by M. J. Fields
Dad laughed for a good five minutes about it before Tessa asked him to help her in the kitchen. When they came back, he asked Logan to try to be accepting of his mother’s new life and her new husband. We both know Tessa put him up to it, and they both knew we knew it, too.
“I’ve never heard of it, Ava. Ashley, it might be nice to try a new spot,” Robert says.
“The Spotted Pig sounds lovely, Robert.” I smile, and he is none the wiser.
When the car pulls up to the curb, Mom says, “Robert, be a dear and grab us a table. Ava and I will be there in a moment.”
Once the door closes, she looks at me. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine, just tired.”
“Is that why you’re being irritable?”
I can’t help laughing. “Spotted Pig, Mom? Who’s being irritable?”
“I’ve heard good things about it,” she says as if she has no idea what I’m talking about.
“Great. Let’s go, shall we?”
“Just one minute.” She stops me from opening the door. “We received word on New Year’s day that the Republican party is backing Robert in his bid for United States senate. Robert and I would love for you to be part of the team, Ava. It would look wonderful on your resume—”
“I have a job, but thank you,” I say, not wanting a fight.
“Ava, I am asking you to consider. I am also asking you to tell him you’ll think about it when he asks you. And do act like I didn’t tell you in advance.”
“So you’re asking me to lie?”
“I’m asking you to consider,” she says.
“There is no way in hell I will take a job with him or you after what you did to Dad.”
“That company was as much mine as it was his. More so, actually.”
I laugh snidely. “Because Landon said so?”
She narrows her eyes. “Landon knows how hard I worked for the company.”
“Landon is my father’s father,” I remind her. “You and he both fucked my father, who built that company from the time he was a kid, Mom!”
“Clearly, he doesn’t think so, or he would have taken it to court,” she says smugly.
“Trust me, I’ve begged him to,” I snap.
“You what?” she gasps.
“You fucked up, Mom.”
“Ava!”
“No, you did, and he hasn’t come after you because he doesn’t give a damn about money or fighting for what is his. Material things mean nothing to him. Love and family mean everything!”
“No, Tessa Ross means everything to him. Don’t you dare think any differently. And don’t you judge me until you have walked in my shoes, young lady.” She gets out of the car and looks back at me. “Tell him you’ll consider, Ava. That’s all I ask of you.”
At that moment, I despise the woman who gave birth to me. Walk a mile in her shoes? Pft.
I walk into the Spotted Pig behind her, feeling sick for another reason now. I have to act a part for her. I can’t believe I even try.
Here’s another truth about love: love changes, even the love of a daughter for her mother.
I sit in the corner booth across from old moon face and a woman who resembles my mother. I am miserable, moody, tired, and his face makes me sick to my stomach. As I watch him talk, I smile and nod, and when he asks me to be part of his team, I do what is expected of me: I tell him I will consider it.
I wish Logan were here for me to kick under the table when he was being obnoxious and too … Logan. Or to pass inside jokes and insults back and forth with no one being the wiser.
I wish all my friends who let fate lead them, the ones who went off to college and enjoyed the experience instead of trying to twist fate in the direction they wanted it to go, weren’t so busy “adulting.” I’m truly happy for them that they have found happiness. I’m happy for Liam, Harper, Maxi, and everyone else. Their happiness is true and real, but seeing it, my loneliness and my failure shine so brightly they burn me from the inside out.
“Ava?” Robert says.
“Sorry, what was that?”
He points to the waiter, and I pull my hands away so he can set my plate on the table.
“Sorry.”
“Are you okay, dear?” he asks when the waiter leaves. His question and the sincerity in it shocks me.
I look up at him and nod. “Excuse me, please.”
I rush toward the bathroom, afraid I may cry or get sick in the middle of the restaurant, but a crowd of women is blocking the restroom’s entrance.
“Excuse me.”
None of them move.
“Excuse me,” I say, making a V with my hands and begin pushing through the crowd.
Sputters, curses, and groans from unhappy patrons are heard, but I don’t care.
A man’s back is to me, and it’s clear by the crowd in front of him that he is the cause of the restroom being blocked. I can’t get past him, so I tap on his shoulder.
“Excuse me!”
He looks over his shoulder with a smile, and I immediately feel a hundred times more emotional.
“Ava,” he says with a sadness in his voice. He turns around and looks down at me. “You look beautiful.”
“I need to get in there.” I point to the bathroom.
His face hardens before he nods and steps aside.
“Thank you, T.” I push past the women and into the tiny, two-stalled bathroom.
Thankfully, one is unoccupied, and I run in just in time to throw up everything in my belly. Then I flush the toilet, close the lid, and sit down. I peel some toilet paper off the roll and wipe my mouth.
I hear the door open then shut and almost apologize to whomever it is that had to experience that, but my mouth is filling with saliva, and I am starting to sweat.
I hang my head down, hoping I will feel a little better, but the smell of the bathroom, although clean, makes me even more nauseous.
“Damn it,” I whisper as I stand and open the bathroom door.
