“You’d really like that?” I ask, turning to look at him and see if he’s being sincere.
He stops in his tracks and turns my way. By now, snow is falling in heavy sheets around us, isolating the two of us from the world. No one seems to exist right now but us. Despite the chilly air I feel very, very warm right now.
“You know I would, Riley,” he murmurs. “I don’t care if it’s five years from now. I want you to come back to me.” For a second he looks away, like he’s contemplating something, then he reaches into an inside pocket of his peacoat. “Listen, there’s something I’ve been meaning to give you. I would have eventually given it to you in London, but you ran away and all.”
“What is it?” I ask as he extracts an object from the pocket. It looks like a jewelry box. Okay, surely he’s not going to propose. That would be nuts. He said he wouldn’t pressure me…
“When I went to Paris—and by the way, it feels now like that happened six months ago—you asked me for a trinket. Two, to be precise, because I broke the rules twice.”
“Yes, and you brought me a condom,” I reply. “Which I’ll never use, by the way. I’m pretty sure it’s half melted.”
“Good. Don’t use it. But there was something else that I brought back, too,” he says. “Remember?”
I nod. “Of course.”
He hands the box over. I open it, slightly dreading its contents. But it turns out there’s nothing to fear; inside is a pair of beautiful, exquisitely crafted silver earrings. They look like teardrops—or are they raindrops?
Either way, they’re a perfect way to commemorate my trip. London and I have both done our share of weeping since my arrival.
“Galen, they’re beautiful,” I whisper. “I can’t believe you bought these for me after knowing me for all of a few hours.”
“I couldn’t help myself; I thought you’d like them. For some reason they made me think of you.”
I gaze at them for a moment before I slam the box shut and hand it back to him. “I can’t accept them,” I say, my throat tightening up.
“Why the devil not?” he asks, his tone slightly defensive. “They’re a gift.”
I draw my eyes to his. He looks so sweet right now, a little hurt by the rejection. There’s always something so honest in his eyes. “It wouldn’t be right,” I say. “I’m leaving. We—this—has to end, even if it only ends when I get on that plane. I can’t take a gift from you, as if we have a proper relationship.”
He steps towards me, his breath visible in the cold air as the snow gathers on his hair and shoulders. “We do have a proper relationship, much as you may deny it,” he says. “As for its end, do you understand how much I want to ask you to stay in London with me? Do you know how hard it is for me to accept that you’re leaving? But I tell myself over and over again that it’s okay. It’s not like you’re dying. It’s not like I can never see you or speak to you again. You’ll leave, you’ll go have some time to yourself. But I’ll still be here. I’ll still have a phone, as will you. We don’t have to cut each other off completely.”
“I’m crossing an ocean, Galen.”
“So what? This isn’t 1492, love. It takes all of five hours to fly over the Atlantic.”
“But I promised myself. A year of solitude before committing to a relationship.”
“Ten more months, you mean. You’ve already managed two months of solitude. Nearly three by now, really.”
“Ten more months, then. But you understand that it’s a promise that I have to keep to myself. At least I have to try.”
“Fine. But take the earrings. Keep them. In ten months, decide if you want to wear them. For now, I want to know they’re with you. That’s all I ask. Do you remember what I said when I told you that I had a second gift from Paris?”
A distant memory streams into my mind. “You said something about them being a symbol of your appreciation.”
He nods. “Of…?”
“I…I can’t remember,” I tell him.
“Of your existence, Riley, my beautiful, confusing American goddess. I appreciate the fact that you exist, and I will appreciate it no matter how far from me you are for the next ten months. Even if I never see you again, I will always appreciate that I’ve gotten to spend time with you.”
My heart is swelling. Or else I’m having some kind of coronary episode. Either way, it’s good. So good. By some miracle, Galen has managed to make me feel like I deserve to be this happy. He makes me feel like I make his world a better place. He makes me feel proud of myself.
Someday maybe I’ll tell him how much he means to me. How much better my world is for having met him.
“Fine,” I reply, smiling. I thrust the box into my pocket.
Galen slips his finger under my chin and lifts my face as a snowflake lands on the tip of my nose. “Don’t be serious about me if you don’t want to, or if you’re not ready,” he says. “Just know that I’m serious about you. I will still be serious in ten months, or a year. But I will not put pressure on you. I won’t come visit you. I’ll give you your space. I will not lay guilt trips on you or tell you that I’m hurt if you tell me you don’t want to speak anymore. Understand?”
“I understand. Will you write?” I ask. “Text me?”
He nods. “Of course I will, if that’s what you want.”
“It is.”
The snow begins to cascade thickly around us, erasing all evidence of our footprints, erasing the buildings around us, the street lamps. Galen wraps me up in his arms and kisses me, and I feel myself floating with the snow, almost weightless, down to earth.
I’m so, so happy right now.
“Come to the cottage with me?” I ask when our kiss has ended. “Spend the night?”
