Chapter Eighteen Put Yourself First #2
My hands shake, and I sink to the edge of the bed, clutching the phone. It was something that occurred to me, a nagging doubt in the corner of my brain, but I told myself I was overthinking it and it would be fine—like you do when you want to believe everything will turn out okay.
“Are you still there?” Scar asks.
“I’m here,” I confirm. “I’m just ... processing.”
“Look, I know you care about him, and I’m not questioning that. But getting involved with someone whose family is investing millions in your charity could look ... complicated to other people.” She says these words gently, while my emotions spin out of control.
“What do you mean?” I ask even though I’m pretty sure I know exactly what she means.
“It might raise questions about your motives or even the legitimacy of your foundation. I just don’t want anyone to assume things about you or your work when you’ve put so much into it.”
Her words leave a sour feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Yeah,” I say weakly.
“You know what, don’t worry about it tonight. Go do something fun, and try not to worry.”
I highly doubt that’s possible, but I tell her I’ll try.
While I wait for Hart to return, I stew, working myself up into a frenzy. Vaughn calls out to see if I want another mimosa, but I tell her no, that something’s come up. I’m still hiding in the bedroom when Hart returns from snowboarding. His smile falls when he sees me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, coming to my side, where I’m sitting on the bed. His cheeks are flushed from a day spent on the mountain, and I hate that I’m about to obliterate his happy mood.
“We made the gossip columns. And it’s my fault. I mentioned I was dating someone on a podcast interview I did.”
He lets out a big breath of relief. “Oh. That’s all? I thought someone died.”
I pull up the article on my phone and show him. He barely glances at it, seemingly unconcerned. “See, I told you our age was a thing.” I point at the phone, waiting for him to be as outraged as I feel.
He brings one arm around me. “Well, it shouldn’t be. I like you and you like me.”
He says it like it’s so simple. “How are you so calm right now?”
“Don’t look at that stuff. Just don’t read it. It’s a bunch of nonsense. The tabloids are always digging into my activities and my love life. By tomorrow everyone will have moved on to some other celebrity relationship. The best thing to do is to ignore it.”
It’s basically what Scarlet told me, too, but it’s easier said than done.
Because before it was just my own voice inside my head telling me this wouldn’t work—now there are countless strangers online echoing the same sentiment.
But somehow when Hart presses his lips to my temple, the strangling knot of anxiety in my chest eases. But can it really be that simple?
That night we have dinner at the White House Tavern, where it’s nearly impossible to get a reservation, especially in peak season, but of course it’s no problem for Hart.
It’s an intimate setting, with wood-paneled walls and delicious food.
He and I end up ordering the same thing, to which Vaughn replies, “Awe.”
We smile at each other.
Despite the panic I felt earlier, now I feel relaxed and happy—a glass of red wine in hand, my muscles enticingly sore from a day spent skiing, and a gorgeous man by my side.
I try to tell myself Scarlet was right. The opinions of strangers don’t matter.
And Hart seems unconcerned, which is a comfort too.
As I watch him, I’m stuck by a somber thought.
Sometime in the future, when he realizes I’m all wrong for him and moves on with someone closer to his own age, I’m going to miss this.
This. Him with windburned cheeks and a youthful glow, holding my hand quietly beneath the table, while his friends laugh about which trails bested us and which we should attempt again tomorrow.
Vaughn leans forward on her elbows, and the topic of conversation shifts. “Do you want kids?”
My breath catches in my lungs, I’m so caught off guard. She isn’t asking anyone in particular, more like she’s posed the question to the table.
“No,” Hayes says simply.
Whit shrugs, then grabs his pint glass and polishes off the rest of his beer.
Hart looks contemplative. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it. Someday, maybe.”
I think about the adoption paperwork still sitting on my desk in Nairobi, and my chest gets tight. I want a baby, desperately. Even if I have to adopt, even if I have to become a single mother ... and meanwhile I’m dating a twentysomething who hasn’t even thought about it. Cue my rising panic.
“Excuse me,” I say, rising from my chair on unsteady legs. I head straight out the front door of the restaurant and into the frosty night, where I pull the frigid air deep into my lungs. I feel physical pain, like there’s a stabbing sensation in my chest. Dear God, is this a heart attack?
