Everything She Ever Wanted: A Different Kind of Love Novel

by Liz Durano

  “Only took forever,” Sawyer mutters as I sit next to him and pop open a beer that Todd tosses to me. Through the windows, I can see the solar lights of the Pearl shining like a beacon in the night, only this time, it doesn’t give me any peace knowing how I’d left it and the person staying there. I take a long sip and settle back into the couch, watching Todd take a hammer to one of the tough macadamia nuts still in their shell and smash it down against the coffee table. It rolls away from him, but he grabs it and positions it on a crack in the wood. Thank goodness their table’s something they picked up during one of their dumpster-diving runs around Santa Fe. If it had been any of my custom tables, I’d have punched Todd’s lights out for daring to ruin the wood.

  The macadamia nut cracks, sending pieces of its tough shell flying at us like shrapnel. As Sawyer protests, reminding Todd to check online for a macadamia nut cracker, I feel my anger dissipating. There’s no drama with the Villier brothers. What you see is what you get. They’re funny, uncomplicated, and just what I need to forget Goldilocks for the night, if not forever.

  By the time I make it back to Nana’s house, it’s almost one in the morning. Everyone’s asleep, and I’m glad. Even though the Villier brothers’ crazy antics made me forget all about Harlow, I miss her more than ever, the memories of the last two nights hitting me as soon as I shut my bedroom door.

  It took every ounce of my willpower not to turn that truck towards the Pearl as I left the brothers’ Earthship. The lights were still on in the living room, and though I couldn’t see her clearly, I saw movement in the living room, just beyond the kumquat tree. I wondered what she was thinking, what she was doing. I wondered if I did the right thing to walk away from her, vowing never to look back. I wish I could rewind everything and take back the things I said.

  Still, Harlow lied to my face—twice.

  As I step into the shower, the thought of being a father hits me like a punch to the chest with another one right in the gut. Sure, the chances are slim. Like, really slim, but what if she does get pregnant? Will Harlow even tell me?

  Chapter 21

  Harlow

  It takes me a few hours to recover from Dax’s anger. I could say he overreacted, but at the same time, I’d opened a raw wound when I asked about his mother before admitting that I almost killed myself in the place he’d built to honor her. Not only that, but I lied to him about being on the pill.

  As I watch the sky fill with stars, I know he has every right to be angry at me. It didn’t even hit me until after he said it, but it’s true. What about him? Did I even bother to ask Dax what he thought about being a father? Did I even consider his feelings? What if I do get pregnant? What then?

  But, of course, I didn’t even factor him in, not when I was too blinded by my own bitterness to see beyond my own needs. And he’s right, too. I am selfish. Somehow, I had it inside my head that just because I’d lost so much—the miscarriages, Marcus, the end of my marriage and even having to walk away from the career I’d devoted most of my life to—I believed that the world owed me something. Just because I saved so many children’s lives, I bought the arrogant belief that I’m somehow entitled to something more than the fees I received for my services. And who the hell am I to search for payback out here, from people who had nothing to do with my shortcomings back in New York. Anita, Sarah, Dyami, Benny… even Dax.

  I should be ashamed of myself—and I am.

  I’m glad I’m not drowning my shame with wine as I did eleven nights ago. I chuckle in the darkness. Difficult to believe, but it’s been eleven days since I almost pulled that trigger, and ended it all. And for what? A man I allowed to obliterate my sense of self-worth all because he needed someone to belittle. Small dick Jeff. I laugh again. Up until this moment, I’d barely even given him any thought, too busy living life to the fullest with Dax and learning so much about myself—the things I want, the things I have, and the woman that I am behind all the professional titles I hold. Maybe I should celebrate this new development with a glass of wine after all.

  And it’s not the only thing I need to be proud of. Haven’t I come far from that woman who walked out that door with the gun in her hand, determined to blow her brains out if not for that rational part of her finally succeeding in talking her off that ledge? I could even say that I barely recognize that desperate woman now, and maybe that’s why I was always meant to be here, at the Pearl, so I could let that part of me die in some way, without having to pull a real trigger. But I also know that I’m in this place now because of Dax, who tried so hard to be a man for me even though, in the end, he failed, calling me a bitch and saying I should have killed myself in the Hamptons.

