by Chance : Poison & Wine, book 2

by Sigal Ehrlich

  When the last tunes of the fifth and final song fades, Amanda sits up straight. She looks at me for a silent beat and smiles, freeing the tension in my chest. “We should drop the third one first.” She turns to Blake. “Give Me Tonight should have an acoustic version as well. What do you say?”

  Blake thinks for a moment and then nods a few times. “With Geraldine on the piano and backup vocals.”

  Amanda’s face lights. “Genius.”

  “You know it.” Blake winks at her. “I’ll talk to Geraldine.”

  “Patrick,” Amanda finally addresses me. “Remarkable! Now, take a couple of days off. Go home. Recharge and then come back to work on the acoustic version and the rest of the album.”

  We discuss plans that include more songs, music videos, and a possibility for me to open for Tyler Lee’s next tour.

  When I finally leave the studio to meet with—I don’t remember anymore, someone about the photo shoot, Amanda hands me a new phone. “Here, all your contacts are in here, including whatever was on your old one. And this is your new number.” She hands me a little note with my new digits. “You can obviously find the number on the phone, but this is more convenient.”

  “Oh, great, thanks!” I say with gratitude. See, my phone sort of broke. And by sort of broke, I mean, I might have smashed it against a wall. I wasn’t in a good place a couple of days ago, missing Vicky like crazy, pissed because I missed her so much, and then the insane flood of calls from random people came in. My number was leaked and posted online. By the time I received . . . I don’t know how many calls . . . I switched it off. Just before hurling it with frustration at the hotel wall.

  I try to stay out and keep busy. Alone in my room, alone with my thoughts, doesn’t seem to do me any good.

  “Get you anything?” Rene asks as she heads to the bar to get herself another drink.

  I shake my head, with my lips tipped at the corner. “Thanks.” I follow her with my gaze, watching her walk. She was one of the photographer’s assistants in a photo shoot for a piece about me for an online teen magazine. She’s a good-looking, sweet, and funny woman. And the very opposite of Vicky. Rene is carefree and a little silly sometimes. Younger, much less sophisticated, and the smile never leaves her face. She’s been putting signals out there. And watching her now in tight black jeans and a cute ass, I consider making a move.

  The thought and longing for Vicky are messing with my mental state, though. It’s like a dark shadow over everything. Even with everything else that’s happening to me, the times I was genuinely happy were when I was with her. She’s the missing piece that makes it perfect. I want her so much it aches, but I tried, and tried and then tried again. And it brought me to a place where I’m even unrecognizable to myself. I’m not a smashing objects on walls sort of person. I sometimes have a temper, but it never reaches these levels. I don’t know myself anymore. It’s time to stop this torture. Vicky made it clear the thing between us won’t work with my current situation. Maybe it’s time to give something new a try.

  When Rene returns with another coffee for herself and a heart-shaped cookie for me, and she gives me the sweetest smile that prompts my lips to mirror hers, I ask her if she wants to have dinner together tonight.

  For the rest of the day, I fight off thoughts of Vicky and all the what-ifs. I fight off thinking, period. I pick Rene up from her place at eight, and we ride together on my rented bike to an Indonesian place she mentioned after agreeing to have dinner with me.

  “What was your favorite location to shoot at?” I ask her, taking a mouthful of a spicy lamb dish we’re sharing, washing it down with a rich drink of ice-cold water.

  She contemplates her answer with a cute grin. As an assistant photographer, she gets to travel all over the world. “Probably Havana, Cuba.” She takes a drink from her beer bottle and places it back on the table. “Have you ever been there?”

  “Not yet.” I smile, studying her. She’s good-looking and reminds me of Kayla a little with her tomboy vibe. There’s even something a bit childish about her perpetual smile, but it only adds to her charm. She’s sweet, real sweet. “What makes it so special?”

  She grins. “From the photography perspective, the colors, the setting, the pastel-colored buildings. We were shooting in an old mansion with several states of decay, yet it had these majestically carved wooded ceilings. The contrast was something else. I just find Cuba complex and unique. And then there’s the overall vibe. The place has such a cool vibe.”

