“For how long?”
I shrug. “Does it really matter?”
“It does to me.”
I run my tongue over my teeth and think back through all my interactions with Sutton, the good and the bad. The moments we were teasing, the times we simply held each other, to the early interactions we had through text. Through all of that, there is one moment that sticks out to me, one moment I’ll never forget.
“I had a bad fucking day. My mum called me, looking for money again. Her words penetrated the armour I usually wear when I talk to her. It was a fucking low for me, so I turned to my vices to smother the pain, but they didn’t work. That’s when I showed up at Sutton’s apartment, drunk, and in need of something. Instead of judging me and pushing me away, she let me hold her that night and seek comfort from her warmth. I knew then, I’d never be the same.” I press my forehead into my hand, coming up with my next words. “I know she’s better than I am. I’m not blind to how goddamn perfect she is, and I knew getting involved with her wasn’t the brightest idea I’ve ever had, but I couldn’t stay away, no matter how hard I tried.” I shake my head. “I couldn’t stay away.” And now I’ve lost her forever and my heart has turned to stone.
“And now?”
“And now what?” I ask, looking up at him.
“How do you feel about her now?”
“My feelings haven’t changed.”
“So why does she cry on the phone when I talk to her? Why aren’t you with her?”
I look him up and down. “I think you know the answer to that.”
“When have you ever let someone’s opinion stop you from doing anything?”
“Since the person I respect the most told me I was nothing, a fuck-up,” I answer, the truth flying out before I can stop it. Why do I have to be so goddamn honest? I drag my hand over my face. “I know what you said was the truth, it’s what I think of myself, so even though you apologized, it doesn’t erase the fact that you were right. I’m not at her level. I’m not good enough, never will be.”
“I was wrong, Roark,” Foster replies with sincerity. “I was really fucking wrong. At that moment, I was angry, angry that you two felt the need to keep your relationship a secret, mad that Whitney knew, mad that you were in another fight. It’s not an excuse for the way I treated you, and I am completely ashamed of myself, but the words I spoke to you were purely from anger and not from the heart.”
I look away. “You’re one of the best people I know, Roark. You care deeply for your clients and their well-being. You are loyal through and through, hard-working, and self-made. And above all else, you have a passionate and undying love for my daughter that I’ve never seen in another man and for that, I’ll always think of you with the highest regard.” He stands from the table, lingering above me as he buttons up his jacket. “Despite what you think of yourself, you are more than enough for Sutton. I suggest you find a way to accept that because if you love her, and if you can believe you’re the inspiring, unswerving, and trustworthy man I see, you won’t let her wait any longer than she has.”
He starts to walk away but I call out to him. “You think I’m a worthy man?”
Foster glances over his shoulder and says, “More than worthy, Roark. More than.”
And that affirmation just about brings me to my knees.
* * *
“What are you wearing?” Bram asks, taking in my clothes as I sit at the table. “And why do you have two black eyes?”
I unbutton my suit coat and pick up the menu in front of me. “It’s a suit, and you’re wearing one too.”
“Yeah, but you’re wearing a tie with it. You don’t ever wear ties. You leave the buttons at the top undone so you show off your man cleavage.” He gestures at my steel-gray tie. “And you’re wearing blue, whereas you always wear black. What’s with the blue?” He leans back in his chair and gives me a solid once-over. “Your beard has been trimmed and your eyes aren’t bloodshot.”
He processes and I let him.
“You don’t smell like alcohol either.”
Still more processing.
“You got a haircut. You look fresh.”
And one more time . . .
“Holy shit.” There it is. He grips my arm. “Are you going to get her back?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?” Bram turns my chair so I’m forced to fully face him. “What’s the plan? What changed your mind? Are you going to propose?”
“Slow down.” I glance at him. “I’m far away from proposing. I need to make sure she wants to date me again after I forced her to leave my life.”
“Just flash that grin of yours, call her lass—heavy on the accent—and then stick your tongue down her throat. Simple.”
“Not even you would take that advice,” I deadpan.
He smiles. “Yeah, that’s pretty shitty advice. Seriously though, what happened, what made you change your mind? Last I knew it was over.”
“So glad news travels fast between you and Rath.”
“Please, with the way you’ve been looking and acting, it was obvious. Did you talk with Foster?”
“I did.” I pick up the water glass in front of me and take a big sip.
“When?”
“A few days ago.” I set my glass down and shift in my chair to get comfortable. “It was a good conversation, one I think was much needed.” Foster helped me reconsider what both Rath and Sutton said. My family has no sense of unconditional love, manipulate me, have no moral fiber, and shouldn’t have any bearing on how I feel about myself. They were the fuck-ups. They always have been. I do know how to navigate relationships. After all, I haven’t destroyed my friendships with Rath and Bram, and given the shit they’ve put me through over the years, that deserves a fucking medal. And he was also right. Sutton doesn’t deserve to wait any longer. If she’ll have me back . . .
“Have you seen Sutton?”
I shake my head. “No, and for good reason. I wasn’t ready. I needed to see my therapist first.”
