96. Riley
NINETY-SIX
TWO WEEKS LATER...
”Is that straight?” Cath adjusts a large canvas painting on the wall.
I step back and shut one eye, tilting my head. ”I think so, but my sense of depth perception is shit and that”s why I got a C- in art.”
She looks over her shoulder. ”How does anyone get a C- in art?”
I shrug and grin. ”Well, let”s just say my abstract interpretations were so avant-garde that the art teacher thought I was painting with my toes.”
Chortling, she carefully steps down the small ladder and comes to stand next to me. We stare at the canvas together. It”s one of her paintings, but obviously not of Gabriel. It”s an abstract work that makes me think of diving into the blue ocean.
”That”s perfect!” she chirps, then reaches for her wine glass.
”It”s gorgeous. I hope you sell a lot of them. And if you need this one back to sell, come over any time.”
Cath waves her hand dismissively. ”Shut up. It”s yours. You need something impressive in this beautiful new condo. This living room is too big and white. It”s like an operating room without color. This really makes the place pop. Plus, I wanted to do something nice for you since you”ve had a bitch of a month.”
”Thanks.” For the millionth time, tears well in my eyes. It”s been like that lately, ever since Gabriel and I stopped seeing each other.
Cath has been an unexpected bright spot. I assumed she”d ghost me because of her ties with him, but she”d stuck by me as a friend, even telling me that she had informed him that he”d made a shitty decision.
I wouldn”t let her tell me how he responded.
She”d encouraged me to take him up on his offer of a condo, however. At first, I”d resisted, saying I wanted nothing to do with him. But she reminded me that I could be a target for the Russians — and she said that I deserved a beautiful place to live. Money was nothing to Gabriel, she insisted, and the cost of this one-bedroom downtown condo in a building that he owned was likely some sort of tax write-off anyway.
So I sucked up my pride and contacted Andre, figuring that I could save money for six months and then get the hell out of Florida.
Of course, a little, secret part of me also accepted this offer because it was my final gossamer thread linking me to Gabriel. Ridiculous, I know.
Andre was kind though the entire process, arranging everything to perfection. A condo was quickly selected on the twentieth floor of a new building downtown. Andre ordered new furniture and movers for the rest of my paltry belongings, and even had five new locks installed for the door. A giant vase filled with pink flowers was waiting for me on the marble countertop.
Of course, Gabriel hasn”t said a word to me during the entire move — Andre had arranged it all. I haven”t talked to Gabriel since that Monday night when I slapped him on the face and stormed out of his house.
There is no coming back from that night, not for him or for me. I need to move forward, and part of that involves embracing this new life downtown. Although part of me wants to just curl up in my bed (the one piece of furniture I”d brought from my old apartment, because I didn”t want the reminder that Gabriel had purchased a bed for me every time I went to sleep).
”Riley? Hey? You there?” Cath nudges me with her shoulder, ripping me out of my thoughts.
”Yeah, sorry. Zoned out for a minute.”
She slings her arm around my shoulders. ”You”re going to be happy here. I can feel it.”
”You think?” Part of me felt terrible about accepting such a large gift from Gabriel. But I also needed to be sensible about safety. My old apartment had no concierge or security, unlike this gleaming new building.
”You”re going to shine. And you”re going to have another glass of wine.”
With a giggle, she pours me another glass and we sit on the low-slung gray sofa that faces the giant painting. It makes the place look like something out of a home décor magazine. To our right is a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of downtown, to our left are the doors to my bedroom and bathroom, and behind us is the small galley kitchen.
”Now that the painting is in its proper place, let”s get to the important stuff. What are we doing tonight?” Her eyes twinkle. She”s dressed in a black T-shirt, black overalls, combat boots, and a black cap. Her hair”s pulled back in a jaunty, low ponytail. I can”t tell if she”s trying to look like a Victorian newspaperboy or what.
In contrast, I”m in a soft pink sweatshirt, gray leggings, and am barefoot. We are so different that it”s hilarious.
I laugh and shake my head. ”I”m not up for cocktails.”
”Aww, come on. It”s Saturday.”
”I”m beat. And I have to work early tomorrow, I”m taking over a crime beat shift for someone on vacation.”
”You”re so responsible,” she said, slapping me on the knee. ”But I get it. You only just moved in here two days ago. You probably want to soak in the vibe here.”
”I almost hate to say it, but I kind of love the vibe here.”
”You”re going to like living downtown. I”m only a few blocks away, and we”ll be able to get brunch, and cocktails, and...” she continues on, talking about all the fun things we can do together.
I listen to her chatter while I drink. It”s probably the first time in two weeks I”ve approached anything remotely resembling happiness.
”There”s an amazing spot for brunch. Want to go tomorrow? Please? You haven”t done anything fun in weeks.”
Her look is so pleading and earnest that I can”t say no. And it”s true; since Gabriel and I split, I”ve only gone to work and focused on the move. ”This is the first glass of wine I”ve had since, since...”
I can”t bring myself to say the words.
”It”s okay. We have so much awesomeness ahead of us.” She drains her wine glass and sets it on the glass coffee table. ”You”re sure you don”t want to go out tonight? There”s a good DJ playing at this club that I”ve been meaning to check out.”
”No, I”m sorry. Next weekend, maybe.”
”Okay, I get it. Totally understandable.” She shoots me a sympathetic smile. Somehow, she knows not to mention Gabriel”s name in conversation, but it lingers like a ghost. ”Well, I”m going to take off so I can run home and change. I think tonight I”ll wear the ball gown.”
”Excellent choice. Text me a photo.”
She rises, and I do as well so I can walk her to the door.
”Thank you,” I say, hugging her tight. ”I don”t know what I”d do without you.”
