I didn’t realize I was holding onto someone who wasn’t even real.
Roman hasn’t tried contacting me. That’s one of the many reasons why I haven’t signed the restraining order. He’s made no effort to see or speak with me, so I don’t think there’s much of a point.
I find my mind wandering most days. I wonder what happened to him after he left the hotel suite. On one hand, I know I shouldn’t care. Good riddance. I’m so pissed at him I don’t think I could stomach the mere sight of him.
But on the other hand, I worry. I don’t know why I worry about him because he’s a grown man who’s capable of taking care of himself. This doesn’t stop me from thinking of all the awful scenarios where something could have gone wrong. What if he didn’t manage to find a flight home? What if the idiot he is lost his passport somewhere?
Stop it, Charlie.
Forget about him.
But the last thing I want is to forget again. I don’t want to forget Roman. There’s no denying I was happiest when I was with him in the Caymans. When I was with him, I’d never felt freer. The crushing weight of responsibility didn’t suffocate me there. Day-to-day business proceedings, meetings, never-ending paperwork, phone calls, answering emails, press interviews, stockholder presentations, project summaries—none of it mattered when I was with him.
When I was with Roman, I felt alive.
I can’t remember a time when I laughed harder or smiled wider than when I was with Roman. I miss the way he says my name. I miss the way he looks at me, like I’m something precious, something to adore. The more I think about it, the harder it is for me to believe he faked everything. The tenderness in his eyes, the way he’d caress my skin with the tip of his fingers—it all felt so real.
Intimate.
I anxiously rub my ring finger, studying the red line marking my skin. I cringe at the thought of how many trips it’s going to take to laser it off.
Maybe I should have Molly book the appointment before I can talk myself out of it.
I hear laser removal is painful.
Maybe I should just keep the stupid thing.
My thoughts go in circles, weighing the pros and cons of getting my tattoo ring removed. But I know it’s just my brain’s way of keeping occupied. I need to focus on something so I don’t go crazy. I need to concentrate on this dumb tattoo because thinking about its significance, the story behind it, and the man who convinced me to get it is too painful to deal with.
I’d prefer the laser.
One Month Later
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Roman
Radio silence.
I half expected Mister Maloney and his shark-like associates to come crashing through the front door of Phoenix House to slap me with a big fat lawsuit. I’m not exactly sure what they could sue me for, but Mister Maloney is a talented lawyer who could probably frame me for murder if he wanted to.
But there’s nothing.
And I don’t know what’s scary. The fact that no charges have been pressed, or the fact that nothing’s being done.
The floor’s made of eggshells. Everywhere I go, I’m walking on a tightrope made of my own nerves. I just keep waiting and waiting for the bombs to finally drop, going to bed anxious, waking up anxious, living anxious. Maybe they’re plotting my demise at this very moment, covering all of their bases and ticking every box to make sure that I’m cornered and have no way to escape from the consequences I ultimately brought onto myself.
Maybe this is my own personal hell, never quite knowing if a scary man in a black suit’s lurking around the corner. It’d be just like the old Charlie to string things out just to see me squirm. Old Charlie would have dragged me to court and sued me for everything I’m worth for the stunt I pulled in the Cayman Islands.
I haven’t forgiven myself, and I don’t expect Charlie to forgive me. I sometimes wake up at night in a cold sweat, dreaming about the final look she gave me when all was revealed. The hurt, the anguish—it was all clear as day, written in the lines of her face. It haunts me, makes me feel absolutely disgusted with myself. If I could kick myself any harder, the whole front of my shins would be purple with bruises.
The storage room at Phoenix House houses rows upon rows of metal shelves, upon which clear blue-tinted tote bins filled to the brim with clothes from last season’s clothing drive sit. I do my best to keep busy, sorting and cleaning—really just looking to do something with my hands—so I don’t have to sit in my tiny office thinking about all the ways I fucked up with Charlie. I pour my attention into inventory lists, double and triple checking to make sure everything’s where it should be. The autumn season is quickly approaching, and I’m probably going to need to break out the collection of puffy winter coats to give to the boys soon.
We’re missing a couple of backpacks, mittens, and light jackets, but that’s to be expected. I don’t keep a lock on the storage door because these items are ultimately for the kids to use, not to be hoarded away. I try to drill home that it’s better to ask for permission first because you never know when somebody’s need outweighs your own, but I figure if one of my kids is desperate enough to want a second-hand jacket to keep warm at night, it’s all theirs. As long as they have what they need to feel secure, then they’re welcome to take everything in the storage room so long as they promise to put it to good use.
I attempt a sad excuse at tidying up. I refold clothes, check to make sure we don’t have any rodents sneaking around to chew holes through knit sweaters, dust the top shelves, and wrangle the spider living in the upper righthand corner of the room. The little devil manages to slip away, and I simply don’t have the energy to get down on my knees on the hard concrete to trap it in a cup to bring outside.
I pat my hands clean before closing the door to the storage room, making my way down the narrow hall back toward my office.
