by London James
“Four fucking years? Are you kidding me? Are you fucking her, Gray? Is that it? Do you love her?”
He stands this time and steps directly in front of me, taking my anger, but not backing down. “Don’t be mad at me for something that you can’t do. I’ve been giving her financial advice. No, I’m not fucking her, idiot. And I love her. Like a friend, nothing more. And maybe you wouldn’t be so mad if you were the one helping her, but instead you’re letting your pride get in the way.”
“I don’t see her reaching out to me, either.”
“She’s scared to reach out to you. After the last few interactions, she thinks you hate her, and she understands why.”
I run my fingers through my hair, screwing up the style. I probably look crazy now. “Why not tell me sooner?”
“Because of this reaction. You don’t ever react well when her name is mentioned. You get angry. Doesn’t matter how her name is mentioned, you act like this. I figured you don’t care what’s going on with her, so I took it upon myself to help her.”
“I care,” I growl, trying to calm my raging breaths.
“I know, or you wouldn’t act like this, but you balance on the line of hate and love. I should have told you. It’s only every few months we talk. I promise. Nothing more.”
“Nothing?”
“Not even a wink.”
“Damn it.” I spin on my heel and look out the floor to ceiling windows. Bitterness starts to drown me. Right when I think I’m on the mend of getting over her, something happens that brings me back down again, and I have to start my Everly sobriety all over again.
“I hate that I care,” I mutter through clenched teeth.
“No, you don’t. Don’t be an asshole, man. Aside from whatever happened between you two, she’s had a tough time. The person that stole her identity has ruined her life. She can’t even find a job because when they look into her background, all they see is a criminal record, something she doesn’t have. She’s been working as a secretary at a tattoo shop, and they pay her under the table.”
I snort when I think of her working around tattoos and piercings. I bet she feels so out of place. “Let me guess; you hired her a lawyer?”
“Only the best.”
“You should have talked to me about this.”
“Why? So, you can refuse to help someone over your own pride and stubbornness? No thanks. She is a good person. I don’t know why she did what she did. It was for a reason, maybe not a good one, but you guys were eighteen. She’s human. She is going to make mistakes. It doesn’t mean you have to like it, but damn it, dude, take the high road. It’s getting really old,” he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Put on your big boy pants, and start acting like a man, and stop living in the past.”
“I don’t—”
“When it comes to her, you do. I’m not going to hold your hand anymore through your heartache. It’s been five fucking years, dude. Honestly, I don’t have the patience, either love her or let her go.”
The phone rings, indicating the conference call I have. Gray puts on a smiling face, but I can see his aggravation hiding behind his blue eyes. He is right. I either need to love her or let her go, and all these years later, the fact that I haven’t figured that out yet is pretty pathetic.
The part of me that I’ve been fighting all these years, doesn’t want to let her go. And I don’t even know how to handle that truth.
Chapter 12
Everly
“No, that wasn’t me.” Tears brim my eyes at another rejection call for a job. “Someone has stolen my identity.”
I sigh, “I know that sounds made up, but it is true. I have a lawyer you can talk to about it. Just give me a chance.” The first tear falls, and I hold back as much emotion as I can, and I tell them, “I understand. Yeah, have a great day too.”
I let out a frustrated cry and throw my phone on the couch. It’s useless. I’m never going to be able to get a job. Don’t get me wrong, I love working at the tattoo shop, but Andy keeps asking me out, and I keep saying no because I know that wouldn’t work, and with how my life is going right now, I don’t even want to deal with a man.
“No, luck?” Blaire asks, setting down the mail on the coffee table along with the New York Times.
I cross my arms over my chest and pull my cardigan tighter around my waist. “No. Nothing. I don’t know what I’m going to do, Blaire.”
“The tattoo shop really loves you. Just stay there.”
“It isn’t my dream job. And I can’t just get paid under the table forever. I don’t want to have to settle just because someone fucked me over. It isn’t fair.”
