by Finn, Emilia
“I…”
“You don’t love me. You like me, and because of that, you need me to behave. But I won’t stand in line, Mitchell. I can’t do that. For you, or for any other man.”
“So you…” My stomach flips until I feel sick. My rage has washed away, and in its place is the kind of deep-seated fear I usually only feel for my family. “So… you won’t even try? You don’t want me?”
“I do want you! You’re in my home, in my bed, in my life, aren’t you? But it’s important I maintain my independence, too. That I maintain my status as single and able.”
“To leave your options open?” I swallow down the bile that climbs my throat. “I’m a decent option for now, but we’re waiting to see what else comes along?”
Shaking her head, instead of arguing, she only turns out of my hold and moves away. “Not everyone needs to be owned, Mitchell. Not everyone needs to have those labels for the entire world to see. And my world, my life, has barely just begun in this town.” Grabbing her panties from the arm of the couch, Nadia balls them in her fist and sighs. “This conversation got out of hand, and it was on the back of your foul mood about a man moving in on another single, beautiful, strong woman. What Abby does is none of your business. We’ve already discussed this.”
“So this entire fight is on me, and you’re completely innocent, huh? You think I’m wrong for caring about my sister. You think I’m controlling for caring about you and wanting a little reciprocation. And you think that someone like Spencer fucking Serrano pursuing Abigail is fine?” I shake my head and take a step in her direction, only to kill whatever relationship we have when I add, “I think we both know which one of us is toxic.”
“Get the fuck out of my house.” She’s not shouting, like her words imply. Not raging. She’s simply speaking, and doing so on a huff of impatience. “I’m done with this for today. When you’re ready to be reasonable, when you’ve worked on your own issues, and come to understand that the control you want is not actually healthy, then we can talk. In the meantime, you can see yourself out. I have shit to do, a career to save, by way of begging Spencer Serrano not to run to my boss and snitch, and yes, I think someone like Spencer pursuing Abigail is fine. It doesn’t matter that he’s bigger than her. Physical size has nothing to do with all this. Because if it did, then you pursuing me would be wrong too.”
“Me and you, and Abby and him, are two entirely separate situations!”
“Of course they are. But that’s only your opinion.” Nadia moves toward the front door, opens it, and waves a hand toward the front yard. “I’m not asking you to leave forever. And I’m not saying you’re wrong for wanting reciprocated feelings.”
My skittering heart propels me forward. “So what are you saying?”
She lifts her chin and exhales a soft breath. “That I want space. I want to be alone in my home for right now. I want my phone to remain void of messages with your name attached. And I want you to acknowledge that you need help.”
“Me?” I step back again. “You’re the one who can’t commit, but I’m the one who needs help?”
“Yes.” She swallows so her throat moves and my eyes go to the ripple of her skin. “I think you have a metric ton of baggage that originated in a hospital room while your baby sister was a sick child. I’m not saying you’re wrong for having that baggage.” She lifts a hand to keep our space when I try to step forward. “But I am saying you need help unpacking it. I’m also saying you have an unusually stressful job, a dead child on your conscience, a father who continues to drag your name through mud, and you come to me most nights to fuck away your worries. While I admit it’s pleasurable for us both, and legions better than drinking or doing drugs to cope, I think you need help to unpack that too.”
She looks at the television. “I could go over there and turn that thing on to any channel right now, and I’ll see your name, or a news article that somehow spun off of Cady’s existence.”
“You think Cady’s death is my fault?” My voice cracks. “Do you really—”
“No. I think you did your job to the best of your ability. And I trust your instincts, so I believe that girl was already gone. But I worry about your mental health, when every single time you turn the TV on, you see your own face. Or her face. Or you read about the things Cady’s father is saying about you. Even the strongest men need help sometimes, Mitchell. Even the biggest fall.” Her eyes fill with tears. They swim and make the greeny-gold sparkle. “I care about you a lot. Truly, I do. And watching you suffer brings me pain.”
