As she stood up, a breeze burst over us and my shirt whipped in the wind. Florence’s hair streamed over her shoulders towards me and the edges just barely caressed my skin. She didn’t try to control it. She straightened up and hooked her thumbs into the pockets of her shorts, tilting her chin a bit to the side and crinkling her nose. We stood on top of that hill, quiet, just allowing the moment to pass over. Her lips were still curved in a mysterious, vague smile.
I looked at her. Truly looked at her.
And for what I saw, for what I felt, I couldn’t help myself.
Before I lost my nerve, I reached over and quickly pulled Florence into a hug. She caught her breath in a short hitch of surprise and I wound my arms around her, crushing her towards my body.
She seized up for a second, but then relaxed, leaning her cheek against the inside of my shoulder. Slowly, she circled her arms low around my waist and we stood there, entwined together. I closed my eyes, savoring the moment. Her slight figure was soft against me, her hair silky and smooth pressed against my face and I inhaled deeply. That smell, the smell of Florence, everything beautiful and calming about her, infused my soul, and for a moment, I knew peace.
I didn’t need to run after someone who didn’t want me, who had abandoned me. I could just stay here, in these bumpy grassy hills, with Florence, for the rest of time. I would be happy, I could be happy with her.
She felt so perfect, fitting into every one of my odd angles. This moment was so perfect. I traced my fingers across her shoulders, up her neck, and dug them into her hair, needing that glossy, smooth softness. The fragrance of crushed apple blossoms floated.
My arms tightened. My heart burned, beating fast and hard, wanting to just leap out of my chest to Florence, to its rightful home.
I was drowning and she was my lifesaver amidst a storm.
“Alistair?”
Florence’s soft voice shook me out of my fantasies. That anger, the anxiety and numbing need, came back. I pulled away slowly and she let go of me hesitantly. I kept my hands on her shoulders and tried hard to memorize her. Her. Florence. My Florence. Her features, her feel, everything that made her beautiful and bright. Even her darkness, those bruises and sad cuts on her soul.
Everything about her, her in all her complexity.
Florence was confused. She blinked at me with a bemused expression on her face. Those eyes, that bright blue, its hypnotic quality never failed to strike me. The summertime sun had created the lightest sprinkle of freckles that faintly dotted the bridge of her nose. Those full lips I had fantasized of kissing.
God, how I’d fantasized.
I resisted the urge to caress her cheek. To kiss her full-on. To rub my nose against those freckles of hers. I couldn’t do that to her.
That wasn’t the goodbye I wanted.
That wasn’t the goodbye I deserved.
“I’ll see you later. Take care of yourself.” My grip tightened on her shoulders, my body’s instinctive refusal to let her go. “And thank you.”
Thank you for being my friend. For being my salvation.
Florence said, “I’m the one who should be saying thank you.”
I nodded numbly. “Sorry.”
I’m sorry you weren’t enough. You couldn’t be enough, at least for now.
Florence’s fingers reached up and lightly rested upon the inside of my forearms. She ran them softly over my skin, her thumb caressing in small circles. “Is everything okay?”
My nerves pricked up. I was making a mistake. My plan had flaws miles long. I began sweating, the dampness growing at the small of my back. I could feel it along the edge of my jeans. I dragged my fingers off her and ran the palm of my hand against the back hem of my shirt.
“Yeah. Yeah. No problem. I’m just going to go to Kevin’s.”
Florence dropped her own hands and made a face. She didn’t like him, which was good. It put my mind at ease that she wouldn’t fall for his advances while I was gone.
“That guy is a jerk.”
I shrugged, but scrubbed my palms harder against my jeans.
“Bye,” I said, ready to turn around and leave forever. But Florence took a step towards me and we were toe to toe, our bodies close together again. If I leaned down even slightly, my lips could graze hers.
My posture seized up.
