think I can handle walking across a stage.”

  She laughs. “I meant the exam and coming to work for the company.”

  “Do I have a choice on either?”

  “Not according to your father, but at the end of the day, it’s about what you want.”

  I’ve never understood her patience with him. Not that he’s horrible or anything like that, but they see life so differently. She’s about doing what makes you happy, and he’s about making money, which makes him happy. “You and Dad are so different. How do you make it work?”

  She laughs, moving around the island to sit on a barstool. “We stopped trying to make it ‘work’ and made it ‘love’ instead.”

  “Nope. Not going to have that conversation.” I pick up my bag.

  Her laughter rings louder in the bright kitchen of my childhood home. I know I’m lucky, though. My parents are a rare breed. Still married. In love. Happy. “Oh, Nick. I’m not talking about sex, although that’s important as well. I’m talking about the little things. Changing your perspective. It’s not work to love each other, so that’s not a term we use. Loving each other is easy. It’s life that gets in the way. We hit a bump in the road or smash into a wall sometimes. We may be different and not always agree, but we do listen.” With a sweet smile, she adds, “Most of the time. But I’m okay with us being two beings with our own minds. What fun would it be if we agreed on everything?”

  “I see your logic.” I kiss her head as I pass behind her. “You would have made a great lawyer.”

  “I’ll leave that to you. I’m proud of my degree, but in practice, I’m glad I chose a different path.”

  “You chose wisely.”

  Just as I round the corner to head for the stairs, she says, “I had really hoped you would meet someone, Nicholas.” Although she can no longer see me, she knows I’m listening. “The new moon was in your seventh house.”

  All right. She’s got my attention. Guess she’s rubbed off on me . . . just a little. Taking a few steps back into the room, I know I shouldn’t indulge in the New Age stuff she’s so into, but this time, my interest is piqued because of one thing—Natalie. “Oh, yeah? What does that mean?”

  “New beginnings. The start of a fresh relationship. That phase ends today, though.” She eyes me as if she’s reading the book she personally wrote. Again, I know I’m lucky. It’s not just that my mom can read me. It’s that she made the effort and invested the time to get to know me, even through my lively teenage years, as she calls them. She never backed down from showing me l
ove.

  I wouldn’t want it any other way.

  “Not that I’d expect you to meet your forever love on vacation, but you never know what can happen on an island paradise.”

  Natalie happened.

  My heart beats to life, a heavy thud felt in my chest. I avert my gaze to the leather handles in my hand. Suddenly, every scratch on the surface of the bag is the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen.

  She takes a deep breath and releases an exaggerated exhale. “Destiny’s hand can’t be forced. Fortunately, there are many other phases of the sun and moon to come in your future. Focusing on your studies is probably best.”

  “Yeah, probably.” I don’t know why my heart sinks, but its abrupt protest is felt. I trudge up the stairs and enter my bedroom. I have a good life and have been given practically anything I could ever want. But the one thing living in Beverly Hills, a bank account full of money, and endless business opportunities can’t give—a real life, one of my own choosing, one that comes with a genuine connection instead of professional agreements with strings.

  Natalie was the opposite of that to me.

  I don’t know her background and have no clue what she does with her life in Manhattan. I don’t know her last name or anything about her family. I know her, though—that connection to the person she is on the inside was constructed and the foundation laid down. But maybe that doesn’t matter, and I need to listen to my mother.

  “Destiny’s hand can’t be forced.”

  Guess I’ll never know.

  9

  Nick

  Remorse has consumed me.

  That I didn’t kiss her and we didn’t take the time to exchange numbers or surnames frequents the back of my mind. I regret falling asleep next to her without getting every last tidbit.

  But more so, I’m beginning to regret the entire weekend altogether. Another birthday passed, graduation came and went. I officially left Stanford behind and passed the bar exam.

  I’m a full-fledged practicing attorney, also known as an adult. That’s how my dad refers to me these days. If adulting consists of being buried in the routine everyday of the legal department of Christiansen Wealth Management, then it sucks most days. Is it challenging? Sure, sometimes, but I’m left with generally mundane tasks like reviewing contracts and sitting in on meetings to discuss the expansion of the company. It leaves too much time for my mind to wander back to a girl I met last spring.

  Four months later, it’s easier to call her Natalie No-Last-Name to give our encounter some substance. Natalie doesn’t seem enough for something that felt big . . . feels big. I only call her that in my head, of course. But the name is more fitting than I’m comfortable admitting.

  Thinking about her isn’t healthy. Dating no longer interests me, like somehow, I had a taste of the good life, and now I can’t be bothered with anything less. Sex is still appealing, but no one holds my attention as Natalie did. I’ve never struggled like this—not with women or dating, finding someone to hook up with or even skipping the foreplay and just fucking. It was never a big deal before.

  One night in Catalina ruined the life I was living. Not that I was content, but hell, I had a life at least. Now it feels like I’ve left that back in Catalina.

  I try to keep my thoughts regarding Natalie to a minimum and am quick to rid them from my mind and focus on my future. That means being present instead of living in the past.

  My job is always a good excuse to get out of the text invitations from girls I’ve hooked up with in the past and women who are interested in me now. All I have to say is, “I have to work in the morning,” and that’s a free pass without further explanation.

  They are none the wiser.