  I’m holding a genuine smile as I listen to her, captivated by the glint in her eyes as she talks. It’s obvious just how much she loves what she does for work. It resonates with me, and I feel the same way. When she asks me about my work, I tell her, and she listens attentively. It’s a pleasant evening, and I’m enjoying myself. It’s nice to have dinner with someone who’s not with me just for show, where I’m not playing a part.

  But reality meets us outside the restaurant. My new reality. A couple of paparazzi aim their cameras at us. Rene shrugs at me with a smile, returning my apologetic one. She doesn’t seem to care much. She puts a helmet on and climbs the bike like nothing happened.

  I drop her off at her place a little before midnight. She dismounts the bike, handing me her helmet. I take mine off and tell her that I had a great time tonight and thank her for the evening.

  She laughs. “You’re so not what I expected.”

  I chuckle. “Sorry if you’re disappointed.”

  “Disappointed?” She tilts her head, smiling. She takes a step toward me, still smiling. Catching me off guard, she seals her lips on mine. “On the contrary,” she says to my lips and confidently presses hers to mine yet again.

  I close my eyes when her tongue swipes my bottom lip and inch back a little. Confusion mars her features as she looks at me, surprised. “Too bold?” she asks.

  She’s beautiful and fun, and I had a great time, and there’s no reason for me not to kiss her back. But I can’t. I don’t want to. It feels wrong.

  I take her hand and squeeze it lightly. “Thanks for a great evening. Good night, Rene.”

  My kisses belong to someone else.

  I belong to someone else.

  I know we can’t be together, but it doesn’t change anything. Vicky is still the only one for me.

  Do Things Differently

  “Victoria,” Arthur, Ricky’s grandad, greets me, his eyes a depth of warmth. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Hi, Arthur.” I take a step to hug him. “How are you?”

  “Alive and kicking,” he says humoredly.

  I smile in return. “Is Ricky home?”

  I’m surprised by his reaction. A flit dismayed frown wasn’t what I was expecting. “Do you mean at his place?”

  It’s my turn to give him a surprised glance. “His place?” I repeat unintelligently.

  He cocks his head. “Didn’t you know he moved back?”

  I shake my head, swallowing over the bitter aftertaste the revelation leaves. I haven’t been a part of Ricky’s life for a few good weeks now and missed out on things that happened to him. It stings more than I thought it would. “Umm, do you have his new address?”

  He tries to conceal his confusion over me not having Ricky’s address like he thinks we’re still together, or at the very least in touch. He gives me Ricky’s address, then clears his throat, seeming to contemplate something. “Victoria, is everything okay with the two of you?”

  I force a reassuring smile, but it’s a futile attempt. “We’re both very busy with work. It sort of took its course,” I say instead.

  He eyes me for an assessing moment but doesn’t press. I’m willing to guess he doesn’t want to put me in an uncomfortable position by probing.

  Making my way to Ricky’s place, I try his number again. It’s the sixth time. The call goes straight to voicemail. Again. I can’t help but think that maybe he is rejecting my calls, a thought that only adds to the gloom pooling in me.

  The main d
oor to the apartment complex is open. I make it to the bank of elevators with a determined stride, masking my trepidation from the conversation we’re about to have, from the mere idea of seeing him.

  I don’t know if it’s morning sickness or nausea from the moment itself, but it hits me hard when I buzz the door. I wait for a few silent beats. My heart jumps to the sound of the lock turning. I school my features to remain placid, but when the door finally opens, they crumple.

  Bile shoots up my throat to the sight of Kayla with a towel wrapped around her head, panties, and a tank top saying my name, surprised. “Vicky?” and then, “Vic, are you okay?”

  “Where’s the toilet?” I manage to say before covering my mouth with my hand. Luckily, she doesn’t ask any more questions and directs me to the guest toilet.

  I throw the door open, fall to my knees in front of the toilet, expensive suit, heels, and all. And it comes out in aching, sour, stinging waves. I’m not sure when, but somewhere in the middle of my cycles of retching, Kayla pulls my hair back, leaving a supporting hand on my back.

