Chapter 20
Phoenix
I wake up the next morning with a sick sense of dread in the pit of my stomach at the thought of looking at Holland, talking to her, figuring out exactly how much she remembers from the night before. She’ll realize she wasn’t dreaming, and no matter what I tell her about how much I remember myself, she’ll worry.
Then things will grow even more uncomfortable than they were last night coming home from the beach.
I take the coward’s way out by sequestering myself in my study before she even wakes up. I could just go into the office, but that idea is as stressful as the idea of seeing her; I ask Wyatt to meet me here instead of in the driveway since I’ve decided not to leave.
My brain doesn’t like the idea of seeing her or being away from her while things are so tense, it would appear.
Why did she kiss me?
Why did I kiss her back?
But when she looks at me, she remembers her beloved brother’s death. When she looks at me, she feels pain and guilt.
Is being married to me pure hell for her?
I rub my temples and try to push the question out of my mind, even though I know it will keep coming back. The computer screen swims in front of my eyes, likely because I’m so tired, but I blink and try to focus. I have to look at the same set of numbers three times before they register, but I continue on anyway.
I’ve been working this inefficiently for thirty minutes when my mother calls and drops a bombshell of epic proportions on me.
I know something is up because instead of simpering or buttering me up, she cuts to the chase immediately.
“The doctors let your grandmother go home,” she says in a high-pitched, high-strung voice.
The words don’t make sense at first; not really. They wouldn’t let her go home; she’s more or less on hospice, and she would never condescend to pass away peacefully at her own house. She wants her life stretched out to the last limits, by any means necessary.
But surely—she isn’t better. There’s no way.
“What do you mean, they let her go home?” I shove one hand through my hair, clutching my phone with the other hand. My fingers are starting to feel slippery with sweat, despite the fact that this conversation began only thirty seconds ago. “Doesn’t she need to stay for observation or something like that?”
On the other end of the line, my mother titters nervously. “I guess they’ve already observed everything they need to. Dr. Harvey says her recovery is nothing short of miraculous. Mavis says she actually feels stronger and better than she has in months.”
Mavis Butterfield needs more strength like I need a hole in the head. What kind of higher power is running around handing out miraculous recoveries to people like her?
This is bad. This is bad, bad, bad. I have a contract with my wife that is contingent upon the idea that Mavis will pass away soon.
“Well, what about a psych eval?” I ask, feeling more irritated by the second. “Did they do a psych eval? No one would dream of turning her loose after getting a good look inside her head.”
“Phoenix,” my mother says more nervously still. “Speak respectfully.”
“I will not,” I say through gritted teeth.
I know—I’m horrible. I’m awful. But I don’t actually wish death upon my grandmother. All I wish is consistency—I need to know what’s going on, because I’m married to Holland Blakely, and the plan is to stay married until Mavis passes and I can inherit.
My heart sinks as my brain rushes through the implications of this development. It sinks all the way down to the pit of my stomach, and then it keeps going.
I can’t ask Holland to stay married to me indefinitely. Whether or not I would be interested in exploring that option is irrelevant; she didn’t sign up for forever, and she doesn’t seem to be in the headspace where a relationship with me is even good for her. If I make her miserable—my heart somehow sinks further—I can’t force her to stay.
“Phoenix,” my mother says. “Phoenix, are you listening to me, baby boy?”
“Don’t call me that,” I say, suddenly ten times more exhausted than I was before. “I have to go. Thank you for telling me.”
I hang up. Then I glance at Wyatt, who’s just let himself quietly into the room.
“Your facial expression is concerning,” he says, a little frown pulling at his thin lips .
“Mavis Butterfield appears to have made a miraculous recovery,” I say. I give in to the urge to slump forward, letting my forehead rest on my desk. Then I go on, my voice muffled, “The doctors have sent her home with a relatively good bill of health.”
Wyatt is silent for a moment. “Shall I assume you’re currently working on a plan for your marriage situation?” he finally says.
“Yes,” I say wearily. “I can’t ask her to stay married to me forever. She doesn’t want that.”
“Assumptions are how major miscommunications begin,” he says after another pause. “I would be sure before you make any significant decisions.”
He’s right, I can grudgingly agree.
This timing is terrible. Could Mavis not have waited a bit?
“I would recommend going for a run at the moment,” Wyatt says, and it’s only then that I realize my leg is jumping, my entire body tense, as my thoughts spiral.
“A run,” I say, my voice strained. I lift my head and nod absently; there’s a treadmill in the lower level of the house. “Yeah. Good.”
“Clear your head.” He looks more closely at me, and a little crease appears in his brow. “Consider taking a nap as well. Reset and approach this with a clear mind.”
I stand up and leave the room without another word.
I make my peace with my next course of action somewhere around mile three.
Holland can stay if she wants to, but I have to give her an out. It would be wrong to keep her with me now that the situation has changed so drastically.
