What If I Never

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “Great,” I say. “Thank you.” I give her my number and she pings my phone with a text.

  Katie glances at her watch. “Shit. I have to do reception relief. I’ve got to run.” She races for the door.

  My finger itches to dial Allison, but I wait until Katie exits the room, and I’m alone. After which, I punch the link to the number and wait for it to ring. The call goes straight to voicemail.

  This is Allison. I’m not available right now but you know the drill. Leave a number. Or don’t, and text me.

  Her voice is sweet and young and a little familiar, which is odd. There’s a beep and I say, “Hi Allison. This is also Allison. I’m filling in for you at Hawk Legal. I’d really like to talk to you about the auction. Please call me if you can.” I leave my number and hang up.

  Drawing a breath, I glance around the room, with low lighting, and empty seating, with an eerie feeling of emptiness and unease, I can’t quite really explain. My gaze returns to my phone and I type out a text message to Allison that says basically the same thing as my message. I’m horrible at listening to voice messages. Maybe she is as well. Once the message is sent, my gaze goes to the horizon where hues of orange and yellow are like watercolors melding into the quickly darkening skyline. A bit like Allison’s life is melded with mine. I’m living her life, not mine, which is probably, most likely, not a good thing, but I’m here, I’m not leaving. And as of lately, I’ve become an expert worrier and I’m using those skills on her now.

  I tell myself that she packed her things and left the house I’m about to live in. She made an active decision to leave her job and her home. She’s fine.

  And yet, unease inside me squeezes a little harder and I can’t help but feel something is not right with her departure and therefore my arrival in her place.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Me and Katie work late that night.

  For reasons I can’t explain I dread going to my new temporary home, the one the other Allison left behind. As for Katie, I don’t know what her excuse for refusing to leave is, but it’s nearly seven when I push her out of the door for the evening. It’s nearly eight when I finally leave the dimly lit, ghost town of an office, and mostly because I’m feeling a creepy vibe right about now. I walk through the lobby, rubbing my neck with the tingling sensation there. Once I’m in the parking garage, I make sure my keys are in my hand, and I all but run to my car. Truly, I can’t climb inside fast enough and get the doors locked. As I’m pulling onto the street, I laugh at myself. This is what a fiction editor does. She sees a murder mystery everywhere she looks, as I did earlier, talking to Katie about Allison.

  I’m driving myself nuts.

  Dismissing the creepy feeling, on the way to my new home, which is her old home, I continue my stall tactics by swinging by the grocery store where I shop like the single person who doesn’t cook that I am. I buy Lean Cuisines, low-fat cherry yogurt, coffee, creamer, Splenda, and not much else. I’m exciting like that. I pull up to the garage and guess at the password on the security panel being the same as the door. Sure enough, it is.

  Once I’m safely sealed inside the garage, I leave my things behind and head for the door.

  I pause there with butterflies in my belly and a hint of that creepy feeling I’d had back at the office.

  Drawing a deep breath, I key in the code and open the door. I enter through a mudroom that leads to an open concept kitchen and a living room with a fireplace. Wood beams line the ceiling giving it a cozy feeling. The kitchen is a beautiful teal blue with an impressively modern and quite spacious island. Just this area of the house alone is bigger than my entire apartment back in New York City. The house is pretty incredible. My discomfort evaporates.

  Eager now to get settled, I hurry back into the garage and retrieve my bags, making several trips. Once my groceries are put away in the fancy stainless steel fridge, I’m relieved to find a coffee pot which means I won’t go without my morning fix. I didn’t even consider not having one when I bought groceries. Turns out, the kitchen is fully stocked which supports Tyler having a “tenant” for insurance reasons, I guess.

