by Parker Swift
I emerged from the tube and headed to my office, which I prayed would be unlocked at this hour, and felt my phone vibrate. He’d already called three times, and the first text had come in.
TUESDAY, 6:49 am
You’re ending this? Lydia, talk to me.
Why couldn’t he just let me figure this out on my own? He was apologizing. Maybe that should count for something, but what did it matter? We wanted different things.
TUESDAY, 6:52 am
I’m sorry.
TUESDAY, 6:53 am
Lydia, we need to talk about this. Tonight.
Why did this have to be so hard? Why couldn’t he let me just leave, escape before he destroyed me completely? I knew Daphne thought that somehow he and I could talk this through, but she hadn’t heard the determination in his voice when he talked about how he would never date, would never marry, would never have a life with someone. No. I had to be strong if I was going save any piece of myself.
TUESDAY, 6:52 am
No. I’m sorry, Dylan.
* * *
Dylan texted me throughout the day and called several times, but I doggedly deleted the texts without reading them and the voicemails without listening. I needed a clean break. Eventually he’d leave me alone. I took crying breaks in the bathroom and somehow managed to convince Fiona I was just in a fight with a friend back home.
By Thursday night I was able to stop crying while at work. By Saturday I was able to eat at least one meal a day other than a latte. And by Monday, Dylan had stopped calling and texting, allowing me to limit my morning crying to the period between waking and finishing my shower. I was slowly coming back into the driver’s seat, slowly finding my façade again.
That night I was home picking at the pizza I’d ordered when Daphne called. She only let me ask her questions about her for so long. She could tell I wasn’t ok, and was only going to let me pretend otherwise for so long.
“Lydia, are you sure you shouldn’t call him back?” she asked.
“Daphne, you should have heard him, back when this all started. He was so absolute about not dating. If I had stuck around he just would have talked me into stretching out our sex fest for another few months, allowing for another handful of emotionally-intense awesome weekends that ultimately meant nothing. What if was he never going to be able to get past that? No matter how close we got? Wasn’t it smarter of me to walk away?” Please say yes. Please say yes.
“No.”
“What?! You’re my friend. You’re supposed to be on my side!” I said indignantly.
“I am on your side, and I think you should talk to him. Listen, I’ve been thinking about this, and I just don’t buy it. I don’t buy his bullshit about this being casual no matter what. Sure, he said that in the beginning, but you have no idea what he was going to say now. I mean, look at the dude. He was spending basically every second of his free time with you, when he said he hardly ever slept with the same person twice. He’s a busy guy, Lydia, and not once did he pass you over. He was thinking about you when you weren’t around, texting you, buying you gifts, the works. I mean, I want to know what he was going to say if he had convinced you to talk to him! I think he might have surprised you.”
I sighed. “Maybe.”
“Look,” she continued. “I know he’s a formal stuffy Earl doing his Earl thing, but he also sounds like he really cares about you. Honestly, I think he loves you too, Lydia.” She sounded pleading as she spoke. She really wanted me to give him a chance.
I groaned in frustration. “Daphne. I mean. I don’t think I can go back—I just started to feel like one percent normal again. And by tomorrow, if I’m lucky, I’ll feel two percent normal. I don’t know if I can risk backtracking.”
“Just think about it, Lydia. You never told him how you felt. He never knew that the status quo wasn’t enough for you. He didn’t know that you love him.”
We chatted for a few more minutes, but my heart wasn’t in it. I needed to go to sleep, and I couldn’t muster much energy for anything these days.
* * *
The next morning on the way to work I replayed my conversation with Daphne in my mind. She really believed I should talk to him, that I hadn’t given him a fair shot. I’d never been honest about my feelings. I left that note for him because I didn’t actually believe that he’d be able to hear me, but if there was any chance at all, no matter how small, that this could work, I needed to be open, to let him in again. Wouldn’t I be mad at myself forever if I didn’t at least hear him out?
When I got off the tube, I gulped and sent him a text.