Blare just wraps her arms around my neck and gives me a hug. “I know. It will get better though. You have me, okay? I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
I hold onto Blaire tight and just cry. It’s been so hard the last year. No one will hire me because of this asshole that got my social security number. Everything is ruined. I have an eighty-thousand-dollar student loan debt, my credit cards are nearly maxed out, I apparently have a criminal record now because of this person, and the only thing keeping me afloat and fed is the tattoo shop.
A place I’m surprisingly feeling at home at. Andy will tease me about getting other tattoos, and when I tell him no, he just nods and says at least he can say he took my virginity. As in my skin virginity. For some reason, he feels really proud about that, and I just roll my eyes. Men are so difficult to understand.
So, I just joke along and say, “Yeah, no one can ever compare to my first time with you.” And like always, he will just shoot me a wink. It used to make my stomach flip, but now I see Andy as the playboy he really is, and I’m not interested in someone like that. They are all kind to me, and luckily, they knew me before my identity was stolen, so they didn’t think twice before giving the job to me.
But all I want to be is a veterinarian. It’s what I went to school for. I could open my own practice, but since my credit is shot from someone stealing my identity, I can’t even do that. I feel trapped, and I have nowhere to go. All I can do is hope the lawyer Gray set up for me is good and work at the tattoo shop until it can get cleared. It could take days, months, maybe even years.
Blaire pulls back and wipes the tears off my face. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but it will be okay.”
“Sure,” I say as I sit down on the couch and grab the pile of mail that has red stamps all over it. Great. More late notices. I just add them to the bin of other bills that Gray told me to keep, so my lawyer had proof of those payments. “Bill, bill, bill, bill. Oh look, more bills.” I toss them in the bin one at a time. There must be twenty different credit card companies trying to get payment from me.
But underneath all the junk and headaches, is a picture of Rowan on the front page of the New York Times. Slowly, I pick up the thick newspaper and lean back against the blue sofa. I smile at the image in front of me and read the article dedicated to Rowan and Gray. I want to laugh. I didn’t even see Gray in the picture. All of my focus is on the tall, blue eyed man smiling wide as he and Gray shake hands with two other men that look foreign.
I squint my eyes to read the fine print below the picture. “Rowan Michaels and Grayson Jones shake hands with Takeru Tanaka and Lei Zhang, joining forces to expand LifeRight Financial to Japan and China.”
“Oh wow, Rowan and his friend are making moves, huh?” Blaire says over my shoulder.
I nod, my smile so wide my cheeks start to hurt. “I’m so happy for him. He has always been brilliant. He deserves it.” It makes me wonder if karma is being a bitch and making me pay for what I did to Rowan. But karma didn’t need to slap me so hard. I’ve lived with the pain, guilt, and regret of what I did to him and will for the rest of my life.
“He looks happy,” Blaire observes.
“He does.” The jealous part of me wishes he was happy with me. I’d settle for just being a part of his life now, as a friend. Someone he feels like he can share his accomplishment
s with. I grab my glasses off the table so I can read the article.
The article starts off with how Gray and Rowan started the company from their dorm room in school. And after naming all the success they have had in the last four years, the journalist starts to talk about how the new multi-billionaires are now listed as the top bachelors in the United States.
Blaire whistles. “He is a billionaire? Holy shit.”
In the picture, he is smiling, shaking Lei Zhang’s hand, but the smile isn’t reaching his eyes. To everyone else, he is the happiest man alive, but I see the loneliness in his blue eyes. Regardless, he is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. He has really grown up. Gone is the boyish look, and what replaces it is a sharp, square jawline covered in neatly trimmed facial hair.
I never imagined Rowan wearing a suit. He hated those things growing up, especially ties, which I do not see in this picture. Of course not. Instead, he is wearing a cream-colored blazer with a white shirt that is open at the top near the neck. What a smoke show.
