“Because of that awkward moment when you have dinner with your ex’s sister?” I groan, ignoring his stupid reasoning.
“You know I’m right. You’re a serial monogamist. You lose interest and then move on to the next one.”
I want to disagree with him. Tell him this time is different. The signs indicate a change of heart. Considering I’ve talked about my family with her, there’s a slight chance we can last longer. I want to slap my hand on the counter. Tell him that we are not having this conversation. I have to think about my next move. Whatever Willow and I have going on is something worth exploring. There’s that little voice inside my head insisting I give us a chance.
“Did Hazel agree to this?” I am about to cut him off, but he says nothing further. He’s pensive. Something is bothering him.
“This was Hazel’s idea,” I add as a way to reassure him his best friend is the one behind the plan.
He nods. “I have to shower. Save me some breakfast.” He turns around, leaving me to finish breakfast. From afar, I hear his voice.
There’s no doubt he’s calling Hazel. Fitz adores her, losing his best friend because I’m an idiot isn’t an option. It wouldn’t happen. They are tight. If it wasn’t because she doesn’t have the correct hardware for my brother, they’d a wonderful couple. Turning off the fire, I realize no one has given me any actual advice. The only thing I can think about doing is navigating my relationship with Willow slowly. A new approach might bring a different result.
Five
The Strategy
The greatest act of rebellion these days is being a gentleman. ~ Anonymous
A new approach hasn’t done anything for me. It’s Friday, and I haven’t seen Willow since our date. She’s throwing me off kilter. But, nothing to worry about. I’ve got this.
As a serial-monogamist, I know the dating game inside and out. I know what to do and what not to do during the first weeks to seal the deal: dinners at the most expensive restaurants, trips, galas, and shopping sprees. For the past three days, I’ve tried to woo Willow. She evaded me for two. The first one because she didn’t have cell service. Once she connected it, she said she’d be busy for the next couple of days. I called Hazel to ask once again for advice. She told me to rent a moving truck and get my ass to Queens.
Not the suggestion I expected to hear, but I do as I was told. Impassively, Fitz joins me.
“Thank you for coming,” I emphasize as we walk to the rundown, three story building.
“You owe me something,” he insists, walking to the door.
“Do you want me to call a moving company?” Jensen, our beloved personal assistant, asks. He came along because he thinks we’re a couple of useless men.
I shake my head. “This should be easy enough.”
“As you wish, Hunter.” Interpreting his tone, he’s saying something along the lines of, I can’t wait to see how you fuck up this time, Hunter. “I’m just glad you’re expanding your horizons.”
Expanding my horizons, don’t fuck up . . . way to have faith in me, old man.
Jensen’s lack of confidence in what I can accomplish tonight is a challenge I accept.
“I can’t believe you didn’t pack your shit, Willow.” Hazel’s voice comes from the upstairs window. “This is what I was talking about. You sabotage yourself.”
“Are you going to lecture me?”
“Yo, Hazel, we’re here,” Fitz calls out toward the window.
In a matter of seconds, her long curls make an appearance. “Oh good, my minions and Jensen are here.” She waves and smiles. “Hi, Jens! The door is open.”
My eyes open wide as I realize the lock is broken. There’s no alarm system or other security features in the building. Who the fuck runs this place? The floors are dirty, the walls need fresh paint, and the door requires more than the one lock it has.
“Hi, gorgeous.” I walk to Willow, taking her hand and kissing it. She serves me with a sad smile.
“What is it?” I whisper in her ear.
She shakes her head, scratching the back of her head.
“Tell me how to make everything better?” I raise my hand, touching her delicate face. My breath hitches as she runs her lips across my jaw almost touching my ear.
“I hate change,” she murmurs. “For a minute, I want to forget the stress.”
