by Liz Madrid
“Blythe, we really need to get going,” Jackson says, glaring at me.
“Now why is that?” Heath asks. “Why would you want dear Blythe here out of New York so soon when I hear she’s supposed to meet my brother for dinner? Why are you in such a rush?”
“None of your damn business, Heath,” Jackson growls, but as he reaches for my hand again, a tall woman approaches us. Red hair and striking green eyes along with her skinny build tell me that she must be a model. She’s wearing a cream silk dress with a deep V-neckline that accentuates breast implants that jut out, all perky. Didn’t anyone wear bras anymore?
“Heath, darling! Is that really you?” she says before turning to look at Jackson, “Oh, hi there, Jackson,” though her gaze returns to Heath and then to me.
But Jackson doesn’t pay any attention to her, for he’s watching me now, his hazel eyes narrowing as if he realizes who I really am.
“Well, Natasha, you ready to take my place in this threesome?” Jackson asks, grinning broadly. “Because I’m sure your Heath here won’t say no. Anyway, looks like I’m not wanted her anyway.”
“See you around, you lucky son of a bitch,” he says to Heath as Natasha leans forward to plant a kiss on Heath’s mouth. I look away, embarrassed, wishing Heath will let me go, but the kiss is short-lived for he pushes Natasha away with his other hand. From the corner of my eye, I see Jackson hurrying towards the pool.
I take a step away from Heath but he pulls me right back against him, and this time his grip tightens even more, his fingers digging into my skin.
“Aw, you’re still mad at me,” Natasha pouts.
“I can’t be mad at someone I no longer give a damn about, Tasha,” he says. “Why don’t you go back to your dear fans. I’m busy at the moment.”
“Why am I not surprised, Blythe?” Natasha drawls with a cock of her head. “I always figured you had the hots for Heath, and why not? He’s the one with the most money now, right?”
“Whatever,” I find myself saying as I roll my eyes, surprising even myself at how much I sound like Blythe. If I can’t beat them, I might as well join them, especially since I can’t get away from Heath and he’s holding me so tightly I’m finding it difficult to breathe. But he’s also making the butterflies in my belly flutter, and my knees go weak.
Still, as Natasha walks away and I feel Heath loosen his grip, I step away from Heath, but he’s too fast. He spins me around, deftly pushing my back against the wall and plants his palms on either side of me.
“Passive aggressive much?” I ask, pressing my head back against the wall as Heath leans closer. “Don’t you know anything about personal space?”
“Oh, I know all about personal space, Blythe, especially yours, because as of now, you’ve got none,” he says, leaning closer towards me, his face against my ear as I turn my head to the side. “Now where is Ethan?”
By this time, I’ve had it. I ball my hands into fists by my side and glare at him.
“All I have to do is scream my head off, you bastard, and I’ll have more than just my personal space back,” I say as Heath draws even closer, his knee between my thighs.
“Do it, Blythe,” he says, his gaze moving from my eyes to my lips, and staying there. To anyone else, we probably look like a couple in the midst of a kiss, something that couldn’t be farther from the truth, for there’s nothing more I want than to be as far away from Heath Kheiron as possible. But even as I do want to scream, I don’t, for there’s something in his eyes that render me helpless. They’re dark blue, with specks of gray. They’re beautiful.
“Now answer me. Where is Ethan?”
“Why don’t you ask Jackson yourself?” I ask, finally finding my voice. “Because before you got all alpha and shit, he was just about to tell me. And for the last time, I am not Blythe. I’m her sister, Billie.”
Heath draws away, frowning. It’s as if for the first time since he’s met me today, he’s finally hearing what I’m saying. His phone rings from inside his jacket pocket and as he takes his arm from the wall next to me to retrieve his phone, I slip away from him. I’m actually surprised when he doesn’t come after me. But then, he can’t, for three men walking past me call out his name, something about meeting them for drinks at the Polo Bar with some models later that evening.