“Miss Stick-Up-Her-Ass?”
“Yup, the evil witch herself. I asked her for advice.”
“You actually sought her advice?” Bram asks, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.
“I wanted her take on my family and how I should interact with them.” Turning serious, Bram leans in a little closer. He’s been through it all when it comes to my family, so I’m sure he’s been waiting for me to understand what I’m about to say. “I knew the phone call was coming any day and I wanted to be armed with tools to combat them, because they’re the main reason I hit so many roadblocks with Sutton. When I’m with her, I don’t want her to have to worry about me and whatever fucked-up shit is brewing in my head. I want us to be together with nothing between us, and my family is a huge barrier.”
“Wow. I’m proud of you. What did she say?”
“She basically told me I have the right to say no, that I should say no, and anything my mum or dad might say to me in return is only to spur a reaction from me. She told me to be calm, to tell them if they want to have a relationship with me, they know where to find me, but I won’t be sending any more money to them.”
“And did they call?” I nod. “Did you tell them?” Bram asks, now on the edge of his seat.
“No.”
He deflates. “What? Why not?”
I smile. “I had my own way of saying things.”
“Oh hell,” he chuckles. “What did you say?”
“She called yesterday, like I knew she would. She asked for some money for food. Said they were starving. I listened to her pleas and at the end of her rant, I told her I’m sorry for not being there, sorry she believes I’m a fuck-up who owes them something. Told her I wanted and created my own life and she should be proud of that. If she can’t accept that, it’s on her, not me.”
“Do you believe that?”
“In time I will. And then I told her if she wanted more money, she’d have to take out a loan with interes
t, but in order to get the money, she has to pay me back everything I’ve given her first.”
“Shit.” He laughs. “I bet that didn’t go over well.”
“Not even a little. Called me some pretty shitty stuff, but I let it go in one ear and out the other. I know I’ll never have a positive relationship with them, but hopefully the phone calls will stop after a while. It’s a start.”
“You sound good.”
I play with the fork on the table, moving it up and down. “I’m not saying I’m completely better. I still got lost in a bottle last night, but at least I didn’t send them any money. That’s progress.”
“That is progress. What’s next?”
“Getting rid of these black eyes.”
“And then . . .?” Bram asks, leading me to my next topic of conversation.
“And then I see if Sutton wants me back.”
“She will. Are you going to do that tonight?”
I gesture to my eyes. “What did I just tell you?”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t wait too long. It’s already been close to two weeks. You don’t want her to build up hostility toward you. And since I’m pretty sure Sutton and her dad have a seriously close relationship, she probably knows her dad talked to you.”
“Oh shit,” I say as dread starts to fill the pit of my stomach. “I didn’t think about that.”
“Yeah. If she knows you talked to him, and you two are cool with each other, she probably thinks you don’t want her anymore. Wondering why didn’t show up at her doorstep immediately after talking with Foster.”
Sutton and Foster are super close. She’s the reason he came to see me, because she told him the truth. So she knows I met with Foster. Fuck.
The last thing I want her to think is I don’t love her anymore, even after her dad spoke to me, gave me his blessing, that I still don’t want her.
I glance at Bram who nods. “Yeah, you can leave. I’ll order something to-go for me and Julia.”
“Thanks.” I stand and start to move away when Bram stops me.
“Hold up.” He nods at my chest. “Lose the tie, you look like an idiot in it.”
Laughing, I loosen the knot, pull the tie over my head, and toss it at Bram who looks at the label.
“Stefano Ricci. Nice. This thing is expensive.”
“Consider it a thank you.”
“A thank you? For what?”
With a smile, I say, “For being a constant in my life.”
“Dude,” he breathes out, “don’t you make me fucking cry.”
I roll my eyes and leave the restaurant with one thing on my mind: getting Sutton back.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dear Yori,
That is the name my parents were originally going to give me. Yori. What kind of name is that? Not a strong one, that’s for damn sure.
Do you know what I love about New York City? It’s alive all hours of the day.
Do you know what I hate about New York City?
Traffic, especially when stuck on the Brooklyn Bridge when I’m trying to get to my girl. I’ve been in this damn cab for over an hour, listening to the same damn ads on the TV in front of me over and over again because the touchscreen doesn’t work, and I can’t turn the volume off. After an hour, I’m just about convinced this could be considered psychological torture and I should turn this cab driver in to the proper authorities.
I needed a distraction, so that’s why I’m typing in my notes app as my knee bounces up and down impatiently. I thought that maybe writing down my feelings might help me figure out what I’m going to say to Sutton when I see her, but frankly, I can’t think of a damn thing other than: I’m sorry, please take me back, and I love you so goddamn much.
I know that should be good enough, but a part of me thinks it’s not. Sutton is special. She deserves a big declaration. Then again, when has she ever been that girl? She even paid for some of our meals when we were out, even when I told her not to.
Maybe something simple is all she needs . . . is all she wants.
Only one way to find out.
