by Nia Arthurs
Twenty-Five
Asia
I pull open the suitcase I took to Vegas and reach inside to toss the dirty clothes. My fingers dig around the dress that I got married in.
Black.
Like the night.
Like a funeral.
I always pictured myself in a white dress. That’s what I was shopping for when Thad texted to tell me it was over. I didn’t know what kind of dress I wanted exactly—only that it had to be white.
Not too frilly. Not too tight. Not too poofy.
It had to be perfect.
So perfect that it probably didn’t exist yet.
Then I got drunk.
And all those lists went right out the window.
My wedding pictures are of me in a skimpy black dress kissing a man I just met in front of Elvis.
I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
A knock on the door saves me from making that choice.
I jump, my heart thumping eagerly when I check my watch. Is Hansley back already? He gave me the impression that he’d be at the office for a while.
My hands flutter around my hair, smoothing flyaways as I approach the door and prepare to face my…
My husband.
Holy crap.
I check my ring.
Watch the way it glitters and sparkles.
I have a whole husband.
It didn’t dawn on me when I woke up next to him.
When I saw the ring.
Or even last night when he took control of my body.
The conversation we had in the car was the first time I really, truly considered the fact that I’m married to this man.
It’s like waking up one day and suddenly becoming the owner of a pet.
Except I'm returning Sparky in just thirty days.
We could stay married.
Hansley’s suggestion has been running through my mind all day. I laughed it off in the moment. I was too stunned to consider it. Too shaken by the thought.
When it comes to Hansley, my first instinct is always protection mode.
I have to push him away.
Have to keep the lines intact or he’ll barrel right over me.
And then I’ll be lost in him.
Devastated by him.
Trapped in him.
Eventually, when the mushy feelings fade and the rubber hits the road, we might discover that we had nothing but passion and emotion to stand on. By then it’ll be too late. I’d transform into my mother—a bitter divorcee, stuffing lingering feelings for her ex behind petty arguments.
Mom might claim she hates my father, but every time she’s around him, the woman lights up. She’s secretly waiting for him to admit he was wrong for leaving. She’s waiting for him to come back.
But he won’t.
Because he doesn’t love her anymore.
Because they got married for the wrong reasons.
And he’s moved on.
Are Hansley and I that different?
I chew on my bottom lip.
But it could work.
We could make it work.
Right?
I reach out to open the door.
The smile on my face drips away when I see who’s standing there.
“Oh,” I say dryly. “Hi, mom.”
Her eyes narrow. “Don’t look so disappointed.”
“I’m not,” I say, trudging to my room and returning to my suitcase.
Mom closes the door. “Liar.”
“I’m happy to see you, mom. Especially if you’ve come bearing wedding gifts.”
“Why should I?” She lifts empty hands. “When the mother of the bride wasn’t even invited to the wedding.”
“It was a spur of the moment thing.”
“According to the videos I saw, it was a rum and coke thing.”
“I prefer margaritas.” My eyes lift to her angry ones and I cringe. “Not the point. Noted.” Grazing my fingers over the hem of my shirt, I ask, “Have you told dad?”
“Told your father his precious daughter went crazy in Vegas and came back with a husband instead of a T-shirt? No.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “And he hasn’t contacted me, so I’m assuming he isn’t aware yet.”
I blow out a sigh of relief. “Good.”
“You going somewhere?” Mom points at the suitcase on my bed. “Or are you just coming in?”
“Both.” I resume my task of taking the dirty clothes out of my luggage.
Mom snatches my hand and holds it up to the light. Her fingers ease over the diamond and a low whistle escapes from her lips. “How much is that thing?”
“I’m not sure, but whatever it costs, Hansley paid triple in that marriage chapel. I’m pretty sure I saw dollar signs in Elvis Presley’s eyes.”
“I can’t believe you of all people got married in Vegas.” Mom shakes her head. “I don’t know whether I should scold you or congratulate you.”
“Really, mom?”
“Your entire life all you did was study, plan and write lists.” Mom hops on my bed and the mattress bounces the suitcase closer to the edge. “When you were sixteen, your idea of a good time was reading books all night. I had more places to go on a Friday night than you did.”
“That was by choice. You know that.”
“I always knew you were going to break out someday. I just didn't expect it to go down like this.”
“Mom, if you’re going to scold me, just go ahead and do it already. This passive-aggressive, you made a bad decision while expressing yourself crap isn’t cutting it.” I arch an eyebrow. “Pick a side.”
“Watch your tongue, young lady. You’re not too old for me to send you to your room.”
I laugh. “We are in my room.”
“I know.” Her lips twitch. “So when do I meet him?”
“Who? Hansley?”
“Hansley?” Mom mocks me with an amused glint in her eye. “You realize your voice sounds like one of those singing chipmunks when you say his name?”
I pull out my makeup bag. “That is not true.”
