by Katy Regnery
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
There are a million and one ways to say the words “I’m sorry,” and I can’t stop thinking about the way Ian said them to me yesterday in front of the café. So full of regret, he was practically choking on it, the words were soft and tender.
If he hadn’t stood me up fifteen years ago without a word, I might have even believed them.
But he did stand me up, I recall, tears stinging my eyes even after all these years. And after what I’d given him, after what we’d shared, it was so painful, there are some days I still don’t know how I survived it.
For weeks after leaving Ireland, I was despondent. Spending hours on my own, crying in bed or peeing near-constantly—and saying rosaries to the Virgin for my period to arrive—I was alone in my grief and fear. I brutalized myself for my stupidity in believing he loved me. I hated that I’d trusted him. I was crushed that something that had felt so real was just a pile of steaming shit.
And even after my period arrived, ensuring that our tryst hadn’t led to an unwanted teen pregnancy, the emotional repercussions from that night reverberated through my adolescent life, affecting my views on love and sex for…ever.
I could never again trust my instincts or intuition about men, so I didn’t try to make a lasting emotional connection with them.
If my body felt like fucking, I found someone to fuck me. Sex was just sex—a physical act that led to physical pleasure. Nothing more. Nothing less.
If my heart felt like falling in love, I doubled-down on my conviction that love couldn’t be trusted. I’d fallen in love once at fifteen and been played for a fool. I wasn’t eager to repeat the experience, no matter how much I longed for a meaningful connection with someone.
Sitting on my stiff, white couch with my morning cup of tea, and desperately needing some comfort, I open the “Personal Advice for Valentina” file on Steve’s laptop. As I read his letter again, I marvel at how well he knew me. A fresh wave of grief makes tears slide down my cheeks and blur the words I know by heart:
I believe you loved someone once as passionately and romantically as one human being can love another. He left you or hurt you or betrayed you, or all three, and from that pain, all of your ideas about sex and love evolved. You neither trusted nor sought true love in your life. You only gave your heart to me because you knew I couldn’t break it.
It should be impossible that a fifteen-year-old princess and sixteen-year-old street thug should, in one night, form a connection so profound that they are haunted by it for years, and damaged by it for life. But the unlikeliness of it doesn’t make it less true or more deniable.
It happened then.
It happened yesterday.
I felt it all over again when our eyes met in the Children’s Garden: in the electric-like currents of energy that zinged and zapped between us. In the shock and awe that I suffered in my heart and read on his face.
But then, Ian and I never lacked chemistry. We had it in spades.
I have learned a great deal about chemistry in the years since I knew him. I’m an expert on the topic, and I know better than anyone that even the greatest chemistry doesn’t equal love.
I loved him passionately and romantically.
He left me, hurt me and betrayed me.
And I neither trusted nor sought true love again.
Steve was right. On all points, he was right.
However unbelievable it might seem, I loved Ian. I gave my body to Ian. And Ian used me, then walked away.
Whoever he was, you must find him and face him and bid him farewell forever. Until you do, I fear he may always haunt you, keeping your heart in a cage of your own making, and standing in the way of the sort of deep and lasting happiness you deserve.
I close the laptop, sipping my tea and looking at the view of Manhattan. It’s gray today; a hazy cityscape through storm clouds and drizzle.
Find him and face him? Check.
And bid him farewell forever.
Even as I nod my head, my heart drops.
Bid him farewell.
Forever.
I bite my bottom lip, thinking about our lunch date yesterday.
I wish I could say that he was boorish and unpleasant, but he wasn’t. He was a perfect gentleman and a wonderful conversationalist. While the children colored their menus and giggled at inside jokes, he gave me a quick update on his life: moving to the states soon after our meeting in Limerick, staying with kind relatives who’d given him a job and helped him through school. He owned a solid business now—several flourishing American restaurants that emulated typical Irish pubs—and a condo not far from me in Williamsburg. When I asked about his wife, he explained that he’d never been married to Dylan’s mother and she was no longer in the picture. My heart held its breath as he answered and sighed with relief to learn he was single. Poor, stupid heart, more vulnerable than ever to this man, my living, breathing kryptonite.