TUESDAY, 7:04 am
Hey, can we talk?
My phone immediately started ringing and his face showed up on my screen—a picture from his hideaway house, a selfie of us in one of the fields, smiling broadly at the camera. I sent the call to voicemail. I couldn’t do this over the phone.
TUESDAY, 7:05 am
In person.
TUESDAY, 7:06 am
Of course. Tonight? 7pm? Dinner?
TUESDAY, 7:06 am
Sure.
TUESDAY, 7:06 am
I’ll pick you up at work.
I sighed. That was over, and now I had the whole day to figure out what I needed to say. I was grateful to meet the security guard at the entrance to the office, unlocking the doors just as I arrived. I’d been getting there so early these days that he and I had become buds.
I immediately picked up with work where I left off the night before, grateful to be able to throw myself into something. Later in the morning, Lucy and I were organizing the clothes for the show, and stacking the Polaroids of the models, makeup, and accessories. We were in a fever, getting ready, and I happily immersed myself in the work.
I was quiet, lost in my rumination, as I picked at my pad thai over lunch.
“What will you wear to the party tomorrow?” Fiona said, trying once again to pull me into conversation.
“What party?” Had I been told about this already? I had been so distracted I wasn’t positive I hadn’t missed half of what my coworkers had told me lately.
“The Designers Gala? At the Savoy? Did Hannah really not tell you?” Fiona was looking at me as though I’d missed the biggest news since the Internet.
“Maybe? I don’t think so though.” I honestly wasn’t sure.
“It’s a huge deal, Lydia, and we’ll have to look stunning. Seriously—everyone who is anyone will be there. It’s the culmination of all of the Fashion Week parties. You should peruse the closet today, because there won’t be much time tomorrow. The show is at four, and the party is at seven. We’ll be in a mad rush.”
It was hard to imagine a party at that moment, but maybe I could get in the right headspace, given enough alcohol. I looked at Fiona, who was clearly eager to talk details about the party, and did my best to indulge her and to let her good mood bring me out of my own bad one.
It wasn’t until after four p.m. that I had a chance to even look at my phone again, but when I did I saw a missed call and two texts from Daphne.
TUESDAY, 12:07 pm
What an asshole! Is it true!?!
TUESDAY, 12:07 pm
Forget any nice thing I said about him last night! What a lying douchebag!
What was going on? I quickly logged into my email and there was one from Daphne at the top with the subject, Saw this. OMG. Call me. Are you OK? There was single link in the email and I clicked on it. A page from Hello! magazine popped up, and there, looking right at me, were two photographs of Dylan walking out of a London hotel next to Amelia Reynolds. In one his hand was on her elbow, and he was kissing her on the cheek. She had a huge smile on her face. His parents and another older couple were emerging with them, all looking jovial. In the other it was just the two of them, emerging side by side. She was wearing sunglasses, but didn’t exactly look unhappy. He looked weirdly satisfied. The headline, posted only a few hours before, was displayed in bold lettering, “Wedding Bells for London’s Most Eligible Bac
helor.” The brief article read,
Renowned architectural genius, Marquess of Abingdon, and eligible bachelor, Dylan Hale, famously known for having once been engaged to Princess Caroline in his wilder days, is finally settling down for good. Dylan is the son of shipping tycoon Geoffrey Hale, 16th Duke of Abingdon. He was seen emerging from the Goring Hotel last Saturday afternoon with Lady Amelia Reynolds, daughter of Baron and Baroness Piers and Louise Reynolds. And again yesterday, just the two of them emerging from San Lorenzo. Dylan, owner and chief architect at Hale Architecture & Design, was the youngest person to ever be awarded the prestigious Stirling Prize for the Cathedral Hospital in Canterbury and has been considered one of the city’s most eligible bachelors for 6 years running. A source confirms that the two have a “significant relationship” and did not deny an engagement. Lunch with the parents certainly looks “significant” to us!
