When Fates Collide

by Isabelle Richards

  The tension in my shoulders begins to melt. “I’m listening.”

  As he gently feels around my nose, he continues. “Whilst I was in queue for the plane, I thought about how we left things. I just simply couldn’t leave us so… fractured. I canceled my meetings for tomorrow and thought I’d come back here and make it up to you. I thought maybe we could hire a car and go to Washington. You could show me your new flat.”

  He forces my eyelids open and looks into my eyes. “As it turns out, I need to go to the chemist and buy gauze to pack your nose.” He looks at me critically. “I don’t think it’s broken. But, I suspect it’ll be swollen and you’ll have a couple black eyes. I don’t think you need surgery, but check with a plastic surgeon in a week, when the swelling has gone down.”

  His head falls into my lap. “I’m so sorry, luv. What a mess I’ve made.” After a few minutes, he sits up. His face is flushed, and his eyes are red. I have no idea what to say to him. He taps my leg. “All right, then. I’ll be back in a few minutes. If you have any paracetamol, you should take some. If not, I’ll pick some up at the chemist.”

  “Some what?” I ask.

  “Anti-inflammatory,” he explains. “Tylenol or aspirin. Do you need anything else whilst I’m there?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He nods and quietly leaves the hotel room.

  Twenty minutes later or so, he returns and stuffs me up with cotton. He’s actually quite gentle. I can tell he’s done this before. “It’s already looking better. I think we might be able to get rid of the packing in a day or two.”

  When he’s finished, I go to the bathroom and check out his handy work. “I’m rockin’ the broken-nose look,” I say with excessive sarcasm. “I hear gauze is the new black.”

  “I said I was sorry,” he mutters from the other room.

  The room is still filled with tension. I’m pissed off and not ready to give him an inch.

  “Are you mad because I almost broke your nose or because I acted like a spoilt child?”

  “Both,” I snap.

  “Are you going to be mad at me forever? Don’t I get any credit for abandoning my flight to come back and apologize? That was romantic, wasn’t it? Worthy of a John Cusack movie, if I do say so myself.”

  I shrug as I look through my makeup bag for something stronger than aspirin. “Yeah, I guess it was romantic. Not that it cancels anything out. You were out of line.”

  “I know. I told you I would be patient, and I wasn’t. Just because you lost your place to stay doesn’t mean you’re ready to pick up and move. And just because you buy something here doesn’t mean you can’t move later. It’s really good business actually. I should have commended you for being so savvy.”

  “Damn straight.” Not that I had been thinking that far ahead or anything, but I’m willing to take credit for it.

  “So, can we please go to Washington so you can show me your new flat?” He points at my nose. “It may hurt to fly, but we can take the train or hire a car.”

  “Fine. But don’t think this changes anything. I still hate you.”

  He heads out to pick up a car while I get ready, avoiding looking in the mirror as best I can. Somehow he manages to rent a Mercedes 600 SL. There must be a rich guy’s car rental place I don’t know about because I don’t recall ever seeing anything so swanky at Enterprise.

  “Remember to drive on the right. I already have a broken nose. I don’t need a head-on collision to make it worse,” I say as I get in the car. As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I realize the twisted irony of them. If there hadn’t been a head-on collision in the first place, Gavin and I would have never met.

  Fate’s a wicked bitch. I don’t say another word during the first leg of the trip.

  Somehow, before picking me up, Gavin had time to put together a playlist of sad, weepy love songs to bludgeon me with on our road trip. I listen to two straight hours of gut-wrenchingly gloomy songs. As soon as Ain’t no Sunshine When She’s Gone starts to play, I give in.

  “All right!” I shout. “I can’t take any more. I’ll talk to you. Just promise you’ll stop with the lite rock sad music assault.”

  He cracks a devious smile. Sneaky bastard.

