7. Chapter 7
Ames
I return to Saint's place in the afternoon, more exhausted than I had realized.
The leather couch calls my name, and I sit there to scroll through my emails and contacts.
When no names stand out as potential business leads, I make a list of people to write emails to just in case, and let my gaze wander through the glistening landscape across the window.
Saint's condo is gorgeous, with lots of white, chrome fixtures, and the warmth of caramel-toned furniture.
Colors aren't prevalent, except for a few abstract paintings on the walls.
It may be a way to not distract from the real beauty of the place— the view steals the show.
With large glass panes everywhere, one's eyes can get lost in Bellevue many stories below, and Lake Washington in the distance.
I've been here for about two weeks, and I still have no real plans.
I'm still in a funk. All I've done is nap and wonder where I went wrong.
Was I a terrible girlfriend? I didn't think I was, but whatever I did wasn't enough to make things work, despite my best efforts.
Being a Perfect Girlfriend didn't affect the end results.
Now I'm moping on my brother's friend's couch. Ugh .
Said sofa is incredibly comfortable. So cozy, I let myself slide sideways to lay on it.
Saint assures me it's okay and I can take as much time as I need.
Pablo has echoed his friend when I chat with him.
Yet I can't shake the feeling that I'm not doing enough.
There are ways to do things right and, if I try really hard, I can find a way to get what I want.
Whether it's about love or work. It's the same feeling in a different font.
I close my eyes and sink into the cushions. The weight of the past few weeks turns my body into concrete. A pit opens in my chest, until a few tears fall behind my closed eyelids. It's the sixth time I cry over this. Over what Aidan did, and how it turned my future upside down.
All the work I put into shaping my life into what I wanted, practically gone. No happily ever after for me. Lost it without a warning and with no explanation.
I don't know how long I cry for, and I don't realize I'm falling asleep. All I know is that, when I open my eyes again, it's dark outside, a soft light shines on the living room, and a blanket keeps me warm.
"Welcome back to the land of the living, Ames."
I angle my head to find Saint sitting on the other sofa.
He wears black jeans with a printed pattern of large, semi-transparent flowers, white sneakers, and a light gray button up.
One ankle rests on the other knee, and one elbow is propped on the back of that couch.
He holds his phone on his lap, but casts his eyes at me.
"You wear shoes inside?" I ask.
"These are one of my indoor pairs."
"It shouldn't surprise me that someone who wears big flowers on his jeans, would wear fashionable shoes inside."
He gets up and comes closer, to end up sitting on the coffee table.
His eyes land on me. "Right? No slippers for me."
"I hadn't noticed. "
I'm still laying down, cozy under the blanket Saint must have put on me. Warmth blooms inside. It's a mix of the effect of the blanket, and the receiver's gesture.
His lips pull to the side. "You've been… preoccupied."
He gazes at me with the same concerned expression he's worn whenever I surface from my room.
I rub my lips together. I already owe him a lot. His genuine concern only adds to the list. The scales may be unbalanced for the foreseeable future, and I don't know how I'm going to repay him for it.
"Thanks again for—"
"Stop thanking me. It's nothing."
"But I want you to know how much this matters—"
"Ames." He shakes his head and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "It's okay. I just want to see you on your feet again. Not because I want to rush you out, but because I want to see you happy."
"I don't know when that will be."
"As long as it eventually happens. For now, why don't we focus on a simple smile?"
"Are you telling me I would look better if I smiled?" I smirk.
"Anything that I say now could get me in trouble."
"Correct."
"I have no interest in that."
"It's fine, I'd forgive you. After all, you're letting me stay here—"
He rolls his eyes.
"Hey! How dare you?" I aim for an offended tone, but there's humor in my scoff.
He smiles, unconcerned. "There, that's better. Next step, a proper laugh."
"You would have to be funny first."
"Oh, that's wounding. Would you settle for something ridiculous?"
"What do you mean, ridiculous? "
"I don't know. Would you laugh if I made a fool of myself?"
"I'd love to see that. We're in the safety of your condo. Alone. What on earth could you do that would make you look ridiculous?"
