Chapter 11
It’s Thursday, almost a full week of living at Nate’s, and I’ve finally found a routine that works. A large part of it is predicated on the comfort that his house provides. The bed that feels like heaven, the plush carpeting in my room, the small desk I’ve set up as my own little home office. I bought a new journal in a small stationery shop in central London. It’s leatherbound and has wide-lined pages, and I started to write in it that very same evening.
Journaling is something I’ve done since I was twelve.
The act itself was comforting, and keeping up the routine felt like self-care. Maintaining the habit was like coming back to myself and hearing myself think out loud. Putting thoughts down was often the first step to me really understanding them… or changing them.
I love my two windows that look out onto the square and the garden that we share with all of Nate’s neighbors. The walk to work is beautiful, winding past houses that I’m starting to use as mileposts. The house with the blue door—that means I’m only six minutes out… The work itself, with Aadhya warming up to me, the influx of new art coming into the gallery, and the event planning, is exciting and challenging.
It’s all starting to feel good. Right. The hyperactivity of my first time in London, when my nerves were frayed and I’d been living in a state of constant vigilance, is slowly draining away.
Slowly.
My mother’s remarks on the phone while I’m doing my grocery shopping seem to confirm that.
“You sound calmer,” she says in her brisk Boston accent. “The job is good, then?”
“It is. It’s much more exciting than the position I had in New York.”
“Mm-hmm.” Her voice is laden with unspoken thoughts, but I know them all, and I don’t want to hear them. My mother is amazing. She’s supportive. She also shows her love through actions rather than words, and right now, there’s no action she can take. So she’s left with no way to express her caring nature.
It’s taken me years to understand that tendency in her.
“I’m fine. I promise. The only thing I’m sorry about is how fast the change happened.” I reach the dairy section in the store and search for the new kind of yogurt I’d discovered last week. It goes straight into my basket. “I know it took you and Greg by surprise.”
“Surprise,” she repeats. “Yes, well, it certainly did. We had no idea you were anything but set on Dean.”
“I didn’t know myself for a long time, not consciously.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says again. It’s more thoughtful this time. “And is your apartment still good? The landlord fixed the window issue?”
“They did, yes. The place is turning out really nice,” I say. It’s a total lie. The second I walked into the place where I lived before, I knew I couldn’t show it to my parents. They’d never understand.
“Good, good. You know Greg and I would love to come visit you.”
I smile. It warms my heart, even if it’s predictable. Showing support by actions. “Maybe in a month or two, when I’m fully settled.”
“Let us know when, and we’ll book,” she says. There’s a brief silence on the line. I reach for a box of basmati rice and await the words that will come.
“Dean called this weekend.”
Her words shock me, even though I braced myself for something in that span of dead air.
I close my eyes. “He did?”
“Yes. I think he just wanted to check in, to be honest. But he did mention one thing… Honey, you won’t let him handle the cancellation fees?”
“No. I’m going to pay my half.”
“He was the one who insisted on a big wedding,” Mom says. “It’s only fair if he?—”
“I’m paying my half,” I say. My voice sounds firm, and I know I’m being stubborn, too, but I can’t imagine owing Dean anything. Not anymore. I won’t have him using that as an excuse to call, to pester, to nag, to guilt. I want to remove myself entirely from his influence.
And now that I told him no… he’s gone to my mom instead. He knows, just as well as I do, that the cancellation charges for the wedding are the last screws he has in me.
“Okay,” Mom says with a sigh. “I won’t pretend to understand, but I don’t want you to overexert yourself, either. All right?”
“I know, Mom. I’m not.”
She sighs again. It’s a softer sound. “Doesn’t his friend live in London, too? That rich heir Dean spoke about; the one who came to your Christmas party, once? What was his name…? Greg searched his family on the internet when we got back home, after the party.”
I grab a package of chicken breasts. Look down at the price tag and give Mom what she’s looking for. “Nate Connovan.”
“That’s it. Isn’t he in London?”
“I think he is, yes.”
Mom chuckles. “Maybe you’ll bump into him. Think he’d recognize you on the street?”
“Considering I dated one of his closest college friends for four years, I suspect the answer is yes.”
“Yes, well, you know the sort. Dean was like that, too. But that guy, he had an even bigger bank account to back up that kind of arrogance. No, I think you need to leave that type of men behind.”
“I think I need to be single for a while.”
“Of course, honey. That might be a great idea right now. But when you’re not… you know, I have plenty of teaching assistants who are?—”
“Mom.”
She chuckles. “All right, I’ll stop. I just want you back home.”
“I know,” I say. It’s definitely a part of my guilt trip, my parents’ clear reluctance with my entire London adventure. Knowing I was letting down more than just one person with my sudden decision.
“I have to go, sweetheart, I’m sorry. Lunch break is over, and I have class in five.”
I grab a package of linguine. Look down at the overflowing basket and realize I’ll struggle to carry it all home. “That’s okay. What are you lecturing on today?” I ask. Mom is an English literature professor, and I always love hearing what’s on her schedule.