”You”d be fine. You”re way stronger than you think. Don”t underestimate yourself.”
She gives me a wave and I watch her skip down the hallway toward the elevator. Even though she”s seven years older than me, it seems as though she”s younger because of her carefree, don”t-give-a-crap attitude. I need to embrace that more, I think as I shut the door.
I pad around my new condo, weaving my way through the boxes and bags and suitcases. Andre had sent a team of professional movers to my old apartment, and I watched as they carefully packed my meager belongings.
I pause to sniff one of the pink roses on the counter and that”s when I notice a card nestled in the bouquet. I pluck it out. Andre”s so sweet.
I hope you enjoy the new condo. — Gabriel
”You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I yell.
My voice echoes in the sparsely furnished apartment as I toss the little card on the floor. I glare at the roses. Why did he bother sending them? Why tease me like that? Why give me even a shred of hope when he crushed my heart so mercilessly?
Furious, I grab the vase off the counter. Part of me wants to throw it against the floor-to-ceiling window, but I don”t want to risk shattering the glass. I”d have to explain that to Andre and possibly even Gabriel, and I don”t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I care.
There”s no way I can stand looking at this enormous bouquet, knowing that he sent it. My trash is too small for it, and I don”t want to set it on the small balcony out of fear that it will somehow sail over the railing and crush some poor soul on the sidewalk twenty stories below.
But I”ve got to get rid of this damned thing.
Holding it awkwardly in my arms, I scoop my keys off the top of a moving box and head out the door. The building manager had given me a tour the other day and had told me about some common rooms.
There”s a game room, and an event space. Also two lounge areas. One by the pool and one indoors with a coffee bar and a big screen TV, where they hold weekly happy hours.
I”ll bring it there. People will think the building set it there as part of the décor. In a few days when the flowers are wilting, I”ll sneak down and toss them.
I march to the elevator and stab the button. Once inside I navigate to the second floor. I must look silly, half hidden by this ostentatious bouquet.
”Bastard,” I hiss. Does Gabriel know how much this reminder of him hurts me? I”d like to think he doesn”t, that he was merely trying to be polite and ended up coming off as clueless.
Still, it sends me into a rage, and by the time I hit the second floor, I”m thinking of calling him to tell him off.
First, though, the flowers. There are a few doors lining the long hallway and I can”t quite remember which one goes to the lounge. I”d been in a terrible mood when I took the tour, and it had been the only hour that I hadn”t cried at all.
Plus, everything looks alike, obscured in shades of gray and silver.
I open one door, only to discover that it”s the gym. A lone woman, about my age, is on the floor doing sit ups. She glances at me with a mixture of fear and curiosity.
”Sorry! Sorry. Didn”t mean to disturb.” I hurriedly close the door, not wanting to frighten a lone woman working out.
As I walk down the hallway it registers that there”s music piped into every space on this floor. It”s that generic lo-fi lounge music, the kind that is designed to make you think you”re at some swank Miami Beach hotspot.
I try another door, and it”s a bathroom. The trash can is way too small for this monster bouquet. Sighing, I go to the final door. It”s the lounge.
”Oh, thank God, this is the place,” I say aloud. Great. Now I”m talking to myself in public.
”I know it”s a nice room with a beautiful view, but thanking God seems a little dramatic,” the male voice says.
I”m so startled that I almost drop the vase of flowers. I peer around the bouquet. There”s a man sitting on one of the sofas, staring out the window at the rain-slicked streets of downtown. The big screen TV is on. There”s a bottle of beer in his hand.
Here”s the weirdest thing: the man looks incredibly familiar.
”Hey, I know you, you”re Riley Murphy, the reporter,” the guy says. ”We met at that gallery party. I”m Beckett Sinclair.”
”Oh, right! That”s who you are. Thought I recognized you.” I walk toward the coffee bar, feeling silly. The bouquet shifts and I scramble to keep it upright.
Beckett sets his beer down and gets to his feet. ”Need help with those?”
”Uh, no, I”m good, thanks.”
Now we”re both standing at the coffee bar. I slide the bouquet on the counter.
”For me?” Beckett grins, and his blue eyes sparkle.
I can”t help but laugh. ”No.”
He raises an eyebrow. ”Do you moonlight as a flower delivery person?”
I shake my head. ”This is super embarrassing. No. I don”t deliver flowers on Saturday nights. Or any nights.”
”Then what”s all this?” He plucks a pink rose out of the vase and sniffs.
”This is going to sound weird, but... I didn”t want these in my apartment.”
He stuffs the flower back in the crowded vase. ”I thought all women love flowers.”
”I do, but they”re from my ex.”
”Ohhhh. Now I”m beginning to understand. There”s a story here.”
I sigh. ”Not a nice one, I”m afraid.”
”Want to have a beer and tell me about it? I”m watching the Red Sox play.” He gestures to the sofa and the TV.
”The Sox? Are you a Boston fan?”
”Born and bred in Cape Cod.” He grins.
”No way. I”m from Southie.”
”Well now you have to sit and have a beer with me. Unless you have somewhere else to be.”
”Only my apartment with all its unpacked boxes. I think I”d rather have a beer.”
I go to the sofa and sit. The game”s halfway over and the Sox are winning. Why not hang out with him and watch the game? I don”t have my cable hooked up, and I hate watching things on my laptop. Beckett hands me a beer and I take a long sip. We smile at each other awkwardly, and then the Sox hit a home run.
”Whoa, did you see that?” I yelp.
Beckett pumps his fist and we clink the tops of our beer bottles together, the sound of glass hitting glass echoing in the near-empty room.
Screw you, Gabriel. I”m moving on.