Chapter 18
chapter 18
MAYA
Five hours later—after crunching numbers at a coffee shop in Chelsea and a long, head-clearing walk uptown—I arrive at one of our friend groups’ favorite New York City hangouts.
Inside, Oscar Wilde looks like Christmas vomited over every available surface, but in a fun way. The Victorian-inspired bar is still decked to the nines for the holidays, with twinkling lights and evergreen swags draping over every gilded surface. A massive tree dominates one corner, oversized ornaments dangle from the ceiling, and even the famous peacock sculpture sports a tiny Santa hat.
As I step inside, taking a beat to let my eyes adjust to the gaudy explosion, Sydney waves from a velvet booth in the corner. “Maya, over here.”
Relief spreading through my chest at the sight of her friendly face, I hurry over, sliding in beside her. “Hey, you look gorgeous,” I say, leaning over to kiss her cheek. In a simple brown sweater dress and a glossy blow-out that makes her long, strawberry blonde hair shine, she’s the picture of composed elegance, as usual.
“And you look gorgeous…and stressed,” she says, concern filling her blue eyes. “I ordered you a Dirty Santa—gin, vermouth, olive brine.” She pushes the martini across the small table. “Seemed like you needed something serious.”
“You’re an angel.” I take a long sip, letting the chilled alcohol glide down my frazzled throat. Even my throat is frazzled, and every inch of my nervous system is in meltdown mode.
Not only am I no closer to figuring this thing out, I’m also no closer to getting answers from Anthony. Aside from one quick text hours ago— I’m so sorry to hear that, Maya, but we’ll figure it out. I promise. It’ll be okay. Just meet me at the apartment at four, okay? We’ll work on it together.— he’s been missing in action.
And yes, that was a nice thing to text, but until I know why he was lying this morning, they’re just empty words.
Words I’m beginning to think I’ve been a fool to trust…
“Okay, give me the dirt,” Sydney says after I’ve taken several bracing sips of the strong drink. “Who hurt you and where do I find them? Because I will find them, and I’ll make them sorry.”
“I hurt myself,” I confess. “I’ve been so stupid, Syd.”
Then, I spill it all—the secret plan to buy an apartment building and move to New York, the risky offer I made, the disastrous inspection results, and how the math is no longer mathing to make the deal work.
She winces at each revelation, assuring me I’m as screwed as I think I am. “So basically, I’m out thirty thousand dollars for nothing,” I say, fighting tears again. “If I back out now, I’ll lose my earnest money and the cost for the inspection. But if I go forward, there’s no way I can pay for the repairs, and there’s a good chance I’d end up in bankruptcy before it was all over.”
“You should have asked me for help, Maya,” Sydney says, her pale blue eyes pained for me. “Real estate is what I do. It’s what my father and his father did. It’s literally in my blood. I could have kept you from getting in this kind of trouble.”
“I know,” I say. “But I wanted to show everyone that I could do this on my own. That I wasn’t sweet, sheltered Maya who needs someone looking out for her all the time. But now…” I sigh. “Well, obviously, I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not,” she says, setting down her martini glass with a sharp clink. “Stop that kind of talk right now. You are brilliant and ballsy. And you aren’t the first person to take this kind of risk. Most people who aren’t born with silver spoons in their mouths have to take chances to get a foothold in a competitive market.” She nods firmly. “But as a silver spoon jerk from way back, I’ve never had to worry about that. Which is why you should let me help you fix this.”
I shake my head. “No, Syd, that isn’t why I wanted to talk.”
“I know it isn’t, but I want to help. I’m a very wealthy woman in my own right, honey, and now that Gideon and I?—”
“No.” I hold up a firm hand, hoping she’ll see the determination in my eyes. “That’s so generous and kind, but I can’t take your money. I made this bed, and now I have to lie in it. Or…get up and walk away from it after learning a very expensive lesson.”
She scrunches her lips into a disapproving line. “I get it. I don’t like it but…I get it. But let’s look at this from all angles first, okay? Maybe there’s another way to get the capital you need to move forward.”
We brainstorm alternatives—a HELOC on the property after closing, a private loan from my parents as an advance against my inheritance, selling my eggs to a fertility clinic—but none of them are really viable.
Maybe not even my eggs…
“I’m not even sure if my ovaries are functioning properly,” I mumble, my lips a little numb from my Elf on the Top Shelf martini, a peppermint concoction even stronger than the Dirty Santa. “I could be infertile.”
