by Amelia Wilde
It was the right thing.
I think it over and over again while I pull on a coat, an Army surplus green. Between yesterday and today, the weather has started to turn, and the cold air has crept into my house. But I don’t bother turning up the heat. Why the hell should I? There’s nobody else here to keep warm.
Something catches the corner of my eye—something pink. I’ve never bought anything that was pink in my entire fucking life, and when I realize what it is, my stomach twists again.
It’s Sam’s shirt.
There’s more, too. A hoodie draped over a plain chair that sits in the corner of the room, for what, I don’t fucking know. A pair of shorts that she wore to sleep, when she wore anything to bed at all. A miniature hairbrush that folds up.
I go down the stairs, my legs heavy and my footfalls loud in the empty house, and get a plastic bag from under the sink. I don’t want to climb back upstairs—I want to sit on the couch and never get up again—but I do it anyway. I whip the bag open with an obnoxious crinkle of plastic and shove all of her things inside it.
Then I stand there.
What am I supposed to do with it now?
Get it the hell out of here. That seems like the only option, given the circumstances.
I grab my keys from the dresser. If I’m going out, I’m not coming back in, which means I’ll need to drive. I shove my wallet into my pocket. The bag hanging from my fingertips, I head downstairs, go out the front door, locking it behind me, as if there’s anything of value inside the house.
At the garbage bin, I lift the top. There are two bags from this week already, and the smell almost brings up more bile from my stomach.
I can’t throw her things away. I want to—I really fucking want to, just to be rid of them, just to have them out of my sight—but I can’t bring myself to do it.
I let the lid of the bin fall closed with a clatter and head toward my car, only it’s not in the driveway.
It’s not in the driveway because it’s at O’Malley’s, two miles from here. Because Harris drove me home last night. Because I was drunk off my ass. Because I’d walked away from the love of my life.
I straighten my back, square my shoulders, and point my wrecked self in the direction of the bar. It’s going to be a long walk.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Samantha
There’s an accident on the freeway that adds two hours to my travel time. When Michelle finds out, she tells me just to go home, to be in the office at eight on Monday morning. We usually don’t come in until nine, but I don’t know how I’d leave it any longer than eight anyway.
“There’s…there’s no other news?”
“I’m working on it.”
I can’t tell if it’s kindness in her voice or just an over-the-phone distance. I can’t tell if I’m going to be fired on Monday morning, or if it’ll be business as usual. But after three hours on the road with a throbbing head, shaking hands, and a voice that can’t quite sing along with the radio from being hoarse and shedding tears, I just can’t think about it anymore.
The sun has nearly set by the time I pull into the parking lot of my apartment building. It looks so strange, the complex, after my weeks staying at Beck’s house. His house is smack in the middle of a neighborhood block of houses that all look like they were built around the same time, compact buildings with just enough space for a little family. Or a single man working himself to the bone at a factory just because—
Just because he thought he didn’t deserve any more than that. He does, but I can’t think about that, either. Sitting in traffic sapped me of any will to consider this for another second.
At least today.
My apartment complex is one of the larger ones in Arbor Springs, and I chose it because it’s exactly a mile from the Ryder & Bloom offices. That and it’s relatively quiet, well-maintained, and has a free gym for its residents, which I use a lot in the winter.
I can’t even think about winter right now. This fall seems like it might last forever, given what’s happened. I’m not even sure I’ll get out of today. Today might last into eternity.
But there’s nothing to do but go inside.
I bring my stuff into my apartment in two armloads, the suitcase half-packed and the rest of my clothes shoved into the dry cleaning bags from the hotel. When all of it’s been dumped in the tiny entryway to my apartment, I take a deep breath.
There’s the finest layer of dust here, and the silence is only broken by muffled sounds from the other apartments. A little dog two floors down barks. Water runs in the next place over.
It seems so empty.
Normally, I don’t have a problem with coming back to my own space after a long day at an office with an open floor plan. I don’t mind not having to scoot over in front of my own computer, which I usually just use while sitting on the couch.
I wander through the living room and down the short hallway to the bedroom and bathroom. Everything’s exactly as I left it, of course. There’s no reason for anyone else to have been in here.
So why does it feel so different?
I sit on the edge of my bed and put my face in my hands. It was the right decision to come back down here without seeing Beck one more time. It was.
“It was,” I say to the empty room, but my voice lacks any real conviction. Naturally.
It wasn’t.
I should have followed him home, should have knocked on his door until he opened it, should have fought with him, if that’s really what I wanted to do. Was it? I don’t know anymore. I think I just wanted to fight. Being in Calley’s grip like that—it was awful. Heat rushes to my cheeks. I’d been so damn helpless. The last time I felt that helpless was when I lost the baby. There had been nothing I could do to stop the horrendous thing that was happening to me, either time. Even if I fought like hell.
Fighting like hell didn’t seem like a good option once Beck walked away, and now I’m here, second-guessing myself. My head throbs, the tension in my neck from the drive still a constant ache, and I lean back on the pillows. I haven’t bothered to turn on any lights, and I’m not sure I want to.