Still, even though he is all man now, I see the boy I once knew staring back at me. I see the boy who punched Malcolm in the face the night of the bonfire all those years ago. I wipe a tear away quick before Blaire can see. These memories, it’s like they never happened. Like I dreamed them up. Everything happened so long ago; it’s hard to remember what’s truth and what’s not.
I sit the newspaper down on the old oak coffee table and get up to meander to the entertainment center that holds all my crafts. I open the drawer and grab the scrapbook I’ve been making of Rowan and I since we were just kids. The last five years have just been of him, obviously, but I like to keep all of his achievements. Anytime I see him in the paper or a magazine; I place it in the scrapbook.
It’s a way for me to be close to him without actually having to be close. I sit back down on the couch, open my kit to grab my scissors, and start cutting the front page out. Once I have the photo cut out separately from the article, I glue it in the book, right along with all his other accomplishments.
“You still do that, huh?” Blaire asks.
I sigh as I lift my shoulder, “I know. It’s silly, isn’t it?”
“No, I think it’s great. I still believe you guys are meant to be together.”
“Blaire—”
“—I know, I know. You don’t think there is a chance in hell, but something tells me there is. You don’t do that for someone you’ve given up on, no one does.” She points to the scrapbook in my hand. It’s old, and the binding is starting to tear. No matter how many times I’ve superglued it and taped it, it just keeps falling apart. Like it’s telling me it is time to let it go, but I refuse.
I’ll never let it go.
I rub my temples when her words strike a headache. “Blaire, we have been over this. Really. He doesn’t do the same things I do.”
“That you know of.”
“That I know. Rowan hates me. End of story. I deserve for him to.”
“You only did it because that’s what you thought was best at the time.”
“Yeah and look where it got me.” I run my fingers over the tattoo I got a few years back, my skin heating at the memory of the needle piercing my skin.
“You are different people now. Don’t give up hope.”
I swallow the heavy emotion in my throat. I lost hope a long time ago. Now I just need to get on with my life and straighten it out so I can get a job doing something I love. “It is what it is, I’m fine, Blaire. Really. Rowan and I are old news. The oldest news. He is someone I’ll never be able to forget, and I’ll always love him, but both of us have moved on.”
She lifts her brows at me, giving me a look that says she doesn’t believe a word I say. “You’ve moved on so well; you’re gluing his article to your scrapbook.”
I tap my fingers against the cover and stare at the picture of him and I on the front when we were eight, maybe nine.
“Whatever,” I mumble. “I can be proud of him and want to celebrate his successes. It doesn’t mean I’m in love with him anymore.” Liar. “We are different people now. We probably wouldn’t even like one another even if it wasn’t for the history between us.” Excuses, excuses, Everly. Just keep telling yourself that.
“Riiight,” she drawls. “Well, while you sit over there in your denial, I’m going to hop in the shower.”
Once Blaire vanishes into her bedroom, I lean my head against the couch cushion and wonder when my entire being will stop yearning for Rowan. I don’t believe a word I said to Blaire, not fully. I want to believe it. I know the treatment I get from him is what I deserve. I don’t expect anything less than a cold shoulder for the rest of his life. I left him in a horrible way, but I never stopped caring. Will never stop caring.
No matter how my actions when I was eighteen contradicted that.
So yeah, I keep all of his awards and achievements I find in a scrapbook because it is a way of making myself feel close to him again. Even if I never speak to him again, which I won’t, even if we are family now—ah, just the thought makes me shiver—doesn’t mean I don’t wish him the best in life.
I groan, or maybe whimper, as I get up to put the scrapbook away. Maybe I should lock it in the entertainment center, and then throw away the key. Then I wouldn’t ever have to open the scrapbook again.
Hmmm.
The cabinet stares at me, mocking me, telling me I can’t do it.
I throw the book in there and slam it closed. I know I won’t ever be able to lock it away, but I do need to step away from it.
Blowing a piece of hair out of my face, annoyed with how long it has gotten, I toss my hair in a messy bun and drag my feet along the hardwood floors to the kitchen. I need a glass of wine.
Or a bottle.
Two bottles.
