by Amelia Wilde
I knock three times at my mom’s door, trying to figure out what the sound coming from inside is. It’s loud and a little on the raucous side, and I can’t identify it until the door cracks open and my mom peers out. “Isa! What are you doing here?”
She pulls the door open, and the sound spills out into the hallway. It’s some kind of high-powered salsa music. “Mom! You’re sweating.”
“I’m working out!”
“Working out?” This does not compute. My mother has never had time in her life to work out.
“Evie suggested it to me. Come in, come in.” She ushers me into the living room, where the workout is still in progress on the television. “She brought me a DVD player and three of these videos. To keep me thinking positive.”
Evie would suggest exercise, because that’s what she does for herself when she’s stressed out. The pair of small pink weights on the sofa look hastily abandoned, and my mom’s cheeks are glowing. She reaches for the remote and clicks off the TV without pausing the DVD.
“That’s good.” Too long has passed since she stopped speaking, but I barrel forward, pretending there was no awkward silence. “It looks good on you.”
Mom pushes her hair out of her face and puts her hands on her hips. “Are you only stopping by? I can make you something to eat, if you’re hungry.”
The thought of food turns my stomach, and I give a little laugh. “Don’t drop everything. I’m sorry to interrupt.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “What’s going on, then? You’re usually too busy to show up like this in the middle of the afternoon.”
“Oh, I’m busy. I’m really busy.” I’m about to be busier, after today. Bernadette’s sheer joy at working this deal for me made me realize the best thing I can do is throw myself into Gabriel Luxe instead of wallowing in despair about Jasper. “I wanted to give you some good news.”
Mom narrows her eyes. “What good news? Is this about that young man Evie’s been telling me about?”
“Young man? No.” She purses her lips. This is coming out all wrong. It’s nothing like the big reveal I’d tried to plan on the way here. “I wanted to let you know that I bought this building. You’re not going to move out. Now, or ever, really, unless you want to.”
Her eyes go wide. “You’re making some kind of joke.”
“I’m not—I got word today that the financing is going through. It’ll take another month to close, but—”
My mom jumps into the air, her shriek so shrill I’m surprised the neighbors don’t come running. “Isa! Are you serious? Are you serious?” She leaps forward, grabbing me by the arms, still hopping. “You did that? You were able to do that?”
“Yes!”
She bursts into tears.
“Mom…” I pat her back as she doubles over.
When she looks back up at me she’s beaming. “I’m so proud of you, Isa. You didn’t—” She sobs again, but it’s almost a laugh. “You didn’t need to do this for me. I’m so amazed—I’m so amazed that you could. I remember all those nights you spent at that sewing machine…” She reaches out and gives me a tight hug, laughing and crying all at the same time.
I laugh, too, but the sound only creates a flicker of warmth in my chest.
It feels hollow.
I won, and it’s still hollow.
Still.
40
Jasper
Everything seems different, now that there’s a gaping wound in the center of my life that wasn’t there last Tuesday.
One week, and the world still looks colorless and dull. That should be impossible, considering I’m in New York City and everything keeps moving around me—cabs pulling up to the curb and speeding away, people stalking down the sidewalks, drivers fighting with each other in the middle of the intersections. I move, too. I get into my town car and back out again. I ride the elevator up to my office and back down. I go to my penthouse.
There’s only silence there, and if it’s not silent, it’s endless reruns of television on Netflix, the sound a river that does its best to block out the endless rehashing of the fight we had, the way the elevator shut so definitively behind Isabella when she left.
I can’t believe she hasn’t texted me.
I can’t believe she hasn’t called.
I can’t believe I haven’t called.
I could crack up at any moment, but I haven’t yet, something that registers in the middle of Tuesday afternoon, when Mike Ford is going through two new potential properties with me.
He points at different lines on the paperwork, taking out the renderings and moving them back as he moves through the options. There are photos, too, taken from outside on the street.
There’s a long silence.
Oh. Shit. It’s me who’s supposed to be talking.
“Sorry, Mike. What was the question?”
He leans back in his chair. “What do you think?”
I look back at the papers spread out in front of me. “What’s the tenant situation?”
“The final leases would be up in October, and we could move on demolition after that. For this first one, at least. The second one—” He leans forward, choosing one of the pages and twisting it so he can read the numbers. “November.”
An image floats up in my mind of Isabella’s eyes at that very first meeting, a split second of fear in the middle of her barely contained rage. She wasn’t even the one in danger of having to find a new apartment. How many of these people are dying to find a different place to live so that I can make their former homes into luxury condos? Some of them. Maybe. But not all of them. In each of the buildings on the table in front of me, there’s going to be some version of Isabella’s mother. They definitely won’t all have daughters with the brass to confront me about it.
“I don’t know, Mike.”
He nods, not taking his eyes off me. “I’m happy to look for alternatives.”
