by Nadia Lee
“So? She’s not dead yet, is she? Where else is she going to see a man in his prime prancing around naked?”
I snort, then my gaze falls on the ugly scars on my left leg, and my mood darkens. Ava caressed them as though they didn’t repulse her. She even ran her cheeks along the white, bumpy lines. And for that one moment, all the pain and weight I carry just…vanished.
Was she upset about the implied end date to our relationship? The fucking tabloids were thorough—they didn’t forget to add that the fake marriage was to last a year.
She shouldn’t have shut me out. I told her I loved her. Why didn’t she try to negotiate?
Or did I fuck it up by bringing nothing but the pathetic terra-cotta pot? Maybe I should’ve prepared something sparkly and expensive. Diamonds usually work pretty well. Their dazzling display would’ve hidden what’s wrong inside me. Ava might not have even noticed the pot.
I cover my eyes with a hand. They’d have made a perfect present, and I’m an idiot for not having seen it sooner. But I was foundering in my own thoughts at the time.
Blake grabs a fresh shirt from his small suitcase and changes out of the wet sweater. Once we’re both dressed, my brother drags me to the living room. It has a couple of plushy mahogany-colored leather armchairs and two matching loveseats. A few coffee table hardbacks on Monticello and Jefferson’s legacy lie on the low wooden table in the center. Rachel had the place decorated, and whoever she hired did well.
Gail comes out from the kitchen, wiping her thin hands on a paper towel. Her hair is gray, and her eyes a murky green, although still perceptive behind a pair of glasses. She’s put on a UVA shirt—her children went to the University of Virginia—and jeans and a pair of those sensible white sneakers.
She takes one look at me and nods. “Good to see you finally rejoining the ranks of the living.”
“It wasn’t that long.”
“Three days is plenty. Demolishing pictures in your office? Jogging three times a day? Washing before and after you go out? My Lord. I thought you’d lost your mind!” Gail presses her lips together until they practically vanish. “I do confess you had me worried. Wasn’t sure what to do.”
That explains why Rachel called for reinforcements.
I go to Gail and squeeze her weathered hand. “I’m sorry. Really. It won’t happen again.”
Blake sits back in an armchair, doing what people are starting to call manspreading. “That’s right. I won’t let it.”
“Good. Now, would you like something to eat?”
“Something warm. And maybe a sandwich?” Blake asks hopefully.
“I can manage that.” She points at the other armchair. “Sit down, Lucas. You’re making me nervous.” She waits until I actually take the seat and then disappears into the kitchen.
“‘I won’t let it.’” I snort. “Smug SOB, aren’t you? You can’t stay here forever to keep an eye on things.”
He shrugs. “You can’t stay here for too long either.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Don’t you remember your rather open-ended promise to Nate Sterling?”
Obscenely wealthy and well connected, Nate Sterling is a relative—through marriage—on the Pryce side of the family. Although he and I are friends, I can’t imagine making a blank promise to him. I absolutely hate owing anyone anything. “What promise?”
Blake shakes his head. “I knew it. I even told Nate you probably forgot, since you’re no liar.”
I inhale sharply as a fresh wave of pain cuts through me. My asshole brother thinks I’m not a liar…but not the woman I love.
Not just a liar, but a greedy, greedy bastard.
Just like the way I was a greedy fetus.
I rub my hands together, feeling grimy.
Blake’s flat tone pulls me out of my headspace. “You told him you’d help in any way you could if he ever opened a clinic for the poor.”
Finally, I remember. When I learned how much Ava and her mother had suffered growing up, a clinic for people who fell through the cracks was something I wanted to do, and Nate seemed like the perfect partner for that type of venture. “And? Don’t tell me he’s going to build one now.” I no longer have the drive or the proper state of mind for a project as ambitious as this.
“He has, and it’s already open. The Sterling Medical Center in L.A. Well, ‘open’… He’ll make it official in about a week or two, I imagine.”
“Then he doesn’t need me.”
“Wrong. He wants you to help with fundraisers.”
What the hell? “That’s not my area. Why doesn’t he ask Elizabeth?” There’s no wallet she can’t crack with that smile of hers.
“She told him she was too busy. It’s not like she has nothing to do with her time.”
Goddamn it.
“And it’s not like there’s anything keeping you here.”
But there is.
I didn’t go jogging three times a day for shits and giggles. No matter how convoluted a route I took, I always made sure to pass Darcy and Ray’s house…which I guess makes me a stalker. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if Ava’s taken out a restraining order. I’ve been behaving like some of the psychos who’ve harassed my sister.
If I were a better man, I’d just accept Ava’s decision—no, that’s not right. If I were a better man, she wouldn’t have rejected me in the first place.
But…I’m not. So I kept going by her place to see if she was all right without me. To see if she’d found someone else.
I wish she were a tenth as miserable as I am, so she’d want me back to make the hurt go away. But I haven’t seen her at the house and she hasn’t called. Wanting her—missing her—has become a tangible thing that wraps around and squeezes until I feel like I’m about to burst.
The only bright spot is that she doesn’t seem to be dating anyone new.
