Chapter 16
For so many years of my life, I wondered what it would be like to see Ford Mercer’s name across my cell phone screen.
I wondered what it would be like to know that he’s calling me, not to get in touch with Kat or to ask me a question about his own camera, not to see what Kat’s favorite restaurant is or to ask me about something trivial, but to call me to specifically talk to me.
To hear my voice.
I never thought it would be real, and the most agonizing thing about having twelve missed calls from Ford Mercer as it stands? I don’t necessarily believe he’s calling because he’s dying to hear my voice.
In the span of a month, starting with an innocuous favor like tasting cake on behalf of my bestie and ending with a half-bang on my couch on her wedding night, I’ve gone from having a simple, private crush on my best friend’s dad to actively ignoring him because we had half-sex and now I don’t know how to go on with life as a normal human.
Because I had Ford Mercer.
The man I’ve dreamed of since forever.
And somehow, I fucked it up. Or, he fucked it up?
I don’t know. All I know is that it got all fucked up, and if I think about that for longer than a millisecond, I’ll cry.
Seriously. It’s like if I ever got to meet Henry Cavill and discovered that after years of longing and pining, he’s a bad kisser, or has a weird grip handshake where he only holds your fingers. Or an asshole.
I can’t have the man I’ve been putting on a pedestal for most of my adult life fall from grace. So I do what any reasonable, confused, highly vulnerable woman does in my pumps: Fake it.
Instead of returning his call, I’ll go visit him. He mentioned at the cake tasting that he was going to be working hands on at his new speakeasy location.
Huffing out a breath of irritation that I cannot have Disney princess magic in my life at any time ever, I tug on my favorite cashmere sweater, and roll the sleeves up.
I picked up this sweater when Harry and I went away for the weekend–our first and only ever weekend away, I might add, and everytime I look at it, it makes me smile.
I put it on when we got back into our room at the little inn that I booked for us.
Harry couldn’t keep his hands off of me that night.
Over and over, he kept telling me how beautiful I am, how the sweater’s off-white color did wonders for my porcelain complexion, and we had so much incredible sex that weekend.
That was seven months ago.
Tugging on my cutest wide leg jeans and my most comfortable chunky boots, I decide on a low ponytail, grab my purse and keys, and head out, phone in hand.
“Where to, hon?” the Uber driver asks when I jump into the backseat.
Quickly, I wrack my brain to remember the newest location, then remember that Ford said he only visits in the morning, and spends his evening at the Pier 15 Velvet location.
“Grove Street,” I tell him, recalling it far easier than I’d anticipated.
What I ate for breakfast is a blur, and where my social security card is in my apartment is an utter mystery.
But something that Ford Mercer told me in passing weeks ago?
Of course that’s etched into my brain forever.
“Sounds good, hon,” he says, flicking his blinker on with a string of curse words I recognize as Italian.
I check my reflection in my front-facing camera and take a deep breath. Accepting the job in person with zero mention of how I was drunk and begging for Ford to take the condom off so he could fuck me bare will show how much I agree that it was a mistake.
That’s what he’s been calling me nonstop to say, of that I have no doubt.
It was a mistake, Juliette.
We can’t, Juliette.
I’m sorry, Juliette.
I’m a tax paying, voting adult. I wax my upper lip. I’m tough.
But I cannot hear those words from Ford Mercer.
So I won't let him say them, and I’ll take control and pretend I don’t even recall the other night.
It’s the only way for me to be able to be around Ford casually, and definitely the only way in which I can look Kat in the eyes and not feel like the biggest traitor ever.
If it was a mistake, it’s not worth mentioning, and it’s forgettable. Kat doesn’t even have to know.
We’re all good.
Everything is hunky freaking dory.
So why does my stomach collapse in on itself when the driver pulls up outside Nineteen20? Maybe because I’m so full of shit, I can’t even properly gaslight myself.
I hand him some bills with extra, and take a moment on the sidewalk, just peering at the extravagant restaurant.
Just the curb appeal oozes class, and I’m so unsurprised that these restaurants are what spoke to Ford for the setting of his hidden gem.
Of course he selected the most interesting and beautiful place. That’s so Ford.
