Healed by You

by Christy Pastore

  Instinctually, the man trained with superior interrogation skills launched into a fuck ton of questions. I filled him in on the whole insane debacle.

  “That’s fucked up, how did she even know that you were there?”

  “Harlow’s Instagram.”

  “Damn social media, one of the best and worst inventions ever.”

  “Yeah, no kidding,” I laughed a humorless laugh. “Would it be possible to send a jet here so that I can get Heather back to the states?”

  I heard tapping against a keyboard. “Sure, anything you need, man. You okay?”

  “Fine for a guy whose ex-wife crashed his vacation with his current girlfriend.”

  Alex laughed. “And how’s your girl?”

  “Well, she didn’t runaway or kick me in the balls,” I replied. “Harlow is . . . the best—understanding, caring, and supportive.”

  “Ah yeah, I’ve been there my friend, there’s nothing better than a woman who can handle a difficult situation with compassion rather than with jealousy and animosity.”

  I knew that Alex understood. He’d gone through a difficult time during the beginning of his relationship with Ella. Instead of giving up on him, she stayed knowing that he needed her. As my grandmother used to say, “Work on me, before becoming we.”

  “Okay, you are all set,” he said, “I’ve just emailed the details and the flight itinerary. Heather will be out of your hair in a matter of hours.”

  “Thanks, man, it can’t come soon enough.” I ended the call and tossed my phone onto the desk. I swallowed the remains of my drink. “Time to have a chat with my ex-wife.”

  I instructed Harvey and Isaac, the security guys, to stay close. I found Heather sitting on the terrace, a plate of untouched fresh fruit and a mug of coffee on the table. I settled into the chair across from her, still unsure of where to begin. Her hair was wet from the shower, and she’d changed into neon pink t-shirt with “Turks & Caicos” printed on the front and a pair of denim shorts.

  “Do you feel better?” I asked, sliding a bottle of water across the table.

  She hadn’t looked at me since I walked onto the terrace. “Not really.”

  “No, I suppose you don’t.” I leaned back, tapping my finger to the table. “I fast tracked your drug test. The doctor said, with the amount of drugs in your system, he’s concerned that you’re heading down a path to overdose.”

  With her eyes still trained on the floor, she lifted a shoulder. “Would you care if I did?”

  “If you don’t care enough about yourself, how am I supposed to care?”

  “I know that you hate me, and you don’t owe me a thing.”

  “Heather, I don’t hate you—it takes a lot of energy to hate someone. It’s exhausting.”

  “Don’t,” she breathed. “Please don’t be nice to me. I don’t deserve it.” Tears dripped onto the t-shirt, as she wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I told myself I wouldn’t cry, but here I am . . . here I am in Sapodilla Bay stalking you and your new girlfriend like a psycho.” She finally looked up at me.

  “You said it not me.”

  That made her laugh, but the dam broke unleashing a fury of tears. I jogged to the bathroom and grabbed the tissues. As I crossed the living room to the terrace, I pulled a few tissues from the box.

  She sniffled and blew her nose. “That’s going to be the headline. Heather Young, actress turned stalking psycho flies to Caribbean disrupting ex-husband’s vacation.”

  I sat silent for moment, while she collected herself. Sure, I could pile on and kick her while she’s down, but that wouldn’t do any good. I didn’t know if Heather would tell me the reason, the real reason that she was here. Was she lonely? Was she heartbroken? Was she in love with someone else and that freaked her out?

  “What caused this psycho stalking episode?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know, I just snapped,” she said, taking the cap off the water. “I was sitting alone in my condo, drinking a cheap bottle of wine and scrolling through Instagram and there it was a picture of the two of you in the pool, so happy.”

  “Being happy is a very personal thing, Heather. It has nothing to do with anyone else.”

  “I’m miserable and alone.”

  “You did it to yourself.”

  She nodded, returning her gaze to the ocean. “I did, I know that. I think that I’ve been holding onto my memories because it’s all I have.” Her hands shook as she lifted the water bottle. “I need help,” she admitted. “I’m an addict and I need help.”

