The Good Chase

by Hanna Martine

  It was a bad attempt at levity, grasping for their usual easy rapport, but he was strung out and desperate to feel anything else.

  “Is this what it would take,” she replied softly, “to give you a little peace?”

  He sighed, climbed into the backseat of the cab, and pulled the suitcase in. The cabbie raised his eyebrows and turned an impatient hand, silently asking, Address, you dumbfuck?

  “Where’s the secret location?” Byrne asked her.

  She told him and he directed the cabbie to Chelsea. Then Byrne sank deep into the seat, closing his eyes.

  Shea’s studio apartment was on the top floor of a prewar townhome on a tree-lined street. He tugged the suitcase up the cement steps and let his finger hover over the buzzer, noting that his hand still shook. Inside, he heard a door open above, and he climbed two sets of stairs to get to her.

  She wore jeans with hems that curled, worn and soft, under her heels. Her white T-shirt looked like it had been cut into a tank top over ten years ago. Bright blue bra straps peeked out from underneath the cut cotton. Her hair was down, streaming over one shoulder.

  She was a sight for sore eyes, if there ever was a true definition of the phrase.

  Though she smiled, it was strained and sympathetic, and it made him feel strangely uncomfortable. One thumb hooked into the back pocket of her jeans, and she sat into a hip, waiting. Waiting for him to move, to give her an idea of how to act.

  The second he stepped into her warm, sunny apartment, she grabbed him with one hand and shut the door with the other. His arms wrapped her up good and tight.

  “Hi,” she murmured into his neck, taking a big inhale.

  He already knew that she smelled divine.

  As her grip on him tightened, he realized what he was doing. He was leaning on her—figuratively and literally—and he found it profoundly disconcerting. He, who had always been the pillar for others, specifically his family.

  Gently, he slid his hands around her rib cage and pushed her away.

  She chewed a thumbnail as she studied him. “The only thing I can think to ask is ‘How are you?’” she said, “but I know it’s the stupidest question in the world.”

  He released the suitcase handle and ambled farther into her apartment. It was long and narrow, with a set of two windows overlooking the street in front and two others in the doorless bedroom in the back. The small kitchen sat right in the middle. She’d done the place in overstuffed furniture draped with blankets and printed pillows. Lots of color, very cozy and eclectic. The antithesis of the stark, modern, masculine Amber.

  He loved it.

  He stood there, looking over the place she’d kept so private it had taken several not-a-dates, a healthy dose of amazing sex, and several Byrne tragedies in a row for her to invite him into.

  She came up next to him, slid a hand over his shoulder. “What happened?”

  The whole past week slammed into him. Took him out at the knees. He collapsed forward, catching himself on the back of one of her two gray couches. He took a moment, trying to breathe around the stumbling block that was the bass drum of his heart.

  Pressing his hands heavily into the couch back, he said to a bright, striped pillow, “Best I can figure? Alex stole everything my parents had and used it to get up here, knowing that I’d fly down there to be with them and Caroline. He bribed some new employee in my building, and broke in to destroy my apartment.”

  He pushed away from the couch and faced her. One hand covered her mouth. “Destroyed?”

  “Completely. As in . . .” He couldn’t say any more. Just went over to his suitcase, kicked it onto its side, and crouched to rip open the zipper, exposing the mangled train engine lying on top of all the dirty clothes he’d hauled back from South Carolina. He grabbed the green metal in a tight fist and held it up to her. She didn’t take it, just stared in horror.

  “Jesus. Is that . . . ?”

  “Yeah.” His voice died. Still crouching, he dug two fingers into his eyes, grinding away the sting. “Everything I had in that apartment. Everything I own, even down to my shampoo and old DVDs. And the train. Especially the train.”

  “But why?” She lowered herself to the floor next to him. “Did he steal anything?”

  He shrugged. “A watch I never wear, some cufflinks. Little metal things he’ll probably try to sell. But it wasn’t about that for him.”