My heart beats loudly in my chest. Am I already used to being with another person that much?
It’s not like Beck is just any other person. When I close my eyes and I think of his arms wrapped around me, it’s like being on the beach under the gentle sunlight. Warm and comfortable. Not a care in the world. For the first time in a long time, I could relax. I didn’t wonder about whether I’d ever find someone like him. I didn’t wonder whether my job was keeping me from being with a good man, even if he thought he wasn’t one.
That’s not true.
I had my fears. I had my doubts. He wasn’t always perfect, either. He was a dick that first time we met up in the hallway. Why would I want to be with someone like that?
I’ve started to drift off in the semi-darkness of my room, but I push myself upright, disturbing the pillows. This is crazy. I shouldn’t be in here sulking over Beck, even if it’s been a long day. A hellish day. I should be doing what I’ve done since he left me the first time. I should be moving on. Moving toward something even better.
What that is, I don’t know, but I’ll find it.
And I’m going to start with…
I climb off the bed and go back out to where my bags have been dumped on the floor. I did some laundry at Beck’s house not that long ago, and—yes. Here they are. My trusty workout clothes.
I pull my hair back into a ponytail, wrap a hair tie around it, and strip off my clothes. The tug of the fabric against my skin reminds me of his hands there, and that sends a shiver down my back that I ignore by the skin of my teeth.
Don’t. I give myself the firm order. Don’t even begin to get swept away by him again. Don’t ever do that. This is how it turns out. This is how it always turns out, and now you know, now you can’t ever deny it.
I put on my clothes with quick, snappy movements, then dig my running shoes out of my
suitcase. The key card for the gym is in the little basket on a table by the door, and I snatch it up on my way out.
I’m going to get stronger, even if it kills me.
Chapter Forty
Beckett
“Drink.”
I’m sitting alone at one of the back booths at O’Malley’s when a beer appears in front of me, the glass coming down so damn hard on the surface of the table that it sloshes a little over the edge.
“Shit, sorry.”
Kirk Harris slides into the booth on the other side of me, grabs a napkin, and starts to mop up the spilled beer. I take a swig. It’s the cheapest kind they have at O’Malley’s, but I really don’t give a shit.
“Is this a pity drink, or are you asking me out on a date?”
Kirk gives me a look across the table. “Who isn’t sorry for you? You’re sitting alone in a booth at the bar. On a Wednesday. In the afternoon.”
“Fuck off. You’re here, too.”
“It’s my day off.”
“Wow.”
“I bought you a drink, asshole.” He says it with a smile that I half-heartedly return. “Where have you been?”
“What do you mean?”
“I haven’t seen you around the last couple days.”
“I don’t work with you anymore.”
“You don’t go to the bar anymore, either, is that it?”
I shrug.
“That’s bullshit, and you know it. I found out your secret.” What fucking secret is he talking about? Is he talking about how things went with Sam? Because I didn’t tell him about any of that, and I’m pretty sure she didn’t, either. My heart speeds up. What the hell— “You just come here during the day, like some pathetic loser.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “Yes, I’m the loser in this situation.”
“At least I have a job.”
“And nothing else.” I take another sip of the beer. “No, man, it’s true. I fucked up.”
Kirk’s eyes light up. “I don’t know. Seems like you really pissed off Edison Calley. He’s got a team putting in a whole new security system in the front offices.”
That makes me laugh harder. “In case of what? In case he attacks some woman in there again? He needs protection?”
“I guess.” Kirk’s smile falters a little, his expression getting more serious. “Hey—” He looks down into his own beer, then out over the rest of the bar. “Are you okay, though?”
I don’t know what this heart-to-heart is all about, though I’ve known Kirk for three years now, and he’s usually the guy looking out for everybody else. That must be why he’s asking me.
And the truth is, I have nobody else to tell.
“Not really.”
He nods, flicking his eyes back toward me. “Is it because of the job?”
“I don’t give a shit about the job.”
“Is it your girl?”
“She’s not my girl.”
“Sam, right?”
“Yeah.” The sound of her name sends a shock through my heart. It’s so strong that it makes me forget that my feet are killing me from the walk to my car yesterday. I don’t know what the hell has gotten into me, but being away from her and thinking about the way things ended—it’s done a number on me. Which is probably why I’ve been sitting here by myself, not even ordering a drink, for—for I don’t know how long.
“Did she go back to her job, or whatever it was?”
“If she even still has a job. I wouldn’t know.”
“She didn’t text you?”
“She said she was going back. That night. She didn’t wait.”
“Damn.” Kirk leans back in the booth. “That’s cold.”
“It was pretty fucking frigid.” I drink more of the beer, not noticing the taste any longer. The alcohol feels good in my veins. A pleasant buzz. Fucking miles away from a blackout. “You know…” Kirk isn’t the one who should be hearing all this, but there isn’t anybody else. I don’t want to tell my mom that her favorite of my girlfriends came back to town and I royally fucked it up. Again. And I don’t want to admit to her what happened eight years ago, either. “I’d say I get it, but I don’t. I don’t get it at all. We both—we both had our fucking moments, but I don’t know why she had to leave town like that.”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“She said we shouldn’t talk for a while.”