“Hey, I’ll see you tomorrow when you get back at night.” She beamed at me and crinkled her nose. I would remember those freckles, her beautiful tan, that trusting edge to those eyes reserved only for me. “You think Sandra will make chicken fingers for dinner?”
I just nodded numbly, all emotion already draining. I had to detach myself if I had any hope of following through and leaving.
“Yeah. I’ll remind her,” I said in a voice that I hoped dripped with apathy. I took a step back, and then another. I walked backwards, needing to leave, yet needing to keep her in my vision for as long as possible.
The wind picked up again. Florence’s hair swirled and she reached up to brush the strands off her face. She smiled, so innocent, so unassuming. So perfect.
“Bye,” she said softly in that voice of hers. That lush, sweet voice of hers.
I love you.
I love you.
I’m sorry.
“I got to go, I’ll check you later.” I twisted around, tore her away from myself, and ran all the way back down the hill to the woodpile.
* * *
I exhaled a breath, reading the grime and dirt lining my shoes. My row was empty and I had kept my head down all the way from the bus station to the highway. We were probably far enough now. I readjusted my backpack in my lap and lifted my gaze, scoping out my surroundings.
The bus was pretty empty and held no one I recognized. Perfect.
I dropped my backpack onto the floor and unzipped the main compartment. I wadded up my jacket and crammed it in, then removed my journal.
I reclined my head and stared impassively at the ripped gray fabric of the seat in front of me. We were more than a thousand miles from Louisiana, and I had almost twenty-four hours to kill. Hopefully no one would notice I was missing until tomorrow evening, maybe even longer. Florence would be the first to throw up the alarm, and I prayed she’d let it lie.
I pulled out a small piece of paper from my journal, taking care not to bend it. I had swiped the photograph from Nicolas’s dumbass collection. I doubted he’d notice it was gone, what with all that crap he kept in those drawers anyway.
Florence glimmered before me. Her hair was loose and blowing in the wind, and she was leaning over one of those wooden fences I’d spent the past month fixing. She was squinting at the sun and laughing at something I said. Her long legs had tanned over the summer and peeked through denim shorts, her newly developed chest almost spilling from her tank top. She hadn’t gotten used to them yet and still wore shirts that couldn’t contain them.
Nicolas had taken a bunch of Polaroids that day a month ago when they came to visit me and messed around while I worked. When I was done, we went back to their house, and after Nicolas put them all in his collection drawer, I stole this one while they were in the kitchen.
I’d spent way too much time jacking off to it.
It was the only picture I took, the only evidence of my life at St. Haven. I had no clue what I was going to do once I arrived in New Orleans. I wasn’t sure what Mom would do. Would I live with her? What if she turned me away? Would I return to Michigan in shame?
Screw plans.
I ran my thumb over the edge of the picture, memorizing the curve of Florence’s shoulder. Her long legs. Those slight wrinkles over the bridge of her nose that always materialized with a happy expression. Regret and longing twisted in my chest, and a tingly heat flushed over my face. I dropped my hand, tearing my attention away from the photo. I stared at the dirt-caked metal floor, then turned right to look out the window into the darkness.
I hadn’t cried since I was a child, but now a painful hollowness almost threatened tears.
I was slipping further and further away, and there was nothing I could do at this point to stop it.
And then suddenly, a small cluster of lights sputtered at the edge of the horizon. I gaped at them as the bus sped away, the glow turning lighter and lighter until it was finally swallowed up by the darkness.
Glowworms.
Fireflies.
Fairies.
Stars.
Wishes.
Chapter 9
Florence Reynolds, twenty-nine years old
I wondered if I had the wrong address. A hotel towered before me, a fancy modern boutique hotel that boasted five stars on a bronze plaque.
I glanced down at the card Alistair had given me yesterday. The address was correct, but I still pondered over what I was doing at a hotel as I pushed the revolving door. The enclosure made a shushing sound, and then a vacuum seal shut all of the street noise away. Light classical music played in the background, and I found myself in a glittering lobby replete with smooth, low-slung couches and towering potted plants. A series of large crystal chandeliers populated the tall crimson-hued ceiling.
