I’m supposed to be deciding on the name for the new oral sex toy that’s in development. My team has come up with a few ideas, but nothing seems right. Their first choice is Inamorato or Inamorata, which are Italian words for male and female lovers. Those don’t seem to fit. Their second choice is La Douleur Exquise, which is French for unrequited love. I get they are trying to play off the company name by using foreign words, but the name should fit. I draft an email sending them back to the drawing board.
The cheesy tagline meets the same fate. Break the laws of attraction—Paramour. Perhaps it’s just my bad mood. I run it over again in my head. What are the laws of attraction? Some say opposites attract. Others say that similar personalities attract. Who knows? All I know is, that tagline sucks.
Heading home after what seemed like an endless day, my doorman Walker greets me and steers me inside. Strangely, he’s not in uniform, and it’s not his usual day. “I was just coming up to see you,” he says. “To say goodbye.”
“Goodbye?” I ask. “You’re retiring?”
He flashes me a smile. “It’s time.”
Wrapping my arms around his neck, I squeeze hard. “The building should be giving you a party or something. Let me at least take you to dinner. No takeout this time.”
“Not necessary,” he says. “I came here today to tell you how much those takeout meals meant to me.”
“Me, too.”
“You’ve got someone to share all your dinners with now,” he says. “I’ve been married a long time. We’ve had some great dinners, some burned ones, some when we barely had enough on our plates.”
A sad smile crosses my lips, remembering Rorke’s dinner that left me on the bathroom floor. “I’m going to miss you,” I say.
He gives me another hearty squeeze. Then he heads for the door, the door he held open for me so many times. I rush to get it for him, holding it open with a smile on my face, even though tears are running down it. Then I head upstairs to my apartment, knowing it’s going to feel lonely now—once again.
Opening the door, my heart sinks. I used to love this place, but now I can only see what’s missing. Rorke. I wish we’d spent more time together here. We only had a couple days, and not nearly enough of him remains. He didn’t leave anything behind, not a shirt for me to wrap myself in, or even a pair of socks to keep my feet warm. His writing isn’t on my grocery list. His dishes aren’t in my sink. It’s just me.
Shuffling into my bedroom, I kick off my shoes and head into the bathroom, flicking on the light. A little yelp escapes before I cover my mouth.
A zillion pink heart sticky notes cover my bathroom mirror, and they’re forming one big heart.
I stifle a cry and slowly step towards it, seeing blue ink on each sticker. It’s Rorke’s handwriting. Each sticker is different, but they start the same way.
I love . . .
My eyes, my touch, holding me, laughing with me, listening to me snore, my obsession with sticky notes. The list is endless. Everything he loves about me written in his own hand, all shaped in one big heart.
This is the first time anyone’s ever left sticky notes for me. And I decide right then and there that I won’t ever take a single one off the mirror, but I do gently lift each one to read the one below it.
My heart flutters, my stomach flips. He was here. When? How long ago? How did he get in? I can’t believe I missed him. Maybe it’s good I missed him. I’m not sure I can keep up this charade face-to-face, even though I know I have to. He didn’t fly all this way to decorate my mirror and leave. He’ll be back. I have to be ready.
Suddenly, I see his blue eyes in the mirror. I’m not ready. My heart fills with love for him. It’s hard to contain, but I must.
“Walker let me in,” he says softly, and I turn around to face him. After what I’ve done to him, it’s the least I can do—face him.
“You shouldn’t be here. I told you not to come.”
He reaches into the front pocket of his jeans, pulling out a folded-up piece of paper—my check.
Carefully, he unfolds it and places it down on the vanity beside me. Is this why he came? To return the money? Even though we aren’t getting married, he’s keeping his word to leave our relationship with nothing more than what he came into it with. “Please keep it,” I say. “Use it for the farm, the camp.”