“I’m only suffering right now,” I tell her, “while you list the million reasons you can’t love me back.”
She shakes her head. “If I told you I loved you, it would only be a band-aid. It would be all wrong, it wouldn’t be healthy, and we’d still end up right here, having this same discussion next week when you find out your sister has made out with Spencer.”
My heart trips and stumbles. “My sister is—” I swallow. “With him?”
She only sighs and opens the door wider. “I meant that hypothetically. But see what just happened? I said kissing, and your world started to fall apart.”
“Why am I being punished for protecting my family?” And why the fuck is my voice breaking?
“Because what you call protection, we all consider smothering.” She uses Serrano’s words to hurt me. To torment me. “I won’t be your next damsel, Mitch, and I can’t lie and say that what you do to Abby is healthy. If I have to choose a side in this war, then I’m going to choose hers. Which is ironic,” she adds, “since you were so certain I was here to hurt her. Turns out, I can protect her too, but in a much healthier way.” She swings the door wide open and reiterates her dismissal. “Can you leave?”
A Checkmate Security business card lays face up on her porch. It must’ve fallen from the box Spencer carried in, or perhaps it fell from his pocket on the way out. Either way, it draws my eyes now, and my curiosity.
“Why do you need security in your home?” I didn’t think to ask while Serrano was here. I obsessed over his relationship with Abby instead, and didn’t for a second stop to wonder why he was here in the first place. “Is someone giving you trouble?” And then a thought hits me square in the chest. “Is James Evans bothering you?”
“Cady’s dad? No.” She grabs my hand and leads me through the door until I’m on the porch. “I’ve met him once, we locked horns, and then he was gone. I haven’t seen him since.”
“You locked horns?” I pin her with a glare. “Cady’s father, the guy trying to end my career and make my life miserable, approached you, and you said nothing?”
“He approached Abby too,” she murmurs, so softly, so artificially sweet that my eyes want to cross. “But we didn’t tell you, because you have a tendency to get mad and control situations.”
“Nadia!”
“I warned you this would happen. I told you that if you continue on the way you are, eventually, Abby won’t come to you when she needs help. It’s already begun, and you have no one but yourself to blame.”
“But…” Her words, one blow after the other, cut me deep. “I never want to hurt anyone. Not you, and not Abby.”
“And yet, you make it impossible for us to be anything less than perfect. That’s Abusive Relationships 101. I didn’t want to be the one to break it to you, Mitchell, but…” Firming her lips, she shrugs. “I tried to be gentle about it.”
“This is just…” I stumble back one step. Then a second.
Nadia stands in the doorway in an outfit I peeled off her only a couple hours ago, with bed-messed hair, and her panties in her hand. And beside her, stuck to the window by her head, is a sticker that reads Checkmate Security. They’re letting the world know this home is now under their control, under their protection—under Spencer’s protection—and I’ve been pushed out.
Twice.
“Fuck…”
“Oh, for god’s sake. Seriously?”
I look across, from the sticker to Nadia’s
eyes, and try to puzzle out her new tone of voice, but her eyes aren’t on me; they’re watching over my shoulder. And when I turn, I find a semi-fancy, silver sedan pulling up at the curb not so far from my truck.
I turn fully and step forward in a protective stance, prepared to shield Nadia from her visitors, but it takes barely a moment for me to understand what’s unfolding when two women step out, one on each side of the car. A third door opens, and a man—dare I assume, Uncle David—climbs out and stares at us through a pair of black sunglasses.
“Just go, Mitchell.” Nadia’s anger at me seems to be replaced by frustration at her new situation.
“Please just leave.”
“I want to stay.” I keep my words low enough that only she can hear. “I can’t leave you right now.”
“And I don’t want you here to be my knight, nor do I want you to be privy to my private business.” She leans back inside the house, tosses something—her panties—then comes through the door and folds her arms. “You don’t need to be here, David.”