"You're right. It would be hard for me to make a fool of myself. Let's be silly instead."
"I'm not a silly person."
"Even better. Be silly with me."
"I can't."
"Look." He grabs his phone. "It's easy."
With no warning, the distinctive saxophone of a classic eighties song explodes from every corner of the room.
"Come," he says. "Dance with me."
He stands and offers his hand. His hips move to the dramatic sax notes, like his whole body is vibing to the music. The singer starts talking about messing up and hurting someone he loved, and I don't know if Saint chose the song on purpose, but it makes me snort.
I sit up, but I don't take his hand. "I'm not dancing to this song."
Instead of complaining, he jumps on the coffee table and continues to show off his moves as if this is his favorite song in the world.
"Come on, Ames. Remember how you liked to dance in college?"
"Yeah. At the club. Not on the coffee table at my friend's condo."
He jumps off and onto the hardwood, leaning forward again to look me in the eye. "Then go to the club with me. We'll dance there."
The song continues to blare from speakers I can't see. Saint gazes at me with patience, but there's a hint of a dare in his deep brown eyes.
A grin deepens the friendly dimples on his face. "Come on, Amy."
I suck an offended breath. I'm Ames. Sometimes, I'll allow an Amelia . The people who tried to call me Amy didn't last long in my life. It's not that I don't like the name— it's a beautiful name— but anyone who calls me Amy did not listen to how I like to be called.
"Why are you poking?" I ask.
"Because I want to see you fired up again."
"And you think I'll be fired up again if I go to the club with you."
"I mean, that's an option, but what I really want—"
The song ends, and he breaks himself off. The condo goes dead quiet. It stretches the moment, until all I can do is hold my breath and wonder at the law of relativity. Time isn't a constant, when Saint looks at me this way.
I raise an eyebrow and pretend I'm not a little breathless. "What do you really want, Saint?"
He gazes into my eyes. His pupils dilate. His eyes drop to my mouth.
My heart stutters.
It lasts less than a second, but I see the change, and it shifts something inside.
He opens his mouth to say something, but he reconsiders. Twice he blinks, before he chuckles.
"Ames— Amelia Guerrero. You're a warrior. You can do anything you want. This is a hiccup, but what is that old wisdom? A crisis can also be an opportunity. So aim for what you want. Go at it again. Do it even better."
His smile brings the gift of his dimples. They lighten the weight I carry inside these days.
The man in front of me is easy to talk to. All those years ago when I first met him, his boy-next-door energy, that easy smile, those teasing divots at the edges of his mouth… it had everyone opening up around him. He's the kind of guy who makes you feel free.
Sometimes that means people seek him out for a good time. Sometimes, they seek him out for an ear and an open mind.
I can't resist his powers. It's easy to share what's been plaguing my thoughts, when he invites them in with compliments and optimism. I lean forward, too, bringing us closer.
I sigh. "What I want is to fight for my business.
On that side of things, you're right. I won't go out without fighting.
I'll find a way to keep my kitchen, my employees, and cook for happiness again.
But, with Aidan? I don't know what to do about the breakup.
You know my parents divorced when Pablo and I were young.
They went in and out of relationships my whole life.
I wanted better than that. I thought I had it.
How do I fix that , Saint? I just realized that, so far, I'm not any better than the people who raised me. "
His face doesn't change much as he studies me. His look is focused, like he really wants to understand. Like it matters to him. It's one of the things that makes him so popular with friends and lovers alike.
"I have no idea how one fixes that," he finally says. "But I'll be here until we put the pieces together."
He said we .
Maybe he thinks of me as a friend. Maybe not. Regardless, I know the value of what he offers. He's telling me I don't have to do it alone.
A powerful feeling builds up my chest, a water level line that goes up and up and changes the density of my insides. It washes away some of my hurt, and it spreads like the first rays of sunlight on a winter morning. Warm, welcome, and wondrous.
Words of gratitude evade me, but I don't let it stop me. I reach and put a hand on his, and hope what I feel shows in my eyes.
Saint may end up helping me put my life back together. Fixing something he didn't wreck. I can only hope I do right by him, too.