I pick it up and reach for his hand to force him to take the money, but he closes his fingers around mine. His eyes lift, and the intensity there holds me hostage, unable to move or even glance away. He squeezes my hand harder, and I hear the check crumple between our fingers. “I’m not going anywhere. Not without you,” he says, pulling the check from my hand and tossing it in the toilet.
“Oh, my God!” I cry, lunging for it, but he beats me to it, flushing it down. “What are you doing?”
“I had to see you. I know you love me,” he says, stepping towards me.
“I never said I didn’t love you,” I say, my voice cracking. I try to step back, but my butt hits the sink. “I want more than you can give me.”
“I don’t believe you,” he says, waving his arm. “You have everything, yet you came home to Alabama—to your parents, to me. Why? Because this, here is what’s not enough.”
He’s too damn smart and knows me too well. He doesn’t wait for me to respond, perhaps because he knows I can’t. Smirking, he turns and walks out of the bathroom. I can’t help myself and turn to follow him, finding him plopped down on my bed, hands behind his head, feet up.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m staying.”
“You can’t stay!”
“You gonna call the cops on me?” he asks with a grin.
The man is unbelievable. He knows I won’t call the police. “Get out of my house.”
“Nope,” he says, settling in deeper. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me the truth.”
“I told you the truth.”
“Right, you don’t love me enough,” he jeers. “If that’s the case, then I’m staying until I make you love me enough. Either way, you aren’t getting rid of me.”
“God, you are so stubborn.”
“My dad told me that’s the only way to love someone—with stubbornness. That’s the only way you can hold on to them.”
“Well, he’d be pretty damn proud of you right now.”
*
RORKE
She disappeared into the bathroom twenty minutes ago. No door slam, no mumbled curses, she simply walked inside and shut the door. I haven’t heard the shower turn on or the sink or tub. She’s probably in there ripping up the hearts into tiny little pieces and flushing them down the toilet. Come to think of it, I haven’t heard the toilet, either.
What’s she doing in there?
Crying? Just that thought makes me spring out of bed, but the bathroom door opens before I can get to her. She’s standing there in a long t-shirt and loose-fitting pajama bottoms that swallow her, reminding me how small she is. How much I want to take care of her. For the rest of my life.
She pulls her sleeve down over her hand, hiding even the smallest part of her from showing. I have to wonder what else she’s hiding from me. “Are you alright?” I whisper.
There’s the slightest quiver of her bottom lip. Someone who didn’t know her really well would’ve missed it. She stands a little taller. “Perfectly fine. I’m going to the guest room.”
She starts to move past me, but I step in front of her. “You’re not sleeping in your own guest room.”
“Well, I’m not sleeping with you,” she says. “And you don’t seem to be going anywhere tonight.”
“You’re right,” I say. “But I’ll sleep in the other room. You need to rest.”
“Don’t tell me what I need,” she snaps.
I reach for her, but she heads right for the door. Following her, I place my hands on her waist. Her back to my front, I let my body gently press into hers, lowering my lips to her neck. “I know what you need.” She doesn’t
say a word. She’s barely even breathing. “You need a kiss goodnight.”
She quickly turns around, I’m sure to tell me to go to hell. But I pull her closer, kissing her hard. “I love you, Sterling.”
“And I need you to stop,” she says, cupping my face in her hands and then slipping out the door.
*
I try to get comfortable in her bed, try to sleep, but the smell of her shampoo prevents me. I roll over, and the scent seems even stronger. I can’t shake it for what seems hours. And the sheets don’t feel right without her under them. I can’t get settled.
I get up and stand in the doorway of her bathroom, staring at the sticky notes on her mirror. They’re still there. She didn’t rip them down. That means something, doesn’t it? But what the hell is going on? Henry James said in The Europeans, “There were several ways of understanding her: there was what she said, and there was what she meant, and there was something between the two, that was neither.” I think he must’ve known Sterling.
