One day I noticed Dad’s face was no longer the same pale shade as the bathroom wall.
He was going through something called adoptive cell transfer therapy. The treatments were invasive and uncomfortable, but every time he came back home, he smiled bigger than the last time. He was still weak. He was still gray. But he no longer spoke like he was ready to die but too ashamed to let go of life because he knew how much I needed him, and that made my heart soar.
We spent more and more time out of the house—short trips around the block, arm in arm, admiring the festival of colors as New York burst into full-blown summer. Green leaves rustled above our heads and barefoot children ran around the neighborhood pointing hoses at each other and spreading wild laughter like confetti. Flowers unfurled in their sleepy beds on the edges of our neighborhood’s sidewalks.
I still hadn’t told Dad I knew about Célian, and I intended to keep it that way. Even though we were cautiously optimistic, there was a good chance the treatment wouldn’t work. In which case, I would forever blame myself for confronting him about lying to me and trying to save both of us when really, I should’ve been cherishing every moment with him. So I chose to do that instead of picking a fight.
“Are you going to the library today?” Dad asked.
“Yeah, I need to catch up on some reading material for work. Why?”
“Oh, we got an invitation from Mrs. Hawthorne to come watch that new Jack Nicholson movie. She’s making Irish stew. But of course, you don’t have to come.”
“I’ll take a pass. I think you’ll have a good time by yourselves, anyway.” I knocked my shoulder against his, smiling brightly.
“It’s not what you think.”
“You don’t know what I think.”
Dad had never dated after Mom died, and not for my lack of trying to fix him up with people. I’d spent the majority of my college years trying to get him to sign up on dating sites—before he got sick. I was desperate for him to be happy, and never wanted him to think he shouldn’t be on my account.
“It’s really just a movie and dinner.”
“Dinner? I thought it was a lunch thing.”
We stopped by the grocery store on the corner of our street, and he blushed. Actually blushed. I was almost giddy with excitement. Such a natural human reaction, but on his pale, ill skin, it looked like a glorious sunrise.
“Don’t worry, I have other plans for the afternoon. How’s Milton?” He scratched his head.
Right. Milton. It’d been several weeks since I’d mentioned him to Dad. Then again, he’d very rarely dragged his butt to Brooklyn even when we were dating. Dad wasn’t too suspicious, because I worked insane hours—it still felt like I was barely at home to spend time with him. I didn’t want to explicitly lie to him, but this lie had gotten so big, it felt almost criminal to come clean at this point. Especially on this beautiful, sunny day, when we were both happy and smiling.
“He’s good, Dad.” I pulled him into a hug. “Taking names and kicking ass at The Thinking Man.” Not technically a lie. Our mutual so-called friends had been happy to break the news that Milton had recently been promoted to junior editor. For them, it was more reason for me to get down from the ego tree I’d climbed up and take him back. For me, it was yet more proof of the fact that he was still sleeping with his boss.
Of course, I wasn’t big enough a hypocrite to point that out.
“My cell is broken at the moment, so I’m going to call you when I get to the library from the public phone. I’ll try you here, and at Mrs. Hawthorne’s, so please be available.”
Two hours later, I was walking to the subway on my way to the library. I’d dressed down, embracing the fact that it wasn’t a workday. I felt juvenile and reckless in skull-themed Chucks. The world felt lighter when you wore flannel shirts, ripped jeans, and a messenger bag. I adjusted the strap over my shoulder, about to enter the station when someone honked their horn behind me.
Rolling my eyes, I proceeded.
“Judith.” The commanding tone found its way straight to my core, making my stomach swirl with delicious heat. Jesus Christ, what was he doing here?
Jesus: “Didn’t you say something a while back about hitting Sunday Mass sometime in the next decade? Maybe you could take your foul-mouthed, engaged boss with you.”
I turned around slowly, feigning annoyance, because the alternative was showing him how much I cared, how much it affected me to see him here. In Brooklyn. On a Sunday. Take that, Milton.
Célian sat in his silver Mercedes-Benz in a navy, short-sleeved sport shirt, his Ray-Bans tipped down to examine me.
“What are you doing here?” I narrowed my eyes. I hadn’t spoken to him since the phone incident. We’d talked business in the office, but every time he’d tried to pretend like that night hadn’t happened—like he hadn’t broken my phone just because I’d exchanged numbers with some random guy at a diner—I turned around and walked away.
“You can’t keep ignoring me.”