Phoenix House takes up what used to be five different townhomes on the corner of Brenston and 6th. Uncle Charles actually owned the property, had scheduled the entire place for demolition so he could create a brand-new apartment complex to rent out. There were complications securing a contractor, however, and the plans fell through.
It just so happened that I was looking for a location to set up my temporary youth housing charity. I had to take a couple of days to gather my thoughts, really organize my talking points before I asked Uncle Charles. He was strict and stern, but I still loved him very much. I knew better than to ask to see him without at least the frame of a speech prepared. It took a little convincing, but Uncle Charles seemed moved by my passion project and handed me the keys to the place.
I don’t claim to understand why he said yes. It’s one of the many reasons why I think Charlie resented me. Uncle Charles always had an easier time going along with my plans and goals, but rarely made exceptions for Charlie when we were growing up together. I wouldn’t be surprised if Charlie pulled the favoritism card. Lord knows she’s in the right. But it makes me wish sometimes that we could start over. If we had to do things again, maybe we could have at least been friends.
Phoenix House is normally alive with the sound of laughter, lively conversation, the occasional rumble of kids running down the hall even though I tell them not to. I don’t want to have to deal with any slips or falls, especially after seeing what happened to Charlie and the terrible affects of her brain injury. Today, though, the house is quiet. Thanks to a bit of fundraising, I was able to scrape together enough funds to send the boys to the aquarium for the day. I’d normally go and supervise, but I know my team of volunteer chaperones will do just as good of a job keeping the boys safe.
There’s an unexpected guest in my office. I can tell even before I’ve walked in because the door’s slightly ajar.
Please don’t be Maloney.
Anybody but Mister Maloney.
I let out a grateful sigh when I see that it isn’t, in fact, Charlie’s scary Terminator of a lawyer. Instead, there’s a young man with a messy mop of brown curls and thick-r
immed glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. He’s dressed in a bright yellow raincoat, the collar of his button-down shirt sticking up from beneath. His face lights up when he sees me.
“Matteo?” I say, sounding like something halfway to a laugh. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He rises from his seat and hugs me. I remember when he was thirteen and barely reached my shoulders. Now he towers over me, a freaking giant. His kind eyes and goofy grin haven’t changed, though, making him instantly recognizable.
“I’m here on business,” he explains. “Thought I’d stop by and see you, old man.”
“I’m not that old.”
“Not from what the boys are telling me. If you really want to click with them, you have to keep up with their memes.”
I shudder. “I don’t want to know what a meme is, thank you. And I think you’re living proof that my teaching tactics are plenty fine.”
Matteo laughs, booming voice shaking the room. “Okay, that’s fair. You do you and all that.”
“Please, sit. Tell me about life. What’s going on with you?”
I round the desk and sit in my creaky office chair. I got the thing on sale for only twenty bucks. The lumbar support leaves much to be desired, but it serves its purpose.
“I’m actually getting married,” Matteo says.
I raise my eyebrows at him, genuinely surprised. “Dude, that’s amazing. When did you meet her?”
“Her name’s Rachel. I met her in college. She was in the same sociology program as me. I asked to borrow her notes, and the rest is history. Her parents actually live in Chicago, so I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to stop by.”
“That’s fantastic,” I say. “Really, I’m so happy for you.”
“Thanks, Roman. I appreciate that.”
“When’s the wedding?”
Matteo shakes his head. “Not for another year or so. We want to save up. Host a big wedding. Rachel’s got a huge family she wants to invite.”
“That makes sense.”
He clears his throat. “Listen, I might have also stopped by because… Well, I know we haven’t seen much of each other in a couple of years, but you’ve always been there for me. I thought I should come see you in person in order to ask if you’d be my best man at the wedding.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, man. You’re pretty much like a father to me. If my father were only ten years older, which is kind of weird, but you know what I mean. If it weren’t for you, I don’t know where I’d be right now.”
I smile wide. “That’s… Hell yeah, I’ll be your best man. Do I get to give you away at the ceremony too?”
Matteo snorts and rolls his eyes, but there isn’t any heat behind it. “Don’t push your luck, old man.”
“If I’m an old man, you’re middle aged.”
“I’m twenty-five.”
“Did I stutter?”
Matteo laughs. “Should I mark you down for a plus one? Rachel wants me to get my guest list written up as soon as possible.”
Just like that, the sudden weight of the world comes crashing down over my head. My smile falters. Being happy for Matteo has zapped the very last of my strength. I didn’t realize I’d been running on fumes until this exact moment, my limbs suddenly going numb as gravity takes hold and pulls me to the Earth’s crust. I try to force my smile back, but it’s too late.
Matteo frowns. “What’s that look?”
“What look?”
“Don’t think you’re fooling me, Roman. What’s going on?”
“Just…” I shake my head. “It’s nothing. I’ll be coming to the wedding solo.”
Matteo squints at me, scrutinizing every detail he can get a hold of. “Roman,” he says firmly. “Do I need to turn this whole mentor-mentee relationship on its head?”
I manage a weak chuckle. “Please don’t.”
“Roman?”
I sigh. I’m too exhausted to fight him any longer. “There’s this girl. Woman, I should say. I don’t think she’d appreciate being called a girl.”