  I take a few long breaths in, realizing I have nothing left in me, and collapse with my back to the wall. I close my eyes and lean my head back.

  Silently, Kayla sits next to me, waiting. I finally open my eyes and look at her, jealousy and pain stirring my stomach once more.

  “Vic, are you okay?” she asks, concern etched on every feature.

  “Is Ricky here?” I ask in a whisper, feeling exhausted.

  “No, he’s still in LA,” she says. She studies me for a few moments. Her eyes widen before she frowns as if she’s having a light-bulb moment. “Vic, I’m here because of plumbing issues at my place, nothing more. He’s been away all this time.”

  I’m too depleted to pretend I don’t know what she’s insinuating and why she’s bothering to excuse her presence at Ricky’s place. What I like most about Kayla is that she would never interfere in other people’s business or give unsolicited advice. Obviously, the situation begs for some clarification. Both of us on the bathroom floor, in Ricky’s apartment, after I vomited half of my body’s weight in front of her. She remains silent for some stretched moments, letting me gather my bearings.

  Kayla stands up, offering me her hand. “Let’s go get you some cold water.”

  I don’t stay for much longer after that. When I feel like a human being again, I tuck my shirt in my skirt, grab my purse, and try to compose myself. Kayla, now with a pair of cutoffs and a T-shirt on, sees me to the door.

  “You sure you don’t want to call an Uber?” Kayla asks.

  “I’m okay.” I hug her goodbye. “Thanks,” I say.

  She shrugs in a don’t mention it sort of way. “You’re clearly not okay, Vic. But if you think you can drive, I trust your judgment.”

  I hold her stare. “Thanks for not giving me the third degree. I just can’t handle it right now.”

  “If you ever want to talk, I’m here. And if you don’t . . . I’ll still be here.”

  Fifteen hours later, I’m on another continent. The unfamiliar yet somewhat familiar views of rural Denmark feel like a different world entirely. The frost-coated pine trees, the countryside backdrop. I rest my head on the cold window, taking in the fast-moving winter wonderland.

  “Just the weekend?” my father asks from the driver’s seat. He switched to English after numerous attempts in Danish, to which I replied in English. My mind is too much in overdrive to think before speaking.

  I give him a sidelong glance. “A long weekend.”

  He nods. We hugged briefly when he picked me up from the airport, but that’s as far as it goes in terms of affection between us. Mom says that I’m very much like him, my dad, when it comes to emotions. She calls it practical emotions. She once said that she couldn’t wait to meet the person who will one day make my heart speak louder than my stubbornness to keep practical demonstrations of affection at bay. At the time, I told her she’d better start looking for a unicorn because there was a higher chance of that happening than me turning into a hugger.

  “The guest room is ready for you. Anything you want to do while you’re here?” Dad asks.

  I shrug and shake my head. “I just want to stay at the farm. Maybe visit with Aunt Charlotte.”

  Fifteen hours after I left home, my father closes the door behind us, forcing the cold to stay outside. As I enter my room for the weekend, the first thing I do is text Mom and Anna to tell them I arrived okay and that I’m switching my phone off. This time away, disconnected from the world, is for me to think hard and decide what I want to do.

  A knock on the door has me turning my attention to my dad. He stands there in a plaid shirt and a thick mustache and says, “Dinner is ready.”

  I smile at the steaming bowl of hearty, creamy potato soup and tell dad it looks delicious. My dad is a man of few words, yet we fall into a pleasant conversation as he asks about my life, Anna’s, and even about Mom. I stir a spoon in my soup, bringing together leek, little chunks of potato, and croutons to slow dance in circles in the middle of the heavy ceramic bowl. I lift my eyes to study my father, his golden hair that now holds silver streaks. His square jaw and deep blue eyes, just like mine. How he aged, and how little we know each other. I lean the spoon against the bowl and train my eyes on him.

  “Dad, why did you leave us?” I ask a question that took me more than thirty years to ask.