“Pretty sure I can. Exhibit A: this conversation.”
“I’m your boss.”
“Precisely, and you crossed a lot of lines.”
“You could have made a great lawyer.”
“Not satisfied with my performance as a reporter?”
“Quite the contrary. As a booty call, however, you do a lousy job.”
“Good. Consider this my official resignation.”
He lifted his hand, waving a brand new cellphone. It was the new model that had just come out a hot minute ago and was already out of stock.
“With twelve cases in different colors to suit your mood.” He shot me his devastatingly charming smirk. “Truce?”
“Never. But I do need a phone.”
This was a gift I was willing to accept solely because he was responsible for the untimely death of my previous phone. It’d been a rough few days without one, but I wasn’t exactly swimming in money to buy a replacement. I’d had to arrive at work even earlier and leave slightly later to make sure I wasn’t needed or MIA, and at home, I checked my email every half hour.
He clutched the new device to his chest, and mine tightened in response.
“Come get it, Chucks.”
He was blocking the traffic, and someone honked behind him. Three, long beeps.
“You want to get her number, park like a goddamn man and let us through!” someone yelled behind him.
Célian ignored the guy completely, ruthlessly entitled to the bone.
“No, thanks,” I resumed my walk to the subway.
He began to drive slowly beside me. Not unlike a creeper. I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t help but feel a little satisfaction at the way he’d been chasing me the last few days. He’d even come down to the fifth floor to fetch me from lunch with Ava and Grayson, muttering an excuse about an urgent meeting, when really, all he’d wanted was to ask if we could see each other that night.
The answer, by the way, had been a big, fat no.
“I want to show you something.” His car was blocking a long line of vehicles now.
“You already showed me plenty,” I muttered, secretly liking that people were still honking at him, and that for the first time in our relationship, he was the one out of sorts.
“Get your mind out of the gutter. I mean geographically.”
“Would you like to dazzle me with your rich-boy Hamptons house? Show me another glitzy hotel you own?” I made grand, hoity-toity gestures with my hands as I walked.
Four. You’re acting like a four year old. That wasn’t Jesus speaking. Just me.
“In the fucking car, Chucks.”
“Say the magic word.”
“My cock.”
I made a gagging sound.
“I agree. It is abnormally big, but I haven’t heard any complaints.”
“The magic word,” I repeated.
“Please.” The word rolled off his tongue like it was in a foreign language.
“Whoops. Still a no.”
My determined stroll slowed when his catcalling stopped. Had he given up on me? I took a few more steps before a hand grabbed my wrist. I looked up. He was smirking darkly, his thick eyebrows drawn together.
“Grayson was right. This is kidnapping…” I said as Célian yanked me toward his car.
He’d parked in the middle of the street, blocking approximately thirteen cars now, all of them honking. Some had tried to reverse and slip out of the road. To say Célian didn’t give a crap wouldn’t be a stretch. I got into his car and buckled up, mainly because I didn’t want anyone to put a bullet in his head for his behavior. He started driving and strapped in as he did, not wasting any time.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
“You never apologized for the phone.”
“I do. I am. It wasn’t my finest moment. I would say I didn’t mean it, but lying on top of breaking your shit would really be rude. You shouldn’t have exchanged numbers with another man. I’ve been dutifully faithful to you from the moment my tongue touched your crack.”
I threw my hands in the air. “You’re engaged, psycho!”
“It’s not real.”
“It is to me.”
“Bullshit. You wouldn’t touch a taken man, and we both know it. We aren’t cheaters.”
“Does that mean we’re in some sort of a relationship in your weird mind?”
“Not a relationship, but an arrangement. Yes. Do you think you can handle that?”
I laughed bitterly. “I can’t fall in love, Célian. I’m broken.”
“Good. Let’s be broken together, then.”
He threw the phone into my hands. It was fully charged and ready to be used. It should have made me happy, but it didn’t. I enjoyed having sex with him, and butting heads with him in the newsroom, but what was the point of all this? Love might not be in the cards for me, but I was getting more attached, setting myself up to get hurt more than I already was.
“Open the glove compartment,” he said, still staring at the busy road ahead.
And yet again, I had the feeling he knew exactly what I was thinking. I opened the glove compartment. “What am I looking for?”
“Morrissey.”
I patted the mostly empty space, my hand coming to rest on the familiar shape of my iPod. I yanked it out and squeaked. My precious iPod, with the thousands of songs I’d collected over the years, was back in my hand, and it felt glorious.
