Chapter 26
CHAPTER 26
R ockwell
I leave the house, making the short trip to the family’s newest business venture by foot instead of taking a car. I use the opportunity to light a cigarette, hoping the scent of tobacco will be aired from me by the time I arrive.
If not, the Cuban cigar I light up will do the job.
I take a long drag, enjoying the feeling of being lost in a sea of people. I get a few nasty looks for the smoke, but I don’t care. The nicotine enters my bloodstream and I’m able to momentarily relax.
God, I fucked up.
And there’s nothing I can do about it now.
Thank God the family event I have to attend today is at a whiskey bar. I’m going to need a few Rip Van Winkles to get through this day. A new speakeasy is being opened by one of the three heads of our family; Bronson, who runs the Hamlet in Connecticut.
We not only have our city escape, the Village, but a private island off the coast of Greece, appropriately named the Parish after being founded with the help of boats purchased from priests, as well as an entire hidden town in Connecticut where most larger families with children live, called the Hamlet.
Bronson’s kids are grown, and he only gets to the city when his wife Paige forces him to leave his suburban haven. Paige is a shopper. I’ve heard the phrase ‘shop till you drop,’ but I’ve never heard of Paige dropping. Bronson, on the other hand, is one of those men you see in the stores stuck in a comfy armchair for sale while scrolling over his phone screen, catching up on sports scores.
Word on the Bachman gossip grapevine is on their last visit to Daughtry’s, Paige asked him to stop tagging along. To find something to do. A hobby for him to enjoy when they make more frequent visits to the city, now that their children are busy with their own lives.
Following his wife’s urges, he wanted somewhere to hang with the brothers, a place to catch up with the crew of male Bachmans still fortunate to live in the city while his cute little wife spends her days with her friends, trying on clothes, loading her bodyguards up with boxes of new shoes, and frequenting the cafés she dines in.
Tonight, he’s having a whiskey tasting at his new speakeasy, a place he’s deemed the perfect place to lounge with a drink and a Cuban cigar as he waits to take Paige out to a show or dinner at the end of her shopping spree.
Dressed to impress, as Bronson’s invitation stated, I wear a three-piece suit, gray pinstripes running down my buttoned vest. I typically wear pants and a nice button-up shirt to catch up with the guys, but I have no issue going the extra mile for Bronson.
I pass Daughtry’s as I make my way up the street to his new bar. My gaze lingers at the shop window, making me think of the excitement in Lily’s eyes as Claudia helped her choose a new wardrobe. And how the two pressured me back at my apartment to try on some foolish-looking younger man’s clothing. Something the two called athleisure wear while falling into fits of giggles from the look on my face.
I push the happy memory from my mind, tugging open the heavy, red-lacquered door under the iron works sign that boasts the clever name Bronson’s Place.
I step inside. It’s dark, quiet. All men.
Beneath the dim, flickering lightbulbs, the room is filled with an aura of intrigue. The scent of the aged whiskey hangs in the air like a cloud, mingling with the rich aroma of the Cuban cigars.
The perfect environment to forget about her. A friend goes to the bar. Scans the menu, pushing a button that lights up a small red light under the bottle of Rip Van Winkle. An old man’s drink for a lonely bachelor who woke up with more silver hair above his ears and who irons a crease in the front of his jeans.
I accept the drink, joining a group at a blood-red cushy leather booth. For the first time in weeks, I begin to feel relaxed, settling into the warm darkness of the place. Listening to the pleasant small talk that surrounds me, I take in the space.
Small wooden crates of cigars for sale are lined up on the bar, the wood stained a dark gleaming brown. The wooden walls are adorned with antique mirrors, reflecting the low, smoky cast of the room as the men gather together, their dark suits and ties making the scene feel like something out of a classic black-and-white film.
Maybe I ought to dress up for the boys more often.