  Harsh, but he’s also right. Jeff wouldn’t bat an eye at the mess I’d leave behind. He’d simply move his wedding elsewhere. He’d also get everything he’d always wanted from me—the Hamptons property and everything else I own. He’s still, legally, my husband in an equitable division state and God knows I’ve put in more than my share of the properties he so wants all to himself.

  I begin to pack my things, glad that I didn’t bring too much on this trip. If I stay any longer, I’m afraid I’ll seek Dax out and ask for his forgiveness again. But I can’t allow myself to do that, not when I already did, and he walked away from me. And he had every right to walk away. I wanted to be pregnant so badly that I lied about it to the first perfect sperm donor I slept with. Sperm donor. It’s cruel to call him that because Dax is so much more than just a man with a big dick and a bigger heart that he wears on his sleeve, but it’s the only way I can justify letting him go.

  I know I’m running, just like I did after Jeff filed for divorce, and the day after Oscar Peletierre, Chairman of Miller General, confided to me that the Board was getting ready to let me go because they feared for my mental health after Marcus died. It didn’t even matter that they had no burden of proof to their claim. Up until then, I had performed all my duties as a transplant surgeon without any problems. But Jeff had threatened to leave the Board and go to another hospital if I wasn’t let go.

  He said that last part to me as a friend for, after all, we were all members of the same club, and I lunched with his wife, Dianne. But I knew better. Oscar said it to me as Jeff’s friend. He wasn’t even going to go to bat for me by defending my performance record, or how Senator Kingston had chosen me over Jeff. Like all our mutual friends and acquaintances, he’d chosen which side he was on the moment Jeff filed for divorce. Not that I made the decision difficult to make; Jeff is personable where I’m distant, choosing to show the world how aloof I am because inside, I’m still that awkward foster kid who didn’t feel like she fit in anywhere.

  But I know now that I don’t have to fit in anywhere to feel whole. I’m heading home, even though I don’t exactly know where home is anymore, not after finding it here at the Pearl…and in Dax’s arms.

  But that’s only my foolish heart talking and not my brain, the one that knows I have a divorce to take care of, a career to fight for, and a promise to keep to a little girl who’s going to see her tenth birthday in less than two weeks.

  *

  By five in the morning, the car’s packed and I’m ready to go. I’ve spent the last hour cleaning up the place, emptying the refrigerator of any food I’d bought during my stay. I’m determined to return the Pearl the way I found it, for Anita’s sake. It gave me more time to think things through.

  Realizing now that Dax was inside the Pearl the night I almost killed myself angers me. He’d seen me at my most vulnerable and yet he never said anything. He knew. All this time, he knew. When I retrieve my gun hidden in my luggage, I discover it’s not loaded. Even the chamber is empty. I must have been too hung over to notice how much lighter the gun felt when I put it away.

  It only means one thing. Dax had seen the gun and removed all the bullets, just to make sure I wouldn’t hurt myself. Now it makes sense why he came that day with the so-called amended rental agreement, saying something about certain circumstanc
es. It had all been an act all along. He came only because he wanted to make sure I wouldn’t hurt myself in his property. Worse, it means that he read my note. My damn suicide note.

  Dax knew.

  The realization that dawns on me next strips me of every warm thought I’d felt for him. Was his choice to be with me done all out of pity then? The trips to Bandolier, the hot springs, even being with me? Sure, I’d given him many good reasons to feel sorry for me—my thoughts of suicide, my divorce, and my inability to have children—but did he have to keep it going for as long as he did, making me believe that he really cared for me? Did his whole family know?

  Does it matter now, Harlow? You’re leaving.