“Did someone find it at the hotel?” I turned to him.
“Yes. I did. The night you bailed on me.”
I frowned. “Why did you never give it back?”
He shot me a look I couldn’t decode—maybe bewildered verging on annoyed. “You stole something from me, so I stole something from you.”
Huh. I sat back, considering this. He rubbed his jaw.
“Who’s Kipling?”
Kipling was my notebook. But of course, I didn’t miss an opportunity to mess with him.
“A friend.”
“A good friend?”
I nodded. “Very.”
“How long have you known him?”
I grinned at this. I didn’t know if Célian was aware he was jealous, but I saw it from the outside. “Long enough.”
We drove into Manhattan and parked at his building. He rounded the car, took a duffel bag from the trunk, and we went up to the ground floor and out to the street.
“Where are we going?” I asked as he flung the duffel bag over his shoulder, looking royally pissed and completely disturbed by what we were doing.
“On a date.” He sighed, like I was forcing him to hang out with me at gunpoint.
“Huh?” I laughed. I’d ignored him for just over four days, and he was taking me on a date now? Imagine what would happen if I actually went through with what my brain told me I should do on a daily basis and cut things off with him completely.
“I’m taking you on a date. What’s not to understand?”
“What’s with the duffel bag? Is that in case you’re bad at romancing and have to kill me before I tell anyone?”
We rounded the corner to Central Park West and headed straight to the meadow. He scoffed. “I can charm the panties off of a nun.”
“Charming your way into underwear and into hearts are two different skills.”
“I’m a good multitasker.”
“Not to mention I haven’t agreed to date you. You never even asked,” I pointed out.
“I thought it was a given.”
“Why?”
“You gave me backdoor access—a woman’s version of expensive jewelry.”
“Anyone ever told you you’re a delusional piece of work?”
He smirked. “Is that an actual question? I can count on one hand the number of people I know who haven’t called me that.”
“Just because I like it when you boss me in bed doesn’t mean I want to be with you.” I blushed, fighting the urge to look down and break eye contact. He stopped at the John Lennon memorial, where the word Imagine looked back up at us.
Imagine that Mom is wrong. That I am capable of falling in love. That I am heading into a collision of feelings. That lust and heartache are going to crash together soon, and tragedy will explode.
He laced his fingers in mine, turned me around to face him, and tapped my nose, his lips tilted up arrogantly. “You have skulls on your shoes.”
“You have skulls in your eyes.”
“Are we feeling morbid today, Chucks?”
“No. Just deadly.”
The park was swarming with people. Clusters of tourists, couples, cyclists, parents, and children. Even though Célian wasn’t clad in his usual expensive suit, we still looked so different. For one thing, he was ten inches taller, ten years older, and reeked of a privileged air I lacked in every way. I had dressed like a teenager. He’d dressed like a millionaire. And the way he stood, tall and proud, made people stop and stare.
He put his mouth on mine and kissed me in front of everyone—soft and slow and seductive. Kissed me like no one was around, like we were alone in this city, this park, this planet. He pressed a possessive hand over the small of my back and jerked me to his body.
Then he caressed my cheek. His lips dragged from my lips to my ear and he whispered, “This is where I went every time my parents fought—every time Mathias blamed me for being the little snitch who’d killed his marriage. This is where I went when we started fighting physically. And this is where I went when I knew he would have his staff driving around looking for me. They never came into Central Park. This was my place.”
My heart fluttered inside my ribcage and I saw Célian not only as the man he wanted people to see, but also as the person he really was. Not completely broken, but definitely cracked enough for pain to spill through the fissures.
We unpacked the duffel bag under a huge tree. Célian was surprisingly organized for our picnic. We spread a blanket, and he took out grapes, cheese, crackers, wine, and fancy chocolate. I told him there was no way he’d done this himself, and he admitted he’d given his housekeeper pot in exchange for these goodies. I laughed, and he threw a grape at my face. It made me laugh harder.
The sun was glorious, and I laid on the blanket and stared back at the sky, munching on almond chocolate that melted between my fingers. He sat next to me, staring at me intently, like he expected me to get up and run away any second, like I could evaporate into thin air, like sharing this place with me meant something to him.
“How was your relationship with Camille?” I asked.
I’d always wanted a sibling. Unfortunately, my mom got sick shortly after I was born. She won the first round of breast cancer. The second one, too. By the third, her body was too exhausted to fight, but I knew my parents had always wanted more kids.