  “So what was it about? I’m kind of lost here.”

  Byrne set down the green engine on the hardwood floor between them. “This. It was about this.”

  Understanding clouded her eyes.

  “Saying ‘fuck you’ just wasn’t enough for him,” Byrne said. “I kept trying to help my family, would’ve given them everything I owned if they’d let me, but I cut him off because he took advantage.”

  “So he’s bitter. Even though it’s his own fault.”

  Byrne nudged the toy engine farther away like it had just stung him. “Bitter doesn’t even cover it. This is his hate. His jealousy. And it came out of something I was trying to do to help them, help him. I’m so fucking angry. If this is what he wanted from me, this breaking down, this rage, then he fucking won.”

  She reached out to touch his knee, but it suddenly felt like too much and he stood, moving out of her reach.

  “At least you could help them out when you went down there. That’s got to feel somewhat good, right?”

  Shea’s voice was full of hope, of positivity, and even though he knew she was trying to help him, it made him feel false. Because he hadn’t truly been able to help, in the end. Maybe temporarily, but everything would go back to the way it was for them very soon. And he’d be piling the bits and pieces of everything he’d ever owned into a Dumpster.

  He scowled and scrubbed a hand through his hair.

  “What happened with the land?” she asked.

  He laughed, because he couldn’t think of anything else to do besides scream.

  “Oh no,” she whispered, and he heard her rise from the floor.

  “‘Oh no’ is right.”

  “You didn’t get it.”

  “No. Wasn’t ever for sale in the first place and doesn’t look like it will be anytime soon. Fuck it.”

  “Byrne, I’m so sorry.”

  He said nothing. Not a single word came to mind.

  “You can stay here as long as you like,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “Bed’s not as big as yours is—was—but you can have your own side and everything.”

  He glanced all around her apartment, finally knowing what it felt like to be overwhelmed by someone wanting to help you when you believed you should be helping yourself. It wasn’t a good feeling. It made him uneasy. Like he was a burden.

  “I can go shopping with you,” she offered, pushing a smile onto her face. “I can introduce you to the freedom of buying clothes off the rack. I could carry bags or lamps or new pillows or whatever you need.”

  He just stared at her.

  “At least it was just stuff, right?” Her smile kept trying to expand.

  His eyes dropped to the toy engine and he frowned. “But it’s not just stuff. My mom gave that train to me for my tenth birthday. It can’t be replaced.”

  “I know, I know.”

  She was being as gentle as possible, her sympathetic eyes briefly closing, but it still bothered him for some reason.

  “At least you can afford to replace all the things you need. And you’ve got insurance?”

  He just looked at her. “That’s not the point, replacing them.”

  “I know. I know it’s not. But at least you can, is what I’m saying.”

  Ah, okay. He got it. He could replace all that pricey stuff because he was Bespoke Byrne, and she had a pretty good idea about how much money he had to have stowed away for land he’d now never get.

 
“Right.” His head bobbed in a nod, but it felt like it was moving through sludge. And that was literally all he could say, because he couldn’t be certain about his tone, should any other words come out.

  “Maybe”—she stepped closer—“maybe this could actually turn out to be a good thing for you.”

  His head snapped up. “How?”

  She winced but didn’t back down. That was the tone he’d been trying to avoid, but he was wire-strung and he couldn’t possibly believe that what she’d said was true. Or that she meant it. His dream had just been stolen out from underneath him, his parents basically had to start over, his brother had destroyed Byrne’s apartment and everything he owned . . . and this was supposed to be a good thing?

  “Just hear me out, okay?” She licked her lips and edged even closer, hands up and fingers splayed. “Do you want something to eat or drink?”

  “No, I don’t want anything. I’d like to know what you meant.”

  Biting the inside of her lip, he could see her gathering up the strings of her control and holding on tight. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He felt really, really on edge, and a stiff wind was coming up fast on his back.

