28. Natasha
28
NATASHA
“ C oming!” I called, hearing the knock on my door as I finished up in the bathroom. After an interview this morning at Cool Gourmet, a nearby café looking for temporary staff going into the holiday season, I’d left smelling of coffee and pastries. It had only depressed me, so I’d immediately jumped in the shower upon returning home. I may have fairly pathetic prospects right now, but I didn’t have to smell like burnt grounds.
The knock sounded again. “Be right there,” I called, hurrying down the hall, a towel still wrapped around my hair. I knew it wasn’t Stacy knocking because she usually texted before coming down. But there was also a less unhinged quality to the knocking and a distinct lack of her trademarked Natashaaaaaa ! I swung the door open to find a bike messenger clad in a sleek, neon-orange windbreaker and cycling goggles standing on my stoop. “Hi,” I said.
He glanced down at the package in his gloved hands then back at me. “Are you Natasha Dryer?”
“Yes.”
“Then this is for you.” He handed over a thick brown envelope.
“Thanks. Careful on the stairs,” I said. “They’re slick.” We’d had a light dusting of snow this morning which had promptly turned to an icy rain just in time for me to make the trek to my interview. Sometimes I hated November. The weather just needed to commit one way or the other.
“Thanks,” he called, jogging off to grab his bike. “Have a good one!”
“You too.” I returned to the warmth of my apartment, closing the door behind me, wondering what was in the envelope. It was still way too early for Christmas cards, not that I ever had many turn up. And despite all the late-night scrolling I’d been doing to distract myself from the Trent-shaped hole in my life, I didn’t remember indulging in any retail therapy recently. I was trying to be frugal where I could, knowing that I’d have to stretch my savings until the job situation sorted itself out.
I slid my finger into the corner of the envelope, tearing it open. A small pad of bubble wrap fell out. Inside was a shiny silver key and a note with an address written on it. “What the hell?” I whispered under my breath. What kind of creepy stalker move was this?
I picked up my phone, calling Stacy. “Hey,” she answered. “I was just about to call you. I might have a lead on a really exciting costuming opportunity, and I’m trying not to freak out too much.”
“That’s awesome, Stace. With who?”
“I can’t say who because I just signed an NDA, not that I don’t trust you, but mostly because I don’t want to jinx it! Ahhh ! It’s Broadway, baby! Okay, breathe. I’m fine. You’re fine. Everything’s fine.”
“One, that’s so cool. I knew it was only a matter of time before Broadway came knocking. And two…I’m actually not altogether sure I am fine.”
“Wait…what’s wrong?”
“Have you left for work yet?”
“No. I was on my way out the door, though.”
“Can you come down here for two seconds?”
“Yes. But why do you sound so unnerved?”
“Cause something weird just happened.”
“Good weird or bad weird?”
I sucked in a long breath, staring at the key. “Honestly, I don’t know.”
“ Oooooo ! Okay,” she said. “I’m definitely on my way then. Be right there.”
Ten minutes later, Stacy and I stood around the kitchen table, staring down at the key and the note, our heads practically pressed together as we examined them.
“I guess it could be some sort of prank,” I said.
Stacy hemmed. “By who?”
“I don’t know. I don’t really want to circle back to the ‘someone’s trying to lure me to my death’ idea.”
“This does scream murder mystery, I’m not gonna lie.” Stacy picked up the key. “I wonder if your soon-to-be murderer’s DNA is on here.”
I knocked it out of her hand. “Don’t say that. I bet they just had the wrong address.”
“Well, your name was on the envelope, so it’s definitely from someone you know. And if we’re weighing the odds?—”
“I don’t like it,” I grumbled.
“ If we’re weighing the odds,” Stacy said, continuing her thought, “it has to be Trent.” She opened Google, typed in the address, and zoomed in on Google Maps. “Nothing definitive is popping up, but I don’t know who else can afford real estate in this part of the city.”
The last thing I wanted was for this to be from Trent, but I couldn’t deny that she was probably right. I didn’t exactly have a long list of wealthy friends who had access to property in that part of Manhattan. Plus, of all our theories, this one made the most sense.