“We’re doing Victorian literature for a few weeks. You know—Dickens, Hardy, Tennyson. Today, I’m lecturing on… let’s see here. Social norms and gender roles, and how the authors reflected the rapidly changing society of the nineteenth century.”
“That sounds riveting,” I say, and I mean it.
Mom’s voice is pleased. “Thanks, honey. Have a good evening.”
“Have a good day,” I tell her.
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I pay for my large grocery haul and add it to the two other bags I’m already carrying. Working in the center of it all as I do is dangerous. There are too many fun shops to pop into on my lunch break or on my way home.
The walk to Nate’s townhouse isn’t long, but the heavy bags make it feel endless. I have to stop twice to rest, and when I finally make it home, I’ve gone from slightly annoyed to pissed off.
Hehas no right calling my parents.
No right to tell them about our private business, my choice with regard to the money, or to make the case to my parents in hopes of getting them to sway my decision.
My stomach is tied in a tight knot. One that has slowly been loosening over the past week, but now is back to its viselike hold on me and my tattered nerves. Uncertainty hangs over me like a question mark.
I unlock the door to Nate’s townhouse. “Hello?” I call. But the place is empty, the lights are off, and it looks just as it did when I left this morning.
He’s been out of the house more than he’s been in since the archery and the rain. When I felt like we started to become friends. The last three mornings he’s been gone before I came down to the kitchen, and he hasn’t returned home until after I’ve already gone to my bedroom, shut my door, and either watched reruns of my favorite show on my laptop or wrote in my journal. I’ve heard him walk by. Up the next flight of stairs to the top floor, the one I’ve never been to.
It almost feels like I’m living here alone.
I put the grocery bags on the large kitchen island. One of them tips over, and two oranges roll out onto the stone countertop.
It’s time to get real.
If I’m living here for another month, I need to start cooking real food for myself. Stock up the pantry with stuff, do a bit of meal prep, and maybe make some lunch wraps to bring to work.
A month.
That’s what he’d wagered. And I can’t pretend like the lump that seems to be stuck in my throat doesn’t have anything to do with the why behind his bet. I’d asked Nate, and he was adamant. This isn’t something he’s doing for Dean, and this isn’t at Dean’s behest, and…
I think I believe him.
I want to believe him.
Which leads to other questions. Mainly…
Then why?
I open the fridge and start unpacking one of the four grocery bags I’ve brought home. Onions, carrots, a large zucchini… The fridge was almost entirely empty. It’s also enormous, and my purchases hardly fill the vastness.
That’s when I hear the front door open.
Nate’s voice is muffled, but I hear the tension bleeding out in his tone. I stick my head over the threshold, looking out at the entryway. He’s on the phone.
He sees me. Nods once, his face tight.
I pop back into the kitchen. Despite his hushed speech, it’s hard not to catch snippets.
I thought you told him that was a nonstarter… What? We’ve never celebrated Easter together… Yes. It’s an option… I’ll consider it.
And then, much closer to the kitchen, the final words. Talk soon.
I quickly turn back to the open fridge and the bag of potatoes I’m holding. Behind me, footsteps echo down the hall, and then a surprised scoff.
“Did you empty Tesco?”
I close the fridge door. “Almost. I decided that if I’m going to… stay here longer, I should commit. And I’m tired of living off takeout.”
It’s expensive, too.
Nate nods and looks over the bags spread across his kitchen island. He’s in a suit, like always, but sans tie. His hair looks messier than usual, and there’s a tightness in his jaw, around his mouth, that I haven’t often seen.
“I promise I won’t burn down your kitchen. Again.”
“Go ahead. Torch it all.”
I reach for a bag of rice and frown at the bitterness in his voice. “Are you okay?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Of course.”
“You’ve been busy,” I say with a shrug. Opening one of the cabinets, I find the lower shelf completely empty. Great. “Out of the house a lot.”
“Yeah. Things have been intense at work.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No,” he says simply. But it doesn’t sound like a refusal. More like honesty. “You bought… what’s this?”
I look over to where Nate Connovan is standing, in the beautiful luxury kitchen, holding up a turnip. Looking nothing like his normal charming self.
I can’t help but laugh.
“What,” he says. “Is it obvious?”
“Let’s just say, I think it’s pretty clear you don’t cook a lot.”
“If that only struck you now, you haven’t seen how empty my fridge is.” He turns the root over. “A confused carrot?”
“A turnip,” I clarify. “Throw it here.”
He lifts an eyebrow but does what I’ve asked, tossing the turnip over the counter. I catch it and smile at him. “I’m going to roast veggies and chicken for dinner tonight. Want some?”
Now both his eyebrows rise. There’s a short pause where I’m sure he’ll say no, but then he nods. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Of course.”
He leans both hands against the island. “Are you planning on feeding an army I don’t know about?”