Against the wall stands a drummer in cargo pants, a gray Henley, and a gray knit hat. His frown is heartbreaking, and his gray-green eyes are filled with so many emotions I can’t even begin to sort through them. His arms are crossed over his chest, and when he straightens himself, he looks as if he’s going to reach out and hug me, but he doesn’t. He shoves his hands in his pockets, instead.
“I need to get out of here, T,” I say apologetically.
“Let me call you a cab.” He nods as he turns and opens the restroom door.
His hand is on my lower back as he guides me through the crowd. He stops at the table he was next to, and I look back at him. He leans down and tells a beautiful and very sophisticated woman sitting in the shadows that he will call her tomorrow. I take that moment to quickly walk through the crowd toward my mom and Robert.
“Mom, I’m not feeling well. I’m going to take a cab home.” I grab my coat and bag. “Thank you for the dinner.”
“We can take you, Ava,” Robert says.
“I’ll see that she gets home,” T says from behind me.
“Ava?” Mom asks.
“It’s Thomas, Maddox’s best friend, Mom. I’m going to catch a cab and—”
“I’ll see that she gets home,” T says again with more authority.
“You’re on a date; don’t be silly,” I say as I turn to walk to the door.
He reaches in front of me and pushes the door open, and I walk outside.
He walks past me and stands at the curb, raising his hand. Two cabs stop, and he walks to one while I walk to the other, getting in quickly.
“Enjoy your date,” I say as I shut the door behind me and give the cab driver my address.
I look back as we pull out on the street, and he is getting into the cab as women stand there, waving as the cab pulls out.
When we pull up to my place, I pay the driver and get out. I shut the door behind me as another cab pulls up and T gets out.
“What are you doing?” I ask in confusi
on.
“Seeing that you get home like I said I would,” he says, shutting the cab door behind him.
The cab pulls away, and he walks toward me, not making eye contact. “Which place is yours?”
“Thomas, go back to your date. I can manage just fine.” I hold my hand against my still nauseous belly that is now filled with butterflies.
“I wasn’t on a date.” He walks closer. “I was with a publicist.”
“A publicist or yours?” I ask with a tinge of jealousy that is unwanted.
The way he looks at me shows me he sees it.
“It’s not funny, T,” I say, stunned that he actually seems to take some sick pleasure in this.
He smiles. “It’s fucking adorable.”
“Whatever.” I look down, trying not to smile.
How is it that his compliment can have the effect it does? I’m not starved for attention. I don’t have daddy issues or low self-esteem. I’m a fucking mess right now, but I haven’t always been.
He pushes my hair back and out of my face. “You’re blushing, Miss Links.”
“I’m not feeling well,” I admit, looking up with my eyes only.
“I kind of got that when you threw up in the bathroom at the Spotted Pig.” He searches my eyes, my face, my lips, my entire being.
I feel a chill go up my spine, and I shiver.
“You’re cold.”
“It’s January in New York; everyone is cold.”
“Then let’s get you inside,” he says, looking away. “Which place is yours?”
“I’m fine. I can walk all by myself.”
He sighs and looks up. Then he smiles and points. “That’s your place.”
I look up and want to crawl under a snow bank.
The sun balloon.
TWELVE
* * *
If you find love, hold on to it with everything you have. Life without love is harder than you think.
— R. Knight
He follows me into my apartment quietly.
“Thank you for seeing me home,” I say, expecting him to stop, but he doesn’t.
He toes off his boots and walks to the window, touching the balloon before standing motionlessly.
I take my boots off then my coat and hang it up before walking to the bathroom.
After I brush my teeth and wash my face, I walk out to find him still standing in the window. But now he’s holding my journal.
“Please don’t read that.”
“I won’t,” he says, setting it down. Then he turns and sits in the very spot I sit and reflect every night. “Would you mind if I talked to you for a while?”
I walk to the fridge and grab two bottles of water. Then I walk over and hand him one before sitting down. I don’t say anything, knowing in my head, I have a million things to say, to explain. However, whatever comes out of my mouth is going to sound as ridiculous out loud as it does inside.
“I don’t like how I felt at Maddox and Harper’s home.” His words come out slowly, like he is trying to make sense of the senseless, too. “I don’t like that you don’t feel for me the way I feel for you.”
I open my mouth to respond, but he holds his hand up, stopping me.
“I don’t like that no matter how hard I push the thought of you aside, you are still there. I don’t like that those boys had your body and your heart. I don’t like how these feelings”—he holds his hand over his heart then fists his shirt—“are so alien to me that I get very confused by them.
“I don’t like that I feel so possessive of you that it took me going to England to stop myself from hunting you down and fucking you until you had come so many times from my mouth, my hand, my dick that you could think of no one else but me. I don’t like the thought that it may not have worked out because the mind, the heart, and the body have to connect to make that happen.
“I don’t like having to read about women in order to figure you out because I have no idea what I have to do to make you mine. I don’t like planning to make you mine when it may be impossible.
“I don’t like that your father despises me. And I don’t like that I know, in order to truly win you, I have to win over all of the people who have known you for years because, in all honesty, they don’t mean shit to me. You do.”
