by Wendy Owens
“I’m not lying,” I argue. “The story isn’t relevant to my life anymore, so I don’t really see any reason to share it.” I can see my statement hurts him, and I wonder if I was too harsh.
“I don’t know, still seems like a lie,” he says, shrugging his shoulders.
I decide I’m not going to get drawn into a conversation about my relationship with Henry. Our dysfunction was none of Christian’s business. “What is this?” I ask, my stare shifting to a blanket spread across the floor, a basket off to one side.
“I told you I made us a picnic,” he replies, walking over to where I still cling to the wall. Taking my hand, he leads me to the blanket, our flesh touching causing butterflies to erupt in my stomach.
“Are you serious?” I question, and I begin to laugh, trying my best to ignore my body’s response to him.
“All right, I’m not sure if laughing is good or bad …” he responds, examining my expression. “Should I be insulted?”
“No!” I gasp. “Oh God—no, this is crazy. I mean crazy good. I can’t believe you went to so much trouble, I’m blown away.”
“Good, my plan is working then,” he chimes before rubbing his hands together in a devilish way.
Flopping down onto the blanket, I prop up on my knees and reach for the basket, welcoming any distraction from his adorableness. Grabbing the wicker box and pulling it close, I glance at him as he sits and ask, “May I?”
“Please do,” he replies, waving at me to continue.
Tossing back the lid and digging into the dark cavern, I begin pulling out the hidden treats. Christian narrates the reveal as I go. First there’s a tray of various cheeses. I recognize the Brie, and I can smell smoked Gouda, but the others are a mystery. Reaching back in, I find crackers with a choice of fig jam or apple butter.
The next item I pull out confuses me. It appears to be a lighter of some kind. “Umm, what’s this?”
He pushes up onto his knees, snatching the device out of my hand, then reaches into the basket and pulls out a container with two white ramekins in it. “It’s a torch for dessert.”
“Did you make crème brûlée?” I gasp in disbelief.
“Maybe,” he says slyly.
“This is too much!” I exclaim, popping a cracker into my mouth.
“Sparkling cider?” he offers, leaning to the side and coming back up with a bottle.
“Yes, please,” I answer eagerly. I watch him pop the top and pour the grape cider into plastic cups. As he hands me one, I’m a little overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of the evening.
Christian lifts his plastic cup into the air and says, “To new beginnings.”
“To new beginnings,” I agree with a smile, and crash my cup into his, though I know his toast is intended in a different way than my own.
He takes a gulp then lies on his side, propping up his head with an open palm, staring at me as I take a drink. I feel the need to shift the attention.
“You at least have to get a dog.”
“Oh, for sure, it wouldn’t be a home without a dog.”
“So what kind of dog are you getting?”
“What kind would you like us to have?” he asks, lifting his eyebrows as he peers up at me.
“You don’t quit, do you?” I shove him gently, causing him to roll over onto his back, us both now snickering.
He sits up, and looking intensely into my eyes says, “Not when it’s something I really want.”
“Wow, way to make the mood all heavy,” I groan.
“Sorry,” he mutters, turning and pulling back a corner of the blanket where he had a small box hidden. “Okay, let’s see if I can lighten the mood … gift time.”
“What?” I question, completely perplexed by what’s happening.
“Christmas is in a couple weeks, and you’re headed back to New York, so I wanted to make sure you got your gift from me.”
“I didn’t get you anything,” I protest.
“I have an idea of something you can give me,” he growls, leaning in close.
“I bet you do,” I scoff.
“That’s later, but right now, open,” he commands, placing the box on my lap. I run my hands across the top, glancing up at him and smiling in anticipation. I know I shouldn’t be excited, but I am. I know it’s probably unwise to even open it, but I can’t help myself.
“Well, go on, open it,” he pushes me again.
I lift the lid with my eyes closed, and set it to the side. Through squinted vision, I see a book. Opening my eyes, I allow the gift to come into focus. It’s a photo album. I have the urge to look at Christian, but I resist. I flip the large red leather cover and look at the first page. Staring back at me is an image of Colin, Christian, and me. I remember the day. It was the end of the summer, and Christian and I were getting ready to start back to high school. Colin took us on a white water rafting trip. It was one of the few vacations I had during my childhood.
“Oh Christian,” I gasp.
“You remember that trip? Colin and I had you convinced a bear was going to come in our camp if you didn’t pee all around your tent.”
“Jesus! I forgot about that. You guys have always been dicks, haven’t you?” I laugh; he seems rather pleased with my reaction.
I turn the page, each one holding a whole new set of memories. Our prom, concerts, parties, my first modeling job that he came and cheered me on at, graduation, all of the renovation projects I helped them on. Christian was spinning story after story, each one more passionate and detailed than the previous.
I don’t speak as I look through the pages—I simply remember—and it’s like a warm blanket being wrapped around me. Before I know what’s happening, I feel a surge of tears fill my eyes, and they come spilling out and flooding down my cheeks. What the hell is this? I don’t cry—ever. At least the old Paige didn’t.
At first it’s clear Christian doesn’t notice my silent crying. But then, it’s hard to miss when the drops fall onto the pages of the album.