  Thank God for rational Harlow or I’ll never stop asking the questions. As I set the keys to the Pearl on the dining room table, I hear my phone ringing from somewhere inside my purse. I’m not answering any calls right now, not when I’m feeling too vulnerable. But I pull out my phone anyway, wondering if it’s Dax calling to apologize, because if it is, I’m definitely not answering. But it isn’t Dax.

  Hell, no.

  I switch off my phone and return it into my purse, slinging it over my shoulder as I take one last look at my home away from home. I’m going to miss this place, no matter how quirky it is with its sun-shaped skylight, the indoor garden, and the colorful bottle wall that filters the emerging dawn. And no matter how angry I am at Dax right now, how can I forget the hours we spent making love on that king-sized bed, doing it in positions I never thought possible. Yes, I’m going to miss this place, and as much I loathe the thought right now, even Dax Drexel.

  I make my way to the front door, hating each step that takes me away from the one place that gave me so much happiness when I needed it the most. Maybe Pearl Anaya Drexel’s ghost was looking out for me somehow, keeping me from pulling the trigger that night. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I do believe in intention, and maybe that’s it. Everything that she represents to her son permeates through the whole place—peace, love, and healing—even if it’s out here in the middle of nowhere.

  A beacon in the darkness.

  “Thank you,” I whisper to no one in particular before I flip the interior lock on the doorknob and step outside. Then I close the door behind me, and make my way to my car, getting behind the wheel and starting the engine. As the night’s condensation against the glass slowly evaporates, I watch my last Taos sunrise unfold before me, ignoring the tears that stream down my face until I can’t stand it anymore. Then I wipe away my tears with the back of my hand, shift the car into gear, and make my long way home.

  Chapter 22

  Dax

  Harlow’s car isn’t at the Pearl when I drive up after attending church services with Nana, Sarah, and Dyami. I’ve had to beg off going with them to brunch, and already, I know Nana could tell something was wrong. I probably drove everyone sitting in our pew crazy from my nervous foot tapping all throughout the hour-long service. But with the service dedicated to Mama, there was no way I would have missed it for the world, even though a part of me wanted only to hurry back to Harlow as soon as I spied the sunrise through my window.

  I’m not a religious man, but I’m spiritual enough. I commune through my hands, creating things of beauty with domestic and exotic hardwoods, and depending on what I’m building, blending them with forged steel, copper, and bronze. I’m there when a mighty three-hundred-year-old elm tree needs to be taken down because of Dutch elm disease, only to be given new life with my hands and my tools. The process can take years, with the piece needing to go through a drying process, but clients wait the same way they waited for Master Takeshi-san to create their custom furniture.

  Some people have said that just like my mentor, I’m respectful of nature and what it gifts me—and I am—although there’s nothing respectful with the way I treated Harlow last night, and it’s something I’m going to make up for, no matter what I need to do. And so I say goodbye to Nana and everyone else, apologizing for not making it to the brunch with them, and hurry to my truck. Sarah can drive Nana home.

  Right now, I need to check up on Harlow. I need to know she’s okay after I royally fucked up and went all drama queen on her. I called her a bitch, telling her that she’d have been better off killing herself back in the Hamptons than at the Pearl. Nana will probably kick me upside the head if she knew, and she’s not even violent in any way. But she’ll be angry as hell either way.

  Nana didn’t raise me to call any woman a bitch, no matter what she’s done. Sure, women can call me whatever they want—stuck-up asshole, prick, cold-hearted bastard—but I deserved those names then. Stuck-up asshole, because when I am in work mode, I am in work mode, and nothing can rip my attention away from what I need to do—definitely not when customers pay thousands of dollars for a simple dining table, a custom-built door, a bath tub, or heaven forbid, an intricate staircase that requires perfect measurements to match where it’s supposed to be installed the first and only time. Prick, because that’s what I am when I’m in man-whore mode when all I want is a one-night stand and not some damn commitment. Cold-hearted bastard, because when Madison almost bled out from an abortion she never bothered to tell me she had, I was there for her the whole time she was recovering in the hospital until she got better, back to work again a week later as if nothing happened—as if it wasn’t my kid she just got rid off. That’s when I dumped her, and she called me a cold-hearted bastard, among other names like slow-witted and illiterate. After all, I’m still dyslexic; you don’t outgrow that shit.