Matteo shifts to the edge of his seat and leans forward, reminding me very much of how he always soaked up every word I had to say when he was a little boy.
“I might’ve… No, I definitely screwed up,” I say.
“How so?”
“It’s really complicated.”
“Remember when I was a kid and you said communication is the key to understanding?”
“Yes. I tell that to all the kids.”
“Then communicate away, old man. I promise I won’t judge you. At least, not too much. Unless you committed a felony. I just might have to turn you in, but we’ll see.”
I snort. “I didn’t commit a felony. I don’t think so, anyway?”
“The hell does that mean?”
“Long story really short, I pretended to be someone who I wasn’t. She found out. And now she’s rightly pissed.”
“Have you apologized to her?”
“Of course.”
Matteo crosses his arms over his chest. “Why would you pretend to be someone you’re not? That doesn’t sound like you, man.”
“I know. I just… I wasn’t thinking, okay? I know I wasn’t thinking. Charlie, she’s–”
“Wait. Charlie? That’s who we’re talking about here?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry, but has she not been an absolute thorn in your side for literally years?”
“I told you, it’s complicated.”
Matteo’s brows knit together into a steep frown. His left eye twitches as he concentrates, reflects. “Okay, so it’s complicated. I get that. I’m not exactly in a position to tell you what you should or shouldn’t do. I have only one question.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you care about her?”
“Of course. More than anything.”
“Does she care about you?”
“That’s two questions. But… I don’t know. Probably not anymore.”
“Have you tried talking to her? It’s a novel concept, I know.”
“Charlie will probably have me arrested if she sees me.”
“Jesus, what did you do– You know what? Sorry I asked. Never mind. I think you should talk to her, though. Get her on the phone if she doesn’t want to see you. Send her an email. Write her a letter. You were the one who told me winners don’t get what they want without at least trying. You haven’t tried to talk to her, have you?”
I shake my head.
Matteo claps his hands. “There you go.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Be honest. That’s what you always told me, and I turned out okay.”
“I told you a lot of things. Sometimes it’s hard for me to remember my own pieces of wisdom.”
Matteo smiles gently. “If she’s worth it, don’t let her go. Life’s too short not to go after what you want.”
I lean back in my chair and sigh, pushing my fingers through my hair. “The student becomes the master, I see.”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “I learned from the very best.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Charlie
Getting dressed in the morning used to bring me a great deal of joy.
It was kind of like a ritual. Every day, I’d wake up at six sharp, swing my legs out of bed, and promptly slip into my gym clothes to jog for an hour on my treadmill and watch Chicago wake up from out of my floor-to-ceiling east-facing window.
The view from my penthouse apartment overlooks the dark blue waters of Navy Pier. It’s not the same light crystal blue of the oceans surrounding the Caymans, though. It’s murky and tinted with green and gray, made dark from the overcasting clouds.
After my run, I normally hop in my steam shower. It’s got powerful jets that massage my body from all angles, as well as a waterfall showerhead to completely engulf my body with hot water. My soaps and shampoos aren’t as sweet smelling as the ones I used in the Caymans and don’t leave my skin as s
oft or moisturized.
Afterward, I’d normally step into my walk-in closet and pick out my outfit. My black Chanel dress was my armor. The click of my six-inch Louboutin heels were my drums of war. My string of black pearls and matching pendant drop earrings were my badges, signifying to those before me my rank and status.
I can’t even bring myself to look at my clothes now.
Every time I slide open the closet door, I wonder just how much I’ve spent over the years procuring each piece. That pink cashmere sweater I bought last spring and never wore? It cost eight-hundred dollars. The limited-edition blue leather handbag that’s been sitting there for years? Four thousand. There’s a collection of fine jewelry tucked away in my comically large, multi-tiered jewelry box that I rarely tap into. The contents inside alone are worth a minimum of ten thousand.
How many kids could that feed at Phoenix House?
I’ve been spending less and less time at the office. The constant sound of my phone ringing off the hook is driving me crazy. Every half an hour, someone’s knocking on my door to ask for an impromptu meeting that supposedly needs my ‘utmost attention and expertise.’ I’m surrounded by fake smiles and worried stares. Now that I’ve taken a step back, I don’t know that any of my employees even like me. They respect me, sure. Once upon a time, that’s all that mattered to me.
Now I’m surrounded by familiar strangers.
And it’s fucking lonely.
My apartment’s just as empty as my office, and I have to wonder how I even managed. There’s next to nothing in my fridge. My walls are plain, decorated with meaningless art pieces I don’t know why I bought. My home doesn’t feel like a home. It isn’t lived in. At the end of the day, it’s just a place where I lay my head. I wake up, go to work, come home, go to sleep.
Rinse. Recycle. Repeat.
Everything’s dull and muted. Colors run in to one another in an indistinguishable blur. The foods I eat don’t hold a candle to the delicious meals I enjoyed in the Caymans. Conversations don’t hold my interest. I get through the day, but it’s a struggle, like wading through quicksand that’s slowly pulling me down into the void. But that’s not the worst part.
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