by Helen Hoang
“Good girl.” He breathed a kiss into her hair. “I’m going to go now.”
“I can drive you home.” She didn’t want them to part yet.
“I’d prefer to call a cab. I want to clear my things from your place, and it’s better if you’re not there when I do that. Take care, okay?”
“Okay.”
He dug her key fob, phone, and cards from his pockets and handed them to her. “Good-bye, Stella.”
“Good-bye, Michael.”
Statue-still and numb, she watched as he left. Then, she turned around and walked inside. Her preference was to go home, but he wanted to collect his things in peace. All other exit strategies were out, as well. The thought of passing by him in the parking lot or on the road filled her eyes with fresh tears.
Better to return to the dinner. It was the last place she wanted to be right now.
After going to the bathroom and fixing her makeup as well as she knew how, she seated herself at the table.
“Where’s Michael, Stella dear?” her mother asked quietly.
“He left. We just broke up.”
Philip smirked.
Aliza cast Stella a pitying glance from the other side of Michael’s empty chair and placed a hand on Stella’s shoulder. “Men like him need to be free, darling.”
Stella pushed Aliza’s hand off without a word.
Her father narrowed his eyes in displeasure. She knew how he felt about any kind of rude behavior. “It’s all for the best.”
For once, her mother had nothing to say. She merely watched Stella with concerned eyes.
“You can do much better,” Philip added. The directness of his gaze said that by better he meant him.
Stella’s knuckles went white as she curled her fingers around her knees. Emotion boiled inside her chest, screaming to get out, but she bit it back.
“I agree,” her father said. “I saw nothing good in that man.”
Sharpness lanced her insides, and her control dissolved. “Then you weren’t looking closely enough. He’s not doing nothing. He’s not lazy. Sometimes there are more important things than passion and ambition. He put his career on hold so he could take care of his mom, who’s dying of cancer. He’s the kind of person who will give up everything for the people he loves, everything. He’s nothing but good.”
And he didn’t want her.
Her father’s face darkened. “Then why didn’t he say so?”
“Why would he want to share that with people who are looking down on him?”
“I wasn’t—”
“That’s enough, Edward,” her mother snapped. “It was obvious what you were thinking. You want her to be with someone driven and career-focused, someone who can take care of her. You don’t seem to realize she’s driven enough on her own, and she doesn’t need someone to take care of her financially. Stella dear, let’s get out of here. The noise is getting to me.”
Her mother held out her hand, and Stella took it, letting herself be led to an empty seating area just outside the banquet room. A massive bouquet of willow branches and calla lilies dominated the low coffee table.
Stella traced the edge of one of the flowers before she sat down and shut her eyes. It was much quieter out here, and some of the tension in her head eased. But the ache in her heart didn’t abate. Instead, it spread outward and intensified, crushing her with hopelessness and defeat. The soft weight of her mother’s hand on her leg had her eyes drifting open.
Her mother embraced her, pulling her into ropes of cool pearls and Chanel No. 5. Stella still didn’t like that strong scent, but in that moment, its familiarity calmed her. She relaxed and let her mother hold her like she had when she was little, not realizing she was crying until her mother hushed her and began rocking side to side.
“I’m so sorry, dear. I’ve always wanted an artist for you, someone sensitive who would put you first. Later, we can think up a strategic way to find the perfect person. You should really try Tinder, dear.”
Even now, her mother was still in honey badger mode. She never gave up.
Stella released a long, ragged breath. “That person was Michael.”
“Don’t get stubborn on me now, Stella. There are billions of people on this planet, and you can’t force love. You’ll find a better fit than him if you stay focused.”
Stella said nothing. Michael was mint chocolate chip for her. She could try other flavors, but he’d always be her favorite.
Her differences always did this. They left her most alone when she was surrounded by people. Usually, she didn’t care. She didn’t need people. She was happiest when she had the space and time to focus on things that interested her. But Michael interested her, and she didn’t feel alone when she was with him. Far from it. The knowledge that it was all one-sided hurt.
“Do you think, Momma, that you could shelve the husband-hunting and grandbaby discussions for a while? I want to make you happy, but I’m really tired right now.”
Her mother squeezed her tighter. “Of course, forget all about grandchildren. I didn’t mean to pressure you. I just want you happy.”
Stella sighed and shut her eyes. She didn’t care about being happy. All she wanted at the moment was to feel nothing.
* * *
• • •
The silence in Stella’s house was absolute. Funny how Michael had never noticed it before. When he was here, he was usually busy talking to Stella, listening to her quirky observations, cooking in her massive kitchen and feeding her, kissing her, making love to her . . .
He was going to miss this house. He was going to miss Stella. A lot. He already missed her. He was breaking into pieces from missing her. Ending their arrangement had been the right thing to do, though. She didn’t need his help anymore, and she deserved someone better than him. Someone smarter who didn’t have a criminal for a dad. Someone who could impress her parents and didn’t run into past clients when they went out to dinner.