The best way to make her forget is sex. That’s off the table. At least until we know each other better. How do I connect with her when she ignores me? If only I hadn’t agreed to go slower. It’d be so easy to grant her wish. Choosing to take an alternative route, I slide my hand into her long, dark hair, soft strands running through my fingers. Her green eyes brighten. That beautiful mouth parts slightly as I lean closer. My mouth waters remembering our long, deep kiss and the softness of her tits. Lifting her chin with my index finger, I run a thumb along her delicate skin. It’s so close to her mouth, she shudders.
Leaning my head, I slant my mouth to hers. The coconut scent of her skin reminds me of her beautiful body pressed against mine. The night we shared watching old musicals while talking about her passion for the theater. My tongue caresses hers. It’s slow, deep, and full of promises of what we can be if only she lets me in. The atmosphere around us changes as each molecule in my body vibrates with the energy we create. The fire within her ignites my soul. More, give me more. Give me all.
“Mhm, I hate to interrupt.” Fitz clears his throat. “Now that you said hello to each other, we can start working.”
“Hi, you must be Fitz,” Willow greets him. She looks beautiful as she blushes and bites her lip. Then, I introduce her to Jensen.
It doesn’t take long to pack her things. Jensen offers to drive Willow and Hazel while Fitz and I carry the boxes to the truck. When we finish, we drive back to Manhattan. As we unload her things, I realize that she had come to her grandfather’s house the night we met. Grant Beesley is one of our biggest clients. Like Jensen, Grant was one of the few people who helped us after my parents died. We are grateful for his help.
“Coffee, yoga, a bar?” Fitz asks Hazel, who nods mouthing bar, and they disappear without uttering another word.
“Can I help?”
I’m wondering what I could do for her. I don’t want to sound like a cocky bastard, but I’m an Everhart. Besides being a lawyer, I own part of Everhart Industries. The conglomerate my grandfather started and my father expanded. We have several subdivisions among them, a brokerage firm, investment solutions for mid-size companies, and an advertising company which is one of the largest integrated marketing services. Throughout the years, I’ve met interesting people. I represent celebrities and a few producers. There’s a chance one of them can get me an audition for her. Lending her money to pay her rent is out of the question. So is buying her a house in Brooklyn where I would love to move to. I’d do anything to dissipate the sadness in her heart. My brothers, however, would send me to a mental health institution if I bought her a home.
“No. I’m fine,” she says with a straight face. If it weren’t for the twitch in her left eye and how she sets her jaw, I would believe she truly was.
“Fake it until you make it?”
“I’m fine,” she repeats.
The next step would be saying, I know you’re not, sweetheart, and I’m here for you. But dating 101 doesn’t include shoving your foot in your mouth within the first weeks of dating. That’s more along the lines of the six-month mark, when you get an eye glare and the words, idiot. If I could give anyone who wants to go past the third date a piece of advice it’d be never invalidate the other person’s feelings. Even when they are lying.
“Do you want to do something?”
“My life is chaotic.”
“I noticed. Which is why I propose we go first to Bed . . .” I pause, licking my lips. The flat line painted on her lips is my cue to stop the nonsense. “Bath and Beyond while we decide where we go for our next date.”
“Today isn’t a good day.” She’s set on shutti
ng me down when her phone buzzes. Scanning through it, she sighs.
“Care to explain?”
She scratches the base of her skull, pressing her lips together. I hold my breath about to give up for good.
“I’d rather not.” She pulls her shoulders back, pushing her chest out. Her somber face hardens even more. “It’s easier for everyone to avoid my mercurial personality.”
“Easier for you or me?”
Her eyes open wide, her nostrils flare. The combination of surprise, anger, and something else seem to grasp her entire body. “It’s not a good day,” she repeats.
“You mentioned some stuff you needed while we were unloading.”
She scratches her skull again. I swear I can hear the roughness of the movement. Am I agitating her so much that she’s losing her shit?
Willow reminds me of a chick I met during camp—a mental health camp for teenagers. It’s a program created to help each individual cope with different traumas or mental illnesses. Viola was her name. She had suicidal tendencies, bipolar disorder, and abused drugs. Is that what’s wrong with Willow? Well, fuck, I am in the wrong place. With my own fucked-up mind and hers, I don’t see our relationship going anywhere.