Yeah, that sounds good. I open the bottle cabinet where Blaire keeps her wine stash. Every time she goes to the store, she picks up a bottle of cheap, five-dollar wine. She says it’s to prepare for rainy days. Well, now we have thirty bottles of wine, and today is a rainy day for me.
So, I’m just going to grab… “Let’s see.” I rummage through the reds, trying to get to the whites. “Ah, Moscato. The forgotten.” I grab two bottles of it, not even bothering to grab a glass because it’s just one of those days, you know?
I sit back down on the couch and screw off the top—yes, it’s so cheap it doesn’t even have a cork—and take a swig. Right at the moment the liquid hits my lips, my phone rings. I down the sip quickly and pull the bottle away from my lips, a few drops falling down my chin as I reach for my cell on the table. My brows pinch as I see an unknown number calling me. I swallow the sweet, peach flavor of the Moscato and swipe my finger to answer.
I don’t usually take calls from numbers I don’t know, but my instincts screamed for me to answer it.
“Hello?” I greet.
“Is this Everly Madison? Daughter of Barbara Michaels?” The deep tone of the man’s voice on the other end of the line has my spine straightening.
“Yes, this is she.” I place the bottle down on the coffee table. I’ve seen movies. It’s never a good thing when someone asks that question. “Is everything okay? Did something happen to my mother?”
My heart races. Sweat builds over my brow. It gets hot. Too hot. My brain is shutting down. I want to pass out, but I can’t.
“This is Deputy Josh Kendall in Denver, Colorado. I got a report from Mountains Retreat, the resort your folks are staying at.”
Blah, folks. My mom is my folk, not Mr. Michaels. “Yes? Are they okay? Did they get arrested or something? My mom can get kind of crazy on champagne.” I bet that’s it. My mom sometimes thinks she is still in college. “What did my mother do?”
“Well, the resort has filed a missing persons report. Neither of your parents have been seen from the hike they took around thirty-six hours ago. We’ve checked the room they are staying in, and they aren’t there, but their stuff is, leading me to believe they are lost on the mountain.
We searched today, but we can’t find them. A bad snowstorm is coming, and time is crucial. I recommend you get here as soon as possible.”
The breath whooshes from my lungs, and the room starts to spin. No, not my mom. Please, not my mom, too.
“You’re sure?” I struggle to say. “Maybe they went somewhere else last minute.” Probably not. Mom always wanted to go to Denver, and Mr. Michaels made that dream come true for her. But I had to hope.
“I’m sure, ma’am. There is a chance your parents are still alive. There are a lot of caves and cliffs they can seek shelter under, but every hour that passes that we don’t find them is another hour that storm gets closer. When that storm hits…”
He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. It speaks for itself. When that storm hits, they are probably dead. “Okay, okay. Can you give me the information of the resort again, please?” I wipe my tears on my shoulder, trying not to soak the paper in front of me. I click the pen and write down everything he says.
After I hang up, I fight through the tears and book a ticket with the remainder of the money I have in my account. I don’t know what I’ll do when I get there, but I’ll figure out something. My flight leaves in three hours, but instead of hurrying to pack, I grab the bottle of wine again and chug.
Not my mom. Please.
Chapter 13
Rowan
The hum of the plane jolts me awake as we land. The tires squeal against the pavement, burning, and dust and smoke from the friction drifts into the air. My body springs forward from the momentum. Once the airplane slows, a ding rings overhead, and the captain welcomes us to Denver, Colorado.
I rub my eyes, dreading getting off this hunk of metal. I’m not quite sure how this day is going to go. Getting a call saying my father and Barbara were missing plucked a few strings of fear in me, and not knowing anything about the situation has kept me unsettled.
A sigh escapes my lips as the seatbelt sign turns off, telling us it is okay to get up and de-board. I’m in first class, and I don’t feel like getting up, but if I don’t, I’ll be stuck in this seat for twenty minutes. What’s the point of getting first class, just to wait for everyone else to get off?