“You are not,” Sydney says, with a defeated shake of her head. “But you don’t have enough eggs in your ovaries to finance those kinds of repairs. Not and have any left for making babies of your own, anyway.”
Tears spring into my eyes again, proving the hot mess train is still barreling toward Breakdown Station. “I won’t have babies. I can’t even find a normal guy to date who isn’t a walking red flag.”
Sydney blinks faster. “Wait, what? Who are you dating? And why is his flag red? Girl, you have really been holding out on me.”
“Well, that’s what you do when you decide to reverse Pretty Woman a Richard Gere of your very own and end up thinking that male prostitutes and small-town virgins have a shot at living happily ever after,” I say, lifting my glass in a sarcastic toast to the biggest idiot in the room.
Who is, of course, yours truly.
As soon as Sydney’s done choking on her drink, she demands I tell her what the hell I’ve been up to, and I do.
All of it. From begging Weaver to connect me to his sex-club madame friend, to Anthony sweeping me off my feet, to how fabulous he is with Pudge, to the way he makes me feel so beautiful and fascinating and safe.
To the way he lied and left me this morning after making a big deal out of being at the inspection…
“Holy shit,” she says, looking stunned. “I’m going to kill Weaver. Dead. He is so dead!”
“No, don’t kill Weaver,” I say. “I begged him to help me. He was just trying to be a friend, and I’m a big girl. I knew what I was doing.” I exhale a long, miserable breath. “Or…I thought I did. Until I met Anthony and had the most amazing sex ever and fell in love with a guy who is probably lying about everything. Including having feelings for me and my cat.”
“Shit, Maya,” she says, taking my hand under the table and giving it a squeeze. “Oh, honey, you are just going through it right now, aren’t you?”
“I think my dumb, impulsive teenager phase is hitting about five years too late,” I say, with a laugh.
It’s not funny—not at all—but that second martini is hitting hard, taking the edge off my pain.
“But we always knew I was a late bloomer,” I continue, glancing down at my phone as it begins to vibrate on the table beside my drink. Anthony’s face pops up on the screen as the muted call buzzes twice before I reach over, sending it to voicemail.
I’m fast, but I’m not fast enough, a fact Sydney proves as she says, “Holy hell, woman, was that him? Pull that picture up again. I need to see this sexy lying beast for myself.”
“He is a sexy beast,” I agree, pulling up the shot I took of Anthony smiling at me over his shoulder in the sculpture court at the museum. With the natural light filtering in through the giant windows and the white marble all around him, he looks like a male model.
Or a movie star.
Or a very expensive prostitute, who breaks dumb girls’ hearts on a regular basis.
“Wow.” Sydney blinks several times. “He’s gorgeous, Maya. And he has really kind eyes.” She looks up from the screen, her forehead furrowing. “Like…really kind. And the way he’s looking at you in that shot?” She shakes her head as she sets my phone back on the table. “I mean, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he’s not a creep who’s going to steal your identity and give you crabs.”
My brows shoot up. “Crabs? Oh God, I didn’t even think of those. We were both tested for STDs, but can they detect crabs with a normal test? Probably not, right? I mean, aren’t they like…lice, or something?” I make a gagging sound. “Ew. Lice. Why is being a human so gross?”
“It is gross,” Sydney says, patting my hand. “But it’s also pretty amazing. And that guy doesn’t look like he has crabs. He looks like he has a standing appointment at that preppy barbershop in Chelsea that charges two hundred dollars for a shave. He is very well-maintained.” She purses her lips and tilts her head to one side. “And a little familiar, honestly. I wonder if I’ve run into him somewhere. I attend a lot of charity banquets with women who would have no problem plunking down a few hundred dollars for a pretty man on their arm.”
“Try a few thousand,” I mutter, nibbling on the peppermint shortbread that came with my drink. I’m starting to get hungry, but for the first time all week, I’m dreading dinner with Anthony.
I’m not the type of person who can put hard conversations off until they’re convenient. As soon as I lay eyes on Anthony again, it’s all going to come out—all my suspicion and hurt and frustration, all my half-formed theories and secret fears.
“Really?” Sydney makes a thoughtful noise. “How much did you pay this man?” I tell her and she squawks in alarm. “Maya! Jesus. Let me see that picture again.” She grabs my phone, holding it up to my face to unlock the screen before pulling up Anthony’s photo.
