by Amelia Wilde
What happened this morning?
What happened?
Or was it earlier, and I had no idea?
Guilt washes over me again and again, but I refuse to indulge it. I didn’t do anything wrong. Something must have happened.
I can’t figure out what.
So I was desperate to get back to the penthouse. Back to Annabel.
The moment I open the door, I know she’s gone. The stillness is different somehow. She isn’t in the library, in the bedroom, in the living room. She’s not in the gym on the next floor down. She’s not in the kitchen or the dining room. She is nowhere. There’s not a trace of her here, other than the clothes I bought for her and the book she was reading the other day, left out on the end table near the sofa.
Fear roars to life in my gut. For once in my life, I can’t tamp it down, can’t rationalize it away.
There’s no note, and she didn’t send me any messages letting me know her plans for the day. Not that she needs to. I’m not her keeper.
I can’t get out from under this sickening falling feeling. My phone can’t respond quickly enough to my touch, but once it does, I dial her number.
Straight to voice mail.
I try again.
Straight to voice mail.
“Fuck,” I say out loud into the quiet of the living room. The sun is wheeling down behind the city skyline, blood orange, and my pulse is pounding loud in my ears.
There’s nothing I can do but wait and see if she’ll come back. With every moment that ticks by, the warning in the back of my mind gets louder: She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone.
It would make perfect sense. She always wants to get out before things collapse, and I snapped at her. I started that fight when she was half-awake, and that was probably the cue.
I’m still drowning in rage and hurt when the elevator doors open and Annabel steps out, midgiggle.
“Beau!” she cries. “You’re not going to believe the day I had. It was almost as crazy as getting snatched off the street by a handsome hotel owner,” she says, then laughs again, patting at her hair. It’s clearly not in the form it was in when she left this morning. Tendrils are falling around her face. She looks beautiful. It does nothing to stop my blood from boiling.
“Where have you been?” It’s an effort not to grit my teeth, not to growl at her like a wild animal. I can’t stand this feeling. I can’t stop myself.
For the first time, she looks directly at me. The smile fades from her face. If I was less angry, that falling expression would break my heart. Shatter it. But I’m seething, hardly able to control it. “Beau, I—” She turns and digs through her purse, finally pulling out her phone. “I’m sorry. It must have died after—” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Mystery Man. I was out with my old roommate. I’ve told you about Cynthia. I ran into her when—”
“When you were gone all day without saying a word?”
She draws herself back like she’s been slapped. “Whoa. I don’t think—”
“That’s right, Annabel. You don’t think. You’re always doing whatever you want, with no consideration for the consequences.”
“That’s not true,” she spits, her voice bewildered and hurt.
“Oh, it’s true enough,” I say, all the ugliness spilling out of me. “I thought you left. That’s all you ever talk about. I know how badly you want to leave. Nothing is sacred to you, is it?” My lip curls into a scowl that I loathe even without seeing it. “That’s your thing, right? Getting out before things get difficult? Let me tell you, Annabel, things always get difficult.” I shake my head, hating myself on another level. “I doubt you could handle that level of commitment.”
“I—” She’s pale, red spots high on her cheeks. No more words come from her lips, but her chin trembles. That tiny movement makes me want to rush to her side, gather her in my arms, and never let her go—but I’m in too deep, and I can’t claw my way out. The fear and anger have joined in an unholy union, and I’m caught in the cross fire. The rush of blood in my ears is so loud that I miss what she says next.
“What?”
“Fuck. You.” She enunciates each word so it’s crystal, crystal clear. “I’ve had enough of you, Beau. You’re a nightmare. You’re married to your job, and trying to get you to do anything joyful or spontaneous or fun is like pulling teeth. I’m done. I’m done.” She spins toward the elevator and steps inside it, stabbing at the buttons while her chin quivers harder. “Enjoy your ritzy penthouse,” she hisses right before the doors close. “It’s all you’re ever going to have, you heartless bastard.”
Chapter Forty-One
Annabel
My chin is trembling like crazy, but I am not going to let myself cry over some asshole like Beau Bennett.
Even if I do love him.
Did love him. Past tense. It’s always going to be past tense with him because I was so stupid. I was so stupid to let myself get involved with a man like that. I let myself get comfortable, and that’s almost always a mistake. There’s a reason I’ve been living my life the way I have, and it’s because there’s no other way to avoid a broken heart.
I get down to the lobby and move quickly toward the doors, clutching at my purse. Is there anything I’ve left at his place? No. Everything of mine from the old place with Cynthia is going to be packed up and put in storage until we’ve both settled elsewhere. Together, perhaps, we decided over drinks, but nothing’s set in stone yet.
God, I wish it was set in stone.
I don’t know why I’m walking so fast. Beau’s not going to rush out after me and beg for my forgiveness. I saw the look in his eyes. He’s done with me.
At the door of his building, I steal a glance behind me to make sure. He’d have had to rush down all those flights of stairs or called the elevator up at some magical speed to be running after me right now, but there’s still a fledgling flare of hope in my chest.
The lobby is empty.
The hope dies.