“I looked him up.” Mom scrambles to the edge of the bed. “Tell me… what is it like being the wife of a prince?”
“He’s a billionaire, not royalty.”
“That’s pretty darn close though.” She looks me over. “How does he treat you?”
“Really well.” An image of Hansley slipping the sneakers on my feet pops into my head.
“Is he kind?”
“Very.”
“Patient?”
“Not really.”
“Does he shout at you or turn over tables when he’s angry? Does he have a temper?”
“Not that I’ve seen.”
Mom rubs her chin. “Do you love him?”
“I—” The words stall in my throat. “I’m not sure what that word means anymore.” I plop to the bed beside Mom. “If you’re asking if I get fluttery feelings in my stomach when I think about him, then yeah. He’s amazing, intelligent and bold. I want him to be happy even if that isn’t with me. But love?”
“Did you love Thad?”
“I did,” I say quickly. “We had all the right ingredients to make the perfect marriage—compatibility, similar interests, matching world-views…”
“Why is one love and not the other?” Mom asks gently.
“Feelings don’t last, Mom.” I stare at my bare feet. “If it ends, then it wasn’t love. It was something else. A counterfeit. I want the real thing. And I won’t let some butterflies in the stomach distract me from what love really entails—commitment, integrity, sacrifice—”
“Why can’t you have it all?” Mom wraps her arms around me and gives me a hug. “Your father and I made mistakes. I’ll be the first to admit that. Maybe we should have slowed down. Maybe I should have tested him to make sure I was getting the real deal. If I’d waited, I might have seen through his facade. I might have spared myself a lot of pain.”
I chuckle. “Mom, are you agreeing with me or�
�?”
“I have a point.” She laughs and tucks her forehead against mine. “I would endure the pain, the heartbreak and the anger again because it gave me you.” She squeezes me into her. “I understand why you’re being careful, but we can’t always make the perfect choice because there are no perfect people. If he treats you right, protects and honors you the way you deserve, then he’s the kind of man I’d want you to be with.”
“You haven’t even met him.”
“You know what my dad taught me?” Mom takes my hand. “You can always tell how a man is doing by looking at his wife. A woman will take and multiply whatever a man is giving her and give it back to him.” She winks. “If he gives her hell, she’ll take it, multiply it and give hell right back to him.”
I snort.
“But if he gives her happiness…” She grins. “The way you light up, the way you smile quietly to yourself, the way you talk about him—it’s a very good reflection, Asia.”
“Who’s to say that won’t change in five years or three months?” I gulp. “Or one month?”
“Honey, give yourself a chance to fall in love with your husband.” She kisses my forehead. “You might be surprised that what you thought you wanted was not what you needed.”
“And if you’re wrong? If we don't make it?”
Mom sighs. “That’s a risk we all have to take.”
Yeah, but is it a risk worth taking?
Twenty-Six
Hansley
Darkness creeps over the city. Inky shadows crawl through the streets below and swirl in the clouds overhead.
I’m up here.
On the highest floor.
In a building I own.
But I’m not immune to those clouds. To those shadows.
The darkness sucks me in.
Pulls me taunt.
Like a guitar string bound to snap.
I can’t move.
Haven’t been able to move since Svena left.
I’m pregnant.
Her words still pack a punch.
They still slam my gut with the precision of an assassin on his last hit.
I scrape the heel of my hands over my face.
That has to be a mistake.
I’m always careful. Always.
That was one responsibility I took over in any fling.
How could this have happened?
How could I have let this happen?
I’m pregnant.
No matter what, it doesn’t change the outcome. She thinks I’m the father and, if she’s right, I have no choice but to take responsibility. I’m not going to be like my sperm donor. I’m not going to make a kid, cause havoc and then leave the birth mother with no other choice than to give her baby away and then seek him out years later to call him ‘nothing’.
That’s not a freaking option.
My eyes fall to my phone.
To the screen that’s been silent.
Asia hasn’t called me yet.
Have to admit, I’m surprised by that. In her own admission, she has a thing about being in control. She likes when life follows her plan. I was supposed to pick her up an hour ago.
Is she cutting me some slack?
Changing?
Because of me?
I open my mouth, suck in a deep breath.
It’s a mutual shift.
Truth is, I’ve changed too.
Thought it was for the better.
But my past is here to collect. What the hell will paying that debt do to my future?
I don’t think I can face Asia.
Not tonight.
Not unless I plan on telling her that I got some other woman pregnant.
We’re barely three days into our marriage.
Barely.
And a revelation like that will destroy us.
Should I tell her?
How do I even start that conversation? ‘Hey, Asia. This girl I was messing with showed up at the office today. Guess what? We’re going to have a kid’.
Damn.
Hell.
I fist my fingers on the desk.
Draw it up to my stomach.
A low vibration hums in the air.