“No, but I am planning on meal prepping.” I hold the turnip up in his direction, like the world”s non-pointiest weapon. “Speaking of meal prepping. Do you use some kind of delivery service for those breakfast spreads?”
His eyes narrow. “Yes. Would you like more of something?”
“No, I would like less.” I open the freezer and show him the mountain of pastries I’ve squeezed in over the past few days. “We’ll never eat them all!”
That finally gets a smile out of him. “I guess I didn’t think of that.”
“And it’s always untouched when I come down. Do you even eat any of it?”
He runs a hand along the back of his neck. “Some days.”
“Wasteful,” I say with a soft tsk.
He nods and reaches for another bag, pulling out the package of flour. “So you’re, what? A professional chef on the side?”
“Not at all. I’m just a regular person who tries to feed herself and picked up a few skills along the way.”
“I’ve been alive for… thirty-eight years, and I haven’t picked up any cooking skills,” he says. I listen to him rummage around in one of the bags. “Crackers. Cheese. Apples. This is…”
“Domestic?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
I open the freezer and find a spot for the giant bag of frozen broccoli I bought. “I don’t mean to pry, but you sounded a bit annoyed on the phone when you came home. Everything all right?”
There’s complete silence behind me.
I open a drawer in the freezer and put in the chicken breasts. “Don’t mean to overstep, you know. You’re allowed to say no comment. Just wanted to ask how you’re doing.”
“Harper,” he says.
I look over my shoulder with a smile. “If it’s—oh my God.”
He’s holding the slim, purple box in hand. It’s luxurious cardboard, with gold typeface printed along the top. It had set me back almost one hundred and twenty pounds, and I’ve yet to know if it’s worth it. The attendant in the little sex shop in Chelsea had assured me that it is.
“I don’t think this goes in the fridge or the freezer,” he says calmly, eyes still on the packaging. Reading.
A furious blush spreads across my cheek.
“Maybe the pantry?” he asks.
“Nate, that wasn’t… shoot. I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“I’m not,” he says. There’s something very controlled about his face, and his eyes slowly lift from the vibrator to meet mine. “I didn’t know they sold this at Tesco.”
“No, I went to a shop during lunch.” I look back down at the intricate package, still in his hand, his large fingers curving over the box. Embarrassment makes my voice higher than usual. “Are you inspecting that?”
The corners of Nate’s mouth finally tip up into a small, true smile. He holds up the box and starts to read. “Double the fun, double the orgasms. The extended tip is designed for internal stimulation of the G-spot.”
“Nate!”
His voice deepens. “The flexible second arm is ideal for clitoral stimulation and adapts to every body type.”
I bury my face in my hands. “Yes. That’s what a sex toy does.”
“Mm-hmm. The Sensation Siren 3.0. Oh, and look at this. It’s made from medical grade silicone.”
I spread two of my fingers to peek at him. He’s still turning the sex toy over in its box. He’s smiling, even if his eyebrows are drawn tight. “You don’t even have to look at it anymore. You’ve probably already memorized the entire packaging text.”
“Of course I have.” He sets the box down with a soft thud and looks at me. “It has twelve vibration settings to appeal to every woman’s personal needs. Who knew? Twelve.”
I finally crack and laugh weakly. “Yeah. There was one that had twenty-four but that felt like overkill.”
“Twenty-four,” he repeats softly. Then, he cocks his head. “One wonders how mortal men will be able to compete.”
“Mm-hmm. Maybe it’s dangerous for me to get used to it,” I say. The comment slips out before my brain catches on that I’m not talking with one of my girlfriends back home.
I’m rewarded with another raised eyebrow. “Or you’ll just have to date better men. Vibrating ones,” Nate says.
“Have you ever met one?”
“Those with great imagination can do anything,” he says. There’s a curve to his lips now and a glittering in his eyes. It makes something in my stomach tighten. “Toys don’t have to be just for solo play.”
I reach for another grocery bag because his gaze on me is too much. My fingers graze a cardboard package of eggs. “Interesting. I didn’t look around in that section of the store too much. The couple’s… section.”
Out of the corner of my eye, Nate looks large. Tall. He’s turning an eggplant in his hands, much like he did my vibrator. “That’s a shame. It’s the most fun section.”
“Is it? Maybe I should explore it. In the future.”
“In the future,” he repeats. “When I’ve successfully been your wingman.”
I run a hand over my hair and push back the loose tendrils. “You’re talking like someone who’s… familiar with that side of the store.”
He shrugs and tosses the eggplant into his other hand. “That vibrator wouldn’t have been my first sex toy purchase.”
“Are you implying that this was mine?”
He grins, crookedly and a bit wolfishly. “Wasn’t it?”
I reach forward and grab the vegetable from his large hands. “Yes, but I don’t like that it’s so obvious.”
Nate chuckles. “It was a lucky guess.”
“Sure, sure,” I say. But I feel too hot; blush is spreading across my cheeks.
And while I cook dinner, and as the conversation flows, on the kitchen island between us, is the incriminating purple box.