When Fates Collide

by Isabelle Richards

  It’s astounding how well he understands me. He’s so grounded, while I’m an emotional disaster area. I feel like I should have yellow caution tape, cones, and flashing lights wrapped around me. Gavin deserves better than that. The realization hits me like a right hook.

  “I feel like I’m asking too much to ask you to wait. You deserve to move on with your life. You shouldn’t be held back because I’m damaged goods.”

  He wraps his arms around me and lets me cry. He doesn’t tell me it’ll be ok or any other bullshit that I’m not interested in hearing. He just lets me get it out. When my sobs stop, he looks at me and wipes the tears away.

  He brushes the hair out of my eyes and tucks it behind my ear. “Silly girl. You’re not damaged goods, you just need to heal. It’s a journey you need to do on your own. But if you think I’m going to bolt because you need time to take care of you, you’re mad. Take all the time that you need. I’ll be here. Until then, I’ll take what I can get.”

  I take a moment to soak in what he’s just said. “You’re overwhelmingly sweet and nauseatingly mature. How are you so damn grounded? I don’t know how you can be so secure with how messed up everything has been. I’m in awe of you, and at the same time, you scare the shit out of me. You’re so confident and stable, and I’m still struggling to find equilibrium. I’m flawed and selfish and broken. You set the bar so damn high. I can’t live up to that. I’m going to let you down.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I continue. “You just said the most perfect thing. Exactly what a girl wants to hear. What I want to hear. But that’s the thing. It’s so damn perfect. To believe that it’s real, that you really mean that? Scares me to no end.”

  “Luv, slow down. The last thing I want to do is put more pressure on you. I don’t have expectations. I’m not setting the bar at all! You couldn’t possibly let me down. And I’m far from perfect. Yes, I’m fairly grounded, but I didn’t get this way overnight. I’ve had a lot of heartbreak, and I’ve caused a lot of heartbreak. All of those experiences shaped the way I deal with things. What gives me confidence and security is us. You and me. Like I said, this is different from any connection I’ve ever had with another person. I have no doubt in my mind that we’ll make this work. This is too good to fail.”

  His words make me gasp for air. They’re shocking, soothing, and suffocating all at the same time. He winces at my gasp. I’m sure I have a look of panic on my face.

  “I don’t feel like I’m helping,” he says. “I leave tomorrow, and I’m not scheduled to be back in the US for almost two months. Take that time to think things through, take care of yourself. We can meet then and see how you feel.”

  My throat feels as dry as the desert at the thought of not seeing him for two months. “I don’t want things to change. I don’t want to lose you.” Talk about love bipolar. I want him, but I’m pushing him away at the same time. I’m such a train wreck.

  “Nothing’s changing on my end, okay?” he says reassuringly. “Let’s get some sleep. My car is going to be here in a few hours. We don’t have to solve everything tonight.” He kisses me and rolls over. This is the first night that we’ve slept together without being wrapped around each other. It feels like he’s already left. I lie awake all night, watching him sleep and running through “what ifs” in my head.

  When he wakes up, he acts as if nothing has changed, but something feels off. He’s full of affection and playful banter, just as always. He goes about getting ready completely casually. But he feels reserved, a bit distant. I feel as though he’s put guards up.

  Soon, Marcus calls to let him know the car has arrived. I get dressed, expecting him to ask me to come with him.

  He pulls me toward him and kisses me. “I have a present for you.” He hands me a fancy Four Seasons envelope. Inside, I find a schedule for a full-day spa package.

  “I’ve booked a whole day for you downstairs at the spa. What better way to start taking care of you than by having someone take care of you? I don’t know what most of this means, but I’ve been assured that you’ll love it.”

  “When did you plan this?” I demand, disappointed I won’t be asked to join him on the ride to the airport. I hear the words as they come out of my mouth, and I cringe. “Sorry, that was so rude.” I kiss his cheek. “Thank you. This is so thoughtful and beyond generous. You didn’t have to go through all this trouble. I’m just shocked you had a spare second to organize this.”

