Funny how success works. I’ve been asked about it often in the last few years—sometimes more than once a day. In interviews. In speeches. At networking events. Teach me something about success, they’ll say, often with a glint in their eyes. What’s the secret?
Or, my personal favorite, to what do you owe your success? As if debts were involved—as if I had sacrificed to the gods.
Funnier still how public success rarely translates to private success. I could have an apartment my mother called ostentatious, a development company that was soon the biggest on the Western seaboard. Regular international travel and a charity organization in the works. But at the end of the day, the one person who gave me true happiness had walked out.
“So, tell me,” the reporter in front of me asks, a practiced smile on his face, “what’s the secret to your success?”
I don’t feel particularly successful at the moment. The interview I’m giving is a necessity, according to my publicity team, to counteract Ben and Elena’s smear campaign. All because I worked too much and missed what was right beneath my nose—my best friend and the woman I thought I loved. Work getting in the way of a relationship. It seems like a recurring problem in my personal life.
The reporter clears his throat. I’m taking too long to answer, clearly, my mind stuck in the past—on what happened three years ago. On what happened only one week ago in my hallway.
I lean back and cross my leg over my knee. “Well, if the answer is a secret, it’s an open one. It’s hard work and good luck. Being in the right place at the right time. Knocking on doors until one eventually opens.” I tap my hand against my knee, contemplating a more honest answer. Skye’s joking admonitions about privilege ring in my head. “And for me, I certainly had help in the beginning. My family was supportive. My friends were supportive. I graduated university without debt. I’m well aware that other entrepreneurs face difficulties I didn’t have.”
The reporter raises an eyebrow, jotting this down. It’s an answer that will be dissected. Explained. Analyzed.
“And a helpful business partner?” he asks. Behind him, Bryan’s face freezes in fury; Tyra gives me a silent shake of the head. The reporter is going off-script. We could ask for this to be struck from the record.
I meet his gaze head-on, this poor man, sent to interview someone who got three hours of sleep last night and who couldn’t care less about this interview.
“Well,” I say truthfully, “he was helpful until he wasn’t. We wanted to pursue different directions.”
The reporter nods eagerly, encouraged by my answer. “Would you say that the split was amicable, then?”
I think back to the last time I saw Ben Simmons. Fuck you was one of the final things I’d said, if I remember correctly. He’d been angry too. Asshole! You always think you know better!
“Amicably enough.”
He looks through his notes, stalling for time. My tone hadn’t invited follow-up questions, and he’d been briefed beforehand that questions about the article were off-limits.
But what he finally asks me turns out to be far worse.
“Porter Development will soon begin construction of a new hotel and apartment complex in East Seattle,” he says, oblivious to the way my hand grows into a white-knuckled fist. “A number of old buildings will be demolished to make way for this. What’s your take on the naysayers and protests that have risen up in response?”
There’s only one image in my mind.
It’s Skye, her beautiful eyes glittering with unshed tears. The things I’d said—the way she’d walked out—makes my body tighten with shame.
“I have nothing to say regarding that development.”
The reporter’s gaze travel from my eyes to my fists. “Nothing at all? Not even an official statement?”
“No. No mention of the question in the article, either. Is this interview done?”
He looks down at his notepad. “Well, if you’d like—but I have more things to touch on.”
“Email any remaining questions to us. Thank you for your time.” I shake the bewildered man’s hand before striding out of the conference room.
Bryan follows me. “Sir?”
“That wasn’t one of the pre-approved topics.”
“It wasn’t,” he agrees. “Neither was the mention of Ben Simmons. You handled that well.”
I force my voice to soften, even if the only thing I want to do is yell at him, at the reporter. At myself. “Not particularly. Let’s start the development meeting early.”
He nods, typing away on his phone to send the appropriate notifications. “The bookstore included in the East Seattle project just sent in their numbers, by the way. Between the Pages.”
Something cold settles around my heart. “Oh?”
“They’re not profitable. I’ll double-check the numbers with our accounting team, but if that’s the conclusion they’ve come to themselves, I have no doubt it’s correct.” There’s undisguised glee in his voice. “Well done, sir. This’ll make the head architects happy.”
I want to punch him.
I want to punch myself.
Ten minutes later I’m seated at the head of yet another conference table, my laptop in front of me. “Give me the latest updates,” I say, though in truth, I want to walk away from this whole project. The only thing I see is Skye with pain in her eyes.
Sam, my head project manager, nods. “Given the newest information, demolition will start next Tuesday. We’ll start by razing this entire area. It’ll take a few days longer than usual on our projects, since we want to preserve as much of the existing pipes and sewage system as possible.”
“Clever,” says Gabrielle, the head architect. The two make a killer team. They designed the Legacy for me. “Although I have to say, I was enjoying testing new designs to incorporate that cute little bookstore. Oh well, now we won’t have to.”
Sam snorts. “Saves us a building nightmare.”
Everyone around the table nods, and I find myself nodding along. It’s a sound business decision. I’ve torn down things before. Before I’d met Skye, I wouldn’t even have thought twice about this. And she’s out of my life now. It shouldn’t matter.
The meeting ends with a promise to reconvene next week. “I want to be there when the demolition begins,” I say, shaking Sam’s hand.
He shoots me a wide grin. “You can be the one to press the button, if you’d like.”
Something roils in my stomach. “Thanks, but I think I’ll leave that to the experts.”
The rest of the day is spent on emails and meetings and phone calls. An unwelcome text from my baby sister as well, which I have no idea how to respond to.