  “I’m not attacking you, Byrne. Let’s just get that straight right now. What I’m trying to do is make you feel better. That’s why you came over here, wasn’t it? So you could be with me and tell me what’s up and let me try to help?” She didn’t let him answer, which was probably a good thing, because what was on the tip of his tongue was to say that he didn’t want to talk anymore.

  “What I meant,” she said, “and I’m thinking out loud so bear with me, was that all that stuff you had in that apartment—that incredible furniture and all those clothes and, yes, even that toy train—was somehow connected to your past. You bought all that expensive stuff because you could. Because you felt some kind of pressure to. Because it was the opposite of how you’d been raised and what you’d had growing up, and you wanted to make a point. But maybe you’ve grown past that.”

  “Grown past it?”

  “It was Bespoke Byrne, all the way, even though I don’t like to use that name anymore. But think about how you are with me. You’re Rugby Byrne. You’re my Byrne. That amazing guy who has absolutely nothing to do with all that stuff in your apartment. You are not connected to it. It doesn’t define you, but you seem to think it does.”

  “That does.” He thrust a finger at the engine. Shut up, Byrne.

  “No. It doesn’t.” She slowly shook her head. “You’re using it to cling to your shame, that embarrassment you told me about. Those emotions you said you escaped when you left South Carolina. You said you’ve used the things in your apartment, like the train, to remind you of your past in a good way, but maybe they’re really an anchor. Maybe that train was holding you back instead of pushing you forward.”

  “That’s dumb. Every day I look at the pieces of that train and I’m reminded of what I’m doing and who I’m doing it for.”

  Jesus, Byrne. Just shut the fuck up. She’s trying to help.

  Yet he couldn’t get himself to listen. Or obey.

  “All right. I get that,” she said. “But don’t call me dumb.”

  Weariness seeped into him at the same time this disagreement—fight?—was making him all hopped up. Far too many emotions chased one another through his brain. He sighed. “You’re not dumb. Not at all. I’m sorry. I just don’t agree with you.”

  “Fine.” She crossed her arms. Stared him down. “But—”

  So she wasn’t going to drop this. He lifted frustrated eyes to her ceiling.

  “—I think perhaps that this had to happen,” she continued, “for you to finally be able to let go.”

  His chin came back down so fast he got dizzy. “Let go of what?”

  She opened her arms. “Everything. All that stuff you told me about your past. All the things you hate. All the things that frustrated you and ate at you for years and years. All the shame. All that bad shit was in the atoms of your furniture and the apartment’s incredible view and every piece of clothing in your closet. You convinced yourself that the things you bought were good things, that they healed you on some level, that they proved you’d risen above where you’d started, but they really didn’t. I know there’s no reason at all for you to be ashamed of what you’ve lived through, but sooner or later you need to realize that, too. And maybe this is that time.”

  “My parents and sister won’t let me do what I want for them, to make their lives better. My brother broke into my apartment and spit in my face. I’m fucking angry and I want him gone from my family. I came to you for comfort. That’s it. You’re reading far too much into this and it’s starting to piss me off.”

  “Good,” she said with a firm nod.

  He recoiled. “Good?”

  “Yes, good. I think this is the world’s way of telling you that you need to start over. Erase your goals—because you’ve reached them, or you’ve done all you can—and start over with new intentions. Or adjust your old ones into something you actually can do, and not focus on all that you haven’t. Because I’ve got to say, Byrne, you are completely shackled to that train, and everything it means.”

  “Wait a minute. That train means my family. Who I would do anything for. Who I want to do everything for. You realize that, right?”

  “Yes, of course.” She rubbed her forehead, like she should be the one in pain right now.

  “And you want me to just leave them behind? To forget all that’s happened and ‘start over’?”