It’s not that I’m heartless, people might see me as a normal, hot, lawyer in New York. Those closest to me know that’s only on the outside. My mind is anything but normal. I speak to myself eighty-five percent of the time. It’s not voices in my head, but the coping mechanism I used when the only person I spent my day with was, well, me. Combining her abnormal with my fucked-up mind is dangerous. I can see the bloodshed already.
“A sensible warning.” The words taste rancid. Her shoulders slump, and I have a gut feeling I let her down. Yet, she expects me to leave. “Should you be alone tonight?”
She observes me. Not a muscle in her moves. I wish I could be inside her head to decipher her puzzling mind. I’m not the best person to do such a thing. Walking to her, I kiss her cheek.
It’s a lingering kiss.
A goodbye kiss.
A don’t make me go kiss.
It’s a pathetic attempt from my side. An attempt to change her mind.
“Goodbye, Willow.”
Her eyes watch me with sadness. I serve her with a smile and leave.
“What’s all this?”
“Organizers, hangers, mirrors, wall art, wall accents, and a few linens.” I point at the bags, boxes, and lamps the doorman helped me bring upstairs.
One of my biggest issues is the fear of being alone. For all I know, she’s bad for me. Maybe she is as addictive as cocaine or meth. As of now, I assume she’s a chocolate chip cookie—my mother’s recipe. I’m dependent on them. I eat at least one a day. My attraction to her is so strong that there is no fucking way I would leave her as easily as she assumes.
“I thought—”
“That I’d leave you?” I pull out my hand from behind my back handing her a bouquet of flowers.
Her shaky hand grabs it. Those green eyes fill with moisture as she presses them gently to herself and sniffs them. “They are beautiful. How did you accomplish all of this so late?”
I shove my hands inside my pockets, looking at the gray carpet. The long explanation includes help from her sister who told me what she likes. Then, calling in a few favors, and convincing the owner of Tyler’s Flowers to create a bouquet with lavender, light tones of blue, and some pinks right away. Here’s another dating tip: always find what makes her heart happy. In her case, it’s flowers. I accomplished all these while talking to my therapist over the phone.
“I’m on a date with my wife,” he said the first time. By the fifth call, he had to talk to me. “Why do you feel you have to talk to me?”
“No one has enough experience to give me advice,” I explained.
“I recall telling you to stop living through other’s experiences. Perhaps this is a good place to start.”
“Willow, no one is normal.” I don’t answer her question, instead refer to her statement of earlier today. “I, myself, have several quirks. Since we both live in the land of oddities, I propose we give this a chance.”
“What’s this?”
“I have no fucking idea,” I respond without giving a thought. “There’s an attraction. We connect easily. Why not have fun together?”
She stares at the flowers, then at everything I brought her. “I don’t want your money. All these things make me uncomfortable.”
I tip my head, pretending I write down her wishes in the air. “Got it, no frivolous presents or flowers.”
Touching the flowers with the tip of her hands, she angles her head, her shy, green eyes poke out from behind her long, dark lashes, and she smiles. “I love the flowers.”
I make a big show by exhaling deeply, taking my phone, and pretending to tap on it. “Let’s get this straight. Expensive presents are a no go, while flowers are a daily must.”
Looking around, I find the pastel mirror vase I bought at West Elm. In a way, I hated to find out so much about Willow through Hazel. Like the fact she loves flowers, pastel colors as much as black, gold, and silver. She’s a romantic underneath the armor. Life wasn’t easy for her. That I learned during our date. Her parents traveled often. They left her and her sister with strangers for days, weeks, and even months at a time. Am I capable of handling her? It’s easier to find out than to let her go.
“How about you keep all the stuff I brought, and from now on I focus on flowers?”
She shakes her head, frowning as she stares at the bouquet. “Not daily.”