  “I know you didn’t sleep last night, and I—”

  “How did you know?” If he knows I was up all night, then that must mean he was up all night too.

  He gives me an eye roll. “Please, Lil. You may think you’re fooling the world, but to me, you’re an open book. You need to unwind and relax, and I’m hoping this will be the first step in getting you there. I called while I was getting ready. Remember, there’s a phone in the shower,” he says with a sly, sexy smile.

  Oh, I remember the phone alright. I think it’s permanently imprinted into my back from one of our many go ‘rounds in the shower.

  “Too bad you won’t be around to enjoy the outcome of my day of buffing and polishing. I’ll be all shiny, smooth, and exfoliated, with no one to appreciate it.” I give him a pouty face.

  “You can tell me all about it. In vivid detail,” he says with a naughty grin. “Alright, luv, my car awaits. You have the room for tonight. I’ve asked a security company that I’ve used in the past to go by your place and make sure the maggots are keeping a safe distance before you head back.

  “On that note, some other new story broke last night, and I’m thinking you may be yesterday’s news now. Seems like some New York politician is a coke fiend and enjoys the company of young prostitutes. Very young male prostitutes. It should be a big enough scandal to make you a thing of the past.”

  I release a sigh of relief. “I couldn’t be happier my fifteen minutes of fame may be over!”

  He gives me a quick kiss and says, “Let’s hope so! I’ve really got to dash. I’ll call you when I land.” One more peck and he’s gone.

  I instantly regret what I said last night. I’d swear I feel him pulling away, but maybe I just think he is. Either way, I’m going to go crazy overthinking it all. I guess it’s a good thing I have a day full of pampering ahead to try to forget the mess I’ve just made.

  Sixteen

  The spa day is marvelous. I’m scrubbed, soaked, rubbed, waxed, polished, and painted. I feel relaxed, my skin is as smooth as glass, and I think even my laugh lines may have disappeared.

  Trying to soak up the end of the summer sun, I lay out on the terrace to work on my blog. I’ve got to hand it to Em—the blog was a great idea. Every day, it seems I have a new follower or two, and the writing itself is highly cathartic. However, I am having a bit of trouble turning my press nightmare into general terms that anyone can relate to. I try to spin the experience into a post about how snippets of the past can haunt and shape the future. It comes out pretty well, if I do say so myself.

  Despite my long break from journalism, I feel like I’m easily getting back into a groove with my writing. My last piece about the plights of families with children with special needs got far more attention than I expected. It was picked up by a few papers across the country. The initial success has given me the confidence to go for round two.

  Em has a promising idea for a series of stories about people from all walks of life whose lives were changed by the recession—farmers, plant workers from Detroit, techies, housewives, doctors, veterans. Her idea is to show a piece of how real Americans have been impacted across the board. It’s a big undertaking, but what an amazing piece it could be. The focus wouldn’t be so much on the economy as it would be on how we, as a nation, have changed. Em’s convinced that when it’s done, Time will be all over it.

  I call her, and together we brainstorm for hours. By the end of our call, I feel energized and ready to hit the ground running tomorrow. I look over at the clock and see it’s almost ten. Gavin s
hould have landed hours ago, but I haven’t even received a text. I know I’m getting the space I asked for, but I’m not happy about it. There’s a big difference between not wanting to pick up and move to London and not wanting to talk to him every day. I miss him already. But how can I complain without seeming like a contradictory nut job?

  There’s a knock at the door, snapping me out of my pity party. My hopes soar, thinking it’s Gavin and that he must have decided to stay after all. I sprint to the door only to find the night concierge, Raul, on the other side. My hopes shatter.

  “Ms. Clark, my most sincere apologies. This package was to be delivered to you hours ago. The wait staff was on its way up to bring your nightly Ben and Jerry’s when I saw it was still at the desk. I am-”

  “No worries, Raul. Thank you. Good night.” Once the parcel is in my hands, I don’t wait for an answer before slamming the door.

  Knowing it must be from Gavin, I tear open the package. He’s left me another shirt of his that I love, with a note to call him when I’m wearing it. I immediately put it on, taking in the heavenly smell that is Gavin.