Roark
* * *
SUTTON
“Stop staring at me, okay? I’m fine. I’m allowed to have two ice cream sandwiches if I want. I’m an adult, and I make my own decisions.”
Louise stares at me, a judgmental look in her beady cat eyes. I know what she’s thinking. That isn’t your second ice cream sandwich; that’s your third.
And maybe it is.
Maybe I like to sulk and indulge in pity food when I’m sad. There’s nothing wrong with that, and since I barely ate anything during the last week, I think it’s okay to replenish on ice cream sandwiches. Plus, I bought a four-pack box, which means I didn’t have much room in my tiny, tiny freezer. Really, I’m doing myself a service by not wasting money and eating food I bought before it goes bad.
That’s being a good person.
I take a big bite out of the sandwich and chew, staring at my computer as The Great British Baking Show plays. The only part of the show I actually like is the technical. Well, that’s not true, I like it when they call things stodgy or say, “what a disappointment.” The looks on the contestants’ faces are priceless.
“You know, Louise, I really think we should start using the word stodgy in our everyday vernacular. We would sound so posh. What do you think?” She hops off the bed and walks over to her litter box where she starts pushing around litter. “I’m going to take that as a no.”
Sighing, I lean against my headboard and set the rest of my ice cream sandwich to the side, not really in the mood anymore to eat. I glance at my phone on the nightstand, willing it to ring or make a text alert sound, but nothing. It’s been four days since my dad talked to Roark, and I’ve hated the absolute radio silence. And even though I don’t want to conclude it’s truly over, I can’t help but start to believe it.
If Roark really wanted me, I thought after he’d sorted things out with Dad he’d at least send me a text. That’s what we do, text each other.
But there’s been nothing.
I fall deeper into my bed, pushing my computer to the side, not really interested in Paul Hollywood destroying a baker’s dreams over focaccia bread.
My eyes focus on the notepad on my nightstand, and I reach out to flip it open.
My New Year’s resolutions. We’re still in the first quarter of the year and everything on this list feels like a joke, especially the last one.
Live life.
Try all iconic New York City food.
Go to a nightclub.
Spend a day getting lost in Central Park.
Fall in love.
Yup, that last one makes me tear up.
I can cross it off. I fell in love and I fell hard. If only that love was reciprocated. When I wrote that resolution, I thought maybe I’d find someone who’d want to spend the rest of their life with me. I never dreamed I’d end up getting my heart broken by a man with an Irish accent and soulful eyes that penetrate the heart.
Reaching out, I pick up the pink Paper Mate pen on my nightstand and put a check mark through the box that’s next to fall in love, as a single tear rolls down my cheek. I then roll over on my side and look out the expansive windows of my small studio apartment just as there’s a knock at my door.
Lifting up, I stare at the door, as if I have X-ray vision and can see through wood. When another knock comes, my breath catches in my throat as I run through my mind who it could be. My dad? It could definitely be him. I talked to him today, and he didn’t like how sad I sounded on the phone.
It could be Maddie. She was begging me to go out with her tonight, but I told her I wasn’t feeling well. She didn’t buy it.
It could be Roark . . .
Who am I kidding?
I flip my covers off, walk over to the door, reach for the knob, and open it up only to find no one.
What?
I stick my head out the door and look to the right toward the front entrance,
and that’s when I see his retreating back, decked out in a navy-blue suit, his hair freshly trimmed.
“Roark?” I ask, my voice catching in my throat. He whips around, revealing two dark circles under his eyes and a worried expression on his face.
“Sutton. You’re home.”
“Yeah,” I answer awkwardly, as nausea rolls around in my stomach from nerves. “Did you, uh, want something?”
He takes a step forward, his hand gripping the back of his neck. “I was hoping I could talk to you.”
Don’t get your hopes up, Sutton. This could be absolutely nothing.
“Sure,” I say, stepping to the side and letting him in my apartment. When he passes me, I glance down at my green plaid shorts and matching top. Why don’t I wear nicer things when I’m eating my feelings?
Once the door is shut, he turns around, and that’s when I get a good look at his face. His nose is slightly swollen and both eyes have a disturbing shade of purple under them, cluing me in that he got into yet another fight.
When he notices me taking in his bruises, he says, “I, uh . . . did something stupid.”
“Looks like it.” I lean against me door and twist my hands in my shirt, unsure what I should do. My initial instinct is to throw myself at him and kiss his face until it’s better. My second instinct is to walk up to him and kick him in the balls for putting me through hell over the past two weeks. I’ll wait to see what he has to say before I take action.
“Can we sit down?”
“I prefer to stand, but if you want to sit, go ahead.” There’s no way I can sit on a bed with him right now, not when it feels like my heart is pounding in my throat.
Taking my invitation, he sits on my bed and stares at his hands for a few seconds before saying, “I’m . . .” He glances up and his eyes fixate on the notebook on my nightstand.
My stomach drops, and I see the moment he reads my last resolution because his brow creases as he looks at me. He points to the notebook and says, “What’s that?”
Diary of a Bad Boy Page 32