I haven’t felt this unsettled since Dad died. If I were at home, I’d be walking the dirt paths of the farm, staring up at the sky. I head to the door of the terrace, opening it up to what has to be the quietest night in New York City, ever. There’s no pulse of the city beating tonight. There’s a stillness, silence, like the farm. I open the door wider, stepping out onto the cool tiles.
Her green eyes shoot to me through the darkness like two little emeralds.
“I need to walk,” I say.
“Well, I’m pacing,” she says.
I smile at her. It’s impossible not to. I motion for her to continue, and start slowly walking the length of her terrace, keeping a watch on her out of the corner of my eye. If anyone is watching us from their apartments, we must look insane. Her pace is fast, walking to the end then quickly turning to start again.
I’m moving much slower. The point of walking is to slow my mind. The point of her pacing is to outrun hers. I’m trying to understand. She’s trying to escape.
I make it to the end and start to turn. She snaps her fingers at me. “Uh-uh, you stay on your side.”
I nod, then look up into the starless sky, asking, “You awake?”
“Of course I am,” she says bluntly.
“I wasn’t . . .”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“I’m not talking to you,” I say. “Sometimes when I walk, I talk to Levi.”
She won’t deny me talking to my dead brother. I don’t start talking right away. This isn’t for her benefit. It’s for mine. So I just walk, slowly, making sure to stay on my side of the terrace. She’s not talking out loud, but I’m sure her mind is full of relentless chatter. I wonder how long until she cracks and tells me what the hell is really going on. Another day? A week?
It really doesn’t matter because I’m not letting her go. Not this time.
“You were never much of a night owl, Levi. Sorry about the ring. I know Sterling feels bad about that. She was trying to send me a message, but fuck if I know what it is.”
Sterling’s pacing slows a tad as I keep talking. “I need my big brother right about now. Don’t go running to Dad, either. I’m still kind of pissed at him about the farm. Yeah, yeah, I know life is short, and I shouldn’t hold onto things. But that’s not who I am—like I’ve been holding onto Sterling since I was five years old. Even when the only thing to hold onto was the dream of her.”
Stopping at the end of the terrace, I lower my head to my hands. “I need your help, Levi. I didn’t have a choice when I lost you or Dad or even the farm. But I have a choice now. Hell, it’s not even a choice. I have to love this woman. Even if she doesn’t want me to. There are no other options for me. She’s it.”
A huge wind barrels across the terrace, forcing me to look up, and I find that Sterling’s no longer there.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
STERLING
Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name” pounds in my brain. I wasn’t even born when that song came out. It’s not like my parents are rock enthusiasts, so why is that song tormenting me?
Frustrated, I quietly push open the door to my bedroom, wearing only my bathrobe, needing to get some clothes for work, but not wanting to wake Rorke. I listened to him from the safety of my terrace door, hiding behind the curtains, for close to an hour last night. I couldn’t let him see me crying.
Glancing towards my bed, he’s got all the covers kicked off, his brow furrowed, jaw tense. If he’s sleeping, it’s not very peaceful. Keeping one eye on him, I lift the blanket off the floor and gently place it on top of him. He turns over, releasing an aggravated moan.
I sneak into the bathroom to get ready for work. Even with the mirror mostly covered in sticky notes, I can see my hair is a disaster. This must be why Bon Jovi is in my head. I’m channeling their hair this morning. Thank God for the invention of the flat iron. One inventor to another, I can appreciate the genius of the flat iron. And right now, that’s the only thing that’s going to tame my locks.
I glance back through the doorway, watching Rorke sleep. I know how stubborn he can be. He’s not going to give up. Eventually, I fear I’m going to have to tell him the truth. But he’s followed me all the way back to New York, and I’m not sure what to do now. I love him and acting like I don’t isn’t working. A ring comes from the bedroom—Rorke’s phone. I rush to try to turn it to vibrate before it wakes him, but I am too late. He’s already rubbing his eyes and answering with a yawn.
“Yes, Principal . . .”
My heart starts to pound. Is this it? Was all this for nothing?