This is pretty cool, the atmosphere, the outfits. The whiskey warming my blood, relaxing me. I take a deep inhale of a cigar that costs more than a bottle of the aged whiskey someone’s placed on the table that we’re now pouring from.
After about an hour of socializing, the new owner joins us.
A hush falls over the room as Bronson enters, the way he carries himself always drawing respect from the men he surrounds. He was the first of the Bachman bloodline to live in the Village, raised by powerful men to become a fearless man himself.
He’s impeccably dressed in a black suit with a gray vest and blue tie, the silk fabric smooth against the lines of his chest. His eyes, dark and mysterious, catch the gaze of several of the younger recruits, ones he’s not yet met but who have heard stories about him as he weaves his way through the crowd, making his way to the bar.
His eyes find mine, nodding for me to join him.
I move from the booth to stand beside him. “Great job with this place, Bronson.”
“Thanks. Paige’s idea.” He takes the whiskey the bartender hands him. “Rockwell. How’s that sister of yours?”
“Great. Kicking my ass when she sees fit but otherwise, doing well.”
“God.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “The way her mind works with numbers—I can’t keep up. When you had me interview her for your business, I was thinking you were just trying to do a family member a favor, to give your sister a job. Then she pulled out that laptop of hers.”
“She’s insatiable when it comes to investments,” I agree.
“Paige has her looking at our portfolio. We’ve got plenty for retirement, but with Claudia behind a desk, Paige thinks we could double the kids’ inheritance.” He gives me a nod. “Great job getting her involved.”
“Thank you. And thanks for being willing to give her a shot.” I glance down at my watch. “Speaking of Claudia, I’m meeting her for dinner at Café Fresca. I’d better get a move on if I’m going to be on time.”
He puts a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Tell her hello for me, will you?”
“Of course. And congratulations on this place. It’s incredible. I can practically feel the testosterone in the air.”
“That was the plan.”
I say goodbye to a few friends, making my way out the door. Fresh cool air caresses my face as I step outside, my eyes adjusting to the sunlight. The sound of feminine laughter draws my eye across the street to Daughtry’s.
I step forward, taking a closer look. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
“This can’t be happening.”
The universe has once again placed her in my path. My stomach sinks right into the soles of my black leather Prada loafers as I try to process the scene before me. I run a hand over the back of my clammy neck. “I need to move on. I have to move on.”
I stroll to the café, tightness looping a restrictive band around my chest. My life is a fog, the moment lost in a haze. I feel out of it, nauseous and confused as I walk down the sidewalk, sounds of cars and people somehow missing, a soft, high buzz filling my eardrums.
What was she doing in a wedding dress?
My sister waits for me, two glasses of red wine on the table. I greet her with a kiss on the cheek, requesting the chicken pesto pasta. The waitress smiles at me, telling me that Claudia’s already ordered it for me.
“You’ve got dark circles under your eyes,” Claudia says as I sink into my seat. “Are you sleeping at all?”
“Sleep. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
I haven’t slept in nights. I can’t sleep because I can’t stop thinking of her. I lie there, staring up at the ceiling, missing her, wishing she was in my bed, in my arms.
In my life.
God. I’m going to lose it.
Lack of sleep and one too many whiskies make my stomach roll.
“Hello?” She waves a hand in front of my face. “You need sleep. You look like shit.”
“Sleep. Got it. But that won’t make this ugly bastard any better looking.” She laughs and I say, “Sorry to break the news to you. You got all the good genes.”
“I am brilliant. Aren’t I? And you aren’t too hard on the eyes. At least that woman over there doesn’t think so.”
A woman dining in the corner, facing our table, gives me a smile. After giving a polite nod, I look away. “Not interested.”
“You’ve got to move on, Rock. You’re the one who broke up with her in the first place—which, by the way, you still haven’t told me why—and now you’re walking around like you’re the one who’s been dumped.”
“Get sleep. Move on. Smile,” I say. “Got it.”
The food comes. She jumps heartily into her meal while I end up pushing mine around the plate with the tines of my fork. I’ve got no appetite.