I go out onto the sidewalk and look in my purse.
I have a dead phone and an ache in my heart that takes over my entire body. That’s what I left in Beau’s penthouse. My phone charger.
That idea is dead on arrival. There’s no way I’m going to ride the elevator back up there and ask him to please fetch me my charger from the bedside table. Not in a million years.
New plan.
First I’ll go to the drugstore. There will be a phone charger there to purchase. I will not cry in front of the cashier. Then I will go to the nearest open coffee shop or diner, take a table near the wall, and charge this stupid piece of shit until I can call Cynthia. She won’t be too happy with me—we drank too much wine, and it always makes her tired. Plus, I’m not sure how big her sister’s apartment is.
But I’m not going back to the Pearl.
And I’m not going back upstairs.
Time to make the leap.
*****
It takes a full forty minutes for my phone to charge enough to turn on. I should have expected it—the thing is probably on its last legs, even for an iPhone—but it’s shocking how slowly the time drags by.
The coffee in my mug has gone cold, but I keep sipping it. The white apple on the screen seems frozen. I pick up the phone and tap it gently against the surface of the table.
Nothing yet.
My chest is a giant bruise beneath a thick layer of buzzing numbness that makes my stomach turn. Worst of all, there’s nothing to distract me except this ridiculous quest to get my phone charged. How do I not have Cynthia’s sister’s address? A good roommate would have that information already.
A good roommate probably wouldn’t show up unannounced, either. It’s lose-lose.
How did this happen?
I ordered a BLT an hour ago, ate three bites, and put it back on the plate. Now it’s taunting me because it was a half-decent sandwich, but I can’t force myself to eat it.
Is it a breakup if you never said you were exclusive?
It’s not even a question I need to answer because I am never ever going to talk to Beau Bennett again. Never.
The phone chimes, and I snatch it victoriously from the table, but it’s a hollow victory. I’m still half-buzzed from the wine, but there’s no pleasant feeling left. I had a fight with Beau, and I’m crawling back to my roommate. My roommate’s sister. I’ve sunk so low.
Cynthia’s name is in my contacts, like it’s always been since we moved in together. I cross my fingers under the table and dial.
She answers on the fourth ring, right as I’m losing hope. This is already mortifying enough. I don’t want to call her a million times. It’s not even ten o’clock yet, but her voice sounds muffled. “Annabel?” There’s a shuffling, and then she comes through clearly. “What’s up?”
“Hey,” I say, and it all comes tumbling down on me. The fight. Having to get back into the elevator while Beau watched me. Worst of all, the truth. What he said was true. I am always looking for a way out, and this time there was a cost. A real cost.
I didn’t even get the chance to tell him it was different. That for once I was looking for ways to stay.
The wine and the heartbreak are a deadly mix.
Before I can stop them, tears come spilling out of my eyes, tracking down my cheeks right there in the diner. One strangled sob escapes from my throat.
“Annabel?” Cynthia’s tone is urgent. “Are you okay? No, you’re not okay. What’s going on?”
“This is the worst,” I tell her, grabbing at the napkin dispenser, pressing a handful to my face, and patting blindly. “I’ll be okay. It’s last minute, and you’re at your sister’s, and—”
“Take a breath,” she says. She waits while I collect myself. “What do you need?”
“A place to say,” I say, swallowing the next sob. “I don’t know who dumped who, but I’m not going back there.” My voice shakes.
To her everlasting credit, Cynthia doesn’t even hesitate. “Go outside, and get into a cab. I’ll text you the address.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Beau
One week later
Annabel is gone, as if she never existed in the first place. She’s gone, and everything else is collapsing in her absence. I don’t know how that could possibly be. She was not a central figure in my business, or in my life, until she was. And now?
Now everything is in shambles.
That’s overdramatic. Not everything. Most things, but not everything.
I’ve buried myself in the office for a week straight, pushing everyone to their absolute limit. As always, I am calm and measured. I save my biggest demands for email and couch them in politeness. But they are demands nonetheless, and I’m starting to see it in everyone’s faces at meetings. Even Linda is wondering what’s going on, though she’d never say it. She hardly lets it show on her face, other than a frown when she thinks I don’t see her.
It’s going to take some ingenuity to recover from the blow Edgar has dealt me.
I pick up the phone and dial his number again.
It rings once, twice, three times, then four, and then his voice mail clicks on. His voice mail does not identify him by name. I don’t leave a message.
This is not the first time I’ve called. Since he walked out of my office, he has accepted none of my calls.
If I didn’t have the payments in my ledger to prove it, I’d think I hallucinated the entire thing.
As the days have ticked by, I’ve started to wonder.
Maybe I invented the entire thing in my mind, ledgers and all. Annabel could have been a figment of my imagination, a way for me to be a hero in my own mind when what I really do is lead the most careful existence of all time.
Not careful enough, though.
It’s driving me insane.
I lean back in my desk chair and close my eyes. I am not losing it. I did not imagine Edgar Sykes or Annabel. As convenient as it might be to forget both of them, I know they were real.