“Yes, New York is an hour later than Alabama. And yes, I was still sleeping.”
I know Rorke’s not due back to school for another couple weeks. So why would they be calling him, unless it’s bad news?
“What about Sterling?” he asks, his eyes catching mine. I can’t focus on anything else in this one-sided phone call. My only focus is the color of his blue eyes as they change from questions to answers.
“I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone.”
There’s a moment of silence.
“I understand. Thank you for letting me know.”
He ends the call, tossing the phone on the bed. His eyes are down, his head shaking a little bit. “Are you fired?” I blurt out.
He glances towards his phone then back to me. “Sterling, why would you ask that? What do you know?”
There’s no way to hide the truth now. No way to spare him or protect him from what’s coming. Shaking my head, I know it’s time to come clean.
So I tell him exactly what happened.
*
I was in the parking lot. Mrs. Quaid was heading out of the school building. Her eyes landed on me, but she had the ear of a man in a suit, who I could only assume was the principal. He saw me, too, and I got that pit in my stomach, the one where you know you’re the topic of someone’s conversation, the one where you know it’s not good.
They nodded at each other, and then she headed right for me. I headed for the field, but knew she was going to cut me off unless I sped up. I’d be damned if I gave her the satisfaction. I needed to keep an attitude like I’m unfuckwithable—nothing she said or did could get to me. That’s the only way to handle her.
“Miss Sterling Jamison,” she said in the most fake-polite tone ever. “Soon to be Mrs. Weston.”
Her tone went from fake to threatening in just those few words, and it made me pause. I wasn’t surprised she found out, even though we hadn’t been engaged long or put an announcement in the paper or anything. The small-town gossip mill was just surely firing on all cylinders as usual, and I’m certain our mothers had blabbed to enough people. Or perhaps, town gossip wasn’t to blame at all. I remembered the way she looked at me at the funeral, thinking maybe that’s when she put two and two together.
She stepped in front of me, a smirk on her too-much-lipstick mouth. “How are Rorke and his mother? That poor family has been through so much.”
“It’s hard, but they’re both strong.” I thought about adding a “thanks for asking,” but she didn’t deserve it. I moved to walk around her, but she stepped in front of me again.
“And faithful, too,” she said.
“Yes.” I stepped around her then and headed towards the field.
“Rorke would have to be,” she called out. “He signs a morality clause with the school in order to teach here.”
The word “morality” was like a lasso around my neck, and it stopped me cold. I’d been called “immoral” enough to know a threat when I heard one. I was also raised in the Catholic Church and sat in a Catholic high school, where they actually had books stating masturbation is a sin. It always seemed ridiculous and outdated to me, but it’s the doctrine of the Church, even if they have adopted more of a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. With me being the face of female masturbation, that policy has never really applied.
“Rorke’s the best teacher in the school,” I said to Mrs. Quaid. “He could work in the public-school system for more money. They’re lucky to have him here.”
“You know what they say: ‘If you stand next to garbage, eventually you start to stink.’ I mean, look at what happened to your poor father.”
I cringed at her ugliness then heard Rorke’s voice in the distance, yelling some rah-rah football shit. I wanted to yell at this bitch so much, curse her out, but something about Rorke’s loud voice caused me to bite my tongue hard and not make a scene so close to where he works.
Things flashed through my mind—his job, teaching, the farm, this town—it’s all his life.
I knew that a man defines himself by what he does. It’s what makes him who he is. If Rorke lost that because of me . . . I couldn’t even contemplate that. I couldn’t let that happen. My dad was one thing; he was older, already close to retiring. But Rorke’s young, just starting his career. He has his whole life ahead of him. It’s one thing to threaten me, that I could handle. But not the people I love.
Mrs. Quaid stepped closer, as if going in for the kill. “Everyone in this town knows what you do. The students here know. How’s it going to look if their favorite teacher marries someone in the sex toy trade? I know I don’t want to have that conversation with my kids.”
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