“Man,” Stacy complained. “I sooo wish I wasn’t working this afternoon. I’d totally go with you to have a look. Because let me be clear, you definitely need to check this place out. I mean, like, be careful…obviously. Text me when you get there to let me know you’re alive and all that.”
“Ew, no. Who said I’m going to check it out?”
“What?” she gasped. “You have to! I need to know what it is.”
I shoved the key in her direction. “Then be my guest. Text me when you find out.”
“No, Natasha. If this is from Trent, then you definitely need to be the one to check it out. First, so you can tell him the way to an apology is not with a creepy key with an unsigned note. And second, so you can kick him in the balls for treating you like an asshole. It’s the least he deserves after everything.”
“Hmm,” I said, picking up the key. The thought of seeing Trent again was a little too tempting. Even if it was only to kick him in the balls.
Forty minutes later, I was making my way down a slick side street in Manhattan, following Google Maps to the location pinpointed on my phone. I’d taken one bus and the subway to get here, so if this all turned out to be a giant waste of time, I was going to be pissed.
I slipped my phone in my pocket and stuffed my hand back in my glove as I came upon a large grey warehouse. It looked like a relatively new build, the siding shiny and sleek, devoid of the rust that marked some of the nearby buildings. I pulled the key from my pocket and walked up to the door. There were no markings or signs, not even a NO TRESPASSING notice, so I slipped the key in the keyhole, and my heart gave a little flip-flop when the door unlocked smoothly.
I pulled my phone out and quickly messaged Stacy to tell her I was going in. Inside, the lights flicked on automatically, seemingly triggered by motion. I gasped at the shelves that stretched out before me. There were at least a dozen of them, each one stocked to the top with woodworking supplies. I walked along the nearest shelf of hardwoods. There was oak, teak, maple, cherry, walnut, mahogany, ash—and those were only the woods I recognized off the top of my head. Some of them had to be rarer finds. I Googled images, certain I was looking at zebrawood and something else called purpleheart.
I sucked in a sharp, disbelieving breath. The space smelled absolutely divine. As I came upon the second set of shelves, I spotted the plywoods and MDF. The next one had rolls of upholstery fabric, leather, and foam for cushions. There were top-of-the-line power tools, bins of screws and nails and fasteners, and drawers upon drawers of hardware—enough to form a lifetime supply.
I veered away from the shelves, toward the far end of the warehouse which was divided into a massive workstation filled with table saws, band saws, and sanders and a temperature-controlled finishing station stocked with paints, stains, and varnishes. I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. This was every furniture designer’s dream workshop, and my heart raced at the thought of what I could create here. It made my current workshop look absolutely pathetic.
Footsteps echoed behind me, and I twisted to find Trent approaching. He looked really good—better than anybody had a right to. A hint of a smile curled his lips, and there was a bit of dark scruff covering his cheeks, just the way I liked. I caught my breath from the sight of him. He was so devastatingly handsome, and this was so not fair. I’d stumbled right into his trap. Stacy’s comment about kicking him in the balls resurfaced in my thoughts, but it wasn’t funny anymore. This was the man that had taken everything from me, including my heart. Seeing him now, in person, hurt way more than it had that day I’d delivered Dee’s bookcase to Long Island.
Stacy was wrong. I definitely shouldn’t have come. I should have taken that key, stuffed it back in the envelope, and put it right in the trash.
“I’m really glad to see you,” Trent said, drawing close enough that I’d usually be able to smell his cologne, but all I could smell was wood.
“How’d you even know I was here?” I asked. “Were you staking out the place?”
He laughed. “No. The lights trigger the security cameras.”
“Right. So you were spying on me?”
“Not spying,” he insisted. “But it did let me know when you’d showed up. And I headed right over. I’ve been looking forward to showing you this place. It took me a bit of time to track down the rarer woods. The bocote and purpleheart mostly.”
