by Paige North
He strides to me suddenly, grabbing me by my arms. He practically shakes as he says, “This was always a damned business arrangement, and I always made that much clear to you. Why won’t you understand that? Stop with this.”
“I can’t. I can’t.”
He lets go and stalks across the room, jerking open a drawer on a corner bureau. He comes back to me and thrusts a stack of papers in my hand. “There. Now you’ll know everything.”
“What is this?” I say, looking through the papers with shaking hands.
“It’s my father’s will,” he says. He takes the papers back from me and flips to a page. He shows me, pointing to a clause. “Right there. Can you read that? It says that in order for me to even have a shot at taking control of the company, I have to find a wife. I have to get married.” He says the last word like it disgusts him. “This was all a test, Jordyn. Do you see that now?”
I hold the paper, trying to focus on the handwritten note in the margins but it’s hard with shaking hands and tears clouding my vision. But I see it. The note says, Find suitable wife; make arrangements ASAP.
“What the fuck, Miles?”
He swallows hard, his eyes on the floor. He takes the will back from me. “You knew what this arrangement was from the beginning. Christ, Jordyn, you signed a contract. But what I didn’t tell you was that I hoped to marry you, to fulfill my father’s wishes. It’s business. But now that your feelings are involved everything is muddled. It’s ruined.”
I feel like I might be sick as he’s talking to me. “Shut up,” I groan lowly, but he doesn’t seem to hear or care.
Miles pushes on. “This was never what I wanted,” he says, as if trying to convince himself as much as me. “I can’t have someone who feels something for me now and know that those feelings are going to change. Because they will. In a month or six or a year, your feelings will change, Jordyn. And I need someone who is like me. Someone who is unflinching, who doesn’t get wrapped up in emotions. The way you’re acting, the way you’re feeling, you’ve made it clear to me that you can’t handle this kind of life. I need a woman who will play the role of my wife. Who can live in this fucking amazing penthouse with me, go to functions, and who will put on a dress and smile when I need her to. That’s all I require. Someone who wants to live like this so that I can do my job. Why is that so hard to understand?”
“I think I do finally understand,” I say, and I mean it.
He flinches a little at my words. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he says softly.
I’m beyond hurt. I’m numb. The last of my tears have rolled down my face and now I just want to get away from him. “I’m leaving. And I never want to see you again.”
As I walk out of his room to mine—the room I’ve been staying in—a small, still naïve part of me hopes he’ll stop me. Hopes he’ll say something that shows me he’s not the monster he just presented himself as.
But he doesn’t say a word. And so I put on the clothes I arrived in, get my few belongings, and leave.
And as I go, that last hopeful part of me finally dies a painful death.
It’s over.
Miles
This is what I get for not listening to myself. I knew I was getting too close to Jordyn and now even if I wanted to make things right with her I couldn’t.
After everything I said to her—the truths as well as the lies—there’s no way she’d ever look at me again. And I can’t blame her.
Still, I feel like absolute shit.
Actually, shit probably feels better than this by a long ways.
This is the lowest I’ve ever been.
Jordyn got out in such a hurry that I hardly had the chance to finish my ruse of needing to go to work. Instead I’m standing at the window of the living room, staring absently at the view.
I haven’t been alone in the penthouse since she arrived. I never cared about living alone—I preferred it, since it’s the only way I’ve ever known. Now that she’s gone I feel the silence.
I swore to myself that I’d never need her. Now that she’s gone, she’s all I can think about.
The pain is actually physical. It gnaws at my insides like a wild, trapped rodent trying to claw its way out.
How will I ever be able to concentrate again?
Work. It’s the only thing I can do, and I dive into it with renewed focus. The day that Jordyn leaves, I send a text to one of my assistants and have them wire the rest of Jordyn’s money to her.
The month isn’t over, but she deserves every penny.
Several days later at work I learn that Jordyn’s bank account has been shut down.
“So send her a check.” I say, annoyed at the incompetence.
When I’m told they already tried that and it was returned unopened, I feel a panic in my chest. Is Jordyn okay? Is she just rejecting me (understandably) or did something happen to her?
I can barely concentrate the rest of the day. But I manage. I always manage because there’s some truth to what Jordyn said when she called me a robot. I am a machine—raised to be one, in fact.
So I carry on, more miserable than I ever have been in my life. I wonder about Jordyn all the time. Is she okay? Where is she?
I went to her old apartment and her roommates said she moved out last month, when she came to my penthouse, and haven’t seen her since. They certainly don’t seem concerned, which pisses me off.
I need to know that she’s okay. I need to see her. I need her. Fuck, it’s almost crushing, the need I feel.
I think of her first thing when I wake up in the morning. Throughout the day I wonder where she is, what she’s doing.
At night, the minutes pass by at a glacier’s pace, and in the hours between midnight and dawn, it sometimes feels as though decades have gone by.
I feel like I’m dying while I live.
The days are not much better.
I saw a macaroon in a window display yesterday and it nearly broke me. If this is love or something like it then screw it. This is far too painful and is why I avoided it my whole life.