  Dad sets his spoon on the table. A slight sound of a napkin scraping against his mustache as he wipes his mouth. “I felt like I didn’t belong there. Home was always here. Your mom didn’t want to go back.”

  I let out a laugh that holds no amusement. “People say that home is where the heart is, where your people are.”

  His jaw tenses, yet he holds my stare. “When we met, your mom and I had a connection based on being detached from something we both knew, a bond of two people trying to make it work in a different country while still holding on to their roots. But as time passed, while Seattle became home to your mom, it never felt like that for me. I never felt like I belonged.”

  I listen keenly as he goes on. “At first, it was about being lonely and away from home that held us together, then it was you, and then Anna, but the glue didn’t hold up as the years passed. We both knew that we didn’t really love each other, and sticking together for the sake of family was just prolonging the inevitable.” He inhales deeply. “Then we decided to separate, and . . .” He nods to himself, lifting his eyes to me. “I’m not proud of leaving, but I also knew I couldn’t stay, and I knew that leaving you and your sister with your mom was the best thing for you.”

  “You were right about that. We couldn’t have asked for a better mom. She’s an amazing person.”

  He nods again. “Not everyone is cut out to be a parent.”

  I cock my head. “You really believe that?”

  “You and Anna were and still are important to me, and I’m proud of the women you became.”

  You don’t really know us, I think to myself, but keep it in. I didn’t come here to judge him or anything like that. And it won’t change anything at this point.

  “I hope you’ll make better decisions in your life than I did,” he adds

  “So, you regret yours?” I ask.

  He looks out the window at the snow-covered farm. “No, I don’t. But I would do some things differently.”

  Evening finds me at the bay window, wrapped up in a thick wool blanket, staring at the dark sky with the occasional crackle coming from the fireplace. Dad went out for groceries, leaving me to my thoughts. It’s almost impossible to comprehend that this opportunity given to me, this miracle, maybe it’s not the most ideal timing, but still, it’s a possibility—a tiny possibility with a steady heartbeat and a new future. I close my eyes, inhaling, thinking how I wish I knew what Ricky’s reaction would be. How would he feel about it? I wish I knew how he felt about the idea if he had a choice, and it wasn’t a fact. What would he do if he had the option? With everything happen
ing in his life and our messed up relationship, if you could call it that, I’m afraid having a child, especially with me, wouldn’t be at the top of his list.

  After a failed final call to Ricky, I decide I need to consider my next steps. “Looks like we are on our own,” I say out loud, staring at my flat tummy.

  Getting Back in the Saddle

  “Victoria.” He smiles at me. Eyes on me, he shrugs off his jacket. “I’m glad we’re alone. I needed some one-on-one time with you.”

  I smile back, remaining silent.

  “Coffee first?” he says, gesturing with his hand for me to lead the way. “I’m glad you agreed to meet me so early.” He sends me another smile. “I thought it would take more to convince you.”

  He has this look about him, powerfully quiet, handsome, and successful. I always thought he was attractive.

  “What can I say,” I counter. “It’s hard to say no to you.”

  He laughs, pouring me a cup of coffee. The smell of coffee still appeals to me, but the taste is a definite no. Yet I take the cup and hold it in my hand, displaying business as usual. I’m not feeling my best, and by that, I mean I feel awful. I woke up weak and tired, chalked it up to jet lag, and carried on.

  “Hard to say no, you say?” His lips stretch under his salt and pepper, neatly trimmed stubble. “So if I ask you to go to Singapore with me, the answer is yes?”

  I need to say yes; it’s the only answer. After long inner contemplation, I came back from visiting Dad and decided on a game plan, which is primarily getting back in the saddle. Saying yes to him is precisely that.

  “Yes?” I say with a thin smile.

  He parks his hip against the table, facing me. He takes a drink of his coffee and lifts his eyes to mine. “The most important thing you missed yesterday was the discussion we had on the next step in entering the Asian market. Dylan, you, and I have a meeting scheduled with our agent in Singapore next Monday. We’ll stay for the week, and then we’ll take turns going there every other week.”