Chapter 8
For the second night in a row, I sleep like a princess on the giant bed. And when I’m showered and ready for the day, and walk downstairs, he’s already gone. Just like the day prior.
And just like the day prior, there’s a large spread of breakfast foods on the kitchen island.
Scones included.
I frown at the pastries. Does he do this every day? Get someone to deliver things? I’d put the leftovers in the freezer yesterday, but it was almost full. I’ll struggle to do the same today.
If I was staying longer, and if I knew him better, I’d talk to him about food waste.
It’s a beautiful day in London as I walk to my work. The sun is shining, and everywhere around me, the trees and shrubbery have started to explode with leaves. The cherry blossoms are in bloom, weighing down the branches of the trees I pass, their pink petals beautiful against the blue sky.
Try a new recipe was not a success.
But at least I attempted to do one of the things on my list. A few of the others, such as stay out all night or get a tarot card reading, still seem too daunting, but researching last night in bed made them feel more real. Made the possibilities of all kinds feel more real.
Aadhya is upbeat at work. The gallery is throwing a giant start of summer cocktail party in a few months, and she walks me through all the things we need to do before then.
Finally, I think. A job with actual stakes—a job that requires me to think, and act, and be creative. We spend half the day planning out the organization of the space, and the rest of the time entertaining buyers.
A call comes in while I’m walking home.
I stare at the name on my screen for long seconds. Panic unfurls in my stomach, grips my chest, making it hard to breathe. The instinct is to shut my phone off entirely. To drop it on the ground and watch it crack and shatter.
But I had seen the emails, too. The cancellation of our venue so close to the wedding is… well. We won’t get our deposit back. Not for the venue and not for the caterers.
And we need to deal with it.
I take a deep breath and lift the phone to my ear. “Hello.”
“Harper,” he says. Dean’s voice isn’t angry, and my fight or flight response slowly drains away. “How are you?”
“I’m good. How are you?”
“Great, yeah. Calling from the office. It’s your… afternoon now, right?”
“Yes. It’s 5 p.m. my time.”
“Awesome.” There’s a pause, and it’s not entirely comfortable. “I’m guessing you’ve seen the emails.”
“Yes. I told you, I’ll pay my half. Just give me a few months?—”
“Harper,” he says. “We don’t have to cancel.”
I close my eyes and lean against the wrought iron fence beside the sidewalk. Not this. Not again. I can’t have this discussion again, can’t handle the cajoling, the guilting, the anger. He has many tactics, and all of them are grating.
“We’ve spoken about this.”
“You’ve spoken, but I don’t agree,” he says. This time his voice is harder. “I say we keep the reservations?—”
“I’ve already told the venue to cancel. I’ve made all the arrangements, and I’ll pay my half as soon as I can, Dean.” My voice is firm. It’s easier to be firm over the phone than when he’s in front of me, his eyes turning hard, and his temper rising.
“I don’t care about the money,” he says, and I know it’s a lie. Because he’s always cared. When it mattered, he was happy to throw it in my face, that it was his apartment we were living in, that it was his family’s beach house. But when I tried to contribute, he always turned me down, too.
I’ll never live like that again.
“Look, will you at least call my mom? To explain yourself? She’s heartbroken,” Dean says. “She doesn’t understand why you just left. She thinks of you like a daughter, you know. Gave you those family diamonds last Christmas.”
“I gave them back,” I whisper. Of all the tactics, guilt is the one I find the hardest. I have no defense against it.
“Harper,” he says. His voice is coaxing, but there’s anger beneath it. “New York is your home. What are you doing, running off to a different country? Doing a traineeship at twenty-eight? You would be?—”
“In the future, just text me about the wedding logistics,” I say. My hand is shaking around the phone. “Bye, Dean.”
“Ha—”
I hang up and immediately turn my phone on airplane mode. I don’t want another call or a text—nothing. My breathing is hard. I keep walking. Focusing on one step after the other, and not on the panic still squeezing my chest tight.
When will it end? Being reminded of him, the barrage of emails about the canceled wedding arrangements, my friends and family asking me what happened…?
Guilt makes my stomach churn. His mother had been wonderful. She will never realize, never will see that her son is anything other than a prize. In many ways, he’s a great man. Until I understood he wasn’t—not for me.