Blair Porter: How are things with Skye? You know I can’t meet her and then hear NOTHING more about her, come on. Give me the latest updates or I’ll badger you to death this weekend. That’s a threat, and I expect your speedy compliance.
I know she would. She’d badger and ask questions until I’d cave, which I always did with her.
Cole Porter: I don’t negotiate with terrorists.
It won’t hold Blair off for long, though. I know that much about my little sister. At the same time, couldn’t people just stop asking me about Skye? Reporters, family members… I don’t have any fucking answers, not for them, and not for myself.
The final straw comes in the car that evening, when Charles asks me too.
“We haven’t stopped at 14 Fairfield Point for a while, sir.” A delicate pause. “Or at the bookstore.”
I grip the cushioned armrest and stare out of the window. “No. And we won’t again.”
“Ah,” he says, his tone heavy with implications. I don’t know if it’s with censure or with approval, but regardless, it’s the last thing I need. My mood blackens further. Nick will be in for a treat when I arrive, I think, and knowing him, he’ll push me on it too.
He does, of course. His arm is draped around the back of the plush booth, a glass of whiskey in front of him. “You’re late.”
“Traffic.”
He glances around the bar, at the other guests, the dark interiors. “We haven’t been to Legacy for ages.”
“I felt like it tonight,” I say, wondering if I’m pressing my luck. I’d wanted to show myself that I could sit in this bar and not think of her.
“Well, I’m not objecting. It’s one of your better developments.”
“Thank you for that ringing endorsement.”
He snorts, a gleam in his eyes. “What’s up your ass tonight, then?”
“What isn’t,” I sigh, thanking the waiter when he brings my drink over.
Nick nods to the bar. A few young men in suits are lounging against it, their hair slicked back, toasting with gin and tonics. “Look at your clientele. Disgusting.”
I chuckle despite myself. “That was us once upon a time, you know.”
Now we always choose a secluded area of the bar, where we’re mostly undisturbed. How times have changed.
Nick shakes his head. “Don’t remind me. At least I never looked like one of those rich punks.”
No, I think, not with his short hair and the dangerous set of his features. Even now, he’s scowling. “How do you get your business partners to agree to work with you?”
“Where did that come from?”
“I realized I don’t actually know.” I take a sip of my whiskey, reluctantly amused. “I’d imagine you scare them off.”
“I’m nice when I need to be,” he says, a wolfish grin spreading across his features. “But that’s unimportant. Tell me, how has your little problem progressed?”
I groan. “Don’t call her my little problem.”
“Well, that’s what she is.” He takes a sip of his own whiskey. “You never told me her name.”
“And now there’s no need to. It’s over. And I’d greatly appreciate it if everyone just fucking stopped asking me about her.” I run an agitated hand through my hair.
“You hit the expiration date?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m tearing down her business. It’s final.”
He nods, as if he understands perfectly, as if this was a conundrum men find themselves in regularly. He takes a moment, but when he speaks, his voice is low. “Are you sure the development is worth it?”
I run my hand along the table. “Are you really the one asking me this? Nicholas Park?”
“Fuck. You’re right. Ignore what I said, and go after the money.”
“That’s what I thought.”
He shakes his head at me, but it’s thoughtful. “But that’s me, Cole. Not you. And this is the first time you’ve been out of sorts over a woman in years.”
“God, don’t remind me.”
“But I will, regardless.” He leans over the table. “What are you doing to Ben and Elena about the article?”
“Nothing.”
“Fuck nothing. What are you going to do?”
I take a sip of the whiskey and it burns down my throat. “My lawyers are looking into a potential breach of the non-disclosure agreement and slander.”
“That’s right. The snake.” Nick shakes his head. “I never liked him.”
“No, you never did.” They’d been unable to be in the same room at certain points. Privately, I’d always thought they were each other’s complete opposites. Nick, with a rough background and ambition and no bullshit. Ben, privilege and charm and not much else.
I know by now which friend I’d rather have; give me harsh truths over well-intentioned lies any day.
“That reminds me,” I say. “What is your problem with Blair, anyway? I mentioned your name the other day and she practically recoiled. What’ve you done?”
Nick’s features harden. “Nothing, man. Your sister and I are just different people. You know we’ve never been close.”
“You don’t have to get along. But you can at least be civil to each other,” I say.
“I am,” Nick mutters, and I don’t miss the emphasis on the first word. Maybe I need to have the same conversation with her. But why? Blair is lovable. Free-spoken, perhaps, but there’s no one she meets who she can’t charm. Except, it seems, the man in front of me.
I shake my head and take another sip of my whiskey. It’s not a conundrum I can figure out, not now, at least.
When I finally arrive home that evening, my apartment is dark and empty. There’s no hallway table to toss my nonexistent key on. There are no bookshelves filled with photo albums and old yearbooks. All my old stuff is in storage, packed up by the movers. I still haven’t opened a single one of those boxes.
I make my way through the empty living room—it’s big enough that my footsteps echo—and into my bedroom. Unsurprisingly, it’s as empty as the rest of my apartment. The only personal touch is the books on my bedside table, piled high. I haven’t touched them since Skye was here last. Somehow, I haven’t been able to read, despite the sleepless nights.
I lie on my back and stare up at the ceiling. I count all the spotlights—seven of them—before familiar thoughts come creeping in, unbidden but relentless. What is Skye doing right now? How is she handling news of the demolition? Is she having trouble sleeping, too?
I shouldn’t wonder. I should try to stop caring. That had been my MO for years, now. Caring gets you hurt and it makes you weak. My current predicament is the perfect example of that.
Caring for Skye has gotten me nowhere.