I turn.
Spy my phone.
Despite my despair, my lips curl up.
Asia.
She managed to give me an hour’s slack.
That’s a lot for her.
My fingers crawl over the desk and pick up the phone.
There’s a picture flashing on screen.
Our picture.
Me and Asia.
I remember her setting it yesterday when we were wrapped in each other’s arms, too content in the moment to get out of bed and face the day.
“I saved one,” she said, thumbing through the pictures on her phone.
My nose nestled into the side of her neck as I played with the ends of her hair. “Saved what?”
“A picture.” She turned. Showed it to me. “Of our wedding day.”
“Send it to me.”
She scrunched her nose, looking adorable and mischievous. “Why?”
“Because,” I kiss her gently, “I want you on my phone.”
“I get the screensaver?”
“You want people to think I’m a wimp?”
She laughs.
I stare at the picture now.
It’s the two of us standing outside the church.
No Elvis.
No half-hooded eyes and ‘I’m so drunk’ faces.
I have my arm around her slim waist and the entire side of her body is pressed into me. She’s looking up. Smiling. Black eyes gleam like two priceless diamonds.
I’m looking down at her, a soft smirk on my lips and a contented this is right expression on my face.
Drunk Me knew what he wanted.
And he got it.
He got her.
But the Past Me is trying so badly to screw that up.
My birth mother’s voice whispers through my head, “You ruin everything you touch. Just like him.”
My fingers slacken on the phone and it goes clattering to the desk.
Damn.
If I tell her, it’s going to ruin everything.
I can’t let that happen.
Inhaling deeply, I reach for the phone and send her a message.
HANSLEY: Still at the office. Might be here all night.
ASIA: Oh, no.
HANSLEY: You should get some rest.
ASIA: I can stay up until you get here.
HANSLEY: Doubt it.
ASIA: Is that a challenge?
HANSLEY: If I show up and you’re sleeping, what do I get?
ASIA: The satisfaction of being right.
Despite all the crap swirling through my head and the panic in my heart, I smile. Asia’s this bright spot blasting through the clouds in the night. She’s silver moonlight and a universe of bright, glittering stars.
Do I deserve her?
Hell no.
But am I letting her go?
Hell. No.
I can’t see her tonight.
Can’t look her in the eyes the way I’m feeling.
She’ll know something’s up.
We’ve gotten that close that she can start to read me.
I refuse to take the chance.
It’s just not worth it.
HANSLEY: Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.
She doesn’t immediately reply.
I wonder if she’s angry. Or annoyed.
Is she staring at her phone with that little wrinkle between her eyebrows and her eyes narrowed to slits? Is she pressing hard on the mattress, pretending it’s my neck? Or is her bottom lip between her teeth, being rolled around because of her nerves?
I wish I could hold her.
Hell, I want nothing more in this moment than to drive over and hug my wife.
But I can’t.
I’m pregnant. Svena’s voice plays an infinity loop in my head.
She’s having my kid
.
She’s having my baby.
She’s going to be a part of my life forever because of that. Birthday parties. Recitals. Graduations. I’ll be there. And so will Svena. And we’re going to sit together like we freaking planned this. We’re going to act like we care about each other because of the human being we created by accident.
I don’t even know Svena’s last name.
Her hobbies.
Her likes and dislikes.
But she’s gonna give me a kid with half my DNA.
Damn.
My phone chirps.
ASIA: Is everything okay?
HANSLEY: Yeah.
That’s a lie.
My first one.
And I’m probably going to follow it up with another—at least by Asia’s definition of dishonesty which includes withholding information. But that particular lie can’t be that bad when the alternative is destroying something that’s important to me.
Asia won’t be able to live with this. She’s not going to bet on the screw-up. On the playboy prince.
She’s going to take it as evidence that I can’t settle down.
She’s going to run.
Kicking out of my chair, I get up and pace the office.
A storm wreaks havoc in my chest, pulling at all my emotions and slamming them into giant waves that lash on the shore.
I can’t think straight right now. There’s too much going on in my head.
I should call Brett.
Or my parents.
I scratch at my hair.
No. They’ll be just as disappointed.
Just as worried for me. For my marriage.
I wish I could call Shar.
Damn. She always had the best advice.
But Shar’s gone.
I suck in a deep breath and slam my hand against the glass overlooking the city. The dark clouds are still swirling, gathering like the giant monster at the end of every superhero movie. It’s choking out the moonlight and blocking all the stars.
Unable to stand the sight of it, I grab my keys and go for a drive. Turning the volume of the radio all the way up, I tap my fingers against the steering wheel and pretend that nothing exists outside this moment.
Outside of this music.
Outside of the thumping bass.
The screaming guitar riff.
The broken-hearted singer crying about his empty heart.
I’m there.
In the song.
In the moment.
And then I glance up and everything stops.