“Let us talk, sweetpea.” The guy is in his early fifties, at the most, with thick, black hair and salt and pepper grays sprinkled throughout. He’s not a wiry little man like I assumed, but thick of chest, broad-shouldered, and with a square jaw that begs for a fist to make contact. “Let us inside for a cup of tea,” he tries, and flashes a set of teeth I’m certain Nadia’s aunt paid for. “Let me catch up with my favorite niece.”
Uncharmed, Nadia simply rolls her eyes. “I’m your only niece.” Then she looks to me when I don’t move, lifts a single, mean brow, and shakes her head. “Thanks for the romance, Mitchell. Thanks for the dinners. Thanks for the friend. And thanks for the roses you sent. But you have to go now.”
Nadia says some other things, and so does David, as do the two socialites, one of which I now know is Drew, and the other, Arlo. They all speak, they all put on a show, but I hear none of it as I move down Nadia’s front steps and make my way across the lawn and into my truck.
I watch Nadia for a moment as she ushers her unwelcome guests inside. As she spares one last glance for me. I watch as she shakes her head in dismissal, and then as she follows her relatives in and lets the screen door slam shut behind her.
And all the while, I sit and think over her words.
‘Thanks for the romance, Mitchell. Thanks for the dinners. Thanks for the friend. And thanks for the roses you sent. But you have to go now.’
The problem is, I never once sent her roses.
21
Nadia
What Do You Want?
Am I supposed to play the good little hostess, don an apron, and offer sweet tea? Is that what folks do in small towns, regardless if their visitor is welcome or not?
I’m certain I read that in the welcome brochure at some point, but just as I told Mitchell during what may have been my most epic breakup ever, I’m done faking. I’m done pretending to be someone I’m not. And I’m done having my peace disturbed, all to make others feel comfortable.
So instead of acting like a good little southern girl and fetching the drinks cart, I snatch up my panties, ball them in my fist, then drop both fists to my hips. “What do you want?”
Drew and Arlo sit side-by-side on my new couch and act like they can’t feel the wet spot, and yet, here I am, not giving a shit if they do. And David, the instigator in this mess, stands by the single seat that was in this home when I moved in. It’s old, dusty, and structurally unsound, but it’s beautiful and complements my new drapes and couch. So I kept it, but I make sure never to sit in it, lest I fall straight through.
David—Uncle, he likes to remind me, though he’s never earned the title—tries to look the part of rich and important, with his loafers and ironed pleats, his fresh haircut and sharp side part. He wears his Rolex, which I doubt is a knockoff, and a thick, gold chain around his neck.
I’m certain he thinks he looks fantastic and important. But to me, the extra bling only serves to remind me who paid for it all. And unlucky for him, my memory is perfect.
“We would like to talk,” David finally says. “Catch up. It’s been too long, sweetpea.”
“Do not call me sweetpea,” I snarl. “Do not call me any damn thing and act like it isn’t a slight from the patriarchy and an attempt to make me feel less than.”
“Make you feel…” His eyes widen, though from my words, or from the anger in them, I’m unsure. “You’re offended I have a sweet nickname for my sweet niece?”
“I’m offended you can’t take a hint,” I snap. “I’m offended you’re not offended by the thought of mooching off your ex-wife, even after her death. I’m offended you think you can come into my fucking home, walk into my fucking living room, and call me sweetpea, like your sniveling, conniving, lazy self isn’t an embarrassment to all men.”
“Hey now!”
“No, hey you! Tracey left you, David. She married you because of the pressure put upon her. She made your babies, because that was the next step. She tried her damned hardest to raise those babies right…” I look to the girls and shake my head. “But to some, money and status are thicker than blood. When she realized it was all wrong,” I look back to him, “she left you. And the only thing,” my voice gets louder when I repeat, “the only thing you cared about in all that, was your status, your income, and your fucking reputation. Do you think I’m impressed by your four-hundred-dollar shoes?” I look at the ugly brown loafers. “Do you think designer watches, or two-hundred-dollar haircuts make me smile? Most of all, do you think coming here, imposing on my private space, uninvited and unexpected, will make me sympathize with you and go against a will she had drawn up in sound mind?”