  We talk the rest of the way to DC, and the ice between us slowly melts. When we arrive at the new building, I realize I haven’t been in since before I signed the papers. Gavin grills the security guy, whom I look at apologetically. Poor guy has already been put in the hot seat by all the FBI guys, and now the boyfriend. By the time he’s done talking to the guard, Gavin has committed to buying a new security system for the building. It seems doghouse Gavin likes to throw money around to compensate for being a jackass.

  While we’re in the elevator, a lightbulb goes off in my head. “Call Marcus at the Four Seasons. We can’t stay here. I have no furniture. I can’t believe I hadn’t thought about that,” I groan.

  “We could go mattress shopping. I’d wager we can find a shop with same-day delivery.” He winks. “All we really need is a bed.”

  “Gavin. I have a broken nose. The last thing I want to do is go shopping. I want to lay in bed, drink wine, and eat chocolate. I still have to decide if I want you to stay or not.”

  He sighs “I’ll call. Will you show me around first, at least?” He flashes those damn baby blues at me, and I’m putty, but I try not to show it.

  The elevator doors open, and I motion for him to follow me. After unlocking the door, I give him a brief tour. My limited budget has forced me to compromise on amenities, but I’m happy. The kitchen could use an upgrade, but it has gas for cooking. The closets are small, but the bathtub is huge.

  Based on his reaction to the news of my condo, I’d expected him to nitpick the place to death. Surprisingly, he actually likes it. Or at least he acts as though he likes it. After the twenty-five cent tour, I notice how empty the space really is. All I have are my two lowly suitcases and three tiny boxes. My whole life is packaged up in those few boxes that wouldn’t even fill my miniature closet.

  Poor cell reception inside forces Gavin to step onto the balcony to call the hotel. When he returns, he finds me sitting on my boxes with tears streaming down my face. He sits down on the floor next to me. “Want to talk about it?” he asks.

  I get up and walk to the bathroom. I’m lucky enough to find some toilet paper left by the previous owner. After blowing my nose, I say, “You know, I’m not against moving to London at all. I’m actually looking forward to it. I just want to get myself sorted first. Ever since my parents died, I’ve been shuffled about. I’ve been all right because I’m good at adjusting to my surroundings. I’m good at putting the version of myself forward that’s most appropriate for each situation. But I’ve been doing that for so long I’m not sure who I am anymore.”

  He motions for me to sit on his lap. I comply, and he wraps his arms around me in such a way that I feel as though I’m in a protective nest.

  “If I run to London now, I’ll just end up molding myself into who I think I need to be. I don’t want that. You don’t want that. I want to have something to bring to our relationship. I won’t just latch on to your life. But right now, my life consists of three tiny boxes and two small suitcases. Half the stuff in the boxes I got from you!”

  “Life isn’t about things. You know that,” he says. “You’re working toward getting yourself together. Don’t sell yourself short. You’re working. You’re writing. You’re reconnecting with old friends, making new friends. Focus on your accomplishments because they’re plentiful.”

  I sniffle and nod.

  “Are you happy?” he asks.

  I consider his question for a minute. “Yes, I think I am. I was really excited about buying this place. I’ve never had any place that was mine. Actually mine. This is a big deal for me.”

  He wipes away an errant tear. “Then I pissed all over it. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am. Even if one day you move to London, you must keep the flat. That way you can come bac
k whenever you want. I’m back here often enough that the place will be in constant use. To be honest, I’m surprised I haven’t thought of buying a place of my own.”

  “Will The Four Seasons be able to stay in business?” I tease.

  “That’s their problem. You’re the only one I care about,” he says as he kisses my forehead, being careful not to bump my nose. “How about we go to the hotel and order take-away?”

  I nod and reluctantly lock up.

  Twenty-Three

  After a quick drive across town, we get settled into Gavin’s suite once more. He tucks me into bed and orders dinner for us from downstairs. Chewing hurts, so he only orders me a bottle of cabernet and a pint of ice cream. Dinner of champions.

  While he’s in the shower, I hop onto the IKEA website and start thinking about how to outfit my new condo. While it would be fun to shop at the hundreds of swanky design shops in the DC area, I’m definitely on an IKEA budget.