  Leaving my personal things in the kitchen, I survey the rest of the house which includes a small library, a balcony overlooking a pool, a gym which, considering my bad eating habits lately, really excites me, several bedrooms, and finally a master. The en suite bathroom is magnificent, complete with a fancy half egg-shaped tub and a walk-in closet with so much space I could sleep in it. Fortunately, considering I’d forgotten the need for such things, the linen closet is stocked. I feel spoiled and out of my element, but I remind myself that New York City is about living compact. This is Nashville. Everything is bigger in Nashville.

  A few minutes later, my feet are in my Ugg slippers, my Lean Cuisine is microwaving, and I am now noticing the door off the main room I haven’t explored. This must lead to the wine vault. I open the door, flip on a light and find a long set of stairs. Hurrying downstairs, I find an incredible room lined with bottles of wine, with a fancy shiny wood table in the center of the shelving. Just beyond this space, is the vault. It’s strange that Tyler keeps this here. I don’t understand it, but I guess it’s not my business.

  Per Tyler, I’m allowed to drink whatever wine I like. With this in mind, I surf the many shelves to find a red blend that I suspect is ridiculously expensive. I’m tempted, I really am, but I slide it back into place. No matter what Tyler said about drinking whatever I want, I feel weird about it. The microwave buzzer goes off to indicate my TV dinner is ready and I head upstairs. A few minutes later, I’m at the island with my meal and my MacBook. I intend to do my work. Instead, I google “Dash Black dating.”

  It’s a mistake.

  He was notably in a relationship with a gorgeous blonde model who probably never eats cupcakes. God, what was I thinking? He’s not into me. I don’t know what that was going on between us, but I assume it has something to do with his charity and public image. I really should have opened the bottle of wine. Instead, I stuff a bite of food in my mouth. Once my dinner is in my belly, apparently being upset over Dash doesn’t hurt my appetite, I pull the necklace from my briefcase and set it on the counter next to me. Flipping open the lid, I stare down at the sparkling jewels, wondering if this could be a gift from Tyler. I mean he gave her this house. Of course, he gave it to me, too, and there’s nothing between me and Tyler. And why would Tyler have the necklace delivered to the very office they both worked at?

  No. I don’t think Tyler sent the necklace, but I’m speculating.

  I google Allison and try to find her social profiles, but come up dry. I’d say that was odd but sometimes people are hard to find. Probably because I hate social media, therefore I’m not that savvy with the search. Truly the only reason I have accounts is for work reasons. Even then, I rely on our dedicated social media person at Riptide for most things.

  I’m just not sure what to do with it now. Maybe I could ask Tyler to put it in the vault and watch his reaction when he sees it? Not yet, I think. This is Allison’s private matter. I’ll give her time to call me back.

  Glancing from the necklace and around the cozy room, I find it hard to believe Allison left all of this.

  It’s almost as if she was running away and not necessarily out of fear. If I’m honest with myself, there are things in New York I’d like to run from.

  It would be so easy just to stay here in Nashville.

  The question is: would I regret it?

  And will Allison regret leaving all this behind?

  And where will either of us be in the aftermath of our regret?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Models with long legs and perfect bodies, who date famous authors probably eat fruit. Or they don’t eat at all. Cupcakes make for a good breakfast for us humans who have to go to work early. I say this at the wee hour of seven AM, as I sit behind my desk and take a bite of my cupcake. And because I’m me, and things go this way for me, Tyler—looking oh so arrogantly good-lookin
g in a blue pinstriped suit—chooses that moment to appear in the doorway.

  I quickly sip my home-brewed coffee and try to swallow as delicately as possible, but the entire process doesn’t go well. I’m two for two on this eating around hot men thing and I don’t believe I’ll try for three for three. It takes a moment or ten and Tyler just stands there, watching my struggle. Funny thing is how judged I feel while the same situation with Dash felt—different. It was different.

  “Morning,” I finally say.

  “Good morning, Ms. Wright,” he replies, thankfully ignoring my struggle. “I trust you settled into the house well?”

  “I did. It’s a beautiful house. I feel spoiled. Thank you.” I stand up.

