by Amelia Wilde
“They’re having a great time,” he comments smoothly, like we’ve been having a conversation all along.
The pair of them have moved on from the basket of popcorn they started with to a ham and cheese sandwich and a second cocktail. “Yeah.”
“You think they’re going out tonight?”
The woman is wearing a black sheath dress and the man has a button-up shirt—I can’t see if he’s wearing pants, but I’d guess cargo shorts by the looks of him. “They’re tourists,” I shrug. What the hell else do tourists do except go out?
What do you do except stay in?
“Fifty bucks says they get discount Broadway tickets to the first show on the list.”
I laugh, but it sounds bitter and hard. “I’m not stupid enough to throw away money on that kind of bet. We both know you’re right.”
The bartender, a tall, skinny guy with red hair, smirks, then waves his hand between us. “I can’t judge them too much. They help pay the bills.”
“Damn right.” They help pay mine, too, even though they probably don’t know it.
There’s a pause.
I sip my drink.
It’s three-quarters gone, so I down the rest and push the empty glass toward the bartender.
He raises his eyebrows at me. “More of the same?”
“Surprise me.”
He putters around behind the bar, mixing, stirring, and then presents me with another glass. “My signature.” I don’t ask. I don’t care. From the taste of it, it’s either highly alcoholic and this man is a master of disguise or he’s watering it down in case I start to lose it.
A legitimate assumption.
“So, what’s your deal?”
I take another swig of the drink. Rum. It has rum in it. “My deal?”
“Yeah. Guy like you, expensive suit....” His eyes flick along the lines of my jacket. “Your type isn’t usually in here at noon.”
Why not?
“I wanted to get out of the office.”
He nods, the corners of his mouth turning down. “This is better than an office.”
“Agreed.”
“Did you get fired or something?”
That’s funny. “No,” I say, a wry smile on my face. “I couldn’t focus.”
He cups his hands around his ears. “You can tell me. I’ve got all afternoon, and it’s empty in here.”
I shake my head. “Are you a living cliché? Is that what this is?”
“I like to talk.”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t have to.”
I swallow. The thoughts that have been hammering around inside my skull all day are begging to get out. Even if it’s to—
“What’s your name again?”
“Ryan.”
“Ryan.” Another sip of the drink. I don’t want him to know who I am—you never know who is in cahoots with the gossip websites. “Have you ever met a woman who seemed like the perfect person for you, and then they turn out to be...” I can’t begin to describe it. My heart clenches, turns inside out.
“Yeah, man,” Ryan says sympathetically. “You end things with her?”
If I were sober, I’d never answer. I’d never be talking to this guy like he’s Connor, or one of my other friends from the Swan.
If I were with Angelica, I wouldn’t be here at all.
“I did.”
“Do you regret it?”
His words cut into me, punch a hole through my already bleeding heart.
I finish the drink in two gulps, pull out my wallet, and toss a hundred on the bar.
“No.”
41
Angelica
In the middle of Monday morning, there’s a soft knock at my apartment door.
I’m curled up in the middle of my sofa, the comforter from my bed wrapped around me, the air conditioning turned up as high as it will go. I’m halfway through 27 Dresses on Netflix.
It’s not anyone from work because why would they come to my house? I had to tell Hadley at least the outlines of what happened, and she practically tripped over herself to tell me that I could not, under any circumstances, come back into the Sisterspark offices until this issue was resolved.
“I’m not terminating you, Angelica,” she said, her voice stretched thin.
“Thank you, Hadley. I know it’s not—”
“Being questioned by the police isn’t cause for firing you, but I simply can’t risk having you in the office if you’re charged. I hope you understand.” Her tone conveyed she didn’t care if I understood or not.
“I do.”
“Please let me know when this is resolved, either way.”
“I will.”
“Goodbye, Angelica.”
So it’s definitely not Hadley at the door, or anyone else from Sisterspark.
I flip the comforter off me and fold it into a rough square, draping it over the back of the sofa. At least I’ve picked a normal outfit to wear—yoga pants and a tank top—and my hair is piled on top of my head in a bun. Whoever it is, they won’t be scared of my appearance.
The knock comes again. “Be right there,” I say, then scoop up a couple of dirty dishes and drop them into the sink in the kitchen.
At the door, I take a deep breath and reach for the doorknob.
My mother is standing in the hallway, dressed in a skirt I recognize from her job-interview outfit and a button-down shirt with puff sleeves. She’s wearing her most comfortable shoes, a pair of KEENs I bought her for Christmas two years ago because you can dress them up or down and they don’t make your feet hurt after putting in a double shift at the convenience store.
“Mom! Come in.” I wave her inside, then shut the door behind us, flipping the lock without thinking.
“Hi, Angie.”
“What are you doing here?”
She gives me a quirky smile. “A woman can’t visit her own daughter?”