I don’t wait to hear what Heath has to say. I rush towards the pool area, wanting only to find Blythe. I find her friends sitting on lounge chairs by the pool, talking about upcoming designers showing their lines in next year’s Fashion Week. But no one has seen Blythe, for they tell me that Jackson had whisked her away from them just minutes earlier.
As the panic slowly mounts, I know Blythe would never leave me, not even if Jackson insisted that I’ll be okay without her — she just wouldn’t. And even if she did have to leave without me, she would have found a way to tell me, or at least get me safely back to the penthouse. She knows I don’t know anything about New York, much less navigate the city without her.
My thoughts are racing a mile a minute, conversations around me becoming nothing more but background noise. Then I realize that I never told Blythe about Heath’s message for Ethan. I only know that she was simply too happy as she waltzed me around the shop, and how, for the next two hours, it was my turn to get all dressed up like a doll, trying on one dress after another till we both settled for the dresses we’re wearing now.
As the DJ starts blasting house music on the speakers, I duck into the ladies’ room and hide in one of the stalls to catch my breath. I need to calm down and figure out where she is. Then I remember my clutch where I’ve kept my phone.
Only it’s not my phone. It’s Blythe’s — an iPhone that requires her password or her thumbprint. My hands begin to shake as I realize that somehow, I’d handed her my clutch instead of hers when we left the bathroom earlier.
Telling myself that no, it is my clutch I’ve been holding all this time and that it’s all just a bad dream, I pull out the cards, careful not to drop them into the toilet, but all I see is Blythe’s name stamped on everything, from her New York driver’s license, Equinox gym card, and her precious Gold card. Then her lipstick — which she claims supposed to brighten any day — falls right into the toilet bowl.
4
Alone in Manhattan
I commit my first act of fraud in the cab when I sign Blythe’s name on the credit card receipt half an hour later. With no cash on hand, it’s the only thing I have to pay the cab fare since I don’t have Conrad’s number to let him know that I’m ready to be driven back to the penthouse. At least I’ve committed Blythe’s address to memory, and even the doorman forgives me when I tell him I’ve left my keycard upstairs and would he be kind enough to swipe his master key card for the elevator that goes directly up to the penthouse?
I even bat my eyelashes and thank him with a voice that’s an octave higher than normal. The impersonation is enough to make me go weak in the knees as soon as the elevator doors close and I have to lean against the railing for support as it makes its way up.
As I slip off my shoes, I pray that Blythe is home. Maybe Ethan is all right after all and they’re probably on the couch, making out like teen-agers, just needing some alone time now that he’s back. Still, it’s not like Blythe to just leave me stranded alone in a bar, especially not in the middle of Manhattan. But when the double doors open to the penthouse, the whole place is quiet, and I don’t need to inspect every room to know that Blythe is not home, but I do anyway.
Besides the living areas, there are four bedrooms, five bathrooms, an office, and even a wine cellar, its total square footage larger than the two-story turn-of-the-century house Blythe and I grew up in. Everything in the penthouse is of contemporary design with its overall gray and white theme. Even the fresh flowers are white, and probably meant to go with the decor, which to me is bland. It’s too sterile, and worse, there’s not a bookshelf anywhere. There are coffee table books, all of them on contemporary architecture from the likes of Libeskind,
Meier and Koolhaas, and modern art line the walls.
I check the master bedroom to see if anything is missing. But nothing has been disturbed in the master bedroom. Her shoes are where she last kicked them off when we got back from shopping that afternoon, lying on their side next to the closet doors, and her dress is slung over a chair back. Even the bed is the way I’d left it that morning, hastily made up.
I had spent my first night in Manhattan in her bed, falling asleep next to her after hours of catching up over the last three years, though it was mostly Blythe who did most of the talking. What was there for me to say about my life when all I do is wake up, make my coffee, go downstairs and open the shop? Maybe there’s inventory to be tallied and ordered, maybe even vendor shows that I have to go to for a few days with new inventory stocked at the back of my truck. But other than trips to the river where I can cool off on hot days, there’s nothing else to say about my life. So I’m grateful that the last two days, I learned all about her life since she moved away from Nevada City for good, after the accident that killed our parents.