Is she getting married? She can’t be. It’s only been a few weeks since we broke up. She can’t have moved on this quickly, can she…
“What’s gotten into you tonight? Do you smell like smoke?” She leans in closer.
I offer a half-lie. “Cigar at the bar.”
“You’d better not be smoking again.” She eyes me. Doesn’t believe me. Leaning in further, she’s ready to interrogate me like a detective from one of her true crime shows. Her soft eyes study my face. “God, she’s really gotten to you, hasn’t she?”
“Who?” I take a bored drag from my drink, pretending I don’t know the gorgeous angel she speaks of.
The angel I just saw wearing a white wedding gown.
“Shut up. God. You always turn into a statue when it comes to soft things like feelings. You liked her. A lot. You two got along. You actually smiled, laughed when you were with her. What happened?”
“I broke it off.”
“I know. But why?”
I pinch the stem of my glass, swirling the wine along the globe, watching red legs trail down. “None of your business.”
Who is she marrying and how soon can I have him beat up?
“Rock. Look at me.”
I glance up.
“She wasn’t one of your charity cases. I was wrong. I could see that the first time I saw you two together. Hell—I fell in love with her the first time she came into the office asking if we were hiring. Her stuffy little librarian get-up, that innocent smile. She’s sweet. Hell, even I get a toothache looking at her, and I like men. Even if they never like me back,” she jokes.
“Their loss,” I say. “I mean it.”
“Thanks.” She keeps going. “But come on. Cheer up or get her back.”
“Cheer up or get her back? It’s not that simple. You don’t even know why we broke—why I broke up with her.”
She presses her palms flat against the top of the table as if to keep from smacking some sense into me. “Well, I would if you told me. Try me.”
I don’t say anything, instead opting to busy my mouth with a leftover stuffed mushroom off her plate, popping it in my mouth. It’s good, garlicy and buttery and a bit spicy. I grab another.
“Can’t talk,” I say between bites. “Chewing.”
My angel is getting married. And it’s not to me. I let her go.
The very best thing in my life, the best thing that ever happened to me, and I let her go.
Clinging to the stem of her wineglass now, probably to keep from choking me, Claudia huffs, “Could you be more obnoxious? Fine. I’ll guess why you two broke up.”
“Don’t, Claudia. Please.”
But she continues her investigation. “It couldn’t have been the sex. The two of you walk by and anyone can feel the heat coming off you like oversexed rabbits. You were obviously attracted to one another.”
Her comment sends a searing pain through my gut, remembering firsthand that passion. “The second mushroom was a mistake,” I say.
But I know the discomfort is not from butter but from the big sister truth bomb she just lit.
“Rock.” Her voice is soft now, all signs of frustration gone. “Please. Tell me what happened. You need to talk about this. I’m worried about you.”
She gives me time, quiet space to answer. Finally, I say, “We were attracted to one another. The sex was incredible. I’m obsessed with her.”
“And?”
“And… it’s not just that. I smile when she walks into a room, get sad when she walks out. She’s the first thing I think of when I wake up. The last person I see in my mind’s eye when I go to bed at night.”
“Shit, Rock.” She presses back against her chair. “I knew it was bad but not this bad. And you’re the one who broke up with her?”
“Yes. I told you.”
“You did.” She narrows her gaze. “And it’s finally time to tell me why. Please.”
“She started creeping around the house. Pale. Like she didn’t want to be there. Scared of me, scared of telling me something.”
“Just like last time,” she says. She was there to pick up the pieces. She knew how badly the breakup affected me.
Her words echo in my mind. “Just like last time,” I agree. “And so, I broke it off before she could.”
Her brow knits in frustration. “You didn’t even ask her what was going on?”
“Nope. Aren’t you proud? I cut if off before she could. Saved you from the two weeks of me falling down drunk on your couch every night while you nursed me through my breakup.”
“You didn’t talk to her?” she asks.
