41. Now
FORTY-ONE
now
I wake up with a crick in my neck and an icepick lodged somewhere between my eyes.
“AH- hem .”
Wincing against the sunlight streaming in behind me, I open my eyes to find a familiar, unwelcome presence. Maggie Danvers, towering over me, glaring.
“Grayson Stryker,” she snarls. “ What the actual fuck are you doing here?”
I don’t know. I can’t remember what happened. I know I showed up at Ella’s doorstep and waited for her. I recall the way she looked when she appeared on the street, how she tried to convince me to call for a ride, but I didn’t have my phone. And I remember almost passing out in the gutter.
After that, my mind is a big, blank hole.
With crusted eyes, I squint up at Maggie’s formidable stance. She has her arms locked tightly across her chest and a glare to rival Medusa’s.
I remember the look all too well. Only the last time I saw it, I was so depressed I couldn’t really appreciate all its shades of hatred.
At the time, tracking down Maggie was my last hope of finding the girl I loved. But Maggie called me a creep and an asshole; and then firmly crushed any hopes of seeing Ella again by informing me that she’d moved out of the city… for good.
Was it a lie? Or did Ella really leave and then come back? Why would she do that?
My skull pounds while unanswered questions swirl through it. Ignoring my headache and my nausea, I hoist myself up and look around.
The room is small but lovely. Fresh yellow paint reflects sunshine spilling through macramé curtains. Plants hang from knit planters in all the corners. There are clothes piled on a big indigo armchair with rips up the sides, and books shoved into a bent bookcase.
I recognize my surroundings, even without the memory of how I wound up here.
Ella’s room .
Her honeysuckle scent clings to the floral sheets pooled around my waist. I look down and realize I managed to take my shirt and belt off, but not my watch or my slacks. I can’t find any evidence as to whether I slept alone or...
“Where is she?” I croak.
Maggie glowers. “On the couch, cretin.”
Shame joins the roil in my guts. “Why did she give me her bed? ”
“Because she’s Ella !” Maggie snaps, her dark eyes murderous. “ Of course she offered her bed to the asshole ex who showed up drunk on our stoop the night she was supposed to be out celebrating her success. And, of course, you let her because you’re a self-involved dickhead who thinks it’s acceptable to pop back up three years later, right when she’s finally about to move on.”
My hangover makes it hard for me to process half of what she says. Still, dread sinks down through me when she mentions Ella “moving on.”
It isn’t fair. Didn’t I move on? A long time ago, with any girl I could? I grew up, took the big boy job, got the grown-up apartment, and dated the women I was supposed to want. Why isn’t Ella allowed to make the same progress?
Because she left you and never told you why .
And then… gave up her bed for me?
For most, that wouldn’t make any sense. But Maggie has a point. Ella always gave to a fault.
Seems some things haven’t changed completely.
“I need to talk to her,” I mumble, dropping my face into my hands. My eyes sting. “Jesus, it’s bright in here.”
Maggie scowls at the buttery walls. “I tried to tell her,” she mutters, not bothering to clarify. “Anyway, no. You can’t talk to her about anything. You need to find a shirt and get out of here before you do any more damage. Honestly, boy, why can’t you just leave her alone? Isn’t it enough that your name is right outside our damn door? She’s already in therapy twice a week over your dusty ass. She doesn’t need anything else to?—”
“Maggie!”
We both turn to find Ella in her doorway, wide-eyed and mussed in yoga pants and a baggy T-shirt. Her lower lip looks swollen, and her sexy bun has unraveled slightly, giving her a just-fucked look that swamps my mind with memories.
Oh God .
Maggie re-crosses her arms, not letting up. “No, Ella. This is not okay. He can’t just show up, and you can’t just let him. I mean, for fuck’s sake, how did he even find us?”
“I know,” Ella sighs, floating forward to hover just inside the door. “I know. It’s okay, Mags. I’ll handle it.”
“It” being me . A sour snort sticks in my throat.
Throwing her hands up, Maggie stomps out of the room while Ella edges into it. She stands near the exit, even after cracking the door to give us some small measure of privacy.
For a second, I wonder why she doesn’t just close it… but then she bites her lower lip, and my cock stirs.
Right .
I glance around the room at a loss. Do I need to apologize for hunting her down? My pride rails against it, but, sober, in the glaring sunlight, I see I’ve massively over-stepped. Getting her information against her will was bad enough… Using it was a complete violation of her privacy.
It’s too late. I’m here. If I don’t ask her the questions that haunt me, will I ever get another chance?