  “That’s not what I said at all. I never said to forget. All I’m doing is suggesting that you use this as an opportunity to reevaluate. Take a step back and figure out a new life going forward—one that makes you feel good in every way—as opposed to trying to drive in the tracks that train already gouged out for you. I think that this horrible, awful, nasty event could actually allow you to be who you were meant to be. What I meant was that you aren’t like so many people who get handed this kind of setback and have no way of climbing out of the hole. You have the means to rebuild your apartment and your life at the same time.”

  “‘The means.’ Right. You keep talking about being able to ‘afford’ things. I don’t know who you want me to be, Shea. Poor Byrne or Rich Byrne.”

  “I don’t want you to be anyone. No one but yourself. I don’t think you’re either of those guys, not deep down. Not anymore. I’m just saying that even though the world seems really dire right now, that you do have the means to help yourself. You’re not helpless. And that you could manage to skew this into something good. But maybe I should’ve just kept my mouth shut.”

  “Maybe,” he muttered.

  Good God, Byrne. You’re an ass. She’s not Alex.

  She drew a sharp inhale, stared at him for a long moment, and then dropped her chin. “I see,” she whispered.

  As she looked down at the train still sitting in the middle of the floor, he almost lunged for it.

  That inconsequential thing that really did feel like an anchor now.

  When she tilted her face back up to him, her pale hair hid one eye. The other carried a great deal of confidence, frustration, and severe intelligence.

  Deep down, he knew she was only trying to help. He knew this. He unclenched his hands from where they’d unconsciously dug into his upper arms. “Listen, you don’t deserve any of my anger. It’s because I’m wired, and you just happen to be the one standing right here, not Alex. I kind of hate myself right now, for saying what I have.” He inhaled. Exhaled. “I think I’ll stay in that hotel tonight. Try to clear out my head.”

  That one visible blue eye softened. “Byrne, you don’t have to—”

  “I know. But I probably should.”

  And then he turned and left.

  Chapter

  19

  It was extraordinarily rare when Shea rued th
e day she’d grown a backbone and learned how to voice what she felt and wanted, to express her beliefs. And today was not one of those days.

  The look on Byrne’s face as he’d backed out of her apartment—the pain over his situation, the regret over his impassioned, reactionary words to her, the helplessness and the anger—played over and over in her mind. She wanted nothing more than to clear them all, to smooth the lines from his face.

  She wanted nothing more than for the two of them to pick up where they’d left off before he’d been called away to South Carolina. She longed to be with him, to lie tangled in his sheets again, the light from his closet falling across his bed as they talked about nothing and everything. She wanted to rewind.

  He’d come to her place yesterday looking for a shoulder and an escape, but she’d felt in her heart that he needed something more to pick himself up. He was a man with such grand plans that to just roll over and play dead was completely unlike him. For him to move forward, he needed to see the larger picture. He needed to see that this wasn’t an end, not after he’d worked so hard.

  She couldn’t take back anything she’d said to him, and she didn’t want to. He’d been unnervingly emotional, and yes, maybe her timing had sucked, now that she looked back on the whole exchange. But it didn’t make what she felt in her heart any less truthful, any less powerful.

  The words he’d said to her, his visceral reactions, had been fed by his terrible situation and exacerbated by his confusion and anger, and she understood that none of it had truly been focused on her. But she’d happened to be the one in his presence, and she hadn’t conformed to what he’d expected. It had been easiest to use her as a conduit for everything he was feeling. As a scapegoat.

  Yes she was a little uncomfortable with that, but she was also willing to forgive since she understood the circumstances. And . . . she was dying to see him. Dying to talk to him. To know how he was. If she could do anything for him.

  Her couches were the complete opposite of Byrne’s firm, leather-covered pieces of furniture. She’d picked them out for the very reason that they were huge and soft and that you could burrow between the massive pillows and get lost when you wanted to. Like this morning. But it seemed that she couldn’t burrow deep enough, because she could still see Byrne’s suitcase propped up next to the front door, the toy engine sitting on top.