“Paige?” he questions, scrambling upright and moving in close. “What’s wrong?” I can’t answer him; I don’t know what to say. “Did I do something?”
“No,” I reply through snotty sniffles. “You’re perfect.”
“Then what’s wrong?” he pushes deeper.
“I don’t know, nothing—” I start. “Everything.” Setting the photo album off to one side, I rub my legs briskly, the heatless structure starting to numb my extremities in the cool evening air.
“Are you cold?” he asks, noticing my body language. I nod, pulling my knees up to my chest.
He wastes no time, hopping to his feet, and crossing the oversized living room, he kneels down in front of the fireplace. “All right, I haven’t lit this up since we tested it, so sorry if it smells a little funky at first,” he warns me, then moments later I watch as the starter log lights up, its flames tickling the wooden hunks Christian placed on top of it.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
Moving to the speaker, he turns the music down, and flips off the light strands over our heads. The quiet and calmness of the dark, with just the orange glow of the fire, is actually quite nice. I take a deep breath, trying to figure out what exactly sent me into my frenzy.
In a second, he’s back at my side, moving in close. He reaches out to put an arm around me, but then hesitates, and looks to me for my approval. I should say no, but I can’t. I want him to hold me right now, more than anything else in the world. And then he does. His large muscular arm wraps around me.
“Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?” Christian prods.
I shrug my shoulders. I don’t want to talk. Pulling away slightly, I lay my head on his lap, and his fingertips graze my temple as he pulls my hair from my face and begins stroking my head. I moan, and then close my eyes.
OPENING MY EYES, I realize morning is here. I feel a body pressed up against me and quickly realize it’s Christian. We must have fallen asleep here last night. His arm i
s draped across my waist. My back is killing me after sleeping on the floor all night, but I don’t move. If I move, I know he’ll wake up. If he wakes up, he’ll move, too, and then this moment will be over forever.
I try to shift ever so slightly, as I realize I can no longer feel the arm I’ve fallen asleep on. Even holding my breath doesn’t help, Christian stirs as soon as I free my pinned arm. I close my eyes and wonder if he knows that I’m awake as well.
“Paige?” he says as he sits up. “Good morning.”
Now that he’s up, there’s no reason for me to pretend. I sit and try to comb my fingers through my hair. “Morning,” I mutter.
He looks around and sees that it’s daylight. “We must have fallen asleep last night.”
“Yeah, must have. Well, we better get going,” I say, rising up onto my knees. But, before I can stand, he grabs my arm and pulls me back down onto my bottom.
He looks into my eyes. “We need to finish our talk.”
“I’m sorry?” I play ignorant.
“From last night,” he adds.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He shakes his head. “We’re not leaving until you tell me why you were crying.”
I collapse the rest of the way onto the blanket. I know even less now than I did then about why I broke down. How can I make him understand how confused I am? Who knows, maybe it’s bridal jitters. “I don’t know,” I say honestly.
Christian narrows his stare. “I think you probably have a pretty good idea.”
I ponder what he says. Deep down, I’d also like to know what made me cry. I swallow hard and decide maybe he can help me find the answers. “I don’t know—everything has just felt so messed up lately.”
“In what way?”
“Look, I get that you still love me, and obviously I still have some sort of feelings for you, but I also know I love Henry. We fit together really well, and he makes me happy. I think coming down here and stirring up all these feelings was a mistake,” I explain, almost as much to myself as to him.
“Okay, that’s fair,” he begins, thinking through my statement. “And I’m sure you do care a lot for Henry. From everything you’ve told me he’s an amazing guy.”
“He is!” I declare.
“No one is saying otherwise.”
“I know, but the last couple weeks he’s been standoffish, and I think he knows that I’m keeping something from him. I’m just so scared I’ve messed everything up.”
“Is it us you’re keeping from him?” I nod. “Why did you keep it from him?”
I look at him with a bit of disgust. “Really? Let’s not even go there. You’re not going to make this into something it’s not. You know you are the who pushed me into this, and there was no way I was going to tell my fiancé that I agreed to such an insane thing.”
“Slow down, I’m not trying to blame something on you or trick you. I really want to help figure this out ... for both of us. It worries me when you tell me he’s changed lately.”
“Honestly, I think I’ve been feeling so guilty he can tell something is up. It’s probably my fault.”
“I don’t understand, we haven’t done anything,” Christian reminds me.
“Just because we’re not screwing around doesn’t mean I haven’t cheated. Emotional cheating might be worse,” I grumble remorsefully.
“So what you’re trying to tell me is that you’ve been carrying on an emotional affair with me?” Christian asks with a half smile.
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t. You see,” he says, moving in close to me. With each word he speaks, he inches even closer to my face. “I know what this is. I know what I want, and I don’t have someone else. I don’t want someone else. All I want is you. All I’ve ever wanted is you.”
“Christian, don’t,” I say, pushing his body away with my open palms, my stomach flipping in response to his words.
“If you can honestly say that you don’t love me, then get up and leave this house right now, but if there is still love for me in your heart, then please, don’t give up on us.” His voice shakes as he speaks.
