The Stopover

by Swan, T L

  “I miss you.”

  I stop and close my eyes.

  “I can’t . . .” He pauses. “I can’t move on until I know we’re okay.”

  I frown and turn back toward him.

  His face is pained, and he appears nervous.

  Our eyes are locked, mine filled with tears . . . his with regret. He turns back and looks at his car, which I didn’t notice parked in the dark. “I brought you something.”

  He nearly runs to the car and then retrieves a huge bouquet of yellow roses and walks back and passes them to me.

  I stare at him in confusion. “Yellow roses?”

  He smiles softly. “Yellow roses are supposed to symbolize friendship.”

  “You want to be my friend?”

  He nods hopefully. “We can start fresh?”

  Something snaps deep inside of me. “You’ve got a fucking nerve,” I sneer.

  His face falls.

  “You waltz back here after breaking my fucking heart and give me yellow fucking roses!” I scream.

  He steps back, shocked by my venom.

  “I wouldn’t be friends with a selfish prick like you if you were the last fucking person on earth!” I yell as the angry tears run down my face. I completely lose control and start ripping the roses to shreds, and I break the heads and smash them up and then throw them on the ground and jump and stomp on them. I want to hurt these stupid roses like he’s hurt me.

  His haunted eyes watch on.

  Adrenaline is coursing through my body, and still unsatisfied with the state of the roses, I pick them up and walk out to the road and throw them as hard as I can out onto the asphalt. A passing bus runs them over.

  “That’s what you can do with your friendship,” I sneer as I stomp past him.

  I open the door and walk into the building without looking back. I hit the elevator button with force, and I can see him standing at the glass door, watching me, in my peripheral vision. Tears are streaming down my face, and I’m furious that I let him see how crazy I am.

  How crazy he’s made me.

  The elevator doors open, and I march in and hit the door button.

  The doors close, and I screw up my face in tears and sob out loud.

  Damn you, Jameson Miles . . .

  Chapter 24

  There are moments in your life that you know you will remember forever.

  Certain situations that are poignant and have shaped who you are.

  Last night was one of them.

  What kind of psycho rips roses to shreds with her bare hands while screaming like a lunatic? Shame runs through me.

  This . . . is the level I’ve stooped to.

  Strangely enough, last night was the first time I’ve slept well in weeks. As if releasing a little of the steam in the pressure cooker has somehow calmed my soul.

  I don’t feel guilty for being so mean . . . normally, I would. But Jameson Miles is an enigma all of his own . . . one that I can no longer pity.

  “I wouldn’t be friends with a selfish prick like you if you were the last person left on earth,” I said . . . screamed actually. It was a mean thing to say—the worst—but he got what he fucking deserved. The doors of the elevator in my building open, and I step out into the foyer and walk out into the street.

  “What the hell happened here?” I hear the woman in front of me mutter under her breath as she stops and looks around at the carnage.

  There are yellow rose petals strewn everywhere; flower buds that are squashed and bruised lie on the concrete. Out on the road the carcass of the flattened bouquet with the big cream satin bow lies.

  Jesus . . .

  I drop my head and stomp past the crazy. I glance up at the ceiling to see where the cameras are. I wonder if anyone saw it on the security footage.

  I hope not . . . how embarrassing.

  I get on my bus and open my Kindle. I’m not reading my usual rom-com genre. I can’t stand the thought of all that love bullshit. I’m mixing it up and reading Pet Sematary—maybe that’s it. Maybe Steven King is taking me to the dark side. The side where you don’t take shit, and payback on yellow roses is due.

  Good for him . . . bring it the fuck on. I swipe to the next page.

  Every dog has its day.

  Jameson

  I sip my coffee as I sit in the café across the street from Miles Media. I’ve been coming here the last few days before work. Alan told me that Emily used to come here with her friends. I’m hoping to run into one of them.

  Why? I don’t know.

  Emily’s words from last night are playing over and over in my mind.

  I wouldn’t be friends with a selfish prick like you if you were the last person on earth . . . I wouldn’t want to be friends with me either if I were her.

  I’ve never seen her so angry . . . or thin. She’s lost a lot of weight. I hate that I’ve put her through this shit.

  I sip my coffee, and I feel a hand rest on my shoulder.

  “Hey,” Tristan says as he sits down beside me on a stool.

  “Hi.”

  “Looking for Emily?” he says casually.

  “Nope.”

  “Liar,” he replies with a cheeky grin. “Hey, the boys and I have organized a trip to Vegas for us this weekend. The jet’s all lined up.”

  I screw up my face. I could think of nothing worse.

  “It’ll be great. Drinking, gambling. Join some beautiful women to the Miles-High Club. You need to snap out of this and get back on the horse. I’m thinking a blonde or two . . . forget about the brunettes for a while, and besides, we need to celebrate your innocence. Elliot and Christopher fly in on Friday.” He winks as he tries to sweeten the deal.

  “Yeah, that sounds completely shit,” I mutter dryly.

  “I don’t care what you say. You’re coming.”