They say time heals all wounds. Clearly a week isn’t long enough. I feel hollow, bereft. It’s embarrassing how deeply I feel her absence. I never expected to feel like this if she left. I expected to be sad. I didn’t expect to be devastated.
Linda bustles in, and I open my eyes. I don’t remember calling for her. Did I call for her?
She’s wearing a steely expression and carrying a silver tray. I definitely didn’t order lunch. I am not hungry. I haven’t been hungry since Annabel left.
Clearly Linda doesn’t care. She comes right up and moves my folders aside so she can put the tray squarely in front of me.
It’s my go-to favorite lunch. The steak looks perfectly done, and the green beans have been expertly plated. There’s an entire basket of rolls on one side of the tray and a glass of water on the other. There is even a cloud of mashed potatoes.
I look up at Linda, then back down at the food.
“You’ve got to eat,” she announces, and guilt washes over me, sharp and clear. Linda has been with me since I graduated college, and she has never seen fit to tell me what to do. Ever. If she’s worried about me, then this is going too far.
I can’t stop it.
“You look pale and thin,” she continues, folding her hands neatly over her skirt. “I don’t know what happened to you a week ago, and I don’t need to know. But you’re the head of this company, and there are a lot of people counting on you.” Her back is ramrod straight, her head held high. It’s in her eyes that I see the uncertainty growing. She does not want to be having this conversation with me. I don’t want to be having it with her.
I want Annabel back.
That’s not going to happen.
“If there’s anyone you need me to call, I’ll gladly do it,” she says. Then she turns on her heel without another word. She’s never been one for saying more than necessary. I’ve always appreciated that about her.
“Linda,” I say quietly.
She stops and looks back.
“Thank you for the meal.”
She responds, as is her fashion, with a nod and hustles to her desk.
Silverware gleams alongside the edge of the plate. I lift the fork and steak knife in my hand, testing the weight. It’s perfect. As it should be. It’s my own personal silverware.
I cut into the steak. I can’t abide by rare steak, but this is the perfect balance between medium and well.
God, this is pathetic.
If I’d known it would leave me this empty to be without Annabel, I never would have allowed myself to fall in love with her.
I take a bite of the steak and chew.
Flavor bursts over my tongue, but it doesn’t make a difference. It’s absolutely joyless.
A new anger sears through my chest. I saw off another bite and shove it unceremoniously into my mouth. I’m not going to let this destroy me. I’m not going to let her destroy me. I’ve never let a woman have this kind of power over me, and I’m not going to start now.
I swallow past a painful ache in my throat. I hardly taste any of the rest, but I eat bite after bite, chewing robotically to get it down. This way Linda won’t be carrying back a tray full of food. I can survive.
What I need to do is get to the bottom of why Edgar Sykes screwed me over. That’s what I need to do. That little episode set off everything else.
But I don’t know if solving it will fix anything. That’s the harsh reality. When the last bite of food is gone, all the anger goes out of me, falling to the ground like a puppet without any strings.
In its place rises a cold determination.
If I can’t have Annabel, at least I can have my life back.
I hope.
Chapter Forty-Three
Annabel
“Any bites today?”
Cynthia comes into her sister’s apartment in high spirits. I am not in high spirits. My feet ache, and all I have to show for today is a little more wear on my shoes. N
o more golden opportunities seem to be out there in the city. That’s what it feels like.
“Not today,” I tell her with a sigh. Her sister will be home any minute now, so I need to find something to do. I can’t be the obnoxious extra roommate camped out on the sofa all hours of the day and night. “I went out three separate times. Nothing.”
Cynthia drops her purse on the floor and sinks down on the couch next to me. “I have to say,” she says, looking at the British cooking show I’m about to pause, “you don’t seem . . . okay.”
I give her a giant, exaggerated grin. “What about me doesn’t seem okay? I’m doing all the right things. I go out looking for jobs. I’m busy charming people all over the city.”
She laughs, but then her expression turns serious. “You keep acting like this is about a job, Annabel, but that’s not what you said on the phone a week ago.” She’s right about that. Once I was actually in her sister Daphne’s apartment, I didn’t want to talk about Beau. I had zero interest in mentioning Beau’s name. How was I going to explain that? I fell in love with an incredibly rich and handsome man outside his hotel, and then he broke up with me because I’m too flighty? No. Cynthia might have no choice but to agree with him.
I wave my hand in the air exaggeratedly. “The rest of it doesn’t matter. I was still drunk and being dramatic.”
“You weren’t that drunk.”
“I wish I was drunk now,” I tease. “Is it time to crack open a bottle of wine yet?”
Cynthia leans back against the sofa with a groan. “It’s been time for that since noon.” She sits up and opens her eyes. “But seriously, Annabel, you don’t seem okay. Is there anything I can do?” She gives me a long look. “I’m on your side.”
I don’t have a joke to make in response to that. In fact, it makes me choked up to hear it. Instead of bursting into tears, I let out a heavy sigh. “Cynth, it’s—the whole thing was a mistake from the beginning.”
She rests her chin in her hand. “You never told me about the beginning. The ceiling caved in—”