As I approach, I keep my chin high and refuse to tug at the extra fabric around my tummy, even though my old insecurities are screaming loud right now. I practice my speech, reciting the words a few times under my breath as I stand awkwardly near the entry, waiting for a host.
I got your email. So sorry it took me a few days, I’ve just been so busy and Harry and I had a late night last night but–I thought I’d pop by and accept, if it’s still available.
Perfect. Easy, not too overexplanatory, only moderately full of shit, and gets the job done.
A host appears, her long legs on display in her tiny black dress. She’s thin and gorgeous, and while I know we can both be beautiful and exist at once, around her, I am reminded that she is Ford’s type.
My anxiety roars to the forefront, bringing long put-to-bed insecurities with it. Standing there, I have the biggest urge to run away from the restaurant and resort to sending an email.
But I see it all over again.
The urgency with which he tore off his shirt. The way his tongue caressed mine when we kissed. The soft whimpers that left his lips when he made me come. All of it. If I think about it too much, I won’t be strong enough to do this, and that’s why I have to do it.
“Hello, I’m actually here to see Ford Mercer,” I explain, nodding to the portrait on the wall, where the passage lies. “Down in Velvet Whisper.”
A minute later, people in the restaurant are whispering and cooing as I’m helped down the staircase to Velvet. I’m sure there’s a normal entrance somewhere for building code and fire code reasons, but I’m too nervous to ask. I just want to get this over with.
At the bottom of the stairs, the bartender and I collide, his arms full with a box of booze bottles.
“Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry,” he groans, sliding the box onto the bar top, the lights around me reflecting off the bottles. Damien smiles. “Hey, you were in here the other day. You’re the photographer, right?”
The photographer. It’s so simple, stating my career in the plainest terms, but it’s such a big deal to me.
It’s not often that other people refer to me as a photographer, and hearing it out loud makes my eyes burn.
But I smile, and refuse to become emotional in front of a stranger and look like a total hormonal basket case. No way.
Outstretching my hand, I smile. “That’s me. Juliette Wilson.”
He introduces himself, and we make small talk for less than a minute but in that time, I have to use all of my manners and self control to not look around for Ford.
When Damien retreats to the bar, I weave through the space toward the back office, on Magda’s advice. Ford confessed he hides out there most afternoons, doing paperwork. But a sound stops me cold in my tracks.
A light, effortless laugh.
Elle’s laugh.
Ford’s “best friend.” Or whatever the hell she really is to him.
In junior high and high school, she was around but far less.
And the night we showed up at his house to announce the engagement, she was there, barefoot, moving through his home like she belonged there.
No hesitation, no asking permission, only comfort.
The kind that comes from history. From secrets.
A sharp twist of doubt coils in my chest. Is that why he left that night? Because of her? Are they quietly together, and I was just a mistake in the moment? What about all the other women he’s always with? Do they have no meaning because they don’t have history like he and I?
I turn slowly, my heart already bracing itself.
There they are, tucked into the smallest, darkest booth in the corner of Velvet like it’s their own private world.
Papers are scattered across the table, but neither of them are focused on the paperwork.
Her long fingers glide down the lapel of his suit jacket, lingering with a familiarity that makes my throat tighten.
He’s smiling at her. Not the polite, guarded smile he gives business associates or camera flashes at his grand openings. The real one. The one I remember from growing up, and from the night on the balcony. Eyes soft, warm, lit up in a way I’d die to see aimed my way, one more time.
There’s barely a foot of space between them. Maybe less. My stomach drops, a sick, free-falling plunge.
I assumed he thought we were a mistake, and that’s why he left. And I know Ford is a playboy, I do. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. But somehow, seeing the two of them now, has me reframing everything I feel about Ford Mercer.
If he’s with Elle…
Bile rises in my throat, hot and bitter, coating my tongue like poison. One more second of watching them tucked together like lovers, and I’ll be sick right here, I swear.
Before this moment, I was able to pretend it didn’t matter. I could tell myself Elle was just his friend. A close friend, sure, but harmless. I could ignore the way she touched him, and the way he leaned into it.
But not now.