  Gavin comes out of the bathroom only wearing a towel, looking irresistibly and infuriatingly hot. I focus on the screen, determined to mask my arousal. I want him to think he’s still on my shit list. Plus, I have two black eyes and cotton coming out of my nostrils. I couldn’t look more repulsive if I tried.

  “What’re you up to?” he asks, slipping into fresh boxers.

  “Your favorite hobby: online browsing.”

  He flops down onto the bed next to me. “Ohh, can I help? I do love to point and click!” When he sees the site I’m looking at, he says, “IKEA? Really?”

  “What’s wrong with IKEA?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “There isn’t exactly anything wrong with it. I just happen to have great disdain for mass-market particleboard. I know lots of people love IKEA, and I’m sure it’s very nice mass-market particleboard. But it’s just not for me. I’m a bit of a furniture snob. I support fine craftsmanship.”

  What an arrogant prick! How can he be so out of touch? “Those that can afford a suite at The Four Seasons can afford to be furniture snobs. The rest of us real folks can’t be so picky. I’d tread lightly here if I were you, Gavin.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. Please don’t take it that way. Just like some people have a thing for wine, I have a thing for furniture.”

  I stare at him in disbelief. “Like you go antiquing?” I try to picture Gavin in a musty old shop, arguing with someone’s grandmother about the price of an end table. I just can’t see it.

  He laughs. “No, not like antiquing at all. That sounds dreadful. All those nannies quibbling about doilies supposedly owned by some duke four centuries ago.” He shudders. “I’ve mentioned my studio. In addition to painting, I do some woodwork. I like to build my own furniture. I have an appreciation for the artistry. I swear I’m not trying to be a toff.”

  The defensive edge to his tone is surprising. This seems like an innocuous enough conversation topic, but it feels as though it’s getting under his skin for some reason. “Thou dost protest too much, methinks. Have I struck a nerve?”

  Room service arrives, and Gavin leaves the bedroom to retrieve the food. He returns with my ice cream. Slightly melted, just as I ordered. They really cater to every request at this place. I put my laptop away as he sets up a picnic on the bed. When he takes the lid off his meal, I scoff. “Mac and cheese with truffles and lobster pot pie? Even your dinner is pretentious.”

  A hurt look crosses his face as he pushes the meal away. “I ordered this because it was the only thing on the menu I thought you might be able to eat without it causing you pain. I was hoping to share.”

  I’m an ass. “That was nice of you,” I remark. I look down and push my ice cream around the bowl. “I’m sorry for calling you pretentious. Seems like it’s a hot button for you.”

  He refolds his napkin. “It’s an uncomfortable subject for me, yes. I grew up with money, and I’ve seen all of the ugly things privilege and excess can do to people. Despite where I come from, I’ve always tried very hard to stay down-to-earth.”

  I slurp up some ice cream. “I wouldn’t have guessed it was a big issue for you. You seem to have no problem telling me you can solve my problems with money,” I reply, unable to resist getting a jab in.

  He lets out a frustrated sigh, as though he’s trying not to say something he might regret. “That’s not fair. I’ve only ever offered my money to protect you. This is an extraordinary circumstance. I don’t generally go around flaunting my financial status. No matter how low-key I play it, it always changes things. People fixate on the money, and suddenly, it’s the only thing they can talk about. It’s revolting.”

  Showing my abundance of class, I wipe an ice cream dribble of my chin with the back of my hand. “Well, as you would say, I care fuck all about your money.”

  “Yes,” he laughs. “You’ve made that quite clear.”

  Stuffed to the gills, I push my tray to the side. “To be honest, I haven’t really given your money much thought. I went to a boarding school where everyone had more money than I could ever dream of. At first, I felt like it kept them on this higher plane that I could never reach. Their money never impressed me, but it kept us separated. In time, I learned to overlook it. It doesn’t matter to me how much money someone has, because it will always be more than I do, so I decided not to care.”

  “No matter how little I’ve cared about money, it’s always ended up controlling me. The only time I was truly free was when I walked away from it all, but I was too young and rebellious to appreciate the freedom for what it was.”

