2. Investment Wanker
Chapter two
Investment Wanker
Haze
“ W hat do we do?” The sheen of heartbreak makes his eyes glitter. The same emerald windows I used to stare into for hours. Green like the magic infused grass of Ireland and the poisonous envy eating my heart whole.
“We move on,” I say coldly. Flatly, as if I’ve already stopped caring. I drag my eyes to my jacket and pick off a nonexistent piece of lint. The idiocy of such a move at a time like this causes a laugh to bubble up inside of me, but I swallow it. I won’t be able to control how it sounds, and I can’t have that. Not at a time like this.
“You’ll be moving to one of the other properties,” I continue flatly, as if the whole breakup were boring me. As if the life I’d planned for us hadn’t gradually been strangled, and the death of our plans wasn’t a repeat of the same ischemic wasting my heart and soul had already suffered once before. “There are three that are almost finished. I’d choose the one on Crosby: It’s the shortest commute, has the most privacy, and—”
“I’m aware of the fucking price tags on your properties. And fuck you for thinking I care about that.” His eyes spark, flaring phosphorescent in the flare of anger. His shoulders stiffen, spine straightening as he spits his retort.
There. There it is. The last thing I can do for him. Piss him off enough to give him the fuel he needs to get out of my house and move on with his life. I flex my fingers, wanting to clench them into a fist, but I won’t give in to the tell. I don’t swallow either, fighting the reflexive urge. Instead, I stand tall as the last shred of my calcified heart turns to coal and then ash, the flakes falling, as if they haven’t a care in the world before littering the floor of my empty rib cage like dust from a bygone age.
“Fuck off, Haze. I’ll get my own place. I don’t need your charity.” He strides to the closet and pulls out a duffle bag. My brows shoot up in surprise. It’s the same ratty green and black bag he brought to my place when he moved in. I thought he had tossed it out ages ago. He has an entire set of expensive luggage that I bought him for our trip to Greece.
“You don’t get to make decisions based off pride anymore, Sal. You’re a business owner.” A tiny flame of hope flickers inside of me. Maybe his love for his fledgling school, in combination with his feelings for me, will be enough to push him into cutting off the wild hair he’s grown. His obsession with adding a third to our relationship has driven a wedge between us. A wedge that’s grown into an Everest-sized mountain we can’t meet over.
He shakes his head, his brilliant eyes dulling. “You’re going to die a sad, lonely old man, Haze. I hope those rigid walls you’ve erected are enough to keep you warm at night.” He grabs the bag and walks to his dresser, his steps slow and tired. “We love each other. There is no question of that in either one of our hearts. But I need more, and no matter how much you deny it, I know you do, too. I want, no, I need a wo—” He pauses, squeezing his eyes shut. His head falls back, his lips rolling out from the force of an audible sigh. When his verdant gaze locks on mine, the resolution within slashes deep, tearing fresh wounds into old scar tissue. “I’m not rehashing an argument we’ve had a thousand times. A tiny piece of me will regret what we should have and could have had.” He grabs handfuls of undergarments and stuffs them in his bag before moving on to his closet. I open my mouth to tell him to leave the small things because they are cheaper to replace, then close it. Of course, I’m going to pack all his things and have them shipped. There’s no use worrying he’ll have to spend money he doesn’t have on new clothes. I’ll make sure he gets everything that belongs to him. “But I won’t be thinking too hard or too long on us, Haze, because once I get over you,” he turns back and stares, his irises cut like a rock with too many facets. “Once I get over you,” he repeats with emphasis, “there won’t be any need to. I’ll find a hard cock to fuck the last remnants of pain away and a soft shoulder to absorb my final tear.”
“Isn’t that a large part of the argument you swore you weren’t going to rehash?” As soon as the words fall from my lips, I close my eyes briefly. Damn it. Why can’t I stop arguing with him? Salvatore Pagliano is nothing more than a shade from my past now, even if I can feel his body heat and smell the ghost of sweetness that always seems to cling to his skin.
He finishes tucking a pair of jeans into his bulging bag and violently tugs the zipper shut. “Have a nice fucking life, Haze,” he grits out as he reaches into the closet, past the Versace and Brioni, to grab the only jackets that are important to him. He yanks them off the bar and tosses them, my eyes tracking his corded forearm as he deftly stabs it under the pile of black jackets.
And then he leaves. Sliding out the door with the same duffle bag he carried in, a stack of new chef’s coats flopped over the arm, shutting the door to our bedroom without a backward glance. I sink bonelessly onto the edge of our bed, slumping over with a mirthless chuckle. I bet he’ll come back in the house one more time. Sal will clean me out of kitchenware. Anything in our home to do with cooking has been carefully curated by him. I’ll have to order out if I ever feel hunger again. Another weak laugh, and the image of him babying and cooing to his knives splits me open. The sound is empty and hollow, just like the place from whence it came. Like my home, my life, and my future.
I slip my phone out of my pocket and fire off a few texts. He’ll go to a motel. The cheapest one he can find. I dial the contractor for the Crosby estate and tell him I need the sign offs on the work by the end of the week. I call my lawyer and tell him to put the deed to the property in Sal’s name. I hear the questions in his tone, but he knows better than to ask. I consider paying off his loans on the school, but I know better. Eventually, he’ll need the contents of his desk, and he’ll know he’ll have to go to the Crosby house to look. I’ll have Martine, my executive assistant, arrange Sal’s things. She’s always been discrete, so gambling that Sal will be the least pissed about that is a sound bet.
By the end of each phone call, I can barely breathe. Dropping the phone to the bed, I grip the edges and rock, focusing on each inhale and exhale--on every wild, incomplete beat of my dying heart until my involuntary functions have returned to a level I can tolerate again. No one asks, and I don’t offer any answers. The people who work for me have learned that comprehensive, discrete service equals a paid invoice, regardless of the premium price tag. I should be making up lies to stave off the gossip, but I don’t have the energy to waste on short-term gains. I’ll just have to expend more once the truth comes out, and that’s a narrative I have no control over.
My gut clenches hard enough to steal my breath. The pain ripples through my center, out to my limbs, leaving me gasping. My ears buzz with static, and my brain reels, unable to process the tear in my reality. My physical body--my heart, my soul, every piece of me--except the part that cannot accept the intrusion of a third heart competing for what belongs to me, is failing to grasp onto the parallel universe I’ve chosen.
A life without Sal.
My body floats over the bed, weightless. Physics cease to exist. There is no terra firma, no points of reference, no x, y, or z axes. When the grip of the paralysis relaxes, I sink into the bed. Closing my eyes to rein in the dizziness, my right hand pats the bed, closing around my cell. One text to Martine, my incredible executive assistant, and my entire day will be cancelled. I’ve already made all the expensive decisions I can handle today. Putting my holdings at risk because of weakness isn’t an option. I cannot afford to allow personal heartache to affect the bottom line of my business. Too many people are relying on me.
When the sun sets for the last time, my promises will come due. I intend to keep them.
The physical pain will pass. My eyes will burn, salted with unshed tears, and then crack like dry ground. My limbs will turn to concrete and then float away. My physical body will die a thousand deaths. Over and over while I eat, sleep, shit, and work. On repeat. I’ve survived this once already.
In honor of my promises to the ones I lost, I will live through this again.