“We have to compromise, gorgeous girl,” I object. She’s throwing my game.
I won’t let her. There’s no way I’m giving up, or letting her walk away without letting me show I can be an adult and win her heart. Those are my two goals. I want her to give me a chance to show her that I’m ready for this kind of commitment. Not only monogamy but letting myself touch the flame; allowing the flame to consume me to my core.
“This is a bad idea.” She walks away, holding the vase and flowers. I follow behind, focusing on her tiny shorts and the ass they barely cover. My dick gets hard. What happened to slow and behaving like a gentleman? Fuck. The gentleman left the building when I noticed those long, toned legs. “I’m not equipped to deal with heartbreak or feelings.”
It appears no one has faith in me. Add to my list of goals, convince her we won’t have a heartbreaking moment. This has to be like a walk in the park.
“We can’t venture into a relationship only thinking about the ugly consequences.” I use my closing argument voice. “Think positive. I’m fucked up, too,” I swear, touching my temple. “Two wrongs might make a right.”
She laughs. “It’s like someone is sending two blind people to watch the sunset.”
“We’ll feel it, Willow.” I take a few steps toward her, grabbing the flowers and vase, placing them on top of the counter. Taking her hands, I kiss them both. Then, I kiss the tip of her nose.
“We are going to make it fun. Coffee, pizza, parties, and long walks to get to know each other.” I kiss her cheek, tracing her jaw with my mouth and pressing my lips hard to the back of her ear. “Trust me. I’ll never let you down.”
Six
The invisible pain
I’m falling apart right in front of your eyes but you don’t see me. ~ Anonymous
“Where were you all night?” I ask as Hazel enters my room and makes her way to my bed.
She frowns, scanning the boxes, and items littering the floor. “What happened to ‘I’ll fix this right away’?” Picking up the box of hangers, she places it on top of my unmade bed and opens it. “Yara can help us arrange everything.”
“The housekeeper is only here to prepare meals and do the basic cleaning, Willow.” I mock my grandfather’s voice. Hazel laughs. I open one of the bags. She continues opening the shopping sacks and perhaps judging the trivial purchases. “Hunter bought all the stuff I mentioned I wanted.”
Closing her
eyes, she takes a series of breaths. “Wills, I didn’t come to your room to pick a fight.”
“Where were you all night?” I repeat my question.
She chuckles, opening her eyes. “Why would you assume I was out all night?”
I point at her yoga pants and the red Stanford hoodie that belonged to her ex. “Are you and Fitz a couple?”
Hazel rolls her eyes and laughs. “Where shall I start?”
She takes some of my dresses, walks to my closet and hangs them up, doing the same several times. My little sister isn’t in a good mood. She doesn’t snap or go bat-shit crazy. Instead, she has an entire conversation in her head before responding.
“Fitz and I are close. We went through similar breakups and understand what the other is going through.” She pauses, twisting her lips she swallows hard. “Last night we went to a Buddhist temple. My therapist recommended it.”
“Wait, therapist? Temple?” I lift my hands, leaning backward. “Whoa, why are you going to a therapist? I’m the crazy one.”
“You aren’t crazy. That said, you might want to go back to therapy, just saying,” she advises with a firm tone.
I snort, slanting my eyes. Is she for real? Like I haven’t tried that before. I’ve tried to find a cure since college, comfort or something, to make the emotional pain go away. Depression, said one therapist. You might be bipolar, said the second one. I refuse to go back to him. His diagnosis seemed harsh. Another one suggested my career caused the emotional turmoil and to search for another career. My last one fired me because I couldn’t go through one session without yelling or crying.
Not long ago, I met a wonderful lady at a bookstore. The bathroom of a bookstore to be specific. It was during a panic attack. She helped me through it, handed me her card, and said she might know what’s wrong with me. But since my grandfather cut me off and I didn’t have insurance, I couldn’t afford therapy. With my salary, I can’t afford to pay three hundred dollars a session.
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