“Damn it!” I exclaim, slipping out of his grasp and hopping to my feet. “I’m engaged!”
He quickly follows my lead and stands, rushing up and grabbing me by my upper arms. “But you shouldn’t be marrying him—you should be marrying me.”
I know he’s about to kiss me. I can see it in his eyes. He can see that I know it, and when I don’t pull away, he knows I want him to as much as he wants to. Pulling me close with his strong hands, he presses his mouth against mine. My lips part, and his wet, warm tongue glides in, exploring me.
I don’t struggle, but instead I lift a hand, placing it on the middle of his back. I lift the other to his head, running my fingertips through his hair. I’m sad when he begins to pull away, but then filled with excitement as I feel him trailing little kisses down my chin, then my neck, then—
“I can’t!” I shout, finally managing to push him away.
He looks at me intensely. I can see the raw desire in him, and it’s making me want him even more. “You can’t what? Marry him or be with me?”
“I can’t do this to Henry,” I answer.
“You’re right, you can’t. You need to go home to New York and tell him it’s over.”
I stand there, silent, processing all of Christian’s words, and as much as I want to argue with him, and tell him he’s wrong, that Henry is my soul mate, I can’t. No matter how much I care for Henry, I know there’s a reason I keep getting drawn back into Christian.
“I know,” I moan.
Christian looks at me, unsure. “You know what?”
“I can’t marry Henry,” I say plainly.
“Are you serious?” he asks, as if expecting me to suddenly change my mind.
I nod. Before I can say a word, he scoops me up and spins me around, holding me tightly. It feels like he might never let me go, and deep down, I’m fine with that.
“Wait, please,” I plead. He stops spinning, loosens his grasp, and looks at me.
“We have to stop this for now,” I explain. With those words he releases me, and steps back. “Wait, just listen. I care for Henry a lot, and the last thing I want to do is to disrespect him any more than I already have. Let me go home and tell him we’re over. I’ll do the fashion show, and then we can figure out whatever this is between us.”
“Whatever you think’s best. God, Paige, I love you so much.”
“I love you, too,” I say softly, finally allowing myself to admit it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
ALL I’VE BEEN able to think about since leaving Christian’s half-built home in the woods is how on Earth I’m going to tell Henry that we’re over. When I tell Emmie what happened, she does her best not to explode with excitement, but it’s obvious she approves of this choice much more than my original one of marrying Henry.
She, of course, suggests the straight and honest approach. But I think about that repeatedly, and it seems absurd to tell him I love him, but I love someone else more, and that’s why I can’t marry him. It isn’t like I can tell Henry I don’t love him, because damn it, I do. That’s why this is hurting so much.
On the plane ride I keep practicing the speech in my head. I don’t tell him I’m coming home a day early. Somehow I think the element of surprise might work better, but it isn’t making the conversation I’m about to have any easier. On the cab ride to our home, my thoughts shift to the logistics of the break up.
Henry is a practical guy. He works with numbers day in and day out, and I’m certain after the initial shock of the break up, these will be the questions that will arise. I don’t know what this new phase of my life will look like though. I’m about to have a runway show, and what if I sell my line to a retailer?
Will Christian want to come to New York? His niece is in Texas. The home he’s building for his future family is in Texas. He’s putting down roots ther
e. Does that mean I will have to be the one to move? But wait—don’t I have roots, too? I might not have family who I’m willing to even speak to in New York, but that’s where I was born and raised. It’s where I’ve built my life.
I pay the taxi driver and pull my single carry-on bag from the back seat. Glancing up at the incredibly tall building, I wonder what Henry might be doing at that exact moment. Will I surprise him in the shower? Oh my God, what if he’s naked? I am still insanely attracted to Henry. What would happen? I need to stop thinking about such things.
I express my greetings to the doorman, who is elated to see I’ve returned and tells me he hopes Mr. Wallace is feeling better. The comment seems odd, but I dismiss it and make my way inside and up the elevator.
When you’re marrying one of the wealthiest men in the building, it’s quite amazing how many people know you. Between the lobby and our apartment, I must run into half a dozen neighbors who want to discuss my recent travels. The problem is, all I want is to be home and get this conversation over with. I’m ready to get off this roller coaster.
At last I’m here, staring at the big red door. On the other side will be Henry. On the other side will be the end to the life I’ve built with an incredible man. I close my eyes and tell myself, You’re doing the right thing. You love Christian. You can’t keep pretending.
I slide my key into the lock and turn; I open the door and step inside. The place is dark, the curtains are drawn, and there’s no sound of running water. He isn’t in the shower. I breathe a sigh of relief and set my bag down, closing the door behind me. “Henry?”
There’s no answer. Maybe I missed him.
Moving into the dark hallway that leads to our bedroom, I call out his name again, “Henry?”
I hear rustling, and upon pushing open the door, I poke my head in to see him, just starting to stir from a nap. “Henry?” I say softly one last time.
“Paige?” he moans and sits up wiping the sleep from his eyes. I see his bare back, so slender that the bones of his spine are sticking out in an alarming way. I immediately cross the room and look at him. His eyes are sunken.