Before I could take a single step further, a voice rang out across the lobby.
“Ms. Reynolds.”
Gertrude.
Great.
Gertrude in a gorgeous red pantsuit that made her look like a model.
Even better.
Her Barbie Robot moves brought her closer. How the hell did she strut with militaristic authority yet sexy hip swagger? Those were total polar opposites.
“Hello, Gertrude,” I said extending my hand. She grasped it unenthusiastically and, after a second, dropped it like a hot poker.
“Mr. Blair is waiting for you upstairs,” she said stiffly. And then without any more pleasantries, she did that impossible walk towards the hotel elevators, but instead of approaching the gleaming steel doors centered at the end of the lobby, she veered right, off to a private entrance. I scurried to follow.
The ride up was quiet, with enough tension to strangle me if I hadn’t been too busy reminding myself of the game plan. After I’d returned home yesterday, and after I’d spent a good two hours knocking my head against the kitchen wall, I decided I needed to woman up and stop being such a coward.
My reaction to Alistair the first two times I had seen him was, for lack of better words, pathetic. I was rendered small, young, immature, insignificant. And those adjectives were the last descriptors I wanted to define myself by.
I was powerful.
I was strong.
I was woman.
Roar.
At least that’s what Tracy had chanted to me over the phone. But, yes, I was a powerful, strong woman and I wasn’t going to let my ex-boyfriend suck me into a spiraling tornado of insecurity and dated teenage angst.
Roar, roar, roar.
I practiced my smile, stretching my lips wide and showing teeth. I would be the consummate professional I always was—cool, collected, detached, knowledgeable.
I wouldn’t get sucked into the past, with all its dangerous pitfalls and emotional bombs.
The ding of the elevator brought me out of my internal pep talk. The elevator opened to a short, plain hallway that ended in a vast black front door. Gertrude walked ahead of me and I followed. The door was unlocked and she opened it without a sound. Only the click of our heels came as I stepped across the threshold to transfer from the plush hallway carpet to the white marble floor of the entrance.
There were no walls; that was what I noticed first. Windows stretched all around us from one side to the other, and the night-drenched city reflected back inside the vast cavernous great room.
It was also dark. The only light source was from the far corner of the room, where a trio of minimalist black leather couches was pushed near the windows with a single lamp shining over them.
Alistair was sitting on one of those couches, a newspaper folded up in his hand. He glanced up when we entered.
“Hey,” I said with a flaccid gesture of a wave.
I silently cursed myself. I was acting so awkward.
“Good evening,” Alistair responded. He stood up and walked towards us. I shifted uncomfortably. Alistair’s hair was mussed and his white dress shirt was wrinkled in the back, as if he had sat against a chair for too long. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his coat was cast aside against the long entryway table.
“Good evening. How was your day?”
“Busy. I just got back. Would you like a drink?”
I shouldn’t drink on the job, but alcohol, or at least the show of holding a glass of the stuff, was a good ploy to break the ice. And the ice was arctic here.
“Sure,” I answered.
Alistair strode to a mirrored bar area next to the living room, and I took that chance to take in his apartment. The front door led right into the space, and the apartment itself was wide with tall ceilings. A state-of-the-art kitchen gleamed at the far right side of the room, and a dining room setup with a long table and at least twelve chairs dominated the area right by it. A modern chandelier made of cut-glass panels and exposed Edison lightbulbs dangled above.
There were the black sofas at the extreme opposite end, the bar where Alistair was, and that was about it. The room was huge and incredibly empty. It didn’t appear to be unfurnished, like Nicolas’s place. It was minimally furnished with a purpose, but not in the pseudomodern style.
It was as if someone couldn’t be bothered, only holding the bare necessities.