He nods. “And then?” he asks.
“Then every night until I leave? If it’s what you want.”
“It is. But remember—you can change your mind anytime, Riley.”
“I won’t.”
“Good.”
Together, we walk to Katherine’s cottage to spend another night together. The rules have officially gone out the window until I walk away from Galen on November twenty-sixth.
Until then, I plan to enjoy myself. I plan to let him have my heart.
I plan to be happy.
Date: November 26
Mental state: Sad, but resigned to my fate.
Current location: Heathrow Airport
Current companion: Galen Davies, who looks about as sad as I feel.
Number of orgasms experienced while in the UK: Several hundred, at least. The Stepbitch doesn’t keep track, though I’m seriously contemplating patenting the Orgasmometre…
The day of my departure has come far too soon. Galen’s taken the express train with me to the airport, and we’re currently holding onto one another before I head over to security.
“I wish I could bring you with me to the gate,” I tell him.
“I know. I wish it too. But this isn’t a movie.”
“Nope. This is life. X-ray machines and small bottles of liquid in ziploc bags,” I say. “Pretty shitty movie.”
Life is messy and complicated, and sometimes it entails things you don’t want to do, like get on a plane that will cruelly rip you away from your perfect, wonderful, kind, handsome, sexy English lover.
“I’d come visit you any time you ask,” he tells me. “You know that, don’t you?”
“I do,” I say. “If I had any less self-control I’d ask you to buy a ticket right now, actually. But I have to do this. For me. For us.”
He nods. “I understand,” he says, and I can tell by his expression that he means it.
I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to give her time.
And I know he will.
“I adore you, Riley Simmons,” he says softly before laying a final kiss on my lips.
“I know,” I reply. I don’t say it back, but he knows I do. He also knows why I can’t utter the words out loud. “Text me
. Every day,” I add, smiling through my tears.
He nods, holding up his phone as I pull away. “You know I will.”
Walking away from my Galen is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I’m proud of myself. I’m proud that I respect myself enough to follow through on my original plan, even if I did manage to throw a seriously huge, gorgeous wrench in the works for a few weeks.
I’m proud of Galen for understanding.
I’m proud of us.
Twenty-Five
Riley
Date: I think it’s December sixth. To be honest, I’m not paying much attention these days. I’ve decided that I’m going to count the months instead of the days until my solitary confinement ends.
All I know is that I have nine months left. Nine months of abstinence. Nine months without Galen by my side.
Mental state: I’m okay. But I miss him. I’m about to spend the Christmas holidays with my parents and Susan. I can already tell that my first Christmas in five years as a pseudo-single woman isn’t going to be pleasant. I should get a dog, bring it to Christmas dinner and announce that it’s my new boyfriend. Maybe that would get them off my back.
Of course, they’d probably still tell me it was too soon and ask why I’m not getting back together with Mr. Cheatyface.
Steps: I’ve done 10,000 each day since I got home. The Bitch has given me no grief, for once. In fact, I keep getting messages that tell me I’m awesome and successful and that my ass looks great in these pants (Okay, I made that last one up—she never goes that far).
I feel good.
Actually, I feel great.
There’s only one thing that could make my life any better.
Well, I’m back in Vermont, in the small but cheerful little house that I moved into after Brian and I split up. It’s pretty in Brattleboro, as always, and it’s even snowing, which makes me feel nostalgic and content at once. But it also makes me miss my handsome tour guide all the more.
Nothing will ever match the beauty of standing in Chipping Campden with Galen as the snow fell around us, shielding us from all the world’s problems. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so peaceful in my life as I felt in that moment.
During our final days in London, it actually snowed there, too. We wandered down Oxford Street under the magical globe-lights, holding hands as carols wafted out of department store speakers. We kissed on that street. To be fair, we kissed on every street we could find in London. We drank hot cocoa and laughed as we told each other stories about our youth. We bonded over scotch, and ate bangers and mash. Galen cooked me a few meals, which we sometimes ate naked as we watched hilarious British comedy shows on TV during infrequent breaks from sex.
I remember the morning I left, I told him to look after himself as we rode the train to Heathrow Airport.
“You too,” he replied. “Promise me you will.”
“I promise,” I told him.
And I intend to keep my word.
January 20
Christmas was remarkably pleasant. No needling, no pressure, no judgment. It seems that my family has learned not to make me feel like an utter failure at every turn.
Oh, and two exciting things have happened since I got home:
One: A publishing company has offered to produce hardcover and e-book versions of my Stepbitch blog. They’re going to cover all the costs, marketing, you name it. It will be called Conversations with my Stepbitch, and they’re going to sell it internationally. I may have made a super-irritating squee sound when I got the news.
But there’s something else, too.
Two: There’s a man in my life. He’s loyal, he’s amazing, he’s handsome, he’s perfect.
I know what you’re thinking: I’ve miraculously gotten over Galen in a matter of mere days, and I’ve moved on. That seems impossible, doesn’t it?