She then takes a shot of my phone with her phone, making my stomach drop.
“No, Sydney, don’t,” I say, reaching for her arm.
“Don’t what?” she asks, shoving her phone into her bag before I can grab it.
“Don’t report him to the police or whatever it is you’re thinking. With the exception of this morning, he’s treated me wonderfully. He’s been kind and protective and supportive and charming. And he even insists on paying for everything.”
She snorts. “He can afford it. You practically gave him your life savings. I mean, ten grand a week? If I ever burn through my inheritance, maybe I’ll become an escort. I had no idea they made that kind of money.”
“And that was with a fifty percent discount because Weaver’s friends with the owner of the club,” I murmur, flinching when she squawks again. “But still, he’s been generous. And I don’t know, maybe there really was a sick friend.”
“No, there wasn’t. Trust your gut, Maya. The gut never lies.”
“Maybe, but one lie doesn’t make him a bad person. And it certainly doesn’t justify getting him arrested.” I glance around, lowering my voice before I add, “Prostitution is still illegal, you know. And I could get into trouble, too. I’m part of this illegal equation.”
Her shoulders relax and some of the outrage fades from her expression. “I seriously doubt anyone would prosecute you, but don’t worry. I’m not going to report him. I’m just going to keep his face on file, so I know exactly who to go looking for if anything happens to you.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I say. “He would never hurt me like that, Syd. Never.”
She arches a brow. “You sound pretty sure about that.”
“I am,” I say, a different kind of suspicion prickling across my skin.
Maybe I’ve overreacted. Anthony at least deserves the chance to explain himself before I jump to damning conclusions. He’s earned that with every perfect moment we shared before this morning.
Sydney nods as if she can read my thoughts.
But we’ve been friends for so long, she usually can.
“Then you should go talk this through with him,” she says. “In the meantime, I’ll make a few phone calls. If you’re open to going into the deal with a partner, we might still be able to make it work.” She holds up a hand, stopping me before I can respond. “Not me. I know you don’t want me to save you, but my bestie from high school, Noelle, has a friend who’s part of a purchasing collective. They buy distressed properties, renovate using as much elbow grease as possible, then sell them off. I’m pretty sure they’ve only bought single unit properties so far, but they might be ready to tackle a bigger project. It’s worth a shot, anyway. I know they have a solid legal framework in place to protect each person’s investment stake, so you wouldn’t be jumping into a completely unvetted situation. There would still be risks, but…worth a shot, right?”
I nod, hope flickering to life inside me again for the first time since this morning. “Yes. Thank you. I would appreciate that so much. I don’t close until Friday, so there might still be time to meet with them tomorrow. Or, if they’re not ready to move that quickly, I might be able to get the closing pushed back.”
“Okay, good,” she says as we rise from our seats and shrug back into our coats and scarves. “I’ll let you know as soon as I know.” She reaches out, giving my arm a squeeze. “And you’d better text me the second you get the real story from this man. Don’t settle for anything less. If he’s really The One, he’ll see how upset you are and do whatever it takes to make it right.”
The One…
As we hug goodbye outside Oscar Wilde and go our separate ways—me downtown to the Village and Sydney uptown to have dinner with her dad at the penthouse where she grew up—every moment of the past five days with Anthony plays in my head.
The montage is overwhelmingly wonderful and romantic.
And sexy.
And sweet.
And…real.
This is real . It has to be real, right? I mean, I’m na?ve, but I’m not an idiot.
But you have been pretty drunk on orgasms, and I don’t think that makes you the most reliable judge of character. Pretty sure sex isn’t known for enhancing your rational side.
Good point, Inner Voice.
As soon as I emerge from the subway station near Anthony’s place, I pull out my phone, planning to call him and ask if he wants to meet at the coffee shop around the corner. I’ll be much less likely to fall prey to his sex vibe if we’re in public with cappuccinos.
But when I glance at the screen, I see a missed call and a voicemail from my lender…
My heart begins to race as I step off the sidewalk, huddling against the brick wall of a local grocery store in the late afternoon chill. Pushing my fingers to one ear to block out the hum of traffic and the shouts of kids playing at the small park across the street, I strain to hear the soft voice of Mary, my loan officer.