Then, the obvious fact struck me. “You live in a hotel?”
Alistair didn’t react or answer my question. I’m not sure why it shocked me, but it did.
“He lives here,” Gertrude intruded into my thoughts in a clipped tone. She had her arms crossed, pissed.
I ignored her.
“I own the hotel.” Alistair offered me a glass of red wine. I accepted it, sensing Gertrude breathing at the side of the room, tracking my every move. “I live on the top floor, and the business runs below.”
Alistair turned to Gertrude and flicked his head towards the front door. “Gertrude, you can go for the day. I’ll make sure Ms. Reynolds gets home safely.”
As if she’d get me home safe anyway—probably escort me right into the path of a bus.
Gertrude gave a small sour smile and answered, “Yes, Mr. Blair. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
There was a slight rustling as she bustled about gathering her jacket and purse. With another click of her heels, she vanished around a corner, leaving us alone.
I brought the wineglass to my lips to avoid the expectant atmosphere that suddenly fell, but Alistair promptly began pouring himself a healthy dose of amber liquor. I leaned slightly to the left to peek at the label—scotch.
“Have you been living here since you moved to New York?”
Alistair motioned towards the leather couches. “I was renting an apartment for the first few years. It burned down, so I moved into here.”
I froze and raised a hand in the air in pause. “Wait, what? Your apartment burned down? What happened?”
Alistair gave a small shake of his head. “It wasn’t a big deal, just an electrical fire. No one was hurt, but I needed somewhere to live, so I just moved in here instead of renting another place.”
“You didn’t want to buy a home?” I asked as I lowered myself down where he gestured.
Alistair tucked two fingers behind the knot on his tie and pulled it loose. As he worked his tie off, I couldn’t help but focus on his casual, absentminded motions. “New York never felt like home.” He undid the knot and slid the tie off his neck, flinging it carelessly onto the coffee table. He sat down in the adjacent armchair and unbuttoned the top two buttons at his collar, pulling the lapels apart until just the base of his collarbone showed. Tan skin hinted.
“I still can’t believe your apartment burned down,” I said as I sipped my wine to distract myself.
/> He didn’t answer. He was staring out the window and swirling his scotch, giving no indication he was going to sip it.
“So are you going to interview me more?” Alistair gestured towards my notepad. His voice was weary and his expression guarded.
I placed my wine down on the glossy coffee table and reached into my bag for my notepad. I flipped it to a clean sheet.
“Alright. The hotel, this lifestyle, that’s a good place to start.”
“Go right ahead.”
“Why the hotel?”
“I already owned a fully furnished, fully functional place to live, and it seemed ridiculous to purchase another one solely for the sake of having it. I don’t do residential. So I moved in and just never left.”
I glanced around. The decor was expensive; the sparse fixtures and details had been designed with taste and expense. But in between the lines it was as clear as day—generic wall coverings, bulk-purchased furniture.
Nothing said Alistair. Nothing would denote any difference between the guests rooming downstairs for a night and the man who had lived here for years. Anyone could replace his presence. There was nothing unique that indicated an actual human being lived here.
It was sterile as a prison.
“Place could do with some personality,” I observed lightly.
“What’s the use? I’m barely here.”
I pointed towards the blank walls. “Not even any pictures? Art? Blair, you could do better.”
Alistair shrugged inconsequentially and took a swig of his drink.
Alright. Next question.
“Hobbies?”
“None. Next.”
He was being uncooperative and it irked me. “Come on.” I prodded. “A billionaire like you has to have some elite one-percent type of pastime. Yachting or whatever. Polo ponies.”
“I don’t like boats or horses. Besides, I’m not a billionaire.”
“Your tax returns beg to differ.”
Alistair sighed and leaned forward to place his drink on the table to join mine. He rested his elbows on his knees and looked me straight in the eye. He spoke with such conviction that I didn’t misunderstand a single word.
The Beginning of Always Page 12