The mold he expected me to fit into was too tight.
It had shrunk around me until it was like Saran Wrap, invisible but swathed tightly like a noose. And he hadn’t listened to any of it. Any of my concerns, my thoughts…
I didn’t think you could be alone in a relationship until I started dating Dean. Until I woke up one day and looked across the bed, realizing that he knew nothing about my inner thoughts. And worse… didn’t care.
The final blow had been a conversation I overheard. He was up earlier than me, and on the phone. He’d always been a loud speaker. I don’t think he was even trying to be quiet this morning; didn’t care whether I heard or not.
He’d been speaking to his brother, I’d later figured out.
He’d said that he was planning on my career being over after the wedding. When we have kids, for sure. There had been a pause, and I’d felt my stomach sink, because this was a conversation we’d had before. He wanted me to stay at home. I was adamant I wanted to work when possible.
And then he said the thing that broke something inside of me. It’s not like she has much of a career to begin with. An art degree is pretty much decorative.
It was not the worst he’d ever said. But piled on top of my own misgivings, the panic I’d been feeling as the days edged closer to the wedding, and the application I’d sent into the London gallery without his knowledge…
It had become painfully clear that he didn’t think I was capable. That I was someone to be controlled, guided, escorted. More of a pet than a true partner.
I’d packed my bags right away.
I remind myself of all of that as I walk the final blocks to Nate’s home. Remind myself of where I am, that I got out, that I’m better now. That I made the right decision. That I don’t have to feel guilty for my choices. Hurting him wasn’t great, but marrying him in the state I was in would have been far worse.
I hope he sees that someday.
I stop outside Nate’s enormous townhouse. The key is heavy in my coat pocket, and I turn it over once, twice.
Then, I walk up to the gates of the small courtyard park instead. If Nate’s already home, I’m not ready to talk to him. Not ready to talk to anyone until the ball of knots inside my chest has started to untangle. Or at least not ache the way it does right now.
I stop at the wrought iron gate and try to push it open. It won’t budge. There’s a lock on it.
Beyond the gate, I can see the winding path, leading to a small grassy square that’s surrounded by hedges. There’s a fountain behind them.
Locked.
I didn’t see that coming. For a few long seconds, I just stand and stare at the nearby garden. So close, yet locked away.
A moment later, a dog barks, and then there’s activity around my feet. I look down to see a spotted dachshund at my feet—dancing around, the ears flopping.
“Well hello there,” I say.
The dog is quickly joined by another, all-brown dachshund. Their leashes are held by a man, probably in his seventies, standing beside me. He looks dignified in a small cap, a tweed jacket, and a pair of green chinos.
“Hello there,” he says. His accent is all British upper crust. “Were you trying to get in?”
“Yes, I’m sorry, I was. I didn’t realize you needed a special key. I’ll get out of the way for you.” I reach down and pat the spotted dog on the head. His front paws are on my shin, his tail wagging rapidly. “Beautiful dogs.”
“They are, aren’t they,” the man says. “Tell me, where do you live?”
“Number eight.”
“Ah,” he says. There seems to be a whole world in that single word. “I live in nine.”
“Really? Then, we’re neighbors,” I say.
He nods. “It would seem so. You’re living with that American man, with all the cars.”
A blush creeps up my cheeks. “Yes. We’re friends, and he’s letting me stay at his place for a while.”
“Hmm. Well, in that case…” He holds out his key demonstratively and uses it to unlock the gate. “The house keys all go to the gate.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, reserved for those who live here on Clarence Square.” The dogs race ahead, sniffing at the grass inside the garden. “Which is you at the moment, love.”
I smile at him. “Thank you. I’m Harper Elliot.”
“Richard Edwards,” he says.
There’s something so wonderfully formal about him, his entire demeanor, and the two dachshunds. Each has a beautiful collar with a tartan print.
“Nice meeting you, dear. And please tell my neighbor that he has a most wonderful Aston Martin.”
“I will, definitely.”
He nods at me again, like a gentleman bidding adieu to a lady, and walks into the garden with the dogs trotting along beside him. The gate swings shut behind him, and I search for my own key in my coat pocket.
It fits perfectly.