That reminded him that he’d be back to regular escorting next Friday. The thought held absolutely no appeal. He wasn’t even sure if he could get a hard-on for someone else at this point. All he wanted was Stella smell and Stella taste and Stella skin. His body had tuned itself to fit her, and nothing else would do. The old fantasies that used to interest him were now dull and boring. He’d developed a new kink, and it involved a shy girl who daydreamed about economics.
He sat down on Stella’s bed and rested his face in his palms. This was his last time sitting here. Fuck it all, another man would be sleeping in this bed soon. Wretched ugly feelings rose. Stella was his to kiss, his to touch, his to love. He wanted to tear the blankets off the bed and shred everything to pieces. If he couldn’t have it, no one could. She could get a new fucking bed.
Fisting his hands, he made himself go to the closet before he could lay waste to her bedroom. He stuffed T-shirts and jeans into his sports bag before moving to the underwear drawer. He wanted to get this done so he could leave. Socks piled into the bag, followed by neatly folded boxers. At the bottom of the drawer, he encountered an unopened package. The exact brand and size of boxers he used, though he usually purchased navy blue and these were red. A bow was tied around it.
Stella had bought him underwear.
It was the first gift she’d given him. How funny. Had she thought his were getting worn out? Maybe they were. He tossed the package into his sports bag and zipped it up. They weren’t very expensive, and she certainly wasn’t going to use them herself. She’d bought them for him, and he was going to keep them.
On his way out of her room, he slipped his billfold from his pocket, fished out a folded slip of paper, and set it on her nightstand. There, proof that he wasn’t his dad.
But maybe that wasn’t why it felt so right to do this. Maybe it felt right because he was in love.
He strode through the empty house, turning o
ff lights as he went. After he locked the front door, he tucked his key under the welcome mat, said a quiet good-bye, and left.
{ CHAP+ER }
25
When Stella reached for her glasses the next morning, her fingers encountered a piece of paper. Frowning, she picked it up and held it close to her bleary, tear-swollen eyes. A check. Her check. For fifty thousand dollars.
She sat up in bed and ran trembling fingers over the surface of the check. What did this mean? Why hadn’t he kept it and cashed it?
His words from last night whispered through her head.
I accepted your proposal because I wanted to help you.
Not because he wanted to be with her, not even for money, but because he pitied her.
Because she was autistic.
Awful emotion spread through her like poison, and she covered her mouth to muffle the sounds coming from her throat. She’d thought she was rubbing off on him. She’d thought she was special. She’d thought he could love her back. But every time they’d been together, it had been nothing but charity. All those kisses, all those moments, all charity. And now that he’d done his good deed, he was moving on.
The pain crushed and tore, destroying her from the inside. She wasn’t a good deed. She was a person. If she had known how he felt, she never would have issued that proposal. She was not a charity case. Her money was just as good as anyone else’s. Why couldn’t he have just taken it?
Swiping at her face angrily, she told herself she was tougher than this. She wasn’t going to fall apart over a man who didn’t want her.
She made the bed with angry jerks of her arms and stomped into the bathroom to floss her teeth. She worked the mint string so forcefully her gums bled. When she closed her hand around her toothbrush, something reckless made her let go and hop in the shower instead. Very deliberately, she reversed her shower routine, scrubbing herself from bottom to top. She wasn’t a robot or a disabled autistic girl. She was herself. She was enough. She could be anything. She could make herself into anything. She could prove everyone wrong.
By the time she left the shower, she was breathing heavily. She was going to do this and do it well. When she was done, she’d be new and fresh and fantastic. She deserved to be those things.
She dried herself off with brisk rubs of her towel, purposefully walked past her waiting toothbrush, and went into the closet, where she pulled on the black dress Michael loved. She didn’t bother with a cardigan. Let people look.
Gazing in the mirror over her sink as she finally allowed herself to brush her teeth, she found her eyes ablaze with determination. Her hair was a wild mess, but she didn’t plan to tame it. She wasn’t in a tame mood. Other women let their moods dictate their actions, change their routines. Stella was going to be the same.
After she choked down a slice of dry toast, she stared at her empty house. What now? Her body raged with the need for action, for change, for violence. There would be no working today. People didn’t work on Sundays. Once the shops opened, they went out. They ran errands. They did things together.
There was no more together for Stella.
She sat down before her glossy black Steinway and lifted the fallboard away from the keys. She automatically played the opening chords for “Clair de Lune,” but the song was too slow and too romantic, and it reminded her of Michael. She broke from the melody after the first crescendo. Instead of letting the music ebb back into gentleness, she took it higher, poured melodic anguish into it. Her throat swelled, and her heart bled into the notes.
That wasn’t enough. She gave the piano her rage. She pounded chords onto the keys in quick succession like storm waves crashing on cliffs. Wave after wave after angry wave. Still not enough.
She did something she’d never done before. Stella had always been gentle. She spoke softly. She didn’t hurt anyone intentionally. She loved music and order and patterns.