I reach into my back pocket and pull out my phone as I begin walking. Thankfully, Scarlet picks up after a couple of rings.
“Hey, lady,” she says.
“Scar . . .” My voice breaks.
“What’s wrong?” She can sense immediately that something happened.
My legs carry me the three blocks to the hotel while I recount the conversation at dinner. The topic that Vaughn brought up and was almost disregarded by the others as an afterthought ...
“What the hell am I doing here, Scar?”
“Oh, honey. Be gentle with yourself. Why don’t you just talk to him?”
“And say what, that my biological clock is ticking?” I huff, stabbing the button for the elevator. I remember how conversations like that went with Sean.
“Maybe not in those exact words,” Scarlet says soothingly but with a hint of humor.
By the time I get off the phone with Scarlet, I know what I have to do.
I’m not even upset with Hart; I’m upset with myself.
I knew all along this couldn’t last. I shouldn’t have ever let things get this far.
I feel much more for him than I should. And for what?
I’m taking a huge risk being with him. It no longer feels worth it.
Hart bursts through the door a second later, holding my coat and purse. I didn’t even feel the cold on the walk back, though now I’m shivering. I wrap my arms around myself and meet his eyes.
“Alessia ...” His features are shattered. “What happened?”
“I don’t think I can do this.”
“Do what?” he asks, confused.
I gesture between us. “This. Us.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re Hartford Winthrop, and I’m ...”
“You’re what?”
“I’m ... too old for you.”
“Why don’t I get a say in that?” His tone is sharp, filled with venom.
“It just isn’t going anywhere, so what’s the point?” I walk to the bedroom.
Hart follows me, taking me by the shoulders until I’m facing him. “Why isn’t it going anywhere?”
“Because it can’t.” I grab my duffel bag from the closet and begin shoving my clothing inside.
“So you’re just going to bail?”
I grab my toiletry bag from the bathroom counter, zip it up, and push it into my duffel bag.
“For the first time”—he pauses, trying to gather his thoughts—“for the first time in my life, I’m ... forget it.”
“Say what you were going to say,” I murmur, glancing up at him.
“I’m actually happy.”
Silence hangs in the air between us.
“Well, I’m not.” I have to practically force the words from my lips, but they’re true. This isn’t what I want. At least, it’s not all I want. And it’s definitely not how I pictured it. And what about the crap people online are saying about me?
“You don’t mean it.” His voice is shaken. “Look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t been having fun.”
My stomach tightens, but I meet his eyes. “I’ve had fun, but that’s all this is, right?”
He hesitates. “What if it wasn’t?” His voice is filled with questions. What-ifs. I don’t have time for what-ifs. We’re at very different places in life. And we always will be.
I turn so I don’t have to see the pain reflected in his brilliant hazel eyes.
“You don’t even know what you want—you said so yourself once.
You don’t know what you want to do with your life.
” I hate throwing these words back at him.
He admitted that to me in a quiet moment, confident that I’d never hurl them back at him.
And now I have. But I’m too vulnerable right now to do anything else.
Hurt people hurt people, a therapist once told me.
He takes my shoulders, turning me so I’m forced to face him once more. “I know one thing I want.”
I’m rattled. Destroyed by the haunted look on his face. For a second I consider throwing all my rules out the window and pulling his mouth to mine. My hands ache to touch him—even just once more. But we don’t make sense.
And as much as this hurts, I truly want what’s best for him.
He’s a gem of a human being. He’s kind and considerate and such a catch.
And I don’t know if what’s best for him is pushing my own wants, and needs, and timeline on him.
He gets to choose his path—full stop.
“I ...” He hesitates. “Care about you. A lot.”
Care. He wanted to say a different word. I can sense how much he feels for me, that it was right on the tip of his tongue, but it doesn’t matter. Sometimes love isn’t enough.
“I didn’t plan on this happening. I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“You’re sorry? Oh that makes it better. Fuck , Alessia.”
I feel the same way—being with him these last few months was damn near perfect. And while it was a nice fantasy, it can never be reality. I want to hate him for making me feel things I have no right to feel, but hatred isn’t an emotion I can muster where Hart is concerned.
“I’m sorry. I just can’t.”
“So that’s just it then?”
“I guess so. Goodbye, Hart.”