A locked garden. I’ve never heard of that before. I sit on a bench and breathe in the scent of trees and grass, listening to the water in the fountain gurgle until I feel like myself again.
Nate isn’t home. I called out for him as I walked up the stairs, but there was no reply. I focus on getting ready for our dinner. When it’s almost seven, I shoot him a text.
It feels weird.
All of it, when I think about it too much, feels weird. Staying in Dean’s friend’s house. Going to dinner with said friend. Having drinks. But when I stop myself from overthinking it… it’s fun.
Exciting.
I’m comfortable around him, for the most part, in a way I didn’t expect to be. He’s easy to tease, and he gives as good as he gets. And something about the light way we communicate brings me peace.
My phone vibrates with a text.
“I’m downstairs. Ready when you are.”
What? When did he get in?
This is the problem with living in a home this big. You can’t hear a thing happening.
I give myself a final glance in the mirror. The silk skirt, the camisole, and an oversized blazer in hand. The reflection staring back at me looks good. I’ve always loved this, the art of getting dressed. Mixing up the things I find in vintage stores. My hair is a curly mess, but at least it’s somewhat under control, and I throw on a headband to keep the mass of it in place.
Nate is lounging in the armchair in the entryway, set at the bottom of the stairs. One arm is thrown over the back, long legs stretched out while he’s leaning against the cushion. He’s looking at his phone with a faint frown.
The sharp suit from the other night is nowhere to be seen. He’s in a pair of gray slacks and a linen button-down, the top two buttons undone again.
He looks up when he hears me.
The frown disappears, replaced by the slight curve to his lips. “Hello.”
“Hi. Have you been waiting long?”
His eyes glide down over my outfit for a long moment. “Forever,” he says.
Something in his tone makes me blush.
We leave the house on foot. He asks me where we’re going, but I tell him it’s a secret.
“And we’re walking?” he asks.
That makes me chuckle. “Yes and no. One of your cars would not have helped. Not if we’re having drinks later. This place is close.”
“How do you know restaurants to go to already? You’ve been in London for five minutes.”
“Almost two weeks at this point.”
His eyebrows wiggle. “My point exactly.”
“Come on, don’t be skeptical. The place I’m taking you looks cool.”
“I’m sure it is,” he says. But he’s smiling, just a bit, and excitement makes my steps lighter. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed having a friend in the past few weeks. Since I made the decision, since I packed up my life, since there was no time for anything but logistics and guilt.
We come to a stop outside the Mediterranean Grill restaurant. Large windows give ample view of the interior, the low-standing tables, surrounded by pillows instead of chairs. The middle of each table is inlaid with a firepit, allowing diners to grill their own meat.
“Here?” Nate asks. But his voice is amused.
“Yes. Doesn’t it look cool?”
“It does. It also looks like fire hazards are your thing, Harp.”
I chuckle and reach for the door. “Good thing you’re here then. You can turn off the fire alarm. Let’s go.”
We get a table in the corner. The lighting is dim, and we sink onto the pillows across from each other. Nate grumbles a bit. But it’s easy to see in his expression that he’s inwardly amused, and something inside me softens. Good. This isn’t the sort of place I could have ever convinced Dean to go to.
We order and are soon presented with a spread of food. I ask Nate about his job. He details it slowly, reluctantly, and dryly. The third time he says that he’s a glorified errand boy, I roll my eyes.
“That’s not true, though. I know it’s not.”
He reaches for his glass of wine. “And how would you know?”
“I’ve heard things. About what you do. Expanding the company in Europe.”
“Yes. Among other things. But mostly, I just do what New York tells me to do.” There’s a glint in his eyes, though.
“Why does that make me think you never do exactly what you’re told?”
“No, it happens sometimes. If it’s the right person asking.” He holds his wine glass casually—the stem dangling through his fingers—and leans back against the pillows. “What about you, Harper?”
“What about me?”
“Do you ever do exactly what you’re told,” he says. In the dim lighting, his face is half in shadow, but I can still see the spark in his eyes.
I swallow. “Sometimes. But I’m trying to shake the habit.”
“Mm-hmm. Becoming a rebel.”
“Well, trying to, at any rate.”
He nods. Takes a sip of his wine. “Which is why you’ve made a list of things to do. Like trying a new recipe or staying out all night.”