She slammed her hands on the keyboard, producing clashing off-key jumbles of notes. A mess of chaos. Loud, loud, louder. Over and over again until her palms hurt, and her teeth were gnashing, and her body shook from sound overload. At that point, she hit harder, warring against the noise and herself.
A snapping deep within the piano traveled up her fingers and into her arms. Only then did she let her shaking hands fall away from the keys. She lifted her foot from the sustain pedal, dampening the residual ringing of the strings. The pained stuttering of her heart filled her ears.
The piano needed to be tuned.
She’d worry about it later. The stores were opening soon, and she wanted to go shopping. For perfume.
* * *
• • •
The shop was closed on Sundays, but something made Michael go there anyway. He unlocked the front door and stepped inside. After passing by the empty fitting room, he entered the work area in back. There, he scanned the mechanized rack where they hung the dry-cleaned clothes, the walls of multicolored thread, and the green commercial sewing machines.
This place was his mom’s livelihood, and she was incredibly proud to be the owner of such a thriving business. Of all their extended family, she was one of the most successful. Well, she would have been, if not for his dad.
To Michael, this place was a prison. He didn’t want to do tedious fittings and alterations and dry cleaning. He wanted to create something from scratch.
He went to the bureau at the back of the room and pulled out the small drawer he reserved for his sketchpads. The book on top felt cold and familiar under the pads of his fingers, the paper soft. He sat at one of the worktables and opened the book to a blank page, set his pencil tip down.
Usually, he started the clothing design first, the collar and shoulders, sometimes the waist if that was the focal point of everything. The face was usually just an impression, a profile, the curve of a jaw. Hands and legs were quick pencil strokes, just vague ideas. Today, he started with the face. It was the only thing in his mind.
Those eyes and the heavy fringe of lashes. Arching eyebrows. That nose. Those kissable lips. When he finished, Stella stared at him from the page. He’d captured the essence of her perfectly. His hands knew her every line.
Her likeness was enough to make the blood rush to his throat, and he dug his phone out of his pocket and checked it for messages or missed calls.
Nothing. Just like the other ninety-nine times he’d checked today.
She’d said she would stalk and call, and he was messed up enough to want it. If obsession was all he could have from her, he wanted the works. The more drama, the better. Maybe they’d have no choice but to get back together.
The screen on his phone blacked out, and cold reality sank into him. Her obsession hadn’t been strong enough to stand up in the face of his family’s criminal past, not on top of all his other drawbacks. It really had been just practice and sex.
His phone buzzed with an alert from the agency app. Someone had booked him for this Friday. For a second, he thought it might be Stella, and bright happiness flooded his being. Even knowing everything about him, she still wanted him. He clicked through the screens on his phone as fast as he could, but when the app loaded, he saw it was someone new. His stomach dropped.
There’d been a time when he’d liked the variety his escorting assignments provided. Now, his body crawled with revulsion at the mere idea of touching someone else, let alone kissing or having sex with them. He felt . . . permanently pair-bonded, like a goddamned swan. Only the swan he’d chosen hadn’t pair-bonded back with him.
Why would she have?
Look at all the people he’d fucked. What had he accomplished with his life? What had he really done? A lot of dry cleaning, that was what. He was nothing. Good for a test drive, but not to take home. He should be proud he’d helped bolster Stella’s confidence and proven he was better than his dad, but he was a selfish ass, and all he wanted was more of her.
&n
bsp; In the foreseeable future, she’d be pleasuring another man—that shit Philip—in the precise way that drove Michael out of his mind. Her hands would touch another body, her mouth would—
He crammed his palms into his eyes and breathed away his gut-churning nausea. If she was going to fuck other people, he would, too. He’d go right now. He started to stand, but paused. It was Sunday morning. Not trolling time.
And he physically could not.
Touching another woman right now would make him vomit. Or worse, cry like a baby.
He was having a hard enough time keeping it together as it was. His eyes burned, and his throat ached, and he hurt everywhere. No women. Not unless they had soft brown eyes and a shy smile and loved economics and made the sweetest breathless sounds when they kissed him and—
Fuck. Enough already. He clawed his fingers through his hair and tried to squeeze thoughts of Stella out of his head.
Toughen up and soldier on.
But he was tired of being tough and soldiering on. He’d been doing it for three endless years. He was trapped here, trapped in his life, trapped in never-ending debt. Trapped by love.
That was his problem. He always loved too much. If he could just tear his heart out and stop feeling, he would be free. A frenzied kind of madness gripped him as he stared down at his sketchpad.
Whispering a silent apology in his head, he ripped out the picture of Stella and tore it straight down the middle before shredding it. The pieces floated to the ground like leaves from a dying tree. Then he flipped to the front of the book. Sun-saturated mornings with Stella had inspired the white and yellow dress on the page. It was his absolute favorite. He tore it out and destroyed it. And the next design. And the next. All of them. Then he went to the bureau in back, grabbed all his sketchpads, and threw them in the trash. After that, he opened the large bottom drawer where he kept the projects he’d been working on in secret. Gritting his teeth, he ripped the fabric apart, seam by seam, garment by garment, dream by dream.