Chapter 34
I nearly hyperventilated. I crumpled on the inside, deflating. I could feel the tears coming fast, and I had to get out of there. The past week of regaining myself was lost, obliterated. I had thought I had hit rock bottom, but I was wrong—this was rock bottom. And I thought I’d felt like a fool before at the coffee shop? Hah! That was nothing. Now I felt like a fool. Not only had I believed all of his caring gestures were real, but I’d gullibly fallen for the story he’d told me about Amelia, complacently let him guide me into the little secret place he’d carved for me. I wanted to vomit. The panic was rising. I quickly ducked into Hannah’s office where Fiona was sorting through the Polaroids of the models on the floor, and it was immediately clear to both of them that I wasn’t well.
“You look terrible, Lydia. Are you ok?” Hannah asked, concerned.
“You know, I think it’s something I ate. Would it be ok if I headed home? I’ll be in first thing again tomorrow to prep for the show. I’m so sorry.”
“Of course, of course,” Hannah said kindly. “Get home safely, and thank you for getting in so early this morning. Your hard work is paying off. I don’t know how we’d be getting this done without you.”
I nodded in gratitude, but I needed to get out of there before I lost it completely. I grabbed my jacket and bag and quickly replied to Dylan’s earlier text.
TUESDAY, 4:16 pm
Don’t bother.
Then I purposely left my phone on the desk. I needed to be alone. I left the office and began walking north. I just walked and walked, letting the city zoom past me. I passed the media executives pouring out of their offices in Soho and crossed the traffic mayhem of Oxford Street and Centre Point. I meandered around Bloomsbury and passed signs for the University College of London, twisting and turning down mews and streets just to avoid stopping. For the first time since I arrived I wasn’t blissful walking through these streets, but I was grateful for the anonymity they provided, for reminding me that there was a whole city here beyond Dylan.
After about an hour I realized where I needed to go, where I had been going all along. I consulted my A-Z guide to make sure I wasn’t too far off track. I entered Regent’s Park and headed straight up its long straight narrow path. My feet were starting to hurt, but I didn’t care. My eyes were wet, and I kept bringing my fingers up to brush away the tears. More than one reserved Londoner eyed me oddly, presumably wondering about the strange crying girl marching purposefully through the elegant park.
The thoughts were reeling through my mind, a million per second, all contradictory, all searching for answers. How had I been so stupid? Had he been using me? But then why bother? Wasn’t I too much trouble to deal with if he really didn’t care? Why even try to talk to me or apologize the week before? What would he even have said to me? Why hadn’t he told me that his lunch had been with Amelia and her family unless he wanted to hide it? And how on earth had I let my guard down so profoundly?
Eventually, I passed the London Zoo, crossed the street, and entered Primrose Hill Park. I looked up and began climbing the famed hill. The park was far from crowded on a late Tuesday afternoon. I saw a group of high school students loitering at the base of the hill. An older couple was walking down from the viewing point at the top. An artist had perched an easel and was carefully taking in the scene. There were a few parents or nannies with strollers and children frolicking around them. I thought how recently I had been looking after Maddy and Cole, and I was suddenly reminded about how much I’d changed in these few weeks. How alive I had been feeling but also how innocent I had been before, how simple and doe-eyed my life pre-Dylan now seemed. And I could never go back.
I nearly reached the top and picked an empty grassy spot to park myself, as far from the path as I could manage. I took out the long blanket-like Scottish cashmere scarf and wrapped it around my neck, burying my face in its fabric, and I cried. I gave in to the tears, to the slight heaves in my breath, and let go. I replayed every moment with Dylan in my mind, every touch, every sweet gesture and sexy instance between us. It was clear how I’d fallen in love with him—he’d made me feel so safe, safer than I’d ever felt before. He made me vulnerable, but my vulnerability had been ok, a signal that I was opening up and taking risks. I’d allowed him to be the first person I’d ever truly let take care of me. He made me love myself just a little more than I had, and not just my body. Every time I’d made him laugh, I’d found more of my own humor. Every time he’d listened so intently, I saw more of myself through his eyes. He saw me so clearly, and it had made me see myself more clearly. I’d been confidently unearthing myself. But now, now I felt more foolish than ever. Was I ever going to find that with someone else? Ever?