  It’s far too late London time to call him. So I take a selfie and send it with an apology for not calling sooner. Texts clearly travel across the ocean far faster than planes because mere seconds later he calls. I answer by saying, “You should be sleeping. Do you know what time it is in London?”

  “I was worried when I didn’t hear from you and couldn’t sleep. I’ve been up working, just going to push through the rest of the night.” He sounds weary. I picture him hunched over his desk, his hair wild from a long night of raking his fingers through it every time he looks at the clock wondering when his self-absorbed girlfriend will call. Hmmm… girlfriend?

  “Don’t know what kind of fleabag establishment you’ve stuck me in, but they sat on this package all day. They just now brought it up to me when they escorted my dates for the evening to my room.”

  “Dates?” he asks, a tinge of fury in his tone.

  “Yup,” I reply. “I’m having a threesome with Ben and Jerry.”

  “The things I would love to do with you and ice cream,” he says seductively. “If only you ever left any.”

  “Shut it, Oxford.” I rub my stomach as a blush creeps across my face. “I’m very sensitive about my ice cream-eating. Now that you’re gone, I foresee many lonely nights with just me, Ben, and Jerry.”

  I picture him biting his lip to refrain from making a comment about how I ought to come to London and make it a foursome. Not wanting to talk about travel plans, I cut him off before he has a chance to speak. “Thank you for my spa day. It was heavenly. What a perfect gift to top off a perfect weekend. I loved it, almost as much as I love my new shirt.”

  “Can’t have you walking about starkers without me there, can I?”

  “One of these days, I’ll be with you without being smuggled off to a hotel without a stitch of clothing.”

  “That will take all the fun out of it,” he teases. “I rather like you without a stitch of clothing.” I try to come up with something sexy to say, but he continues before I have a chance. “Lily, dear, I’m going to get back to work. I’ve been neglectful of my business obligations, and I’m simply drowning in it. Can we speak tomorrow?”

  “Sure, no problem. I—”

  “Great. Cheers, luv. Sweet dreams.” And he’s gone.

  I suddenly lose any appetite for ice cream. I climb onto what had been Gavin’s side of the bed, hoping to curb the feeling of growing distance between us.

  Seventeen

  The next morning, I enjoy one last swim in the enormous tub before I have to check out. I’m going to miss my glamorous Georgetown hideaway, and I drag my feet getting ready to go.

  As I’m leaving, Marcus stops me. “Ms. Clark, Mr. Edwards left strict instructions that his suite is to be made available to you anytime the press starts hounding you. Consider our doors always open as a sanctuary. I do hope that you will join Mr. Edwards next time he is in town.”

  I shake his extended hand. “Thank you, Marcus. Take care.”

  Stepping outside, I stop for a moment to bask in the sunshine. It’s a gorgeous day, too nice out for a taxi, so I decide to walk home. On my way, I get a call from Greene. He tells me that the feds and banks have seized all they are going to. Franklin’s car is the only thing left I can claim. He says I can come pick it up at one of the FBI facilities’ impound lots any time, so I hail a cab and head on over.

  I run over to Greene when I see him, and he gives me a warm handshake. “How you holding up?” he asks.

  “Chopping wood and hauling water. You know, trying to rebuild my life under the watchful eye of the American public,” I say with a smile.

  “Yeah, I saw the tabloids. Damn parasites. Looks like you took my advice, though. Gavin’s a good guy. Considering your late husband, I had grave doubts about your taste in men.”

  I kiss him on the cheek. “Greene, if Ashton hadn’t fucked up my life, I never would have met you.”

  He gives a gentle tug on my ponytail. “One day, you’ll have to tell me how a pretty, smart girl like you ended up with such a dirtbag.”

  “It’s simple, Greene. I was young and dumb.” I suck on my lower lip, remembering. “We met in college, and he was just what I wanted at that time. Someone that was going to keep my life simple. I was running from my past, and he was a safe place to hide. I didn’t ask questions of him, he didn’t ask them of me, and I always had someone to go home with. It was far from love, but it was perfect for college. After school, Franklin helped me get an internship here in DC, and then one thing led to another. We’d been together for so long at that point that it just happened. I never even considered what I was getting into. It was familiar and safe. Or so I thought.”