He smirked at the blue sky like the clouds had cleared up especially for us.
“We were a team. Maybe because Maman was busy running around with her lovers and Mathias made a point of sticking his dick into everything with a pulse, we figured out early on that we had to have each other’s backs to survive.”
I nodded. “You must miss her very much.”
“Losing someone close defines you. I trust you know that by now. I’m sorry about your mother,” he said. And he meant it. I appreciated him not extending his condolences to my dad. Some people did when they heard about the cancer.
I looked down and stared at a chocolate cube slowly melting in my hand, gluing my forefinger and thumb together. “I think I wanted to marry Milton just so I’d have someone to catch me in case I fall. You know?”
He stuck his hand in my hair and leaned down to kiss my forehead. “I do. But falling into the wrong hands is just as bad as crashing into nothing.”
His phone, sitting between us, buzzed, and I looked down at it. The name Lily Davis flashed, making my heart sink. He hit ignore and tossed the phone to the other side of the blanket.
“You can answer it if you need to.” Don’t cry.
“I don’t need to.”
“I will never understand your relationship with her.”
“That makes the two of us.”
So end it! I wanted to scream. His phone started dancing on the blanket again. I rose on my forearms, as he sent the call to voicemail once again.
“I want to go home.”
“Chucks…”
His phone began to vibrate for the third time. Célian muttered, “Jesus Christ” and shoved it in the duffel bag, zipping it shut and throwing it against the tree.
He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. “Hey, hey…”
I stood and began to clean everything up. He didn’t say anything else until we’d arrived at his building. I continued toward the train station, and he groaned, easily catching up with my steps.
“Let me get your ass home.”
“Leave me alone, Célian.” I stopped. Hot anger bubbled and sizzled behind my ribcage. “Huh? How about that? How about stop doing this thing where you treat me like I mean something, only to go and marry someone else? Because it doesn’t matter that you don’t love her, or touch her. If anything, it is much, much worse. You’re not giving up on us—whatever we are—for some great love. You’re canceling it for some sick need to get back at your father. And yes, falling into Milton’s arms would have been wrong, but wrapping your arms around Lily is nothing short of disastrous. So don’t you dare lecture me.”
“The asshole fucked my fi—”
“Yes. I heard. Many, many times. So what if he did?” I cut him off, balling my hands into fists. “Him doing something wrong doesn’t give you the right to do something even worse.” I pushed his chest. Jesus Christ—what was I doing?
Jesus, filing his nails: “Using my name to excuse yourself of bad behavior, as per usual.”
“He was the one who sent Phoenix to Syria. He was the one who insisted we keep it from her and keep them apart. But somehow her death is my fault?” he yelled in my face, as if I was the one accusing him. “Fuck. That.”
“Stop the blame game, Célian. Every relationship you touch wilts. Every connection you make perishes. I don’t want to burn. I want to flourish. I deserve to bloom.”
I turned around again, heading for the station. This time he grabbed my wrist so hard I thought he was going to yank my arm off. I think he realized it, too, by the way he withdrew his hand quickly and gathered me into a hug—a hug I wanted to reject but chose to drown in, a hug I knew would catch me the right way if I ever fell, from a man who’d made no promises to be there when I needed him.
I wrapped my arms around his body, he buried his face in my hair, and for a few long seconds, we didn’t say anything. Every bad feeling was crushed between our pressing chests.
“Weren’t you the one who said you can’t fall in love?” he sneered after a few beats, cocking his head sideways. “What happened to that?”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
“I care.” He took a step back, slapping his fist over his chest. “I should have been spending time with your father today. Instead, I took you on a goddamn date,” he spat the word out like it was poisonous.
I couldn’t even deal with the idea of him hanging out with my dad on a regular basis. When did that start happening?
“Know when the last time I took someone on a date was? Sixteen. Pretty sure I did that for a hand job. Since then, I don’t have to try. I’ve never tried.”
I snorted, too aware of the fact that an audience had gathered around us. “Should I feel special right now?”
His jaw locked, and his eyes darkened, like he’d remembered who he was. Who I was. “At least have the decency to be honest with yourself, Chucks. You don’t want me to care. You want me, period.”
I turned around and gave him the one thing he did not unrightfully yet claim.
My back.