It’s not that I don’t want to keep making money for Pace, Inc. I’m good at that, and the last thing I’m going to do is give up my career over a bad breakup. But this—the more I look at these buildings, the less I want to move forward.
At least in the same way that we always do.
And when Mike says he’ll look for alternatives, I know he means more to choose from, without necessarily discounting these. There’s no way I can table every single property he brings me because there are people living in them. It would be a disaster for the business.
“Hey, I’m not trying to stick my nose in your business…” Mike interrupts the silence, which has gotten away from me again. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I say it too quickly and I know it. “Yeah, I’m fine. I—I’ll need a minute with these.”
“It’s almost lunch.” Mike sweeps the papers together and puts them back in the folder, pressing it neatly down on the surface of my desk. “I’ll stop in later and check in.”
I can’t help looking past his shoulder. I can see the corner of Christine’s desk outside the door. Isabella walked through that same door, and everything changed. Now she’s not going to walk through it again.
“Thanks.” But the word lands in the empty air. Mike is already gone.
“Not straight home tonight, okay?”
Terrence meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Where to?”
The names of three different clubs come to mind, but I don’t really want to go to any of them. “Hamilton Heights.”
He wrinkles his forehead. “Is there a new club there?”
“No. Just someplace I wanted to stop by.” I give him the address to the building that was briefly mine, and is now in Isabella’s hands. Or at least it will be when the closing finally goes through. I’ve put all that firmly with the Real Estate department. I told them I didn’t want to hear another thing about it. I meant it when I said it. Now I want to go haunt those offices and hover over their shoulders, looking for anything with Isabella’s name on it. It’s a very attractive quality in a man, to be hovering. Or so I
’ve heard.
I stop paying attention until Terrence pulls up by the curb, the car coming to a gentle stop. “We’re here, boss.”
“This is it?”
“Yep.”
I don’t know why I asked. I’ve been here before, for at least a few minutes. It looks utterly unfamiliar, though.
A burst of laughter next to the door of my car makes me jump back, and I look at the rearview mirror. Terrence isn’t focused on me—he’s looking out at the people on the sidewalk—so at least he didn’t see that embarrassing display.
The woman next to the car laughs again, stepping into view as she moves toward the building. She’s petite, with dark hair in a bun at the nape of her neck. The way she moves is achingly familiar.
“…my daughter!” Her voice rises enough for me to hear what she’s saying…and the obvious pride in it. If this isn’t Isabella’s mother, I’ll be shocked. My hand goes to the door handle, and I’m on the verge of pushing it open. Before I can, the woman rushes up the stairs to the lobby of the building, a spring in her step, and her friend—a willowy blonde who looks like she’s probably in her sixties, continues down the sidewalk, her arms swinging.
I jerk my hand back from the handle.
“We can go.” I can’t think of any other way to casually get myself the hell away from this building, this heartache. “Back to the penthouse, Terrence.”
He gives me a nod in the mirror and pulls the car away from the curb, his hands steady on the wheel.
I curl mine into fists to stop them from shaking.
I have to do something.
41
Isabella
“Eat.”
Mom puts another serving of lasagna on my plate and goes back for the green beans. I force myself not to groan. This is supposed to be celebratory, but I could barely force down the first helping. Even though lasagna was always my favorite when we were growing up. Of course, it was my favorite because Mom only ever made it when something great had happened...like when we made rent six months in a row without a delay or when she landed a slightly better job.
I’ve been putting this off since last Friday.
I spent the entire weekend wallowing in pajama pants, pretending to get a lot of extra work done in the form of sending copious emails from my phone. I think my couch has a permanent dent in it.
That doesn’t matter. I can always get a new couch.
“I’m really—” My mom narrows her eyes at me and adds the green beans over my half-hearted protest. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to eat all this.”
“You’re pale, Isa, and you’ve got huge circles under your eyes.” She purses her lips. “I don’t think you’re taking enough time off.”
Evie laughs, taking another bite of lasagna. “Since when has she ever taken time off?”
“I’m taking plenty.” In fact, I’m taking too much time off. Too much time during the day, anyway, and then I’ve been catching up during the nights.
When she brings out the chocolate cake, I feel sick.
I get three bites down before joining in an animated conversation about Evie’s upcoming promotion at the fashion house she works for, playing it up as much as I can until my mom finally takes the plates away without another word.
“I wish you could stay longer,” she calls from the kitchen.
“I need to get back to the office.” I frown for her benefit in case she swoops back in while I’m speaking. She doesn’t.
“Me too,” echoes Evie, and then mom does bustle back in, a plate wrapped up for each of us. My stomach turns over at the thought of eating this again. It might still be my favorite, but I’m not in a celebratory mood. This isn’t a good time, and eating it when I feel so shell-shocked—still—feels traitorous. Evie takes her plate, and I take mine with a big smile. I don’t think Mom believes it. “I’m really happy for you, Mom.”
I give Mom a hug, and then she turns to do the same for Evie. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you two.”