“Hello, Ms. Swallows. So sorry I missed you. I hate to leave this in a voicemail, but I’m headed out for the day and wanted you to know what’s happening as soon as possible. You’ll have an email in your inbox explaining all this as well, but unfortunately, we’ve run into a snag on our end. During our final review, we discovered a discrepancy in the property’s appraisal value compared to recent sales in the area. The comps from the past month are really throwing a wrench in things.”
Oh no.
Oh no, no, no…
I bite my bottom lip hard enough to send pain flashing through my jaw, starting to feel like I’m cursed.
Mary sighs, clearly hating every word of the bad news she’s compelled to deliver. “But they are what they are, and given the extent of the necessary repairs, we’re going to need an additional twenty thousand down to process the loan. The lender is no longer comfortable with the lower amount of leverage. I’m so sorry to deliver this kind of update so late in the process, but the good news is that I can get your closing pushed to next week. That’s no problem. That’ll give you more time to get creative with your finances.”
Creative? There’s no amount of creativity on my part that can solve this, and I seriously doubt Sydney’s connections are going to be interested in a neighborhood that’s lost value in a market where property prices usually only move in one direction—up.
“Give me a call back tomorrow morning, okay?” Mary adds. “I’m happy to talk this through with you further and hopefully get a new closing date on our schedule. Have a good rest of your day and…sorry again.”
Sorry…
She really does sound sorry, but not as sorry as I am.
I am so sorry. I should have known better than to swing for the fences. I’m not that kind of girl. I’m a “play it safe and small” kind of girl. I should have started with a cottage in Maine and moved on to larger vacation home purchases, just like my parents.
“Only I don’t want to be like my parents,” I whisper through the tears pushing at the backs of my eyes.
I want to be brave and bold.
I want to grow and evolve and be part of the world outside our tiny corner of it.
Just like that, I decide not to ask Anthony to meet me at the coffee shop like a coward.
I’m not a coward. A fool, maybe, but not a coward.
Inside his apartment building, I take the stairs two at a time, arriving winded at his door, but I don’t pause to catch my breath. I work my key into the bottom lock and click it open. I’m about to set to work on the deadbolt, when the door flies wide, revealing a very worried-looking Anthony on the other side.
“Where have you been?” he asks, frowning as I push past him, dumping my purse on the bench by the door. “I’ve called three times.”
“I was with a friend and had my ringer off,” I say, turning back to face him, my hands propped on my hips, ready to do battle.
“I’ve been worried sick,” he says, his gaze skimming up and down my body, for once looking more concerned than appreciative.
I realize he’s looking for injuries and some of my irritation fades.
Still, he lied to me this morning and didn’t text for hours after. And I’ve had too terrible a day to feel anything but raw and scared and braced for the worst.
“You didn’t seem in any hurry to text me this morning,” I counter. “And I was worried, too. Worried that you weren’t who I thought you were.” I arch a challenging brow as I add in a pointed tone, “How’s Chris?”
He doesn’t miss a beat before confessing, “There is no Chris. I lied. I’m so sorry, Maya.”
Well…shit. I’m a little shocked by how easy this was, but I do my best not to show it. “I know. You’re a crappy liar. Your phone didn’t even have a new message on it. At least not as far as I could see.”
“No, it didn’t. And yeah, I am,” he says, a pleading note creeping into his tone. “But I’m hoping that’s something you’ll learn to appreciate about me. In time.” He takes a small step closer, adding in a softer voice, “I really hope I can earn more of your time, Maya. That’s all I want.”
Love and hope surge in my chest.
But if this day has taught me anything, it’s how important it is to look before you leap.
“We can talk,” I say, keeping my guard up as best I can in the face of his magnetic gaze locked on mine. “I’ll give you the chance to explain. That’s all I’m promising right now.”
He winces, but nods. “All right. How about an explanation over a drink? And maybe dinner?”
“All right,” I say. “I guess we have to eat. I’ll feed Pudge and we can go.”
“You might want to change first,” he says. “The bar has a dress code, and I bought you something to wear, a little gift to express how sorry I am.”
His “little” gift turns out to be a designer dress, a diamond necklace that has to be fake, but it still clearly a wildly pricey piece, and shoes I’m betting cost more than my inspection.
But his excess makes me feel worse, not better.
As I stand gazing at my expensive-looking reflection in the mirror in the guest room, all I can think is— He must have something seriously upsetting to explain.
Smoothing my hand down the front of the gorgeous dress, the one that makes me look more like a socialite than a girl on a budget about to lose her ass in a real estate deal, I whisper, “Guess I’m about to find out.”