My eyes widen. “You bastard!”
He breaks into a grin. “I’m not blind, Harp.”
“How much did you read?”
“Not much. Not at the time, anyway.”
“What?”
He shakes his head, still smiling, and taps his temple. “I have a photographic memory. Your list is stored in here.”
“You’re kidding me.” I bury my face in my hands and wonder if I can sink through these beautifully-patterned pillows. “Okay. If you’re gonna judge me, judge me in silence.”
“Why would I?” he says with an easy drawl. “It looked like fun. Some of the points, anyway. Staying out all night was cute. You’ve never pulled an all-nighter?”
I bring down my hands and find him taking another long sip of his wine. “No, I haven’t.”
“Well, that one could be easily arranged.” He reaches for the pita bread that’s been set between us and tugs off a piece. The rest of our meal is massacred on the table, grilled and half-eaten. Delicious. “Number thirteen is especially intriguing.”
“Number thirteen,” I repeat, and my blood turns to ice. “Is that the one…”
“It is,” he says. “Sleep with someone who is wrongfor you.”
Another blush creeps up my cheeks, but I just level a finger at him. “That list was not meant to be read by anyone.”
“Mm-hmm. Want it to go in the box, too?” he asks casually, like it’s no big deal if I tell him off for teasing. If I set a boundary that he’ll keep without a care.
But I just reach for my glass of wine. “No. It’s okay. It’s a pretty outrageous list, after all. I just want to… do things outside of my comfort zone.”
“Mm-hmm. Like, trying to burn down my kitchen.”
“Definitely outside of my comfort zone.”
He watches me with heavy-lidded eyes. There’s a calculation in them I recognize, though I’ve only seen him look like that a few times in the past. When he and Dean used to talk about business or investments.
“Do you feel like you were firmly in your comfort zone before?”
“In a way,” I say, digging my teeth into my lower lip. “I just felt like I woke up one day and realized… I hadn’t made any decisions for myself in years. You know? I turned twenty-eight. Only two years left to thirty… and, somehow, I skipped having all of those wild experiences that people talk about enjoying in their twenties. Or, I stopped having them at some point.” I shake my head as if I can shake off the feeling. “I never interned at a great museum. Never lived abroad. I just slotted right into Dean’s life and let him… Sorry. That’s in the box.”
“Don’t apologize,” Nate says. “It’s your choice, that box.”
“My choice?”
“Yes. Whether or not we open it.”
I nod and run a finger along the wooden edge of the low-rise table between us. “I just want to be in charge of my future, I guess. Take back control of it. But the problem is, I don’t really know what I want my future to hold. Ergo… the list.”
“Ergo,” he says, a smile lurking in the corner of his mouth. “I get it. It makes sense.”
“I’m glad you think that, because it barely makes sense to me. But it’s the best thing I could think of,” I say.
He nods. Shifts against the pillows and looks at me like he’s holding back a secret. I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you thinking now?”
“Nothing,” he says. “Just that I think you should dress in athletic gear on Sunday and meet me at noon in the living room.”
My heart rate ratchets up. He’s not judging me for the list. He’s… participating in it? And I don’t know if it’s a sign of how starved I’ve been for company, for approval, for someone who genuinely listens to me, but I can’t help smiling at him. And teasing him.
“Hey, while number thirteen might technically apply to us, that’s not happening.”
He chuckles. “If that’s what I was aiming for, would I ask you to wear workout clothes?”
“I don’t know what a rich playboy prefers in bed. Maybe athleticism is required.”
“Oh, it is,” he says, looking down at his glass of wine. “But clothes most definitely are not.”
Something tightens in my chest. “What are we doing, then?”
“If we’re not having sex?” He says the word in such a nonchalant drawl, that it makes me look away. Down to my own wine glass. “We’re checking another item off your list.”
“Which one?”
“That’s a surprise,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Really?”
“Yes. Live adventurously, right?”
“You’re right.” I look down at our empty plates and then out the window. Beyond, London and the thing I’d promised Nate beckon. The thing we’d gone out for. I look back up at Nate and give him my widest smile. “And speaking of adventures… Ready to have the best wingwoman in all of London at your side?”
His voice turns dry, and his eyes stay on mine. “Can’t wait.”