  I stare straight ahead. I’ve lost the ability to get excited about anything lately.

  He falls serious. “I’m worried about you, Jay.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “We all are. You’re acting completely out of character.”

  “I’m fine,” I murmur into my coffee. I look around once more, remembering why I’m here.

  “Why don’t you just go to her house if you want to see her?” he says.

  “I tried that last night.”

  “How did it go?”

  I puff air into my cheeks. “She went postal and . . .” I pause as I try to explain the situation. “I took her yellow roses, and she smashed the fuck out of them like a madman.”

  “Yeah?” He smirks and then smiles broadly as if impressed. “Why would you take her yellow roses and not red ones?”

  “I thought . . .” I exhale heavily. “I thought yellow was safe, signifying friendship so that she would talk to me. I just wanted to talk to her.”

  “You didn’t tell her that, though, did you?”

  “Yeah.”

  He gives a subtle shake of the head as if I’m stupid. “How did that go down?”

  “That’s about the time she turned into the Hulk.”

  “I don’t blame her, to be honest.”

  My eyes flick to him in question.

  “You well and truly fucked her over.”

  “I did not fuck her over,” I spit. “I’m trying to protect her.”

  “Listen, you can lie to yourself all you want to. But don’t bother lying to me. You’re a bad liar . . . the worst.”

  “Fuck off, man; it’s too early for this shit.” I sigh.

  “Tristan,” the girl behind the counter calls. He stands and gets his coffee and slaps me on the back. “You staying here, being a miserable prick?”

  “Fuck off,” I grunt. He smiles and leaves without another word.

  I exhale heavily and stare back down at my coffee. I get a vision of the hurt on Emily’s face last night, and my chest constricts. I keep going over and over it in my mind, and I just want to know that she’s all right. Maybe then I can forgive myself and stop thinking about her every mi
nute of every day. I take out my phone. I’ll call her.

  No, she will only hang up. I’ll text . . . what will I write?

  Good morning.

  Murder any roses today?

  I hit send and wait. I drink my coffee and stare at my phone as I wait for her to reply . . . she doesn’t.

  Twenty minutes later, I text her again.

  Please talk to me.

  I order another coffee as I wait. It’s 8:15 a.m., and I know she hasn’t started work yet. I also know that she would have her phone on her and is purposely ignoring my texts.

  Fuck this. I dial her number, and it rings . . . I close my eyes as I wait.

  It rings and then declines.

  Fuck. She hit reject.

  I text her.

  Answer your phone or I’m coming over there.

  My text doesn’t go through . . . huh? I call again, and the call won’t connect. What’s going on? I try again . . . nothing. For ten minutes, I continue to try to get through. I can’t. What’s going on?

  I type into Google, “Why can’t I text or call someone?” The answer bounces back that cuts to the bone.

  “You’ve been blocked.”

  She blocked my number? What the fuck?

  Anger surges through me; nobody has ever blocked me before. Not in business or personal . . . and never a woman.

  She really doesn’t want to be friends with me . . . in any shape or form.

  My heart sinks. How the hell did I fuck this up so badly?

  I stare at the Miles Media building through the window, and the thought of going there today and playing the facade that everything’s okay is just too much.

  I text Tristan.

  I’m taking the day off.

  See you tomorrow.

  I sit and finish my coffee, and a song comes on—“Bad Liar” by Imagine Dragons.

  I listen . . . Tristan just called me a bad liar, and ironically, the lyrics ring true. With a sad damnation to hell, I drag myself out of the café and into a cab.

  “Where to?” the cab driver asks.

  “Park Avenue.”

  The cab pulls out into the traffic, and I put my headphones in, hit Spotify, and listen to the song again.

  “Bad Liar” . . . my new anthem.

  I flick through the travel images on Google. I’m going to take a skiing trip.

  Switzerland, I think.

  I need to get away. New York is just too small . . . or suffocating . . . or life threatening . . . or something that I just can’t quite put my finger on. Either way, I’m getting the hell out of here.

  She blocked me.

  I might work from London for a while . . . yeah, I could do that. Would make sense.

  And I would get to spend more time with Elliot and Christopher. My heart drops as I remember someone else who lives in London. I’d be closer to Claudia, and I broke her heart the other day again too.

  She wanted me back, and I told her that I don’t think I ever loved her . . . she got angry, and basically, it’s a fucked-up situation all around.

  No, I can’t work out of London . . . too complicated. Scratch that idea.

  How long will I go to Switzerland for? I go over the dates. Maybe a month?

  Hmm . . . I bring up my work diary and begin to go through it. I’m owed a lot of holidays, and I guess I may as well take some.

  My security phone goes off, and I answer. “Hello.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Miles. Mrs. Miles is here in the foyer to see you.”

  I close my eyes. Shit. “Yes, thank you. Please let her in.”

  Moments later the elevator doors open, and my mother steps out. Her face lights up when she sees me. “Hello, darling.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  She takes me into her arms and holds me close for a moment as if sensing something is off.

  “What are you doing here?” I smile as I pull out of her arms.