  I nodded. “It’s all been arranged. I booked you into a treatment center in Georgia. I called Drew and he’s going to be there when you arrive.”

  She tilted her head to look at me. “You’re not coming with me?”

  “No,” I replied firmly. “You’re going to heal yourself on your own.”

  “I’m broken. I don’t think I’ll ever be over you.” Her fingers picked at the label on the water bottle. “I don’t know how to forget you. Sometimes, I forget that we’re divorced, and I think about what our life would be like now. I’m scared I can’t move on and that I’ll always wonder what might have been.”

  “It’s important that you separate your feelings from your reality. This thing we once had, it’s over. It’s done.”

  That’s all the advice I needed to give to Heather. She wouldn’t heal a life time of pain overnight.

  Dusk had settled over the island by the time I stuffed Heather into the back of the SUV with Augustin. Harvey escorted the two of them to the airport, while Isaac stayed here at the house.

  I was exhausted, hungry, and fuck, did I need a drink. This was not how I planned this vacation to go, not at all.

  Augustin said Harlow returned from the spa just before dinner. I found her lounging on the terrace by the pool.

  “Hey,” I said, dropping to the chair beside her.

  “Hey, would you like me to make you something to eat?”

  “Yeah, but first I just want to sit here with you, is that okay?”

  She nodded. “It’s more than okay. How’s Heather?”

  I stretched, folding my arms behind my head. “Honestly, I have no clue. She said some stuff about holding onto the past wondering what things might have been like for the two of us if we’d stayed married.”

  Harlow rolled onto her side to face me. “She wants you back?”

  “She can want all she wants, but I don’t want her. I made it very clear to Heather that she and I are over, forever.”

  “And she was okay with that?”

  “She has no other choice,” I said, moving to sit on the end of her lounger. “I’ve fallen for someone else.”

  “Grady,” she breathed my name like a prayer. I hauled Harlow to her feet claiming her lips putting a cap on this conversation.

  A BLACK CLOUD HUNG over our Caribbean vacation. We tried, but nothing seemed to scrub the memory of Heather’s visit. Grady and I seized every opportunity to make the most of our days left here, but with my period coming a week early and the threat of Hurricane Dionne looming. Side note, the locals were referring to her as one nasty bitch of a storm. I was certain Grady would want to call game over any minute.

  “Ronan, chill, you need to relax,” a feminine voice ordered.

  Glancing up from my magazine, I listened to the voices carrying through the house.

  “Have you checked the weather report?” The rough rasp of Irish brogue asserted. “I’m not sure it was a wise choice to fly into the oncoming path of a hurricane. Let alone with my baby sister who happens to be having a baby and my soon to be wife. I’d like to see these moments happen. Alex, back me up.”

  “My wife is carrying my baby, I’m lucky she’s still talking to me in this heat.” A deep male voice called out.

  What the hell is happening?

  Grady was out in the middle of the water paddle boarding while I nursed my cramps alternating between green tea and a glass of Remy Martin. I stood up from the daybed lounger, w
aving my arms and jumping into the air trying to get his attention. I probably looked like one of those giant inflatable advertising props you see in the front of car dealerships.

  By the voices I’d heard and the conversation, I’m guessing the Irish male voice belonged to Ronan Connolly. He mentioned his baby sister, which would be Ella, who is married to Alex, the security guy. The feminine voice that spoke first must have belonged to Holliday Prescott, Ronan’s fiancée.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Grady paddling up to the shore. Confusion passed over his face, and he shrugged. I jumped off the platform and into the water.

  I waded towards him. “We have guests,” I whisper yelled, hooking my thumb towards the house.

  He jumped off the board, and handed me the oar. “What are you talking about?”

  Looping my arm with his, I said, “Listen.”

  “If it’s a vacation you want, I have it on good authority that Europe’s nice this time of year. No chance of a hurricane or any other natural disaster,” Ronan quipped.

  “Sure, let me check with Interpol first, and get the latest threat assessment. Europe sounds much safer than an isolated Caribbean island,” Alex mocked.