  It’s interesting that the thing that had always made me feel stuck on the outside looking in as a girl is the same thing that has imprisoned him. I try to picture him growing up, poor rich boy that can’t trust if anyone really likes him for him or his moneybags. Then it occurs to me. “Oh god, are you a lord? I’m not calling you Lord Gavin. No way in hell.”

  Finally a smile. “I’m technically a lord, and yes, I think Lord Gavin will do just nicely.”

  I laugh, and it hurts like hell, so I punch him in the gut. “No more making me laugh!”

  He grabs his stomach and rolls to the side. “Yes, Lady Lily,” he groans. He collects our trays and takes them to the kitchen, returning soon with his laptop in tow.

  I lay back and close my eyes, losing track of times as he sits on the bed beside me and works. Rethinking everything he’s just said, I begin to wonder. “Have you ever worried that I’m only after your money?” I look over at him.

  He glances up from his laptop. “Of anyone I’ve ever met, you’ve been the least interested in my wealth. You might be the only woman I’ve been with that didn’t look at me with pound signs in her eyes.”

  “I can’t remember, is that better or worse than dollar signs? The whole conversion thing throws me off,” I say jokingly.

  He rolls his eyes and goes back to work. The subject isn’t entirely settled for me though. “Not because it matters, but I’m curious,” I say. “Exactly how high up in the economic stratosphere are you?”

  He stops typing. “High. So please stop fretting about me paying for things.”

  I pull the blanket further up around me. “My concern isn’t really about the money. It’s about me taking care of myself.”

  He continues to type as he speaks. “It’s ironic. My whole life people have only wanted me for money. The first person I actually want to share my money with wants nothing to do with it.”

  “Don’t know what to tell you, Oxford. You can’t always get what you want, but sometimes you get what you need.”

  He kisses the tip of my nose. “Thank you, Mick Jagger. But I think you’re both.”

  “You’d best remember that.” I close my eyes to rest when I get a brilliant idea. I sit up and look for my clothes. “Have Marcus pull the car around Gavin. We’re going on a field trip.”

  He closes his laptop. “Where to?”

  “I’m going to show you the wonder that is IKEA.”

  “Lead the way,” he says with a smile.

>   I still look as though I’ve been on the losing end of a boxing match, so I grab a pair of Jackie O sunglasses and a ridiculously large hat from the lobby store.

  It’s a quick drive up 495 to College Park. Even a half hour before closing, the store is still crowded. It was worth trekking out here with a busted nose just to watch Gavin take in IKEA for the first time. While he never warms up to the “wood” furniture, he loves everything else. How can he not? Everyone loves IKEA. We fill two carts before we remember that we’ve driven in a convertible with limited trunk space. We leave with a few things, and I promise that the next time he’s in town, we’ll rent an SUV and come back.

  We return to the hotel and spend the rest of the night pointing and clicking my way to towels, plates, and glasses. Gavin passes out, but I shop on for hours, loving every second of it. This is what I’d missed out on years ago when I hadn’t been allowed to register for my wedding. Ashton demanded we abstain from registering so that people would only give us cash. Then, when we shopped for ourselves, he’d throw a temper tantrum if we didn’t get exactly what he wanted. Tonight, I’ve actually picked out what I want for a change. I’d never thought picking out stemware could be so liberating.

  In the morning, the blinding morning sun wakes me up in a cold bed. I pull a pillow over my head and try to go back to sleep, but Gavin’s cranky voice echoes from the next room. From what I glean from one side of the conversation, someone must be furious he’s still in the States. It had never occurred to me that he’d suffer backlash for staying. He’s the CEO. Who does he answer to?

  A few moments later, he stalks into the room. “Up for a walk? I really need some fresh air.”

  I sit up and stretch. “Sure. Just let me get my disguise on.” It takes great effort, but I manage to get dressed and brush my teeth without looking in the mirror. I’m not ready to see how bad I look. Once my hat is donned and glasses are on, we walk to the canal.