  “Quid pro quo,” he says. “It helps me and it helps you. Did you look at our lounge area?”

  “I did. It’s beautiful and perfect. I’d love to hold the event there, but how much will that cost you with the hotel?”

  “Nothing. Tell them we want a refund. If they don’t cooperate, tell me. Then I assure you, they will.”

  Of this, I have no doubt. “I’ll do that this morning.”

  “What is your plan to intake auction donations?”

  “I’m meeting with the head of the charity again today for that very reason. Obviously, we plan to have Hawk Legal’s clients become the biggest source of donations, but if they bid on items and win, that counts as a donation as well. That means I need items for them to want to bid on. I’m going to call her prior donors myself, but first, we’re going to go over what I need to know about each before I do so. I’d like to do the same with someone here on a list of clients.”

  “Email me a list,” he states. “Don’t call anyone I don’t approve first. You should have my number in your phone, but check your email. I sent it anyway. We’re holding a birthday event for a client Friday night at my house. I suggest you attend and figure people out yourself. You might find at least one noteworthy surprise.”

  He says nothing more. He just disappears into the hallway, leaving me and my cupcake to wonder what an event at Tyler Hawk’s house will be like. I think of him catching me eating a cupcake and decide there is one certain word: uncomfortable. And of course, my next thought is to wonder if Dash Black will be there. Just as I wonder if he will be at my meeting with Millie this afternoon. He knows about it, but he also told me to quit. Okay, technically he told me to go home. Same thing. Isn’t it? I really should tell Tyler about this little Dash situation but it might well be the end for me. I could call Dash and try to talk things out, but somehow that doesn’t feel right either.

  I’ll just go to the meeting with Millie and carry on.

  Good or bad, that’s my plan.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  My meeting time with Millie arrives with me a bundle of nerves that all come down to my hope and fear that Dash might attend.

  So much so that as I walk to the meeting, the cold day doesn’t even compute. Instead, all the ways this meeting could go badly consume me. My rambling mind goes a little like this:

  Dash told me to go back to New York.

  Asshole.

  Dash is supposed to be at this meeting.

  Asshole.

  Dash may have told Millie there’s no need to meet me at the bookstore for those reasons.

  Or Dash could just show up and tell me to go home all over again.

  Please don’t be an asshole, Dash.

  I enter the bakery side of the bookstore, and my fear that Dash might have instructed Millie to cold-shoulder me ends quickly. Millie, looking quite beautiful in a black dress that contrasts with her red curls, greets me with a hug and a smile. “Thank God you’re involved in this,” she proclaims. “I really feel better about things.”

  “Hopefully Dash does as well,” I say, feeling her out for any input he might have offered or any blow that might be to follow. If it’s coming, just hit me with it now.

  “Dash is wonderful,” she says. “Truly committed to our cause and now that we have you on board, I feel good about meeting and exceeding our fundraising goals.”

  That’s it. That’s all she says about Dash. Obviously, he hasn’t talked to her at all and she moves on to the topic of Allison. “I really liked Allison, but she seemed distracted. I really wasn’t surprised to hear she left.”

  “She’s on leave,” I say. “I do think she’ll be back.”

  “Please tell me that doesn’t mean you won’t be here to the finish line.”

  “I will. Even if I have to finish up as a part of Riptide’s team, rather than that of Hawk Legal. This is going to be grand,” I promise. “Which reminds me. I need to call my boss about the sponsorship, and we need coffee, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, indeed,” she agrees.

  After that, the meeting is productive. Mark is on board with the free sponsorship in trade for helping with the valuation of the auction items, and Millie has a great list of prospective donors. And while for the most part, I’m fully engrossed in the meeting, I can’t help a few hopeful peeks at the table where Dash was working yesterday. He simply never shows up.

  It’s disappointing, more so than I truly expected it to be.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  That evening me and my Lean Cuisine are keeping each other company at my new kitchen island. I shoot a quick email to Tyler detailing how I’d like to handle the Riptide sponsorship, as well as the list of clients Allison kept as auction prospects.