  “Fucking shit,” he said, tugging me close. “Sweetheart, you’re about to meet some friends of mine.”

  We trekked up the stairs to find four pairs of eyes on us.

  “Well, well, look at this motley crew,” Grady said, spreading his arms wide. “Everyone, this is Harlow. Harlow, this is the Riot Club.”

  “The Riot Club?” I asked, glancing at Grady.

  “Fuck,” Ronan muttered. “Are you bringing that back?”

  “Is he allowed to bring it back?” Ella asked.

  Grady waved his hands in front of him. “Honestly, there is no better way to describe us, and I’m not calling our little group of misfits a fucking ‘tribe’—Riot Club stands.” While the group of four argued amongst themselves Grady pointed out everyone to me.

  “Hmm, is this because Breakfast Club was taken?” Ella asked.

  “The Riot Club is an actual club at the University of Oxford,” Ronan informed.

  “Noted for its wealthy members, impressive banquets, and rituals of trashing restaurants,” Alex quipped.

  “I believe that Grady is referring to a night out in Park City, with three stolen snow mobiles and the smashing of one A-list celebrity douchebag’s car windows,” countered Holliday.

  “Yeah, he fucking deserved it,” said Alex.

  “He really did,” Ella agreed.

  “Best night of my life,” Ronan stated.

  “I beg to differ,” Holliday retorted.

  “Okay enough,” Grady shouted, clasping his hands together. “What the fuck are you all doing here?”

  “We wanted to meet Harlow,” Ella replied, motioning to me.

  Grady folded his arms against his chest. “You flew all this way—pregnant to meet a woman I’m bringing to their wedding in a week?” His head bopped between Ronan and Holliday.

  “Twelve days, to be exact,” Holliday interjected.

  “This is our babymoon,” Ella said, nudging Alex with her shoulder.

  “How can you have a babymoon, when you’ve already got one son at home?” Grady asked. “I’m not convinced.”

  “It’s our,”—Holliday gestured between she and Ronan—“Pre-wedding vacation.”

  “You mean a pre-honeymoon, honeymoon?” Grady chided. “Nice try.”

  Holliday threw up her hands. “Fine, if you’re going to make us spell it out—we were worried about you and the whole debacle with Lululamoan’s like a whore, so here we are—The Riot Club at your service.”

  “Lululamoan’s like a whore,” I repeated doubling over in a fit of laughter. “That’s Heather’s nickname?”

  Ella smiled. “Yeah, perhaps we shouldn’t be making fun of her anymore?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Holliday shook her head. “I’m all for sympathy, but no matter how you dice it, she’s a one-woman train wreck.”

  And then they started talking all at once again, it was like watching a live episode of Grey’s Anatomy or Friends. They’d make a great ensemble cast.

  “Speaking of train wrecks, we should make those,” said Alex.

  “Oh yeah, one of my college friends she used to make train wrecks. Beer and Boone’s Farm, right?” asked Holiday.

  “Yeah, my sister, Amy, taught me how to make them. She got the idea from a college bar at Indiana State,” Alex inserted.

  “We should make Irish Car bombs,” Ronan suggested.

  “You are all a bunch of booze hounds,” stated Ella.

  “We should have our signature drink, Riot Rum Runners,” Holliday stated.

  “Ella, you can have a glass of wine, it won’t hurt the baby,” said Ronan.

  “I’m fairly certain my mother had liquor during all her pregnancies,” Alex quipped.

  “Didn’t Portland have a rum riot?” asked Holliday.

  “Maine or Oregon?” asked Ella.

  “Maine. In 1855, citizens of Portland stormed the steps of City Hall. They were convinced that the mayor was stockpiling and selling confiscated liquor,” Alex replied.

  I turned to Grady. “Aren’t historical fun facts your thing?”

  “With this group, it’s a toss-up,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “We don’t have a labeled set of norms—the pretty one, the smart one, or the funny one. We’re as much a group of unlikely friends as we are likely friends.”

  “We should go to Maine and sample some of their craft cocktails,” suggested Holliday.