Kirk scoffs. He literally fucking scoffs. “And you listened?”
Now that he’s saying it, something is dawning in my mind. It was bullshit, and I shouldn’t have listened to her. I don’t want to be a fucking stalker, but that was a shitty way to end things.
“Yeah.”
“How stupid are you, Taylor?” Kirk is grinning at me from across the table.
“Pretty fucking stupid, I guess.” I shake my head. “Whatever. There’s nothing to be done about it now.”
He cocks his head to the side. “You’re kidding me, right?”
A spike of hot anger shoots through my chest. “I don’t think I’m kidding, Kirk, but why don’t you tell me?”
“Look.” He leans toward me, lowering his voice, like it’s some kind of secret that I was with a woman for a fucking blink of an eye. “I’ve never seen anybody as lovesick as you were the past few weeks. I’ve never known anybody to go and practically attack the owner of the company he works for because that man was a living piece of shit. Are you telling me you’re over her?”
I stare at him. I can’t believe he’s going there with me. Outside of couple drunken nights, it’s not as if we sit around and braid each other’s hair and tell each other our deepest held secrets. “Jesus, Harris. No. I’m not fucking over her.”
“Then why don’t you do something about it?”
“Because when I do shit—” My jaw clenches, tightens, and so does my chest. “When I do shit, it blows up in my face. She left town.”
“So go after her.”
“No fucking way.”
“Why not?” Kirk looks genuinely incredulous.
“I have—” I’m about to say I have work. But I don’t have work. I don’t have work anymore, because Sam came to town, Calley attacked her, and I couldn’t let that happen. That’s why I’m out of a job. I could be looking for a job, but this place—without her, this place is dead. It’s dead, it’s colorless. It’s nowhere I want to be.
I don’t want to be here if she’s not here.
“Wow, you’re finally getting it.” Kirk says it in a low voice, like he’s witnessing a miracle. Maybe he really is.
“I don’t have anything to stay here for.”
“No, you don’t.” He inclines his head a little. “Well, except me.”
“Sorry, Kirk,” I say, standing up. “You’re going to have to hope for a visit.”
I can’t get to the exit of the bar fast enough.
Chapter Forty-One
Samantha
I’m not at the office at eight. I’m not at the office at seven-thirty.
I’m in the office parking lot at seven, in my best work outfit. Well, the best one that’s not interview caliber, because I don’t want to look like I’ll be heading out the door in search of work the very moment I arrive.
Instead, I’m just here a full hour before anyone else will get here.
I look like an idiot.
With a flick of my wrist, I turn the key in the car’s ignition. This is ridiculous. What am I going to do, sit here in the parking lot for an hour? I have keys to the office, but since my work on the Cerberus project has obviously been canceled and all my other projects have been farmed out to other architects, there’s nothing for me to do but look suspicious.
I cruise back up the hill toward my apartment, then go past it, pulling into the entrance of a mall development that’s about half a mile from where I tried unsuccessfully to sleep last night. Every time I started to doze off, my heart would race—either thoughts of Beck would crowd my mind and my hands would search for him in the bed
, or nightmares about losing my job would begin.
I thought I’d steeled myself, but I guess I haven’t.
I circle the mall, which isn’t open for the day yet. It’s ringed by an access road with a narrow sidewalk. They should hire our firm to redesign it for them, add some benches, some nicer light installations…the kinds of things that draw in people who like to walk. And maybe, when those people are done walking, they’ll go into the mall for some shopping.
Of course, even if this mall hired the firm, I might not be there to work on it. Because I could be getting fired in…
Fifty minutes.
I kill the next forty minutes by driving aimlessly through the neighborhoods surrounding downtown Arbor Springs, the music turned up, then turned down, then turned up again when I can’t stand the sound of my own thoughts. Finally, at ten to eight, I park my car in a spot in the parking lot and head into the office.
The door opens smoothly under my hand, which tells me that someone else is already here.
The light is on in Michelle’s office.
This is it.
My heart is instantly racing. I want to turn around and go straight back out the doors.
“Sam? That you?” Her voice rings through the empty office. Too late to run now.
“Good morning,” I call back, forcing my legs to move me toward her office door.
In the doorway, I look in at her. She’s sitting behind her desk, face toward her computer screen, tapping at something on the keyboard. I don’t interrupt. It takes her a full thirty seconds, maybe a minute, to finish what she’s doing, and then she takes off her glasses and rubs at her eyes. “Sorry about that. Come on in.”
Her tone doesn’t sound like she’s steeling herself to fire me, but I don’t want to bank on anything this early in the conversation. I step into her office, and she waves at the two chairs on the other side of her desk. I take one, wishing stupidly that I’d brought a notepad. I’m not sure there’ll be anything to write down, but it would be nice to have something in my hands. I settle for my purse, putting it on my lap and folding my hands over it.