Or, maybe it’s best if I just leave. Delete her information again—in front of her, this time, to restore her peace of mind. I’ll even promise to tell Marco to tackle me if I ever ask him to drive me to Brooklyn again.
Hell, I’ll sell the damn block across the street. Or give the project to Daniel .
My eyes scan over her belongings, searching for an innocuous item to focus on… until I notice something missing.
“There’s no yarn.”
Ella hugs her arms around her torso and frowns softly. “I have some on my desk,” she mumbles. “But I don’t really have a lot of time to knit these days.”
I try to picture Ella without a pile of wool perpetually spilling out of her bag. The thought sends a pang aching through my chest. The pain makes me want to fight.
“Too busy writing, I’d guess.”
Her eyes narrow at the derision in my voice. “While you’re busy knocking down every historic property you can get your hands on,” she shoots back. “Right?”
She is right. And I fucking hate it. I hate it more coming from her, the one person I ever shared my true career dreams with. She’s the only one who knows just how much I’ve sold out.
I try to scoff, but it sounds more like a growl. “ Historic ? The building across the street was a crack house during the drug epidemic in the eighties, and two decades ago, the bottom level was a Duane Reade.”
Ella harrumphs. “And now it’s an artists’ co-op. Someone in there could be the next Andy Warhol—but you and your band of yuppie gentrifiers don’t care about the future potential of a place. You just tear it down! How do you think we get historic buildings, Gray? We have to let them age .”
Gray .
Hearing my special nickname doesn’t get easier. It’s still enough to wind me. I can’t force contempt into my tone; I can barely breathe.
“Well, you know all about ending things without regard to future potential,” I murmur.
A long moment passes. Her eyes wander across the side of my face while I stare into her open closet, hoping in vain for any small piece of the girl I loved. Instead of colorful knitting creations and thrifted vintage oddities, I find a depressing array of business attire. There are even heels in there. But no green clogs.
When she speaks again, her voice is a gentle whisper. “You came over here to tell me off?” she asks, trembling. “I guess that’s fair after the way I left. You never got a chance to tell me how you felt. That must have been so hard. You should tell me now while you have the chance.”
Her kindness cuts deeper than disdain. It’s too horribly, wonderfully familiar. Just when I’ve almost convinced myself that my Ella is long gone… there she is. Her empathy. Her humility.
No one has a heart like hers. I could never bring myself to rip into it .
My tone turns wooden. “Maggie is right. I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry for doing that to you.”
Ella’s breath shakes when she exhales. “I’m sorry, too,” she says softly. “For everything.”
That’s it . I realize. What else is there?
I chance one last look into her sapphire eyes. They shimmer with tears, but her cheeks are dry and pale as bone. I let myself stare for a long moment, memorizing the curve of her nose, the bow of her lips.
Ellie .
I stay as still as I can, knowing that once I move, we won’t see each other again. Desperation sucks at my insides, begging me not to let that happen.
“Can you tell me why?” I rasp. “You never explained, you just…”
Left me .
One fat droplet rolls down her face. “No,” she says simply, her gaze steady as can be. “I can’t tell you why.”
Outrage lurches up inside of me, but her expression stops me cold.
She looks… devastated. And yet, completely certain.
And for an insane moment, I don’t hate her. Hating her suddenly seems impossible . Like some sick joke of a bad dream so absurdly false, you wake up immediately.
How could I ever have hated her? Did I really? Or was it just a coping mechanism?
In this moment, I just want to go to her. Sweep her small body up into mine, murmur reassurance, and hold her close until I warm her.
My entire torso aches while I resist the pull tethered there. “Ellie?—”
Her lips wobble. “I will never be able to tell you how sorry I am,” she whimpers. “But I hope you’ll take my word for it.”
If she really won’t give me an explanation, then I have one other question I have to ask before it drives me insane .
“Was any of it real?”
Pain breaks over her sad, lovely, sun-soaked face. “Gray, please?—”
My anger resurfaces, climbing up my throat. “If you aren’t going to give me a good reason why you left, the least you could do is answer me now. It’s a simple question. Was anything you said to me—or anything we did —real? Tell me, and then I’ll leave.”
Ella stands still for a long moment. Finally, she drops her sapphire eyes to her feet and sniffs. “You don’t have to leave, Grayson. Because I am. I just came in to say that I’m sorry for what I did to you back then. And I hope that my sincere apology means you won’t feel the need to seek me out again.”
Finally, she peeks up at me again. Our eyes lock, as they have so many times before. While my heart hammers, my gaze catalogs every facet of her face.