“No. I told you?—”
She leans forward, a hand shooting out over the table, and a punch lands on my shoulder. “You idiot! How can you be so self-absorbed?”
“Damn,” I say, rubbing my arm. “What was that for?”
“For your typical male self-absorption.” She gives an angry shake of her head. “That a girl’s having a hard week and you assume it’s all about you? How about instead of breaking up with the sweet thing, you give her a safe space to open up? Maybe a shoulder to cry on if she needs it.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’ve been through this before. I know that’s what was happening. She was pulling away.”
“What if it’s not? You’re letting your hurt, your pain from your past relationship possibly ruin the one good thing that’s happened in your love life since you had your heart broken.” She grabs my shoulders, giving me a hard shake. “Rockwell, what if she was the one?”
“She was,” I say. “The one.”
Claudia pops up from her seat, her chair flying out from behind her. “If she’s the one… we’ve got to find her! You have to tell her before it’s too late.”
I try to squash the hope that Claudia’s face is making me feel. “It already is.”
“How? Why?” She grabs her purse from the back of her chair, pulling the strap over her shoulder. She takes my arm, pulling me up. “Come on.”
I rise, still unsure of everything that’s happening. “She’s getting married. I saw her on the way here, wearing a wedding dress outside of Daughtry’s.”
Claudia eyes me suspiciously. “She can’t be. It’s too soon. You’ve only just broken up.”
“I saw what I saw,” I say.
She pulls me through the café. “You also came here straight from a whiskey party. You must have been seeing things.”
We walk through the door onto the sidewalk. I pull her to a stop, facing her. “I know what I saw. I’m too late.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she shakes her head. “Can’t be. Not possible. I saw how much she liked you. Love, I would even say.”
Claudia’s words stun me. “You think she loved me?” I ask.
She puts a hand on my shoulder, locking eyes with me. “Yes. I think she did. She can’t have moved on that fast.”
“Wait…” A thought pops in my head, dredging up dread from the acid pool of my stomach. “That’s probably why she was so pale, why she was avoiding me. She was already with the other guy. The one she’s marrying.”
“No.” Claudia shakes her head. “No way. She’s not like that. She’s too sweet to cheat.” Holding her hand in the air, she snaps her fingers. “Hey—that’s cute. Could be a country song.” Claudia breaks out off-key, “She’s tooooo sweet to cheat on meee.”
“Stop. God. Please. Stop singing.”
“Fine. Just trying to get you to snap out of this funk and get to work.” Claudia slaps her open palm against my chest, throwing herself into big sister fix-it mode. “We have to find her. Right now. Where could she be? Do you think we should start at Daughtry’s?”
The eagerness in her voice gives me a pinch of hope. Maybe Lily couldn’t have moved on that fast. “I might know where she is,” I admit. “I put a tracker on her phone.”
She palms her forehead in disbelief. “You didn’t.”
“I did.” I pull my phone from my pocket, showing her the app.
She looks down at the screen. “God, you did.”
“Yup. Sure did. Overprotective Bachman man through and through, but I swear, I haven’t looked at it since I broke it off.”
She rolls her eyes again. “Like that makes it better.” Then she demands, “Look her up. Right now.”
“I thought you were against me having a tracker on her phone without her knowing?” I say.
“Not when it means that your bad behavior helps us undo your previous bad behavior and lead us to a happy ending.” She points at me. “Now look.”
My heart races as I pull up her location. “She’s at the corner store. The one by her apartment.”
Claudia grabs my arm. “Let’s go.”
Like when we were kids, each trying to prove we were the faster twin, we run, side by side, dodging past people as we head to the shop. We arrive at the door of the bodega, and I can see her in the window.
Standing in line. Staring down at something in her hands.
I throw open the door, shouting to her, “Don’t marry him. You belong with me. Not him.”
A dozen strangers making last-minute snack and various pharmacy and body care purchases stare back at me.
And she doesn’t even look up.