Evie rolls her eyes, but there’s laughter in her expression. “You mean Isa.”
“I mean both of you. But yes, your sister did play a big part.” Her eyes are shining.
“Don’t cry, Mom.” I hug her again, then take a deep breath. “I’ll see you this weekend, if I can get away.”
“See?” She shakes her head, looking at me with a mixture of disapproval and awe. “You don’t take enough time off.”
“We’ll see.” Then Evie is dragging me out of the apartment by the elbow.
On the sidewalk, I hang back and let her hail a cab. “You want to share?”
She gives me a look, her flawless black dress flowing in the breeze. “Obviously, Isa. We’re going to share. I’m actually going the same place as you are.”
My eyebrows draw together. “My office? Why?”
“You’ll see.”
I don’t have the energy to pester her about it on the way back to work. If she wants to come back to my office, that’s fine—she can always take another cab, or the train, back to hers.
But Evie doesn’t head toward the subway station when we get out of the cab. She presses a tip into the driver’s hand and strides toward the entrance of the building, a confident vision in her dress and high heels.
“What are you doing?” I’m still standing by the curb, looking after her like she’s the one who’s coming slightly unhinged instead of me.
“Going inside. I have a meeting. Are you coming?” Her eyebrows rise above her oversized sunglasses.
“Yep. Yes.” I hitch my purse higher up on my shoulder and follow after her.
I don’t wait long to find out who Evie’s meeting is with. She precedes me into my own office, then sits down in one of the seats across from my desk. I’m in my own chair, absently jiggling the mouse to wake up my computer, when Angelique comes in and closes the door tightly behind her. “Hey, Evie.”
“Hi, Angelique. How are things?”
“Good.” Angelique crosses the office and briskly drops down into the other chair, right next to Evie. Then both of them turn their gazes on me.
“What is this?”
“Why don’t you start by telling us?” Evie’s voice is calm—too calm.
I glare at her. “Are you staging an intervention?”
“You’re driving everyone crazy,” says Evie, and Angelique looks at her, daring to nod her head a fraction of an inch.
A wave of anger rises in my chest but dissipates in the face of the emptiness waiting there. “You’re driving me crazy. Both of you should get back to work.”
“The late nights are becoming a problem, Isa.” Angelique chimes in more tentatively than Evie. “Some of the people on staff are at their breaking point. They can’t keep up with you. And during the day…”
“I get it, okay?” I tap the mouse on the desk and the screen finally responds. “I’ll be fine by next week. I’ll take tomorrow and Friday off, if you think it’ll solve the problem.”
“I don’t.” Evie’s voice is firm, and her eyes are locked on me. “What’s going on with you, Isa? And why didn’t you tell me you were feeling like this?”
“I feel fine.”
“You’re not erratic like this.” Evie continues like I never spoke. “You don’t force people to be on call at random hours during the night. And you love lasagna. You shoved that thing into the mini-fridge like it was chopped liver.” She straightens her back. “What’s wrong?”
I look from one to the other. They’re not baiting me, even if that’s what it feels like. They look…concerned. More than concerned. Afraid, even.
What do I have to lose?
“Jasper Pace broke up with me.”
Evie rolls her eyes toward the ceiling, then covers her face. “I knew it. I knew you were together. I knew you would be, anyway.”
“It’s over.” I turn fully away from the computer and face them head on. “It’s over, so both of you can stop worrying. I’ll have myself together by the end of the wee
kend. That’s a promise.” I take in a breath. It hurts. “Anything else?”
“I don’t think it is over, Isa.” Angelique’s voice is soft. “I’ve never seen you like this.” She stands up, her hands awkwardly at her sides. Evie follows her lead. “I think you might want to…reconsider. Or at least talk to him.”
“For everyone’s sake,” adds Evie. “But mostly yours.”
42
Jasper
The papers are starting to pile up on my desk.
I can’t remember the last time things got so out of hand before. I don’t think it’s actually happened—not to this extent—but every time I pick up one of the packets about potential buildings, my mind spins off onto wild tangents. Isabella’s head tilted back, my fingers threaded through her hair. Her eyes flashing that first day in my office. The way her body looks when she’s tensed, waiting to come, totally reliant on me. The way she likes to be punished, but only on her terms. The way I could spend an entire afternoon making love to her and still want more at the end.
Everything I do ends in her.
I have to do something about it.
I’ve known I have to do something about it since Tuesday, when I saw her mother outside that building, beaming with pride and happiness and relief. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid by keeping my focus on work all these years—distractions that will make it less likely for me to make money and more likely for the business to suffer from inattention.
Yet here I am.
How the hell am I supposed to keep developing properties with that same ruthless determination when I’m walking around with a hollow core and zero drive?
I slap the folder in my hand shut again.
“Frustrated?”
My dad stands in the doorway of my office, and I straighten up. “Not in the least. What can I do for you?”