“You’ve got it all wrong, sweetp—” His voice cuts off as sharp as a knife. “Nadia. What I meant to say was you’ve got it all wrong. We did not come here to upset you, but rather, to offer a truce.”
“There is no truce necessary! We are not at war. What we are, are former relatives who have no business to discuss. The girls and I have business,” I point at them. “When Drew and Arlo can get their lives straight and read a fucking set of instructions, then we can talk. But as for you, David, you’re on your ass.”
“Now listen here!” he finally snaps back. “You seem to be riding some kind of power high right now, young lady, but you forget you’re standing inside a home that was gifted to you in that same will you accuse us of mooching from. You’re a hypocrite who enjoys lording your power over others. But the writing is on the wall—or, well,” he scoffs, “the paint on the walls you never paid for.”
“This house is essentially a family heirloom,” I snarl, “and before I came here, it was deserted and untouched. You did not want it because it did not fit your aesthetic. The girls didn’t want it because it’s too far from the nightclubs and sex-for-hire they’re so used to. This house was a relic, left to rot and wither away, and now it’s a home. I will not feel ashamed for making a house a home and remembering my aunt every single time I walk through the door and catch a glimpse of that chair.” I point at the one he stands in front of. Then I gesture to the fireplace. “Every time I look at those bricks, I smile and remember the woman I loved like a mother. Every time I see the ugly green countertop in the kitchen, I want to cry, because I remember the green sheets she died laying on. I was with her! Just me, and just her, and she died knowing she’d failed in marriage, and in motherhood.”
I turn away from him and face the sisters. “Hers was the chest you two cuddled up to when you were young and sad. Her hands, the ones you held to cross the street. Her lips kissed your forehead every damn night, and her heart loved and hurt for you. This person,” I point to their father and refuse to call him a man, “was more interested in fucking Tracey’s staff and spending her hard-earned money. While she was home raising you, and working in whatever spare moments she had, he was out ignoring the fact he even had a family. He might have you convinced now that he’s the shit, the cool dad, the one helping you in this war against th
at nasty bitch cousin of yours, but don’t you dare sit there and pretend he was any kind of man or father for you when it counted.”
Again, I head toward the front door and place my hand on the knob. “David, you will leave, and you will never again step foot on my property. We have no business. And if you would like to manufacture business between us, then have your lawyer write to mine.”
I look at my cousins. The girls I was raised alongside. The friends who once ran the streets with me and rode bikes beside me. We built clubhouses together, and had sleepovers often. We shared scary stories while melting marshmallows, and we spent eons curling, crimping, and braiding our hair. Beneath the shiny bullshit, these girls used to be decent people. And then their father changed them.
Or perhaps they were always spoiled little bitches, and David simply made it okay to be openly prickish.
Sighing, I shake my head. “Drew and Arlo, I’d like for you to leave, unless you would rather stay. But if you choose to stay, we will discuss only the stipulations in the will. If you have no interest in honoring your late mother’s memory, then, again, I implore you to have your lawyer write to mine. We’ll get back to you in three-to-fourteen business days.” I turn the doorhandle, with grief settling deep inside my soul, then I yank it open and am met with a man, beefy and strong, steely-faced and mean.
I let out a startled yelp and try to swing the door shut again, but he only slams his palm to the timber and peeks past me toward my guests.
“My name’s Riley Cruz.” Slowly, his eyes come to mine and narrow. “I’m with Checkmate, and you’re having a fuck of a disturbance right now.”
“Checkmate?” My heart thunders in my chest, so fast, so heavy, that I bring a hand up and feel it race against my palm. “Can I see some ID?”
I look at one of the dozen cameras Spencer set up in my home today. Was that only an hour ago? Does this security company truly do house calls when someone has annoying guests stinking up the place? Then I look back to the guy who seems strong and unbreakable, but in his left hand, he holds a walking stick, and leans on it while he searches his pocket.