Blake, as usual, sees a bit too much. “It’s that girl, isn’t it?”
I merely stare at him.
He steeples his fingers. “Stop rubbing your hands together and tell me what happened.”
Never Good Enough
Ava
The second I open the scarred door to the small public apartment Mom and I share, I wrinkle my nose. The stench is overwhelming—something acidic and rotting.
Dropping the school bag, I stomp inside and open the windows to air the place out. We don’t have any pets—animals cost money—and I know what’s caused the gross smell. My stomach sinks as I rub a hand over my mouth, bracing myself for another difficult scene.
I go to the bedroom and see Mom passed out at the foot of the bed. She’s half sitting up, back against the bed and slumped over to one side. Puke covers her chin and shirt. This close, the odor is much worse, laced with stale alcohol.
I sigh. She should be at work. She’ll probably lose her job for missing another shift—if she hasn’t already. But I don’t have the energy to be upset with her. It isn’t the first time Mom drank until she passed out or threw up. This is the only way she knows how to deal with Dad’s betrayal, and we’re too poor and unimportant to be helped. I know because I’ve called every clinic in the area, asking if they could do something for her.
“Mom.” I put a hand on her shoulder and shake gently.
Her eyes flutter a bit. “Wha…?”
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Mom looks down at herself, makes weak movement with one hand. “Wha…?”
“Come on.” I wrap an arm around her torso and pull her up.
“I’m fine. Don’ need anyone.”
“I know.”
“Hafta go to work…” She glances at the clock, registers the time. It galvanizes her. “Shit, I’m late!”
“Your shift is probably over by now.”
“No, no, I have to get to work.”
“Mom, you can’t go in like this. Let’s get cleaned up first. Then we’ll call your supervisor and say you were sick.” That isn’t really a lie. Mom is sick. Sick in her soul, her
body.
All because Dad turned out to be an asshole.
I half carry her to the bathroom and turn on the water. Mom huddles on the floor, not caring that her clothes are gross, and starts crying into her hands. “I got nothin’,” she sobs. “My God, Beau.”
I look away, unable to bear her misery but at the same time too angry to be kind. When she makes no move to get into the shower, I push her toward the tub. She resists, sitting like a sack of flour on the cold tiles. “What am I gonna to do? What am I gonna do?” she wails.
“How about you get into the damn shower?” I glare down at her. “You know what? I’m glad Dad’s dead! My only regret is that he didn’t suffer, because he sure should have.”
Mom lifts her head and stares. From her slack expression, I don’t know if she’s registering half of what I’m saying, but I’m too furious to care.
“If somehow he comes back from the dead, he better not show his face here or I’ll kill him again!”
She moves so fast I almost don’t see it. Her palm cracks against my cheek hard enough to make my head snap to the side. Stunned, I put a hand on the stinging spot.
“Don’t you dare say that, you little bitch!” Spittle flies from her mouth, her eyes wide and bloodshot. “He’s my everything! You’re nothing! Nothing, you hear!”
That hurts far more than the slap, but I swallow my tears. “I’m your daughter.”
“No daughter of mine disrespects her daddy!”
“If he’d acted like a real father, I might’ve given him some respect!” Disgusted, I walk out of the apartment and stand leaning against the door. My cheek aches, and there’s probably going to be a bruise. Tears bead in my eyes, but I blink them away. What will they accomplish? I’ll cry when tears can put food in my belly and take me away from this…hell.
Resentment is a tight ball that chokes me. I kick the dilapidated door with all my strength before spinning around and leaving, going somewhere that doesn’t have this miasma of misery.
Mom should have never let a man as selfish and undeserving as Beau Huss ruin the rest of her life. She shouldn’t make her child suffer because she can’t pull herself together enough to be a mother.
If I were her, I would’ve moved on a long time back. Just left, so he’d know how little he meant to me, how little I needed him to live a happy, fulfilling life. I would’ve never wasted tears on him.
“You’ve got no pride! No self-respect!” I yell in the apartment’s direction. My stomach knots with hunger, but there’s no food at home. Just a woman who’s coming apart at the seams and doesn’t care that she has a daughter who needs her.
I will never let any man have this much power over me. Never.
Chapter Three
Ava
Three days.
Sometimes three days can pass you right by, quick as a bullet. And sometimes that much time feels like an eternity. You’d think that when time is flying, you’d remember less. After all, everything’s going so fast, and surely your senses can’t absorb it all, your brain can’t process the whole skein.
But it’s the opposite. I remember every second of the happy days I had with Lucas… The three sweet, heartbreaking days at the bed and breakfast that ended far too soon.
The way he made my body sing.
The way he held me in his arms.
The way he made me feel like I was something special, precious to him.
Time’s been crawling since Lucas’s final visit. The last three days might as well have been a decade. But I remember very little of what happened after he came back with the barren terra-cotta pot.
I’m in love with you.
My heartbeat stutters at the memory. The five words I would’ve given anything to hear from his lips. He said them when he came by that last time. But I didn’t want to hear them that way—a gambit to get me to capitulate, to look away from all the things he’s done. A lot like how my dad used to bring gifts to make my mother forget all the ways he treated her badly. If she’d been thinking more clearly, maybe she would’ve seen the signs faster.