  “I should ask you the same thing,” she replies as she follows me and sits down on the couch.

  “I just . . .” I pause as I try to articulate my lie. “I just need some time off after all that embezzlement shit.”

  Her eyes hold mine. “Good, I’m glad.”

  “Can I get you anything?” I stand, uncomfortable lying to her.

  “Some tea, please, darling.”

  I walk into the kitchen and begin to make her tea. I take out her fine china pink-and-gold teapot and cup, the one she always drinks from when she’s here. She follows me and sits at the kitchen counter.

  “Did Tristan send you?” I ask with my back to her.

  “He’s worried about you.”

  “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that. What’s going on with Emily?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why not?”

  “Emily and I aren’t together anymore.”

  “Because?”

  I keep making the tea.

  “Look at me, Jameson.”

  I drag my eyes to hers.

  “Why aren’t you with Emily anymore?” she asks.

  “Emily deserves better.”

  She watches me.

  “Ferrara.” I frown as I get my wording right. “I don’t want this life for her.”

  “You don’t want her being with a workaholic, you mean?”

  I shrug as I pass her the cup of tea.

  “So, you ended it with her . . . for her?”

  I purse my lips as I remain silent.

  “Well that proves it, Jameson.”

  “Proves what?”

  “That she’s the one.”

  I frown.

  “You know, ever since you were a tiny little boy, you’ve done this.”

  “Done what?” What is she talking about?

  “When you were very little, maybe three or four years old, you used to have this little pale-blue pickup truck.”

  I listen.

  “You loved it. It fit in the palm of your hand, and you always carried it around. It was your pride and joy.”

  I smile softly.

  “The thing is, Tristan loved it too. He had his own, but yours was the special one. And even though you loved that truck with all of your heart, the moment that Tristan got upset about anything . . . you would give it to him. You couldn’t stand seeing him upset, and you felt responsible to make him happy.”

  I frown.

  “As you grew up, I watched you do this many times, Jameson, with many things. To the outside world you were aloof and cold, but for the ones you loved, you would do anything to make them happy. You have more heart than sense.”

  My eyes hold hers.

  “Why do you think that Emily wouldn’t be happy with you?”

  I stare at her for a moment as a clusterfuck of emotion runs through me. “Because eventually, I’m going to let her down,” I whisper.

  Her face softens. “Jameson darling, how? By working too hard? By being too honorable to your family business?”

  I close my eyes.

  “I’m in love with a man just like you, Jameson. You know him well, your father. He, like you, is a workaholic.”

  “How . . . ?” I frown. “I don’t know how to do both, Mom.”

  “Then work it out.”

  I stare at her.

  “Emily loves you, Jameson, not your money . . . or your company. She loves you . . . just you.”

  I drop my head.

  “Stop being so damn selfless, and do what you want to do.”

  “I don’t know what that is anymore,” I whisper.

  “Oh, nonsense,” she snaps. “Tell me something. If you were on a deserted island, who would you want by your side?”

  “Emily,” I whisper without hesitation.

  “Being in love is like being on a deserted island, Jameson. You focus on them and them only, and you make everything else fit around that person.”

  I inhale deeply.

  “If you don’t want to travel into the future with her, don’t. But don’t you dare p
ull away from your own happiness to protect her.”

  I clench my jaw as I listen.

  “How one man can be so ruthless in business and so giving to those he loves, I will never understand . . . but, the fact that your father is your carbon copy, I know it’s possible.” She cups my face in her hand. “The man I love and the man that the world knows are two very different men . . . and that’s just how I like it. I like that I’m the only one who gets his softness.”

  I smile softly.

  “I am your father’s world, Jameson; he made it work around the company. Never once have I felt neglected or unloved. I have always come first to him.”

  I stare at her as her words roll around in my head.

  “The man that Emily loves and the one that you think you are are two very different men. You need to allow yourself to be who you are with Emily and be the Jameson Miles that the world knows. It’s not one or the other like you think it is. The fact that you have put Emily’s happiness ahead of your own cements that she is the one who has been chosen for you.”

  “She won’t speak to me,” I whisper.

  She stands. “Then make her listen.” She takes me into her arms. “Go and get your love, and grab her with both hands . . . and never let her go.” She kisses me on the cheek and, without another word, leaves my apartment.

  My mother’s words ring home, loud and clear.

  You need to allow yourself to be who you are with Emily and be the Jameson Miles that the world knows. It’s not one or the other like you think it is.

  It’s five o’clock in the morning, and I lie and stare at the ceiling of my living room from my couch. I’m still fully dressed in the clothes I wore yesterday. I haven’t slept all night.

  My mother’s words keep going over and over in my head.

  She thinks that I can be both the man that Emily wants and the man that I need to be.

  As I see it, I have three options. The first is to walk away from Miles Media so that I can be a man worth being with. The second is to let Emily leave my life forever. My stomach twists as I imagine living my life without her.

  The third is to try to be both . . . is it truly possible to live as two men?

  I stand, and for the first time in a long time, I have crystal-clear clarity.

  Fuck this.