She told me about the Brooklyn apartment she shared with two women who worked along with her in the Fashion District, and then another apartment, this time in Manhattan with a view of the Empire State Building from her doorstep. That apartment was tiny compared to Ethan’s penthouse, she said, though she didn’t mind it, for she was hardly home. Living in Manhattan, there was so much to do, so many places to go to, and so many people to meet that one never really needed to stay home. But then if one had her boyfriend’s penthouse to stay in, why would she?
I sit on the couch and empty the contents of her clutch on the counter. I pick up her passport and flip through it. The stamps that fill the pages tell me of the places she’s been since she met Ethan. The stamped dates begin four months earlier, some of them appearing on the same day, like they simply were island hopping. There’s London, Paris, Berlin, Madrid, Geneva, and more. I’d be lying if I tell myself I’m not jealous, for I am. I sigh and set the passport down, and pick up her iPhone.
I rest my thumb on the button as I’ve watched her do many times to switch it on, but the screen wiggles, telling me to try again. After three tries, the phone reprimands me, telling me to try again in fifteen minutes.
Setting it down, I pick up Blythe’s driver’s license and look at her picture. She’s smiling at the camera, her make-up perfect. She’d probably be horrified when she sees my driver’s license, the camera catching me in the middle of forming a smile, wearing no make-up except for lip gloss. I chuckle as I imagine her face, horrified at the thought of having to carry around my driver’s license in place of her own.
As the memories of the day return to me — from my first meeting with Heath at the shop to the last one at the bar, then to the moment Jackson realized I wasn’t Blythe — my bewilderment turns to annoyance. How can Blythe do this to me? What emergency could make her simply disappear without leaving me a message, or an explanation? What is really going on?
If she has to cut short our reunion, all she has to do is tell me, and I’ll be glad to be on the next flight back to Sacramento, with no hurt feelings at all. It’s not like I don’t want to be back in Nevada City anyway, even if it means I have to stand behind some counter selling souvenirs. New York is not the city for me, not even with a private limo to spare us the subway or a penthouse high above the city with a view to die for — not when my sister is not with me to enjoy it with.
I pick up the penthouse phone and dial her phone number, and for the next few moments I listen as her iPhone vibrates and rings on the counter, a melodic ringtone that slices through the silence till my call goes to voicemail.
Hi, it’s me, Blythe! Leave your message after the tone, or even better, just text me! Ciao!
“Hey, it’s me, Billie,” I say as I stand in front of the glass window that separates me from the city below. “I’m back at the penthouse, no thanks to you, and of course you’re not here. I don’t know what’s going on, but I sure hope that you’re okay. I have no problems with you taking off like this, really, I don’t, but it would have been nice to get some kind of warning. I don’t even know if Ethan is okay, or you for that matter. So anyway, call me, text me, whatever — I don’t know — just call me. If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow, I’m going home, and then we can touch base from there, okay?”
I hang up the phone and stare out the window for the next few minutes. I could have said so much more but I’m beginning to feel like an idiot. Maybe there really was an emergency and just as Jackson said, I can take care of myself. Still it’s no excuse for the way things have gone down, with me all alone in the penthouse while she’s out there somewhere, and I can only hope that she’s safe.
The lights of Manhattan blink below me, the Freedom Tower rising above all the other buildings in the distance. It’s a view many can only dream of, though my eyes barely register the view. Instead, I see only my reflection on the glass, a woman I barely recognize.
* * *
The ringing of the phone on the bedside table wakes me up the following morning. I’m in one of the guest bedrooms wearing one of Blythe’s night dresses for I have no idea where she’s stored my luggage. She’d been so horrified that I dared to bring Mom’s retro suitcase that she had one of the staff put it away.
I rub my eyes and peer at the caller ID, unsure if I should even answer the phone. But the moment I see Ethan’s name and a picture of a blond-haired man on a horse, I’m suddenly awake. I grab the phone before the call goes to voicemail.