I took the photo of my parents out of my bag and examined them closely, searching their faces. I was seeing what they’d seen that day, taking in the same view. Was my current feeling what came next for them? Had they ever felt about each other the way I was feeling about Dylan? It seemed impossible.
I hugged my knees and closed my eyes and tried to just breathe in the view and relax. The sun had set, and the park had mostly emptied, but I hadn’t moved an inch. I dreaded the idea of having to go back to my house, for the reality, the finality of this to set in. I’d never felt more alone in the world than I did in that moment.
I wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but I looked up when I heard someone shouting my name. Dylan was jogging up the steep hill towards me. Shit. How the hell had he found me here? Why couldn’t he just leave me alone? Could this be any more humiliating? I stood and started walking away from him.
“Lydia!” He shouted from downhill. He still hadn’t caught up to me. “Goddammit, Lydia. Turn around. Look at me. It’s not true. I swear it’s not true.” His shout turned to a determined tone as he got closer.
I turned and was about to shout, but was caught off guard. He looked terrible, shattered. His eyes were bloodshot. His normally trim hair was mussed. His collar askew. His sleeves rolled around his elbows. But then all of my anger flooded back, making my lungs burn.
“You are such a psycho!” I breathed fire into the words. “How did you even find me here? Why can’t you just leave me alone? Are you getting off on roping me in, making me feel things for you and then blindly, cowardly standing by and watching as I crumble? Did you enjoy it each time I fell for your lies, believed in what was happening between us? You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”
“Lydia.” He sighed, and I heard a slight catch in his breath. He ran his hand through his hair, which was already standing on end, as thought that hand had been in that hair all day. “For fuck’s sake, I’m not engaged to Amelia.”
“Why should I believe you? It makes perfect sense. She is perfect for you, the perfect answer to all of your concerns.” I spoke harshly, angry as much at the world and myself as I was at him. “I mean, why wouldn’t you have just told me about that lunch unless you were trying to hide it from me? That was your ‘work lunch,’ right? And why else hide me from your friends? They’re not the press—if they’re your friends surely they wouldn’t run to the nearest tabloid
and reveal the shocking news that you’re casually fucking a nobody. I’ve never felt so humilated.” I stopped for a moment, running my hands through my own mussed hair. “You know, I don’t even know why the fuck I’m even talking to you about this—”
“Enough!” He shouted and interrupted me. “Christ, Lydia.”
I turned and continued to walk away from him, but he caught up to me and grabbed my arm. I looked up at him, tears streaming down my cheeks, and pulled my arm away. He reached back more gently, and held me by both arms, looking right into my face, right past my skin and into my core.
“Lydia, listen to me.” His eyes were so wide, so raw. I should have turned and kept walking, but that ever-present pull was there. I stayed. I stared blankly into those eyes, trying to keep my tears at bay. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby.” He brushed an errant tear off my cheek with his thumb. “God, I’m so glad I found you.” He looked into my eyes, and his relief was evident. “Let me explain. Please.” His words were soft, pleading, and his chest rising and falling, barely containing the energy radiating off of him. I stood there, still debating whether to hear him out. Wouldn’t it be better to leave rather than risk being sucked back in? But I was hopeless in his presence. I gave him a quick look of assent, and then fixed my stare past him, focusing on the horizon.
He covered his eyes with his hands in what looked like despair as he caught his breath. “I’m sorry. Look, I was holed up all day working on the building in Jordan. I’ve been burying myself in work since you left me. I was zoned in, and I gave strict instructions about not being interrupted. I didn’t know. I had no idea about those photos—none. If I had I would have preempted this whole thing or at least warned you. I noticed I was getting a lot of calls, but I wasn’t going to answer my phone for anyone but you. I haven’t been able to face anyone. God, Lydia, I haven’t slept in a week.” That, at least, was believable. He looked like shit.