I didn’t know she was leaving the last time. Now, I know.
It’s the last time I’ll see her. And I have to hold on to it.
After years of trying to forget… now, I just want to remember.
She drops her gaze first. “I’ll be gone most of the day, so you don’t have to race out of here. I left a coffee on the counter for you. Maggie will lock up when you go.”
I wish I could say that I pick up my shit and what little dignity I have left and follow her out. But, instead, I sit, paralyzed by pain, and watch her walk out on me again.
It takes much too long for my brain to reboot, for my lungs to drag in fresh air, for my jaw and fists and shoulders to un-bunch. When I finally push onto my feet, I feel hollow. Like all of my insides have been scooped out, thrown on the cold wood floor, and stomped under her heel.
I find my shirt lying neatly on her vanity, beside a perfectly coiled belt and both of my shoes. Yet more proof that thoughtful Ellie still lurks inside the stranger she’s become. With stiff, jerky movements, I pull my clothes back on.
My eyes roam over her makeup table and the photos taped around the edges of its mirror. Each unfamiliar face sends a stab of grief into my gut.
I really don’t know her anymore.
I keep forcing the words through my mind, but they don’t feel true. Because regardless of the business clothes, the strangers in her photos… I see her everywhere.
The yellow paint, bright enough to blind me. The hand-stitched plant holders. The mismatched floral sheets on her bed.
I can picture my Ellie hanging that crystal dream catcher in her window. I can imagine her grumbling to herself about her drab professional wardrobe. On an impulse, I kick up the yellowed lace bed skirt and find exactly what I expect—stacks and stacks of books propping up the sagging mattress.
Turning back to the vanity, I heave out a sigh and cast my eyes down to the array of cosmetics and jewelry piled there. I wonder if she kept the ? —
My fingers twitch for the nearest gold chain before I stop myself. No. If she sold it, you’re better off not knowing.
The thought sends a burning bolt of hurt into my diaphragm. Jesus . I have to get out of here .
Feeling beat to shit, I slink out of Ella’s room and into their narrow, three-foot stretch of hallway. To the left, it empties into a cozy living room and a little kitchen.
I recognize Ellie there, too. The coffee she made and left out for an unwelcome guest. The bright blue cabinets. Her desk-full of yarn. And one truly heinous orange chair.
Before I catch myself, I hover over it. I picture her curled up there with whatever book or crocheting or coffee. She probably loves the ugly thing, stains and all.
Just like she loved you .
If any of it was real.
Though the apartment is quiet, sounds of construction echo from across the street, interrupting my depressing reverie. A jackhammer starts up .
We work this early on weekends? I check my watch and cringe. God, we’re assholes .
“Pretty fucking inconsiderate, huh?”
Whirling, I find Maggie watching me from the threshold of her bedroom. In a colorful kimono and her own set of yoga attire, she still cuts a formidable figure. Especially given the disdainful look on her face.
With my hangover in full effect, our earlier conversation has already started to haze. Although, the part about Ella attending therapy over my “dusty ass” hangs clearly at the forefront of my memory.
Why would she need therapy? She’s not the one who lost everything.
And, God, what I lost. Standing there, surrounded by all things warm and bright and Ellie… it has never been clearer.
Still, one missing piece bothers me. “The clogs,” I say, my voice rough. “Where are they?”
Her brows push down over her glasses. “The green ones? The most hideous shoes ever known to mankind?”
That description brings a bleak smile to my face. “I loved those things,” I admit. “They were just so… Ellie.”
A knock sounds at their front door. Maggie pushes past me, muttering under her breath as she passes, then throws the slab open.
Amir crowds the frame, dwarfing it with his wide shoulders. “Good morning, miss, I’m looking for?—”
“The asshole? Yeah, he’s here.” Maggie turns to glare at me. “This a friend of yours, asshole?”
Amir meets my eyes from across the small room, then holds up my missing phone. “Figured you’d be here when I couldn’t get a hold of you, sir. I picked up your phone on the way. It was at a bar in Midtown.”
My eyes flicker to the coffee sitting on the kitchen counter. Maggie follows my gaze and sighs. “She’ll be sad if you don’t drink it. Just… here. ”
A second later, she hands me a to-go mug and pins me with a severely pointed look. “I trust you’ll find some way to get this back to me, right, asshole?”
It seems like she’s trying to say something else, but I don’t understand because it makes no sense. She couldn’t possibly be suggesting I come back?
Just in case, even though the thought of drinking it puts a lump in my throat, I accept the coffee. “Thanks. I will. ”