  He replies almost immediately: I’m headed out of town for the remainder of the week. We’ll discuss everything when I return, after I see how you handle my clients at the party.

  The email stings of distrust. No, I amend, not distrust. Control.

  A familiar quality I’ve come to know well.

  My cellphone rings where it sits on the counter next to me, my mother’s number on caller ID. “Hey, Mom,” I greet. “Are you headed home?”

  “We’re going to Vegas first. Remember the Garth Brooks Concert?”

  “You said Texas, not Vegas.”

  “I meant Vegas. I guess I subconsciously thought you’d freak out if you knew we were going to both.”

  The idea of Vegas punches me in the chest one moment but in the next, I feel joy. My mother loves Garth, and she’s alive and living a happy life. It’s then that I realize that freedom is both a right and a choice.

  That sounds crazy, I know, but too often so many of us are guilty of being chained by our own fears, worries, inhibitions, and of course, self-esteem issues. I know I’m guilty of all of these things, my fear of losing my mother has become not only my own chains but my mother’s.

  “You’re not saying anything,” she says. “You’re freaking out, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not freaking out. I’m jealous. I love Garth, too. You should have invited me.”

  “Then I couldn’t make-out with your stepfather when the romantic songs come on.”

  “Oh, good Lord, Mother. My ears. The images in my head.”

  “Oh, whatever, silly girl. How’s the new job?”

  I’m smiling when I say, “It’s good,” and let her off the hook for everything about this conversation. We then chat a bit about the auction. “I really think it’s a good cause. They need me and I need this. I’m supposed to be here right now, doing this.”

  “I do believe you are,” she agrees. “How about brunch next Sunday? I want to hear more about it. Maybe I can help. I’ll make those waffles you love.”

  “I’d love that mom. See you then.”

  When we disconnect, I feel more at peace with her recovery than I have since her illness rocked our worlds. She is free of that monster, I tell myself.

  And so am I.

  Later, when I lay in bed alone, I don’t fret about her safety. Instead, I think of Dash, remembering his hands on my body. And I wonder if he will be at Tyler’s party, but I decide he won’t be. The two men do not get along. Of that, I am certain.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  On the even
ing of the party, I leave work much later than planned, but do so with the knowledge that, thanks to Millie’s list, I’ve secured a few hot ticket auction items, sure to entice bidders to attend. I’m actually starting to feel like I can pull this off as a big win for the charity and in the end, Riptide will see this as a win for them as well.

  But I’m really pushing it on time.

  It’s six when I step in the door to the house and immediately head for the bedroom.

  After fretting much of this week about what to wear tonight, I change my mind again tonight at least three times. I end up in a belted burgundy dress with a pleated skirt and a V-neck. It’s simple but classy, and it feels like the right choice. It’s also expensive, a Chanel label, and one of my high-end thrift store finds, I most love. With a little black Burberry bag at my hip, I head to the garage and climb in my car. It doesn’t start. I try again. And again and again, before I accept the inevitable. The car is old, so old it was my car in college, and it’s barely been used in years. Why my mother kept it, I don’t know, but it was convenient to have it here until it wasn’t.

  I don’t have time to deal with this now.

  My cellphone rings and I glance down to find Tyler on my caller ID. Great, fabulous. Wonderful. I answer with, “Hi,” my definitive way to prove I’m intelligent and on the ball.

  “Where are you, Ms. Wright? I’d have assumed you’d want to be here early, not after the guests have arrived.”

  “I would have been but Milton Ryder, the CEO of Ryder Electronics, called me as I was walking out the door. He donated a comic book to the auction worth a pretty penny. But I’m dressed and ready to go. I’m about to call an Uber now.”

  “Where is your car?”

  “Apparently it’s ready for the graveyard. It’s my old college car my mother refused to let go.”

  “I’ll send a driver. Be ready.” He disconnects.