My feet pound rhythmically on the treadmill, my thoughts louder even than the grinding sound of the machine, and it feels good to be pushing my body like this—to be exhausting myself so thoroughly that my mind slowly lets go of its worries and holds instead to only those things I need to survive.
Breathe in; breathe out. Keep moving forward.
When I was a kid, my favorite movie was Beauty and the Beast— something Wyatt and Wyatt alone knows. I loved all the talking household items; I loved the industrious chaos of Maurice’s inventions. I loved the magic and the music.
I never thought I would find myself relating to the Beast.
But Belle is in my castle, and I have to let her leave if she wants to. I can’t keep her here forever; not when she only agreed to a few months.
After mile five, I finally allow myself to be done; it’s been a long time since I ran this far, and my legs are shaky when I step off the treadmill, my vision swimming as my eyes readjust to a surface that isn’t perpetually zooming away.
I lift my shirt and wipe my sweaty forehead, forcing myself to breathe deeply instead of panting. Then I grab my phone and send a message to Holland before I lose my nerve. I press send with a sinking feeling in my stomach, one that weighs me down as I head up the stairs, my muscles protesting every step of the way.
When I reach the top and see Wyatt, I’m expecting a small smile or a hint of approval—not the wide-eyed look of concern he gives me.
“What?” I say, frowning at him, and he hurries closer.
“Your mother and the CEO are here,” he says, his voice tense. “They’re parking the cart they rented, and then they’ll be at the door.”
I stare at him for longer than I should, considering the urgency. “What?”
He nods, his normally neat hair a little ruffled. “Make yourself presentable; I’ll stall as long as I can.”
“Please do,” I say, rushing past him.
This is just like them—both my mother and my grandmother. My mother is afraid of Mavis, and when they’re together, she becomes a child—not ingratiating but pouty and entitled. She’s difficult to deal with at the best of times, but when she’s around her own mother, her inferiority complex shines glaring and bright.
This is the last thing I need today.
But, because no one asked my opinion, I take the fastest shower of my life—two minutes flat—and then dry off and get dressed. I almost line the buttons up wrong in my haste, realizing at the last minute.
Mavis is not a woman who can be easily stalled; if I can get out there before she has a chance to make it all the way in, Wyatt won’t have to do as much. He’s never said so, but being around her makes him uncomfortable.
But even though I rush, even though I set personal speed records for everything I do to get ready, it’s no use—by the time I reach my study, the leather seats are occupied by none other than Marshana Butterfield-Park and one very disapproving Mavis Butterfield.
“Thank you, Wyatt,” I say, watching as he passes a cup of tea to each of them.
He ducks his head, his expression as bland and passive as I’ve ever seen it, calm and unruffled. When our eyes meet, he raises his brows just slightly—asking if I want him to stay or go. I nod subtly to my desk, and he bobs his head again too .
I don’t need him to stay. But I want him here anyway.
“Please forgive my tardiness,” I say to my mother and Mavis, keeping my voice distant but polite. “If I had known you were coming, I would have been prepared.”
Mavis smirks her thin lips; she understands the censure for what it is, and she’s amused. She’s dressed impeccably, of course, in a tweed suit and blazer with a string of pearls. Her steel curls are set perfectly, and her painted-on brows have a little more arch to them than usual.
My mother, on the other hand, is flashier; she’s wealthy because of the family, but she doesn’t actively participate in the business, and I think it’s something she’s always been insecure about. She wears shinier jewelry than Mavis, brighter colors, thicker makeup. Her hair is much lighter than mine—I get my coloring from my father—and it’s curled neatly around her face, brushing her shoulders.
I don’t like seeing either of them in my home—my sanctuary. All I can do is try to get them to leave.
I straighten my suit coat and then round the desk; Wyatt follows me silently, standing behind my chair and off to one side.
“Do you want to sit?” I say, but he shakes his head, so I take a seat. Then I look at Mavis. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Can’t I check in on my grandson?” she says. “And his new wife?”
“Of course you can,” I say, offering up a prayer of thanks that Holland is still asleep. “But there’s not much to report.” I hesitate and then risk the question: “Unlike yourself, I hear?”
Mavis adjusts her pearls with bony fingers. “How do you feel, knowing I’ll be living for longer than expected?”
I want to tell her I’m frustrated and exhausted from all the games she plays. I want to tell her that it’s cruel and petty to hold the company over our heads and make us dance like puppets.
I open my mouth to speak—I don’t know what I’m going to say—but in the end, I don’t get the chance anyway. Because at that exact moment, moving like a whirlwind of thunder and lightning, one very tense pajama-clad Holland comes bursting through my office door. She doesn’t knock; she just barges into the room, her eyes spitting fire, her cell phone thrust out in front of her with my earlier text displayed on the screen.
“What is this supposed to mean?”