  Greene gives me a one-armed hug. “Someone should have told you that you deserve better.”

  I lean into his embrace. “Someone did, and I didn’t hear them. Youth is wasted on the young, right? So, where’s the car?” I ask, giddy as a kid on Christmas morning with anticipation. Franklin had a 1952 Ferrari 340, one of only four in existence. It had been designed as a race car, and the rumble of its engine can be felt blocks away. Now that I know he was from Italy, I can see why he’d treasured it so. He loved that car and wouldn’t let anyone but me drive it. He only made that concession because he’d refused to ride in my old Jeep after his stroke. Every Sunday, we would take it out and just drive all day with nowhere in particular to go. If there was one thing I could have saved for Franklin, it would have been this car.

  “Lil, we’ve got to talk about this. It’s more complicated than just signing a release form.”

  I hear her purring before she comes around the bend. The impound attendant looks as though he’s died and gone to heaven. I look at Greene as I climb in. “Want to go for a ride?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” he says with a big grin.

  We head out on Route 50 towards Annapolis, blasting classic rock as loud as the stereo will go. Knowing we need to talk, once we get to Annapolis, I take him to Mike’s for crabs.

  After we’re seated at a table overlooking the water, I say, “So, how do I get to keep the car? It must be worth a fortune. With all of Ash’s debt, I’d have figured someone would have had their hooks in it.”

  Greene takes a sip of his water. “Well, as it turns out, Franklin left it to you, not Ashton.”

  “What? How did I not know that?” I pause to think about it for a moment. “Never mind. I know the answer to that.” Ash was such a bastard that I’m sure he’d known but planned on keeping it for himself anyhow.

  He laughs. “You don’t have to be a detective to figure that much out. We had well established that you were not involved in any of his wrongdoings, so there was no reason for anyone to stake claim on it. Oddly enough, it was in the second detached garage, which we’d thought was just for lawn equipment. And the keys were in it. A lesser detective would have been suspicious about that. But you were
in FBI custody, so you couldn’t have done it.”

  Our half bushel of crabs is delivered. Greene and I grab our hammers and dig in. “That’s really strange. I can’t think of why the car would have been in that garage. But I really hadn’t thought about it since Franklin died, so it could have been moved and I may not have noticed.”

  Green squeezes a little lemon on his crab. “Well, it’s peculiar, and peculiar doesn’t settle well with me. I had the guys in the auto shop check it thoroughly. Needed to make sure someone didn’t leave it as a trap…tracking device or explosives.”

  That stops me mid-bite. “I thought I was in the clear now. I can tell you it isn’t Grimaldi. So who should I be worried about?” I drop my crab claw on the table. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “We don’t think it’s Grimaldi either. But I do think there’s something you aren’t telling me. Putting that aside for a moment, we’ve been keeping our ear to the ground for anything related to your husband. Some recent chatter we’ve picked up has led us to understand some things in your husband’s records we didn’t at first. He was in over his head with people that’ve long memories and big egos. Being screwed over isn’t an insult they’d be quick to forget. These men demand their pound of flesh, and more often than not, they get it.”

  Losing my appetite, I put down my hammer and clean my hands with a wet wipe. “We were worried they’d come after you, but once the media attention to the case died down, we didn’t hear anything more. It seemed like they’d moved on. That was until your face was plastered all over the funny papers. Suddenly, your name’s popped up a few times in conversations that have made me uncomfortable. Nothing so serious as a direct threat, just dangerous people acknowledging that you’re still alive and they’re still out some serious cash.”

  Across the restaurant, I see a man get down on one knee to propose, the intended in her chair frozen in shock and delight. He has so much hope and happiness written across his face. The world is at his feet, just wanting to be seized. I envy his optimism. He hasn’t seen how dark life can be. He still believes in happy endings.