Tried to avoid it. Because I wonder, after everything I’ve felt, all the emotions I buried as deep in my soul as I could, if it was all for nothing.
In the end, I’m in love with Jordyn Thompson.
I know I have to do something. I go through the motions everyday, go home as late as possible so that I don’t have to be alone in the penthouse, lie there pretending to sleep, waiting until I can rise and start all over the next day.
I know that I’m going to have to face this and deal with what’s happened to me. And I think I even have an idea of what I need to do.
But I just hope that I haven’t screwed things up too badly to fix them.
Regardless, some things can still be made right, and I intend to do it even if it kills me.
Jordyn
I never realized how small the house I grew up in actually is. I used to think it was huge.
I once raced my best friend around the outside of it, circling through the backyard, and was so out of breath when I won it was as if I’d run around an Olympic stadium.
I knew it wasn’t the biggest house on the street, but to me it was massive. Now as I’ve been back here for a week, sleeping in my old twin bed, all I can think about is how small everything here is. And dusty.
Did I turn into a snob in less than a month?
When I arrived on Mom and Dad’s doorstep, having taken the train and then a cab out to New Jersey, they embraced me in a happy hug, thinking I was just being a good daughter and surprising them with a visit.
When I started crying on Mom’s shoulder before I could even get off the porch, they realized I needed them. And if I needed them, then they knew something was bad. That kind of energy is usually saved for Eric, because Eric always needs us—for money or sympathy or pity, or whatever he’s feeling on any given day.
I arrived home with no bags, not even a toothbrush. Just my laptop and an old book tucked nicely into t
he posh leather carrier Miles gave me weeks ago that still smells so rich. In my old room I squeezed myself into some old clothes leftover in my closet from high school that Mom never got around to donating to Goodwill. I’m wearing a lot of tights and, if I venture outdoors, my old Ugg boots.
Miles would be horrified.
In my first few days at home, I don’t see Eric. We don’t talk about him either, but it’s clear that, as per usual, he’s running on his own selfish schedule, coming and going as he pleases.
From what I can gather, he goes out late and stays out all night, comes home to sleep all day in his room. Time seems to blend for him—no day, no night, no clock to worry about. I don’t see him, but I can definitely feel his presence. I worry about him, but I also worry about Mom and Dad and how they’re dealing.
“Where is he this time?” I say to Mom one night over dinner. The one good thing about being home is that Mom and Dad cook. Dad does breakfast and Mom does dinner.
I saw Eric leave the house that afternoon, walking out the front door and down our suburban street.
“I think he’s meeting a friend,” Mom says. She doesn’t look at me when she talks about Eric.
“I’ve barely seen him since I got here,” I say. “Is he always like this?”
“Like what?” Dad asks, an edge to his voice. “Gone?”
“Well, yeah,” I say. “I mean, shouldn’t he get a job or something? Is he paying you guys rent?”
“Let’s just have a nice meal,” Mom says, sitting down at the table.
She’s made lasagna. It’s the same recipe I made for Miles that he never ate. It’s Eric’s favorite, and she must have made it for him so I ask, “Is he coming home for dinner?”
Mom rubs her hand across her forehead, weary.
“Why don’t you tell us what you’re up to,” Dad says, playing offense for Mom.
“Yes, sweetie,” Mom says, picking up her fork. “We haven’t asked and you haven’t said, but what happened in New York?”
“I told you. I lost my job. Company got bought and the highly-skilled position of receptionist was no longer needed.”
“Come on, Jor,” Dad says. “We know it was more than that. Did you have a falling out with your roommates?”
“No,” I say. I push my food around my plate. I can’t tell them everything that happened. They have enough to deal with, worrying about Eric. Telling them a man paid me to be his fake girlfriend isn’t exactly something to brag to the neighbors about.
But when I look at their faces, I can see the premature aging from both of them, courtesy of Eric. Some normal problems from one of their kids would probably thrill the hell out of them.
So I decide to give them something.
“There was this guy,” I say.
“Ah,” they both say, relaxing at the normalness of it all.
“I thought it might be boy troubles,” Mom says. “Didn’t I say there must be a boy?” she says to Dad.
I want to tell her Miles is most certainly not a boy but decide it’s best not to get mixed up in semantics.
“Want to tell us about it?” Dad asks.
Hell to the no, I think. But still, getting some of it out might help.
“I met him at work,” I say, shifting details to fit the gist of the story. “At my old job. He came in right before I was let go but we…hung out a lot for the last month or so. He’s super smart, handsome and obsessed with work.”
“Obsessed in a good way or a bad way?” Mom asks.
The image of Miles shoving his father’s will at me, pointing out the words I still can’t believe are true: Find suitable wife. Him telling me it was all a test to see if I could be the perfect wife while feeling nothing for him.
“Definitely in a bad way,” I say. “He only cares about his job. Nothing else.” No one else. “That’s why we split up.”
“Well, ambition is one thing but obsession is quite another,” Mom says knowingly. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out, honey. I can see how upset you are.”
Dad reaches to me and says, “If he doesn’t see how good he had it with you, then he doesn’t deserve you.”