“Hello,” I say, my voice thick with sleep. When I glance at the bedside clock, it says 5:45 AM.
“Billie,” says a familiar voice on the other line, though a little sternly.
“Blythe!” I scramble to sit up, pushing my hair from my face while getting tangled in the covers. “Are you alright? Where are you? You can’t believe what a relief it is to hear from you! I’ve been-”
“What the hell were you doing making out with Heath?”
“Wait — what?”
“I saw you and him together when Jackson and I went back into the bar to get you,” she says. “He was all over you-”
“For your information, I was trying to get away from him. Besides, after everything you told me about him, why would I do that to you?”
“I don’t know, Bee. You tell me. You’ve always wanted to get back at me after what happened with Andrew-”
“Andrew was so three years ago!” I sputter. “Why the heck would I even do that? You told me how much you didn’t like Heath, so why would I even-”
“-suck face with him? Because that’s exactly what I saw you do, and Jackson saw it, too,” Blythe says angrily. “Not only that, but one of the girls at the shop, Amelie, told me that Heath talked to you while I was getting my dress fitted this afternoon, yet you never said anything to me.”
“I forgot,” I reply, not knowing what else to say.
“Not only that, but Jackson said Heath had his hands all over you, and you guys knew each other pretty well. He said that you two seemed a bit too close-”
“Close?” I exclaim and this time, I get out of bed and pace the floor. “He thought I was you, Blythe — you! Now you tell me, what would give him the idea to act the way he did with me, huh? Like there’s more going on between you two? Maybe Natasha’s right — you always had the hots for the brother with the most money.”
“You believe Natasha? Haha, funny, Bee. But that’s just low coming from you.”
“Low? What’s low is you accusing me of whatever it is you think I’ve done without first asking me,” I say. “You left me there-”
“Why shouldn’t I? You were doing well by yourself and Heath was all over you! You didn’t even see us walk past you because you guys were so into each other. Are you so desperate to be me that you’d do anything to get yourself a man, even if it’s the very person I warned you about? After everything I told you about Heath, how could you do that to me and go behind my back
— and Ethan’s back. It’s through his generosity that you got that entire make-over or the shopping for dresses-”
“Then I’ll pay him back!” I exclaim. “Whatever happened to, ‘it’s my card, not Ethan’s.'”
“It’s still his money,” she seethes. “So what do you do in return? You suck face with Heath, who’s taken Ethan’s company away from him. I told you about Heath-”
“I was not sucking his face,” I say through gritted teeth. I realize I’m no match to Blythe’s biting words whenever we have arguments like this — or any argument for that matter — though we’ve only had one argument over a man before this, the one that set us both our separate ways for three years.
As kids, I used to be the one who threw the first punch just so she’d shut up, her caustic words more painful than any blow I could deliver. But Dad always told me that ladies didn’t hit, while Mom used to tell me that whenever Blythe ever got her mouth going, it was best to simply walk away.
But this is not one of those times where I can simply walk away. I feel at such a disadvantage, left alone yet feeling like all of it is my fault — Heath, the switched clutches, and now this, an argument I cannot win, no matter how hard I try.
“Look, I’m not getting into an argument with you, Blythe,” I say. “I was really looking forward to spending a wonderful time with you. I let you do whatever you wanted, even turn me into your Mini-me or whatever, but I’m not doing that anymore. I can’t believe you’re accusing me of going behind your back. I’m your sister. And I can’t believe you believe the words of Jackson Den — whatever his name is — over mine.”
“I wouldn’t have believed him if I didn’t see it for myself,” she says. “And right now, Ethan is not happy that my own sister is sleeping with the enemy.”
“Enemy? What is this? Some reality show I don’t know anything about? And as far as wanting to be your Mini-Me, the last thing I want to be is you,” I say as I roll my eyes and sigh. It’s useless arguing with Blythe, not when she’s set on believing only what she believes, even if it’s wrong.