“I thought—I thought you’d stay at the hotel, with Adam.”
“He gave me your address. I wanted to see you.”
She wraps her arms around me and holds on for a long minute.
“I’m glad you came, I just...” I don’t want to tell her that she could still be in danger. I haven’t heard anything about whether they’ve managed to catch Charlie, and he could be...he could be anywhere. I wrack my brain. Has he ever mentioned knowing my address? I wouldn’t be surprised if he had it. “I’m surprised.”
My mom takes in a deep breath. “Do you want to sit and talk?”
“Sure. Something to drink?”
“Oh, water’s fine.” I can’t count how many times I’ve heard her say that over the years—“water’s fine.” We rarely had money to eat out when I was growing up, but when we did, she never splurged on pop.
I pull two bottles of water out of the fridge. When I come back to the living room, she’s nestled on one side of the couch, her feet tucked up underneath her.
“Angelica,” she laughs, “tap water is more than enough.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mom. I had this around.”
“Oh, all right.” She twists the cap off the bottle and takes a drink while I sit down across from her, leaning against the arm rest and crossing my legs.
Then Mom looks me straight in the eyes. “Angie, you can tell me what happened.”
I take a deep breath, then put my fingers to the corners of my eyes, where tears are welling up. “What did Adam tell you?”
“Not very much,” she says, her forehead wrinkling. “He told me he got in over his head with a group that lent him money. He didn’t say what for. And then he said that somehow you got roped into helping him pay it off.”
“That’s all true.”
“I don’t understand how.”
“It was a scary situation, Mom.”
“And you didn’t go to the police?”
“I tried.”
“They didn’t listen?”
“It was—there were more people involved than I thought.
At the time, it seemed like the right thing to do.”
My mother presses her lips together, then speaks very carefully. “Angelica, what was it they asked you to do?” The tension in her voice sends a bolt of pain through my chest. Mom is imagining the worst, and I’m the bitch who hasn’t put her mind at ease.
“It was some kind of scheme. I was supposed to...download information from a rich man’s computer, and give it back to the man who lent Adam the money.”
Now she purses her lips, looking down at the fabric of the couch.
I can’t bear it.
“I didn’t want to steal from him, Mom. I never got any money. I wanted to make sure that Adam was all right.” I lean forward and take her hand in mine. “I had to protect him.” The words come out urgently, my voice low and pleading.
Mom shakes her head slowly. “I can’t blame you for that.” She takes another sip of the water, then carefully screws the top back onto the bottle. “I can only blame myself.”
“What?”
“I left the two of you on your own for too many years. It’s not up to you to shield him from the world anymore, Angie. He’s a grown man.”
“I know that.”
My mother presses her fingertips to her lips. “It’s so hard to understand,” she says, her voice tentative.
“I know.”
“Don’t you feel badly about it all?”
She’s trying to figure out if she’s raised monsters instead of the decent people she’s always wanted us to be.
“Mom.” My voice is choked with tears. “I feel horrible about it every day. And not only because...”
I can’t continue. Jett’s face is all I can think of, but not his rage when I told him what I’d done. His contentment when we were in bed together, lying curled up together under the sheets.
“Oh, Angie,” she says, then gathers me into her arms. “You fell in love, didn’t you?”
I force the words out between sobs. “I fell in love...and I couldn’t stop it, even then.”
42
Jett
Yesterday was a mistake.
After the piano bar, I called Connor at his office at Brandon, Inc.
“Hey. I’m working on the final paperwork right now, so I should have it up to you—”
I cut him off. “I’m not at the office.”
“You’re not? We have a meeting scheduled for...oh, wait. I’m seeing the email from Emily now.” Papers rustled in the background. “Where the hell are you, Brandon?”
“I’m out for the day. And so are you.”
“What?” Connor laughed. “Is this a joke? You’ve been a complete madman about everything for the last few weeks, and now—”
“Are you coming to the Swan with me or not?”
“Right now? It’s two o’clock in the afternoon!”
“Like you care that it’s two in the afternoon.”
“You know me too well.”
“Come downstairs. I’m going to be in front of the building in ten.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
He met me at the car.
We went to the Swan.
We stayed until three in the morning.
What did I do last night?
It comes back to me in a rush—the girl with auburn hair, kissing her hard in one of the Swan’s booths, her body thrashing against mine on the dance floor.
Our mouths don’t fit together.
It’s all wrong.
Connor grabbing my arm.
“Stop, man.”
“Fuck off.”
“You don’t like this. I can see your face, Brandon.”
“No, I don’t like it.”
Connor’s eyes narrowed. “What happened to your girl?”
“What girl?”
“The woman in your office. She brought you dinner—I saw it. She was the one staying in your apartment, right? She seemed amazing.”
“You don’t know her.”