“That’s right,” Mom says. “If you’re not with this person then it’s just not meant to be.”
I love them for trying to be so peppy and encouraging, even if it doesn’t help me feel any better.
I realize what a shambles my life is in.
I’m twenty-one and have no idea what I’m doing with my life. The man I was falling hard for—fell for, in fact—turned out to be a world-class asshole, and then dumped me.
I have no apartment thanks to my vulture roommates telling me that Elina was going to stay in my pathetic little corner of the living room and pay a hundred bucks more a month for it.
And I have no job.
The only thing I do have is enough money from good ol’ Mr. Croft to put a hefty dent in my student loan, although if I can’t figure out what to do with my life, and quick, I might have to start dipping into that just to live.
I could have had more money beyond that first payment, but I shut down my account to keep him from putting anything else into it. I don’t want any more of Miles Croft’s money, I want to pretend that he disappeared off the face of the earth.
Who knows, maybe I should send the first chunk of money back, too. But then I really would have nothing…
I can’t crash here forever. Then my parents will have two burdensome kids to support, and that’s the last thing I want to do to them.
The front door slams and Mom and Dad immediately stiffen.
When my brother appears in the doorway, I gasp. I’ve seen glimpses of him since I got home, dragging ass in the morning, or dashing out the door to go meet a “friend.” But with him standing before us now, I see the full effect of the drugs.
Eric used to be a hefty guy. He played football in high school and had athletic look about him. Girls loved it when he’d effortlessly pick them up and carry them down the hall or offer them piggyback rides just to flirt. He was strong and sweet. Everyone loved him.
This guy standing in the doorway is not my brother. He’s sallow skinned with gray pockets for eyes. And he’s not just thin but wasting away skinny. His torn T-shirt hangs off his shoulders and his skin is a wreck of acne, the likes of which he never had growing up.
Mom and Dad are either so used to seeing him like this or simply no longer see it at all.
“Hi, sweetie,” Mom says, getting up from her seat. “Want some dinner? You must be hungry.”
Eric grunts in response.
“Come sit down,” Dad tells him, an edge to his voice. Eric follows the order, plopping himself down in a chair.
His eyes turn on me. I’m so shocked by his zombie-like mannerisms that I don’t realize I’m staring until Eric snaps, “What the fuck are you looking at?”
“Eric, calm down,” Dad says.
“Quit staring then,” he says, eyes still on me. I look away. “Mom, I need some money.”
“Eric, we’ve talked about this,” Mom says, bringing in a plate of food I suspect Eric won’t touch. He’s scratching his arm and neck as if he has poison oak.
“Just ten bucks, Jesus.”
“Do you even want to tell us what it’s for?” Dad asks. He sounds like he’s been through this routine before.
“I need some eye drops,” he says, the lie coming so quickly to his lips that I’d be impressed if I weren’t so sad and disgusted.
“I’m sure there’s some in the hall bathroom,” Mom says, putting the plate down in front of him, which he ignores.
“I looked. There’s not any.”
“No, I'm sure we have some,” Mom says. She starts down the hall to look.
“Jesus, Mom, do you have to fact-check everything I say?” he snaps, and the anger in him is so real it fills the room. “There’s no fucking eye drops and my eyes are dry and I just need it. If you don’t want to give me the ten bucks then just say so.”
“It’s not that
, Eric,” Mom says.
“And watch your tone,” Dad adds.
“It’s just that—”
“Five bucks,” Eric says. “Just give me five.”
“I’m not trying to negotiate,” Mom says. “I’m just trying to—”
“Are you going to give it to me or not?”
Mom looks at him for a moment, her face full of a pain for her child that I hope I never fully understand. With resignation, she moves to kitchen counter to pick up her purse, digging out her wallet.
“Laura,” Dad says to her in a warning tone.
“No, it’s fine,” Mom says. She thrusts a ten at Eric, who snatches it and is on his feet like lightening.
“Eric!” Dad says, rising from the table and going after Eric. “You ungrateful kid. The least you can say is thank you.”
“Thanks,” he mutters.
“So you’re just going to the store? You’ll be back in half an hour?” Dad says.
“Not sure,” Eric says. “Don’t wait up.” He swings open the front door and is gone, taking all the light and energy from the room with him.
Dad drags himself back to the table and sits. He puts his head in his hands, and I wonder if he’s crying. Mom stands behind him and rubs his back.
“You guys,” I say. “This is bad. Worse than before.” Eric used to come home high but he wasn’t aggressive.
“We know, Jordyn,” Dad says, and I feel bad for pointing out the obvious. “He’s out of control. That was him being nice.”
“He comes and goes as he pleases. God knows who he hangs out with or where he goes,” Mom says.
“Why do you give him money?” I ask. “Come on, Mom. You know he’s not buying eye drops.”
“Do you really think I’m that stupid?” Mom says, tears in her eyes. “I live this everyday. I know what he’s doing that money but what if I don’t give it to him? He’ll get his drugs one way or another and I don’t want him doing something worse just to get them. I don’t want him stealing or…worse to get the money. And he also gets sick…he needs help to quit.”