Bid him farewell forever.
I know I should.
I have his business card. I should ask to meet him for a drink and use the opportunity to tell him goodbye. Sure, it will be awkward, but it would be for the best, wouldn’t it? It would be an exercise in self-care, in resolution, in closure. It would be me, taking back the reins of my life after fifteen years, and finally freeing my heart from a “cage of my own making.”
Gaspare enters the living room and clears his throat.
Our bodyguards share a suite of rooms on the west side of the loft that includes two small bedrooms, a sitting room, kitchen, and bathroom.
“Buon giorno, Gaspare.”
“Buon giorno, madame. Shall I have Iago pick up la bambina today?”
“Yes, please,” I tell him with a grateful smile.
“And we’re taking you to a museum this afternoon?”
I nod. “The Guggenheim in Manhattan. There’s a parent-child class at three on watercolor painting.”
“Very well, madame.”
He stands in the doorway for a long moment, as though he has more to say. “Che cosa, Gaspare?”
“Mr. Prince, madame,” he says, his expression souring at the mention of Ian’s name. “The man you met yesterday at the gardens.”
“Yes,” I say.
“I’ve done a bit of digging.”
“You don’t need to,” I tell him. “Mr. Prince and I have met before.”
“Is that right?” he asks, his eyes narrowing.
“Yes. I should have mentioned it yesterday, but I was distracted…”
“Because we can’t find any background on him. He appears, fully formed, in Brooklyn, about fifteen years ago.”
I nod. “As I said, I know him. You don’t need to waste your time looking into him. He’s…nobody.”
“I see, madame.” He hesitates for a moment before adding, “Still, if you’ll be seeing him, even occasionally, I feel strongly that we should—”
“Cessare, Gaspare!” I exclaim, then take a deep breath, reminding myself that Gaspare is only interested in my safety. “You do not need to look into him. I’m telling you not to. Do you understand?”
I have no interest in Gaspare and Iago learning about my ill-fated fling so many years ago. My cheeks heat at the very notion of being discovered. Ian was my secret. I want him to stay that way.
“Very well, madame,” says Gaspare, his voice clipped and hurt. “As always, I act only for your safety.”
“Of course,” I say. “I’m sorry for snapping at you.”
He nods his head in deference, then turns to leave the room without another word.
Coming to Brooklyn was supposed to mean a fresh start for Carina and me, not a deep dredge of past hurts. Not only do I want to hide my teenage shame from Gaspare and Iago, I want to hide it from everyone. I have no interest in revisiting it, only bidding it farewell.
Hurrying to the front foyer, I fish Ian’s business card from my purse, and before I lose my nerve, I dial the number on the front.
Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep—
“Hello?”
“Ian, it’s Valentina.”
I can hear his breath exhale in a sigh, and my toes curl.
“Valentina. Hello! Yes.” He laughs softly. “I’m so glad you called.”
Chemistry, I tell myself. It’s only chemistry and history. Nothing real. Nothing more.
“I thought we should maybe meet,” I tell him.
“Yeah. That’d be grand. Do you have a sitter yet? I could take you to dinner.”
“I have staff to watch Carina,” I tell him. Telling him that I have no interest in knowing him and asking him to keep his distance from me and my daughter won’t take more than half an hour. “But there’s no need for dinner. I think a drink would be better.”
“Sure,” he says. Is that disappointment in his tone? “A drink. Okay.”
“Can you suggest a place?” I ask, cradling the phone against my shoulder and rubbing my sweaty palms on my leggings.
“How about one of mine?”
I long to see what he’s made of himself, but if I did, every time I passed one of his restaurants, I’d think of him. Best keep this impersonal, Valentina.
“Just somewhere in Williamsburg,” I say. “Nothing special.”