“All I’m saying is he’s like a half-priced facelift in an unregistered clinic in Eastern Europe. I would still do it, even knowing it’s deadly.” Grayson tossed a piece of Romaine lettuce into his mouth and chewed loudly.
We were sitting at Le Coq Tail on our lunch break—me, him, Ava, and Phoenix. It had been a few days since my failed date—or whatever that was—with Célian, and in a moment of weakness I’d decided to confide in my close friends about the affair. Although, suffice it to say, they’d already had a pretty good idea.
“Trust me, girl, we can all see Célian’s appeal.” Ava sucked hard on the straw swimming in her glass of Diet Coke. “But consider it your official intervention. After we got a first-row seat to the shitshow called your relationship, I can honestly say you need to put a lid on that thing before your crazy starts to simmer.”
I bumped my fists together twice, Friends-style. “I’m not crazy.”
I was seventy-percent sure of that statement.
Ava clucked her tongue. “Neither was Lily. I think it’s something about the Laurent dick. They make their women unbalanced. I heard Célian’s mother is not the sanest, either.”
“We’re casual.” I tried another tactic.
Gray pouted and rolled his eyes. “Is that why he casually claimed your ass a la Khal Drogo saving his princess from an army of savages when you had lunch on our floor last week? Admit it. You got your boss pussy-spelled.”
“That’s not a word,” Phoenix pointed out, pointing his sandwich at Grayson. “But it damn straight should be.”
“What do you think?” I turned to Phoenix.
I knew Célian had paid him a visit the other day, and I knew he’d ordered him to stay away from me, beyond platonically. A part of me was furious with Célian, and another hoped what I thought he couldn’t admit to himself: that I wasn’t the only person falling around here, and he, too, didn’t have a parachute to save him from the plunge.
It’s just sex.
It’s just a distraction.
You can’t fall in love.
You’ve never fallen in love.
Phoenix bit the inside of his cheek.
“Are you high?” Ava asked. “Phoenix and Célian hate each other.”
But Phoenix looked up and told me point blank, “I think you’re his atonement. He wants to save you, but you’re the one who needs to save him.”
I did a double take, placing my roast beef sandwich on my plate.
He looked serious. “I’ve known Célian for a few years now—since before I started working at LBC. I’ve seen him and Lily together—even when they were really together.” He lifted his chin, his voice cracking. “Célian looks at you the way I looked at Camille, like he would burn the world for you. Just because he doesn’t want to recognize it doesn’t make it any less true. If the rumors surrounding him and his family are correct…” He averted his gaze to Ava and Gray, and that’s when I knew he knew about Lily and Célian’s father, probably through James Townley, who had his hand and ears everywhere in the LBC building. “Then Célian’s trust in people is nonexistent, and rightly so. He is calloused, distrustful, and hardened, but he is also screwed, and he knows it.”
“He’s never going to leave Lily, is he?” I rubbed my forehead, feeling a looming headache pushing at the back of my nose.
“He might.” “No.” “Yes.” The three of them spoke in unison.
And that’s when I chose to laugh, instead of cry.
That day I made sure I avoided Célian in the newsroom. He was business as usual, taking Elijah and a few other men to lunch and then disappearing in and out of the sixtieth floor for meetings all day. When I got back home, I threw some chicken nuggets in the oven and took a box of mac and cheese out of the cupboard. I was in no mood to fix myself something fresh. Dad, however, had been eating a lot healthier since the experimental program had begun. They sent him special meals to complement his treatment. I untied my rain jacket and threw it on the couch after I started hot water on the stovetop, kicking my shoes into the hallway.
“Dad?” I called.
I checked the living room, bathroom, and then his bedroom. He wasn’t there. Groaning in frustration, I texted him: Where R U? When will you learn to give a girl a heads up when you’re gone? I’m worried.
And selfish, I inwardly bit out. Having Dad around was convenient. I could coddle him all I liked, essentially forgetting about Célian and his looming wedding. My phone flashed with a text message immediately.
Dad: Sorry! At Mrs. Hawthorne’s. Please feel free to come upstairs. She made cherry pie.
I shook my head, laughing to myself. Could my father be falling in love at the same time I was falling apart?
Could his sick body experience something my healthy one couldn’t feel?
Have fun, and send her my love.
Dad: Will do, sweetie. Maybe she can make some more pie this weekend and we can invite Milton?
I decided that there was enough heartbreak to go around between all of us, so I kept the lie alive, though it nearly killed me.
I’d like that, Dad. A lot.