  But why can’t I seem to connect with someone like I did with Natalie? Surely, there has to be someone who interests me. The few times I went out with other women, I felt as though I was betraying someone who isn’t real, yet who steals my thoughts and consumes my spare time. Sometimes I can still see her so vividly that I’m delusional enough to reach out and touch her, her laughter filling my ears and the way she looked at me as though I was saving her.

  From what?

  Another shot?

  No, it was more than that, but I need to let it go—let her go—once and for all. My phone lights up with a text.

  Mom: Dad will be home in ten.

  Me: I’ll be down.

  This is the weekend we celebrate the man who has provided a life of luxury by means of financial advisement to the wealthiest Angelenos. My mom goes out of her way to throw the biggest and best party for my dad, spending countless hours planning every meticulous detail. So, there’s no missing it, no matter how much work we have to do. The four of us are expected to be here.

  This was the perfect event to bring a date, yet not one name other than Natalie-No-Last-Name came to mind. I’m so fucked.

  My brother and I delivered his diamond jubilee gift of cufflinks earlier this evening. He’ll wear them tonight, but otherwise, they’ll join the rest in his collection, rotating them out for special occasions. I imagine cufflinks have to be ranked up there with ties as the most boring gift to receive. They remind me of the life I don’t want to lead.

  The door opens, and Andrew leans in to judge me with just a glance. “I thought Mom wanted you in the Brooks Brothers tux?” he asks. Being fashionably late isn’t something my brother and I strive for. It’s an effort to blend in. We usually fail because our good looks run in the family, so we tend to stand out. “I was feeling Armani.”

  I shrug the jacket down by the hem and then fix my tie standing in front of the mirror.

  “You should have shaved.”

  Rubbing my jaw, I walk past him into the hallway. “I like to keep Dad guessing.”

  “You mean pissed,” he says, chuckling. “Those are two different things.” He closes my door and then catches up with me before we descend the stairs. Andrew might be two years older, but you wouldn’t know it by our height. We’ve measured, and we’re identical down to the millimeter. Not that we’re competitive or anything.

  His hair is a few shades lighter than mine, taking more after Cookie’s than Corbin’s. I look more like my father, inheriting his lighter brown eyes and hair color.

  If I’m the golden boy, then Andrew is pure platinum. He fails at nothing, and our dad respects the hell out of him. Andrew also has less of an ax to grind. He always wanted to join the business and followed through. He’s built his own prestigious clientele of new money here in LA, impressing not only my dad but also bringing in some major bank for the company. “Yes, they are,” I say, grinning.

  He shakes his head as we walk downstairs. “Are you trying to give him a heart attack on his birthday, Nick?”

  I, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about financial strategies and the market. I also have no desire to work directly under my father, so joining the legal team—with the intention of one day running it—is the compromise we settled on, which leaves my dad’s sons running the business when he retires. It’s a win all around.

  I stop when we land on the marble floor. “Neither a brand of tux nor me not shaving is going to give him a heart attack, stroke, or other fatal condition. It will rankle his feathers at best. I’ll keep his glass of scotch full, and he’ll be fine.”

  His jovial expression turns serious, and he asks, “I wanted to talk to you quickly about New York. What are your thoughts?”

  “I can fly out, meet the heads, and get the contracts.” With the party in full swing, I move off to the side to finish this conversation in private.

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, he says, “My schedule can be rearranged, and I can go with you.”

  “It’s no big deal, Andrew.”

  He laughs. “It’s actually a huge deal.”

  “I can handle it.”

  Nodding, he says, “I know you can. I also think it’s a great opportunity. One I wish I’d been given.” The noise from the crowd filters into the foyer, and An
drew looks over my shoulder. “It’s getting busy.”

  I glance over my shoulder. “These parties always are.”

  When I turn back, he says, “Look, Nick, I know you never dreamed of working for the company, but having you there is an asset.”

  “By last name alone, but I don’t do anything any other attorney couldn’t do.”

  “It’s good having you there. That’s all I wanted to say.” Shoulder to shoulder, he pats my back, then says, “Time to play nice.”

  “I’ll do my best.” We start walking again, and I add, “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, little brother.”

  I just shake my head and laugh.

  The house drips with crystals that sparkle like diamonds when reflecting the light from the chandeliers. With bars inside and out, a buffet as long as the Oscars red carpet, and a clear night as if she demanded nothing less of September, this might be the pinnacle to Cookie Christiansen’s party planning.

  Trays of champagne circulate, but I’m ready for something stronger, so Andrew and I head for the bar as party guests flow in from the terrace. I order, “Rum and Coke, and a scotch from that bottle you have stored away for the guest of honor.”

  With drinks in our hands, Andrew leads the way as we walk outside through the partygoers to find my parents greeting the guests as they arrive.

  “Happy Birthday, Dad,” I say, gifting him with a fresh cocktail.

  “Thank you, son.” He looks pleased by the drink and gives me a smile. “You always did have great timing.” As we shake hands, he adds, “I see you dressed for the occasion.” I was waiting for the dig to come but thought it would take him a few drinks to get around to it. He’s a traditional guy, so maybe I intended to push a few buttons with the scruff and modern cut suit.

  He’d normally dive into a game of verbal volleyball. He loves to be right, but so do Andrew and I. My mom is usually left refereeing. It’s always done in fun and keeps us about our wits. He takes a gulp of his drink, not holding back. Go, Dad. The edges of his shoulders begin to slouch, and he appears more relaxed. “Nick brought the good stuff.”