“Right,” he says slowly. “Nothin’ special. Huh. Okay. How about Juliette’s?”
“Is that a joke?” I ask, remembering the play I saw on the night we met.
“No.”
“Are you trying to be cute?”
“I’m not takin’ the piss, Tina. I promise. It’s a French spot in Williamsburg. On North Fifth Street.”
Cagare, I’m nervous.
“Okay. Fine. Juliette’s. I’ll meet you there.”
“When were you thinkin’?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Eight o’clock?”
“Va bene,” I whisper. “See you then.”
Before he can say anything else, I hang up.
The sooner I see him, the sooner I can say farewell. The sooner I say farewell, the sooner I can move on and find the “deep and lasting happiness” my dear Steve wished for me.
Dio Mio, may it be so.
***
Ian
Thank the Lord my sitter was free tonight because there’s no way I was going to miss out on the chance to see Tina.
If I’d had no other choice, I would’ve taken Dylan to Prince’s and left him behind the bar with Craig for an hour or two. It’s not an option I like to exercise, but the lunch we shared two days ago wasn’t nearly enough time with her.
Since reconnecting, I can’t think straight. I can’t think of anything but explaining to her, as best I can and without betraying my promise to Dr. Trímian, what happened that night in Limerick. She deserves to know that the situation was fucking extenuating. A real and sincere tragedy was the only thing that could have kept me from returning to her.
In the hopes of seeing her again, I picked up Dylan twice more this week, disappointed when Tina’s bodyguard arrived to pick up Carina. That extra time at school did, however, give me a chance to talk to Rachel. As gently as possible, I told her that I’d met someone, and though I hoped we could remain friends, there wouldn’t be any more “benefits” to that friendship.
Although she seemed surprised, she regrouped quickly, telling me that she was seeing someone from her art class, and if we were over, she’d pursue something more serious with him.
More’s the better.
From the moment I saw Valentina again, I haven’t been able to think of another woman, nor quell the fierce longings of my heart. Those old feelings—that should have died a thousand deaths by now—have returned tenfold. But this go ‘round, I’m not Ian Ladd: a teenaged street rat without a dollar to my name. I’m Ian Prince: a successful businessman. This time, I could—if she’d let me—romance her proper.
Fucking let me, Princess, I think to myself as I walk to Juliette’s. See me. Consider me. Give me another chance to prove that fate brought us together and the gods don’t make mistakes.
I push open the door and walk into the Parisian-style café, complete with hanging plants that droop lazily from suspended pots. Hanging lanterns splash soft light onto bistro tables and a ceiling of glass lets a little moonlight shine through. This is my favorite restaurant in Brooklyn, and if I’m going to bare my soul to a princess, it may as well be here.
“Ian!” says Jacqueline, one of the hosts who knows me. “Waiting for someone or solo tonight?”
I kiss her cheeks. “Waiting for someone.”
“Lucky someone,” she says with a giggle. “You want a table?”
“We’re just having drinks.”
“Ah. Well, do you want to wait down here or on the roof? I can send her up when she gets here.”
Rain lashed the city yesterday, but it’s clear and warm tonight. The rooftop sounds like heaven.
“You don’t mind bringing her up?”
She shakes her head. “Not at all. What does she look like?”
Ah, Lord. How to describe Her Serene Highness Valentina Yasmina De’Medici to someone who’s never seen her before…
“Um, well. She’s not tall. She’s thin…w-willowy-like. She’s got this, like, very blonde hair…” I chuckle softly. “First time I ever saw her, it looked like a halo, you know? She looked like a bloody angel. And, uh, well, she’s got dark eyes. Very dark. And stormy when she’s mad. She’s…” I look up to see Valentina stepping into the café, and my heart thrums like I’m sixteen all over again. “… here.”
Jacqueline, whose face has softened while I’ve been speaking, turns around, “Bienvenue, mademoiselle.”
“Bonsoir. Merci beaucoup,” says my princess in perfect French, bestowing a demure smile on the hostess.