Still, my heart is foolish and impetuous, easily impressed.
I’m in love with you.
How I wanted to give in, wrap my arms around him and tell him I loved him too. I’m so much like my mother it’s scary. So I tossed out the only response I could—“You’re toxic”—and shut the door in his face. I couldn’t trust myself not to be impulsive.
Was I too harsh? I only wanted to make a point, make him go away so I could move on—again. But the utter devastation in his gaze still haunts me. It’s as though I’m the villain, not him.
And I despise myself for feeling this way.
Forget him. He only wanted to use you to get that ridiculous painting.
Why didn’t he just tell me honestly from the beginning? Then things could’ve been different. Instead he fed me lines about how he wanted to keep me a secret, hidden away from everyone because he was afraid to lose me, that others might covet what he had. What he meant was people might covet the multimillion-dollar painting he would get if we were together.
What humiliates me the most about our reunion is that I opened up to him. I told him things I would’ve never said because I believed he was making himself vulnerable to me. How stupid. Men don’t work that way.
I won’t let the past hold me down. What I’ve learned from the bitter disappointments in my life is that the only way to heal is to move on.
I’ll be damned if I end up like my mother.
Which is why I find myself in LAX waiting to board a late-night flight back home. Maybe I’ll get an offer from the medical center. The final round of interviews with Robbie Choi, my would-be boss, is done. The third son of Korean immigrants from Busan, the man’s super nice. Although he’s only in his forties, he’s gone prematurely gray and his ash-white mane is quite shocking on a face that looks so young.
You have to tell me everything! Bennie messages me on Facebook.
They liked me, I think.
Well, duh. Why else would they bring you all the way out to L.A.? What did you think about the hospital?
It’s really nice. It doesn’t look like the crappy public clinics we used to go to. They were usually understaffed and overcrowded, housed in buildings that looked as sad and worn out as the patients who waited inside.
Apparently the Sterling Medical Center isn’t just a safety-net clinic, but a fundraising organization. Every penny raised goes toward treating anybody who walks through the door, I write, regurgitating information from the first interview.
That’s so noble it’s positively obscene. They’re probably trying to hide something.
I snort a laugh. Only Bennie would be this cynical. But then, we didn’t have the kind of childhood most people have. When your parents fail you over and over again, it’s hard to trust anything—or anyone.
And Bennie hasn’t seen the facility. The brand-new six-story building gleams—big windows letting sunlight pour in, spotless floors and pristine walls covered with glossy posters promoting various ways to stay healthy on a budget. The air has a hint of disinfectant—like every other hospital in the world—and the sound system delivers soothing classical music at a low volume.
Robbie gave me a tour of the center. Doctors in white coats moved briskly, nurses and staff entering information onto slim tablets as they readied for the official opening. Everything at the medical center said money and top-class and our patients deserve the best.
“We take what we do very seriously,” Robbie said during the tour. “It’s a shame that in a country as wealthy as ours, we still have people who can’t afford basic medical care.”
“I know,” I said. “My family really struggled when I was growing up. Not much of a safety net.”
Well, Mom and I struggled. Dad lived fine—he was a rich man who pretended to be poor so he could have my mom as a cheaply kept mistress to fuck whenever he was in the mood. He had a family he provided for in style—his real wife and his real
daughter.
If we’d had better medical care, would Mom have let herself go? Died of an overdose? If she’d received help for depression, anger issues and substance abuse…would she have survived the heartbreak? She couldn’t handle it once she realized Dad would never marry her—that she was nice enough to fuck, but not good enough to wed.
Don’t be a cynic, B, I type and hit send. I want to work there.
You are so gonna work there. I can feel it in the soles of my feet.
I smile at his confidence, although I secretly think he’s probably right. During the initial phone interview, I asked, “Why are you recruiting someone who lives so far away? There must be people in L.A. who can start immediately. Not that I’m ungrateful—I love your mission and what you do, but I’m genuinely curious.”
It isn’t something I would’ve asked normally, but after the whole fiasco with Lucas, knowing that he was using me to acquire art, I really had to know. The hospital didn’t have to take Erin’s referral.
“We liked your résumé,” Robbie answered without missing a beat. “I especially liked your international experience, and the fact that you’ve overcome a lot to be where you are now, as you mentioned earlier. We want someone who’s seen and experienced what the people we’re serving have seen and experienced. We want someone with drive, but who’s also capable of empathy. Does that satisfy you?”
It did.
If they offer, you should take it, Bennie says. Unless you have something better in Charlottesville?
Nope, I respond. Actually, that isn’t entirely true. I have my foster parents Ray and Darcy McIntire…and Mia…but they aren’t enough to help me move on. And Lucas lives in the same closed community they do. Behind the same gates, within the same walls. Being that close to him…
I clench my jaw as pain blossoms again, starting from the center of my heart. It’s been weeks since I discovered his lies, but I hurt as though it just happened moments ago.
The worst thing is that I miss him. Every idle moment I think about throwing away my pride and self-esteem and running to him with open arms for another slice of sweet, poison-laced heaven.