“T—”
He holds his hand up again. “I don’t like needing to know your past, but I need to in order to get to know you more deeply than anyone else does. I need it. I don’t like you getting angry at me, and I don’t like hurting you. Ava, I don’t like saying what is in my heart because, if I do, it exposes my weakness for you. But I can’t avoid telling you how I feel because it makes me weak.
“I am not weak. I face every day knowing who I am, where I came from, and what I have done in my past to survive. I am not weak. I am every bit as strong as anyone around you. Stronger, in fact, because I am standing here and I am going to tell you that, even though you love them, I can love you better. And, Ava, make no mistake about this: love is love. It is that simple, and I am without a doubt in love with you.”
“T …” I whisper as my breath leaves me. I wish it were true. But not for me. Not for me.
“You are my goddess. I told you that from day one,” he says with more conviction and vulnerability. “Let me show you wonderful outside of the bedroom. Let us show each other love, Ava.”
“I—” My words catch in my throat.
He walks over and kisses me. His kiss is different this time—more possessive, deeper, longer, harder—and during this kiss, he pulls me up. Then we are walking and kissing, our hands and bodies are shaking, and nothing has ever felt so … right.
He pulls away, his face full of angst and pain, and I lean in, wanting and needing more.
He steps back.
“What are you doing?” I ask as I watch him reach behind him and open the front door.
“Fate brought us together tonight, Ava.”
I feel my face harden. Fate? I detest Fate.
“There is no other explanation, but I am not always trusting of Fate, either. But hope? Hope springs eternal. When you are ready for what I have to offer, I am less than twenty-five minutes from you. Take the FDR, cross the East River over the Brooklyn Bridge, and you’ll find me at 190 West Ave.”
“Thomas, don’t you dare—”
“Sleep well. I love you, Ava. When you have made a decision to open your heart to me and understand that I need everything I asked you for, come to me.” With that, he walks out the door, and I am left with my heart in my throat, tears of joy in my eyes, and millions of butterflies in my belly.
I must stay in that same spot forever, because when I finally move, I do so out of pure need to lie down and sleep.
***
I wake to my alarm, feeling rested. It’s Friday, and I have to work. I wonder how it will look to my coworkers when I walk in with a stupid school-girl grin on my face.
When I am dressed and almost ready, I send Thomas a message.
Morning, sunshine.
He replies, I am breaking my self-imposed “do not text Ava until you see her at your doorstep” rule by sending this.
I laugh, replying, I’m breaking my “it’s too soon to start a relationship rule,” but hey, rules are meant to be broken.
The best way to get over a broken heart is to allow yourself the opportunity to be loved, Ava. And I’m impatiently waiting for the opportunity.
Be my friend, Thomas, and be patient with me.
I have no idea what I am doing. I don’t want to screw it up. Jumping in with both feet sounds amazing, but do I dare?
He doesn’t reply.
Work is busy, but it feels like the day is going by so slowly it’s making me crazy. I keep trying to tell myself that it’s an awful idea to go to him. But the truth is, I do care about T, and I love the way he says he wants to love me.
Along with that, I told Luke no do-overs, and I am a woman of my word. I have also told myself to stop lying to myself and trying
to twist fate the way I want her to go. I wasn’t twisting.
I take a cab to 190 West Avenue, Brooklyn, New York. There was no reservation about this decision all day. There was none on the car ride here nor when I got out of the cab. However, I am a nervous wreck—sweating, shaking, and the nausea is back.
I reach in my purse and grab a stick of peppermint gum, hoping it will do something to stop all the saliva from pooling or, at the very least, kill the awful taste that may be in my mouth because of it.
After a few deep breathes, I start to walk toward his warehouse building, sending him a text.
Whatcha doing?
As soon as I hit send, he walks out the building’s entry, his arms around not one but two women’s shoulders, and they are all laughing.
Fuck. That.
He stops when his back is to me and reaches in his pocket for his phone. He reads a message, probably mine. Well, I think so, anyway.
Now he is still looking at his phone and typing. Then he shoves it in his pocket and continues walking.
Ava, no more rule breaking.
And I send: Hey, T, go fuck yourself!!!
He stops and reaches in his pocket, grabs his phone, and then he laughs out loud.
You are the worst kind of boy there is!
Send.
He shakes his head. Is that so?
I type a reply. I hope those bitches give you something incurable, you asshole. Then I turn and walk down the road, hoping he never sees me and telling Fate she’s an ugly, nasty, awful bitch.
“Ava!” I hear him laugh, and then I hear footsteps behind me.
“Go fuck your groupies!” I say loudly enough to know they would hear me, and then I flip them all off as I walk faster.
“Groupies?” one of them says as if she’s offended.
T grabs my elbow, and I turn around, yanking my arm away from him.
“Groupies, whores, bitches, which do you prefer?”
“Oh, no, she didn’t,” the taller one says, starting to take her earrings out.
“Want me to hold your hoops, skank?” I snap, walking toward her, knowing damn well I shouldn’t.