“Hello, Tina,” I say, leaning forward to kiss her cheeks in greeting, but she pulls away, putting her hand between us. Slightly embarrassed, I draw back, taking her hand and shaking it. “Good to see you.”
“Bonsoir, Ian,” she says, dropping my hand quickly.
“To the roof,” says Jacqueline, grabbing two menus. “Follow me.”
I gesture for Valentina to precede me and she does, following the hostess up the stairs. She’s wearing a little sundress tonight. It’s blue and white tie-dye, and ends just above her knees. Though I’ve never been, it reminds me of pictures I’ve seen of Greece—of the bright blue sky and crisp, white-painted buildings. Her legs are tan and her hair, in a braid that ends at the base of her neck, is platinum blonde.
Other parts of her are that color blonde, too, I remember, and it makes my heart skip a beat.
“Will this table do?” asks Jacqueline, leading us to a quiet spot in the corner of the rooftop garden.
“Yes, thank you,” says Valentina, letting me pull out her chair. She sits down, then offers our host a small smile. “Can you bring some sparkling water, please?”
“I’ll tell your waiter. Anything else?” she asks, looking back and forth between us.
“A martini,” says Valentina.
“Scotch on the rocks,” I add, sitting down across from her.
“Of course,” says Jacqueline. “Bon apetit!”
I watch as Valentina settles her small purse on the table to her left, then takes her napkin and spreads it in her lap. She is unsmiling, and seems troubled, and suddenly, I have misgivings about why she invited me here.
“Thank you for meeting me,” she says, raising her eyes to mine.
“I’d meet you anywhere, anytime,” I tell her.
Her face changes, going icy in a split second. “We both know that’s not true.”
“Tina—”
The waiter returns with a bottle of sparkling water and pours us each a glass. “Your drinks will be here soon. Would you like to order an appetizer?”
“No, thank you,” she says softly, her voice firm.
“Very good. I’ll be back in a minute,” he says, ste
pping away.
Valentina clears her throat and starts her speech over again. “Thank you for meeting me. I have a favor to ask.”
“Anything.”
“Carina and I have come to Brooklyn for a fresh start. Losing Steve was very hard on both of us, and I had hoped this would be a safe place to build a new future. With that in mind, I’d like to ask you not to—”
“I couldn’t come back that night!” I blurt out. “It wasn’t possible.”
“Excuse me?”
“I—I couldn’t come back to your hotel room like I promised—that night in Limerick. I wasn’t—I mean, I would have, I wanted to…but I couldn’t. It was impossible.”
She blinks at me, then purses her lips.
I can tell there’s a battle going on behind those dark and stormy eyes. I’m fairly certain she was about to tell me to fuck off and leave her alone when she started her speech, but now she’s curious about what happened that night.
“What do you mean?”
“That morning. I told you I’d be back that night—”
“You told me a lot of things,” she snaps.
“I meant them, Tina! It was the best night of my life. Not just up to then. Up to now, love.”
She raises her eyebrows, then reaches for her water and takes a sip. Two spots of pink have appeared on her tan cheeks, and they betray the emotion she’s feeling. They give me hope.
“Then it shouldn’t have been impossible,” she says softly.
“My brother died,” I say, the words tumbling from my mouth. “While we were together that night in your hotel room, he died.”
Her lips drop open in horror as she raises a hand and flattens it over her heart. “What?”
“He was hit by a truck,” I tell her, wincing at the memory of walking into my kitchen on that terrible morning. “He was…killed instantly. I passed Bon Secours Hospital walking home from your hotel. Had no idea Albie was lying in the morgue.”
“Oh, Ian,” she whispers, her eyes filling with tears. “I didn’t—how awful. I’m so very sorry.”
“You didn’t know.”
I place my hands on the table, palms up, hoping that she’ll—
Yessss.
I sigh with pleasure when she covers my hands with hers, the touch of her skin against mine making my breath catch and heart soar.