“She’s clearly driving you crazy.”
I wheel toward Connor. I’ve lost count of my drinks. “I’m done with her.”
He puts his hand on my arm, pulls me toward a booth. “Was it serious?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters. Was it serious?”
“She was stealing from me.”
Connor laughs. “Like, the silver?”
“She was downloading shit from my computer so some shady asshole could transfer money out of my accounts.”
“Shit.” He shakes his head. “So another Emerald?”
The word slips out before I can stop myself. “No.”
“No? That seems shady.”
“No.”
My head swims, but now that Connor has asked the question and the answer has slipped out I can’t deny it. I’m too drunk. I’m too heartbroken.
“She’s not like Emerald.”
“Then what—”
“She had a reason. She did it for a reason. A good reason. I never listened to her. I was too pissed to care what she said.”
My stomach plummets to the floor. I’m slurring my words, probably incoherently, but something is so clear in my mind that it’s like a bell ringing down a silent street.
I was a complete prick. I reacted like the Jett I used to be when I was with Emerald, not the Jett I am when I’m with Angelica. She made me give a shit about how other people felt.
Because she gave a shit about how I felt.
She always did, which is why she was so devastated in Cook’s office.
And I didn’t give her the time of day.
“I have to go.”
“Yeah,” Connor says, and helps me up off the chair. He takes my phone, texts Stuart, and gets me to the car.
My head throbs with the memory, my cheeks sickly hot remembering the random girl I kissed at the Swan. No more women like her. Never again.
I have to see Angelica.
I have to tell her I’m sorry.
She deserves a chance to explain everything. Afterward, I have to keep her out of punishment’s way for this. It wasn’t her fault.
The truth is that I did know Angelica. I do know her. And she would only do what she did if she absolutely had to.
Whether Charlie was going to make good on his threats or not, she felt like she had to do whatever was necessary to protect her brother.
Including stealing from me.
But that moment in the elevator—it doesn’t matter why she was going to the penthouse. What I felt then was as real as anything I’ve ever felt.
More real.
I get out of bed too quickly and my stomach lurches, so I take a second to get my balance. Getting to her is all that matters.
But first…a shower. I can’t show up like this.
It takes me ninety minutes to get to Angelica’s place, and it involves some shady business of my own. I call her office and convince her boss to give me her address. It’s a good thing I’ve practiced being charming all my life, because she eventually gives it to me.
Riding the elevator on the way to her floor, my heart thuds against my rib cage.
There’s a good chance that this is going to turn out as badly as what happened in Cook’s office did. There’s a good chance she won’t forgive me for the way I broke up with her in front of my accountant, then stood by as the police escorted her out of the building. There’s a good chance she’s done with me forever.
But I’m not done with her.
The elevator crawls upward.
In what seems like an eternity later, I double-check the number on the door, then glance down at my outfit. Dress pants and a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. A jacket would have been too much.
I hesitate, then raise my hand and knock hard on the door.
There’s no movement or sound from inside.
I knock again.
Then I hear movement, faint, and her voice calling, “One minute.”
Dishes clatter against a sink.
&n
bsp; Another long pause.
Then the door swings open, and in front of me stands the love of my life.
“Jett.”
Her face is blank, expressionless.
“Can we talk?”
She takes in a breath, lets it out, and considers.
“No.”
43
Angelica
I can’t believe he’s standing in my doorway. My heart turns over, clenches, then explodes within my chest, pieces hurtling toward my rib cage.
What is he doing here?
“Jett.” I don’t have any other words. To say his name, to acknowledge that he’s here, is almost too much as it is. I can’t even breathe.
“Can we talk?” He doesn’t waste any time. He knows what he wants.
Do I?
My mind reels. Cook’s office. His anger. The look of sheer betrayal on his face.
When we leave here, I want you to understand something. We’re over.
We’re over.
We’re over.
We’re over.
So why does he want to talk to me?
Even though he does, it doesn’t change what I’ve done.
No. I can’t do this to him.
I can’t do this to me.
“No,” I say, and I close the door.
I don’t slam it. I close it gently, and then I turn around and lean up against it, my back against the smooth metal surface.
There’s a silence.
My entire body strains to hear what’s happening outside the door. I wait for the footsteps to retreat, for the ding of the elevator, for the inevitable stillness of Jett walking back out of my life forever.
Instead, there’s a gentle knock at the door, somewhere near my left shoulder.
“Angelica, let me in.” His voice is smooth, so smooth, and I want to obey him. I want to open the door, but if I open the door I’ll be setting us both up for more heartache. How could he ever trust me again? I would never trust me again. I’ll be a constant reminder that he always needs to be wary.
I clear my throat. “No.”
“Why not?”
I blink a couple of times to clear away the tears that have started to form at the sight of him. “We shouldn’t talk, Jett. We should leave each other be.”