Well, that’s because it is impossible. There is no getting over Galen. He’s the man I’m talking about.
I’ve finally admitted to myself that I’m completely in love with him. I love him more than anything in this world. I haven’t told him that, of course, because it would violate every rule and regulation that I’ve carved out for myself. I know I probably sound weird and neurotic, but I’m determined to follow through on my timeline, to give him and me a chance to process everything that’s happened. I want to give us the best possible chance at happiness.
I don’t know what will happen in September when all this is over and done with. All I do know is that I don’t want to get over him; I don’t want to forget how he makes me feel. I want him in my life, and with each day that passes, I’m more sure of it.
Every single day since my return from England has begun with a text message. We have it down to a routine: He sends the text at noon his time, which is seven a.m. my time. I wake up to the chirp of my phone with a smile on my face, knowing that he’ll say something that makes my heart sing. Usually it’s something along the lines of:
Good morning, Queen Goddess of the Entire Universe,
or
Top o’ the mornin’ to you, most beautiful, sexiest creature who’s ever graced the earth with her presence
or
How is my luscious, delectable, desirable Riley this morning?
I always reply, of course. And he’s always there to receive my answer. Usually I tell him how I’m doing, then ask how he is. I’ll admit that occasionally our conversations go on for a few hours. On occasion, they even get a little dirty. Oh and yes, we have sexted a few times. We may also have had phone sex more than once. Yes, we still break the rules. And yes, as punishment he occasionally has to scrub his kitchen floor in nothing but a tiny French maid’s uniform while I watch him on Skype. I may have had to do the same thing for him. I’ve got to say, it was not at all unpleasant.
We sometimes pick one another’s brains about professional matters, too. I send him my blog entries, he tells me how he likes them. He sends me proofs from his photo shoots, and I critique them. All the while, of course, I’m drooling over the body that I may never get to touch again.
I know perfectly well that a woman may walk into his life who’s more convenient than I am. Or more to his liking. I know it’s a risk that I’m taking by keeping myself on this side of the Atlantic.
I try not to think about it too much, to be honest.
All I know is that someday when my head is on entirely straight, I hope to tell him that I love him.
February 20
For Valentine’s Day, Galen sent me a dozen incredibly beautiful roses. Half were white, half red. The note said that they represented the slow transition from friendship to something more, and that perhaps when the ten months were through, we could negotiate the colour of future roses.
Seven months, love, he wrote in his text that morning. Technically seven and a half, but let’s not count the half, all right?
I am currently in the market for a time machine.
June 5
Two more months until my self-imposed love diet is over.
Things have altered a little in recent weeks. We haven’t fallen off the wagon in a while. In fact, we’ve been exceedingly well behaved. Galen still texts every day, but his tone has changed a little. We haven’t sexted in ages. There’s been no talk of how much he misses me, or how much I miss him.
I feel like he’s making a deliberate effort to give me space. He’s respecting my need to keep my head clear in these final weeks before crunch time.
I appreciate it, but the truth is that I do miss him. Each day that I don’t talk to him for more than a few seconds, I feel like I’m missing a part of myself. When he does text, it’s slightly more cautious than it used to be, as though he’s preparing us both for disappointment. He knows as well as I do that things may not end the way that either of us wants. He knows that I could tell him that I’ve decided to remain on my own.
I know what I plan to say.
The question is, does he still feel the same way?
August 7
; One more month.
I’m looking forward to the end, but I can’t say that I’m unhappy with where I am now. Actually, I’m very happy. For the first time in my adult life I feel really strong, and fiercely independent. I’m making a great living, thanks to my book, and my family has been treating me with respect and kindness.
Susan and I go out for dinner about once a week to talk about our lives. We’ve grown close over the months, and begun to understand each other better. I suppose my being happy has made a big difference. I’ve realized how much I used to resent her for having what I considered an easy life. The truth is that I made my own life difficult.
That wasn’t her fault. It was mine.
As for my relationship with Galen, my feelings remain unchanged.
In a month, I plan to tell him so.
Twenty-Six
Riley
September 6
Ten months have passed since I went to England. Ten months since I met my hot tour guide. Ten months since my life changed forever.
I’m the same woman as I was then, only I know myself much better now. I know how to be happy. I know what I like.
Best of all, I know what it feels like to love someone.
I also know, for the first time, what it feels like to be a success. Sales on my blog book have been so good that the publishing company has already asked for a second one, and I’m more than happy to oblige by churning out more blog entries. It looks like the Stepbitch and I are in this tenuous relationship of ours for the long haul.
But something far more important than my blog has been occupying my brain in recent days. There’s a man in England who still texts me each day. A man who’s been patient with me, who hasn’t hassled me, or forced me to move faster than I wanted to.
A man who’s given me so much space that I honestly don’t know if he still wants me.
Loving Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 3) Page 16