  “Yes,” Ella agreed. “When we go, let’s make sure that I am not with child.”

  “I think you and Alex are the ones in control of that situation,” Ronan stated.

  “Oh, so now I’m a situation?” asked Ella.

  A slow smile spread across Grady’s face. “Well,” he said, turning to face me. “What do you think? Should we toss them out?”

  “No,” I answered, bopping my head. “I really like them.”

  Cheers erupted and I was swarmed by this awesome unlikely, likely group of people.

  After everyone settled into their rooms, Alex and Ella went to work in the kitchen prepping a feast while Harlow and Holliday made the drinks. Ronan had every television in the house on and set to a news channel or weather except for one which had music playing.

  I shouldn’t be surprised that the fearsome foursome traveled all the way to the Caribbean to check up on me. The day the house in Los Angeles sold, the four of them showed up, along with Matt and Tinley—beer and pizza in tow. That day, I’d put on my “just fine” face, today I was more than fine with them being here—I’d never known friendship like they’d shown me.

  Sure, I’d had friends, but those relationships lacked a genuine quality. People always wanted something from me, at first I’d been happy to help, but once I figured out they were ladder climbers I started looking out for number one. After a while, I began putting up walls. It left me feeling bitter and resentful.

  My attitude reflected in my work, which led to Ronan grabbing every fashion campaign and the reason I’d been booked less and less. Heather urged me to take up yoga, saying it would help improve my mental state. She believed it would allow me to focus and heal.

  It’s funny, my friendship with Ronan—Heather and Holliday had been our link. Where Heather broke that link, Holliday mended it.

  Ronan handed me a glass of Irish whiskey. “From my personal stash, Midleton, cheers.” He lifted his glass to mine.

  “Excuses for babymoons and pre-honeymoons were extremely clever.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, I told them that you’d see right through that load of bullshit.”

  “Should I be expecting Matt to arrive soon?”

  Ronan sipped his drink. “No, he’s otherwise occupied.” He steered me towards the great room. “How’s Heather doing, really?”

  I lifted a shoulder. “Drew called me to let me know that s
he checked in, but as you know we won’t know anything for a while.”

  “And when she was here?”

  “Erratic, confused—at first, she thought we were still married and that I was cheating on her. I’ve seen Heather at her worst, or at least I thought I had. The level of drugs in her system had the doctor concerned.”

  His brow crinkled. “How so?”

  “Well, enough that he thought she might be heading for an overdose.”

  He pointed a finger at me. “You did the right thing booking her treatment. Now, you know what you need to do, step away.”

  “She has no family, no friends,” I pointed out. “I know I can’t be responsible for Heather, that’s why I sent Drew. He’s always cared about her and not because she was paying him.”

  “Is there a romance there?”

  “No.”

  That was one thing that I was sure of, and Heather didn’t need a romance complicating her recovery. If she was going to get clean, she had to do it all on her own. Everything would have to be different than the times she’s tried and failed to get sober before.

  “Hey, you two,” Ella called from the kitchen. “Break up the bromance and join the party!”

  “Or do we need to call off the wedding because you’ve fallen in love with Grady?” Holliday teased.

  “He is not my type,” I said, slinging my arm around Harlow’s waist.

  “Awww,” Ella and Holliday drawled in unison.

  “Okay, okay,” I said, squeezing Harlow tighter. “Pipe down and let’s get this babymoon, pre-honeymoon, buddymoon, romantic vacation celebration underway.”

  “Here, here,” Alex interjected, raising his glass. “To old and new friends.”

  Various terms of agreement and elation wound through the air.

  Harlow clicked her glass to mine. “Is it okay if I tell you that I love your friends?”

  “More than okay, I kind of love them too,” I whispered into her skin.

  Harlow pulled me out of the kitchen and onto the terrace, crushing her lips to mine the moment we were out my friends’ line of sight. Everything and everyone else floated away. All that remained was the two of us and the passion between us. She backed me against one of the pillars, smoothing her hands down my chest. “Grady, is it okay if I tell you that I love you?”