  But if there’s one thing I should have outgrown, it’s my anger. I should have reined that shit in. I should have taken a deep breath, counted to ten, or twenty, or a hundred. I should have turned around and fucking talked to her like the mature adult I tell myself I am. But no, I had to be an asshole, and here I am now staring at the space where Harlow’s car is usually parked and finding it empty.

  Maybe she’s in town getting breakfast or shopping. Maybe she finally decided to use the garage and park her car in there. I know she’s still got a week before she has to return to New York, a week for me to apologize to her and convince her that what we have together, even if we’d only just met, can work.

  But first, I need to apologize.

  I sit inside the cab of my truck for a few minutes, watching the sun beat down on the landscape in front of me. In the distance, I see the Villier brothers’ Earthship and know that they’re probably still asleep. I get out of my truck and hurry to the front door. I knock, but there’s no answer. I walk to the front of the Pearl, peering through the tempered windows and finding the place empty. I return to the front door and this time, I fish out my keys. To hell with knocking. I don’t care if I’m trespassing, but I’m going in.

  My hand trembles as I slide the key into the lock and turn it. How many times in the last week have I stepped through that door feeling like I was walking on cloud nine because I knew Harlow was on the other side of that door?

  But the moment I take a step inside the Pearl, my heart sinks. Harlow’s gone. I can feel it in the air. The place feels empty and desolate now though I still go through the motions of walking straight into the bedroom even though I already know what I’m going to see. Her luggage is gone, and so are the little items she’d arranged on the table by the TV, like little rocks and twigs she’d gathered along her walks around the Pearl and during our trips to Bandolier and the hot springs. And then there’s the pile of medical journals she had a terrible habit of reading while in bed when she should have been relaxing, marking passages with a highlighter.

  I gaze at the bed absently, perfectly made with not a wrinkle in sight. But I barely notice the details, not when all I can see inside my mind is us together in that very bed, the covers bunched down at our feet as we laughed, talked, made love and sometimes, just gazed at each other. How I loved it when Harlow studied me, her fingers making their way down my torso as she named each muscle and function, giggling triumphantly when she’d hit a t
icklish spot, and I’d trap her hand between my own to stop her from tormenting me any further. And those moments when I’d taste every inch of her, smelling the scent that’s like ambrosia, some chemical makeup that was created just for me. And oh, God, her laughter, her smile, her eyes. I miss her.

  As I turn back towards the door, a piece of paper on top of the pillow catches my eye. With a pounding heart, I pick it up.

  Dearest Dax,

  I’m sorry for leaving without notice, but I think it’s best for both of us that we end whatever we have here before things go from bad to worse between us. Please know that I’ve never been as happy as I was here with you no matter how brief that time was, and I’m sorry for lying to you about being on the pill, though I don’t believe I owe you an explanation about owning a gun. Whatever I do with it is my choice to make, but even if I did plan on ending my life that night, I didn’t, and that’s what matters. I did not end my life. Instead, I chose to live, and I met you, and maybe that’s how Fate works. But our time is over, and we both always knew this was going to end. You have your life, and I have mine, and now I have to return to my life and live it. If I should get pregnant, though I know I won’t, I promise to inform you, and from there, we can determine terms of custody and what’s best for the child. If I’m not, then you will not hear from me. I think it’s for the best. You’re young and you’ve got your whole life ahead of you, Dax. Live it to the fullest. Don’t let me hold you back.

  Love, Harlow

  Anger fills me as I read the last lines again, my vision clouding. Custody? Is she already considering custody? I pull out my phone, wanting nothing more than to call her and tell her exactly what I think about this crap she’s just pulled. And what does she mean, I think it’s for the best? What about me? Just because I’m 27, I don’t have a fucking brain? Sure, I fucked up yesterday when I lost my temper but still…