So, I was right. It had been purpleheart I’d seen. No, wait! Don’t let him do this . I couldn’t let him talk himself back into my good graces. He didn’t get to come waltzing back into my life when I’d finally started to get it back together. He didn’t get to look into my eyes and make me want him just when I was figuring out how to make life work without him.
“What do you think?” Trent asked, striding across to an office area with a desk. “I had them put this in so you could take meetings while you’re here or use the space to collect inspiration. There are places for you to sketch things out,” he touched a massive sketch pad, “which will transfer your designs right to the computer. And the printer is wireless. Print as much as you want. And these boards are cork, so you can pin ideas for new lines.” He dropped his hands to his hips, grinning. “I thought it could sort of be like your inspiration station.”
“It’s magnificent,” I said, unable to lie to him. “And incredibly thoughtful.” Which was also true. But I couldn’t let that lure me into dropping my defenses.
“It’s for you,” he said, surging toward me. “All for you to do whatever you want. Build and dream and create until you run out of ideas, though I know that’ll never happen.” I took a small step back, and he slowed, his expression growing more serious. “I was a giant idiot, Natasha, to accuse you the way that I did. I never should have said those things, and I hope you’ll accept this space as a token of how sorry I am for the way I treated you.”
I bit my tongue, stopping myself from lashing out in anger. Did he really think an apology and some money thrown around was all it took to wipe away the pain he’d caused me? His presence was enough to mess up my mind, to fill my senses and make me doubt the hurt I’d felt, but I couldn’t let myself be distracted by a nice gesture.
“What is it?” he asked.
I swallowed hard, struggling to gain control of my emotions as the frustration threatened to burn a hole through my gut. “You accused me of selling you out. And now you’re trying to buy my forgiveness with this place. After everything that’s happened, you get how messed up that is, don’t you?”
“Well, when you put it like that…” he said, scowling in that way he did when he begrudgingly conceded someone else’s point. “I guess I do. I just…” He reached for my hand. I didn’t pull away, but I also didn’t tangle our fingers the way I once would have. “Okay, ignore all of this because this is just stuff. Though you should know, I wasn’t trying to buy you with stuff. That wasn’t my intention.”
“Yes, it sucks when your intentions are misconstrued, doesn’t it?”
A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Please, Natasha. You have to know how sorry I am. I never should have said those things to you. I let my mother get into my head, but that’s not a mistake I’m ever going to make again.”
I shook my head, smiling softly at him—sadly. “You say that you’re sorry, and part of me believes you mean it.”
“I do!” he insisted.
“But I also believe that you meant what you said before—about me selling you out just to line my own pockets. It was awful and cruel and untrue, but you believed it when you said it. You weren’t just spouting off. No, you were actually convinced that I’d stabbed you in the back. You were so quick to mistrust me—and so rigid in your refusal to hear me out or let me even try to explain.”
He squeezed my hand. “I was wrong. I know that now.”
“You were, but just because you’ll admit that now doesn’t mean you won’t make the same mistake again, later on down the road. How can I trust that you’ll give me the benefit of the doubt? Or that you’ll have enough respect for me to hear me out? To listen to my side of the story before making assumptions? How can I trust that you’ll believe I’m a good person?”
“I’ve changed,” he said, the words barely a whisper. “I’m not going back to the person I was—the one who didn’t trust anyone. How can I show you that?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I’m not sure you can. I thought you were someone I could rely on once. Someone sturdy. Someone who would be there to catch me when I fell. But I did fall, Trent. And you weren’t there. Instead, you were the one cutting the safety nets out from under my feet.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you like that. I wish…” He looked down at our joined hands. “I wish I could take it all back.”
“That’s the thing about life. You don’t get to go back. Only forward. And I don’t think I can make the same mistake twice.”
He looked stricken, and I fought to keep myself from being moved by it. “What are you saying?” he asked, his voice choked.
“I can’t take the chance that you’ll let me down again.” I pulled the key to the warehouse from my pocket, handing it to him. “I’m sorry, Trent. But I have to protect myself.”