Chapter 38 Four-Letter Words
FOUR-LETTER WORDS
Saturday morning is a flurry of activity. A last-minute call with a vendor. A final check of the warehouse. Then a dash to the Upper West Side to grab some of those . . . what the hell are they called again?
But that’s what sisters are for.
Your favorite brother: What are those light strands that hang down and look pretty? A curtain wall?
Mom and Dad’s favorite child: Lights. They’re called lights.
Your favorite brother: You’re not helpful.
I fire off a note to Bellamy asking the same question, and she replies in seconds.
Bellamy: Window curtain lights.
That’s all she says. No snark. No teasing.
Easton: You okay?
Bellamy: Yes. Why?
As I stare at the phone, a sense of unease seeps through me. Why do I feel weird asking her this?
I stop in my tracks at the crosswalk.
Did I really ask her that? The name of the thing Anna was picking up the day she died?
Easton: Sorry. I forgot you told me this already. I think I have a block about what they’re called.
Bellamy: Understandable :) Am I still seeing you at the chocolate shop this afternoon?
Easton: I’ll be there.
Stuffing the phone into my pocket, I try to clear my head, to not think about the other times I’ve run this errand.
And, especially, about the time I didn’t.
Fate is a capricious overlord. Its randomness can capsize more than a party. It can overthrow all your life’s plans. It can send you into a tailspin. Hell, it can stall you completely.
I do my best to stay one step ahead of fate.
That afternoon, I head to the chocolate shop, but my unease escalates when I see Bellamy—it’s agitation met with something else.
Something a little familiar, but all new too. A spasming in my chest.
My heart jumps when I see her, and my stomach feels queasy at the same damn time.
What the hell is happening to me? Is this anxiety?
I try to shove it aside as I sit across from her at the white table, the same one where we met a few weeks ago. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
Well, that was the least enthusiastic greeting ever. “You okay?”
She smiles, and it seems . . . professional. “Yes. Of course. Are you?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be? Online dating is so fun,” I say, going for lightness. But when I slap a smile on my face, it feels wholly false.
Maybe we’re both faking it today.
“Ready to go digital?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be. What have you got?”
She swallows, picks up her tablet, then reads my profile.
“I will keep you on your toes. I’m fast with my tongue, quick with a comeback, and always ready for a good debate.
And it goes both ways—feel free to dress me down, dish it out, and give as good as you get.
I am here for all of it. As long as we keep things simple.
Life is complicated enough. Dating doesn’t have to be complicated by four-letter words like love. ”
There’s nothing untrue in her profile, but I feel like I’ve been knocked in the teeth. “Ouch.”
“I can change it,” she offers, her voice stretched thin, her eyes rimmed with sadness.
My chest squeezes again, but a voice grows louder in my head.
It says window curtain lights.
I’ve got to stay strong. I draw a deep breath, fighting like hell to stave off the turmoil roiling inside me, the whiplash of the past in my present. “Nah. It’s all good.”
She hits post. “And now you’re available for swiping,” she says, then grabs her purse, and hooks her thumb toward the door. She looks oddly bereft as she says, “I should go.”
“You have to leave?”
“I have to do a podcast before the party.” She gulps, pushes strands of hair off her neck. She’s fidgety and that’s not like her. “But maybe we can talk after the event?”
“Sure,” I say, but my nerves tighten. Talk sounds bad. Like a talk could end our understanding. “About what?”
A faint smile flickers on her face, but then vanishes. “Just stuff. The bet. What it means. Us.”
“Right. Sure,” I say, and the tension between us is thick, like humid summer air. The kind that makes you want to go inside and escape from it.
“Would that work for you?”
“Yeah,” I say, since what other answer is there? Hey, Bellamy, I’m feeling out of sorts, and I have no idea why, but let’s roll up our sleeves and talk about what the hell is brewing between us and how awful and great it feels at the same time.
“Cool,” she says, then points to the door again. “I should go.” She laughs at herself. “And I already said that.”
She stands, but I don’t move. Do I kiss her? Hug her? Wave goodbye?
In the few seconds it takes me to run through those options, she’s already stepped away.
“Okay,” I say, and I let her go.
She heads to the door, her chestnut hair whooshing in the afternoon breeze as she walks away.
I should have kissed her goodbye.
My phone buzzes, and hope rushes through me that it’s her with a sassy note, a fiery barb.
Or, better yet, a letter.
God, I live for her letters.
Nothing has made me happier than those.
I slide the screen open. But it’s only a notification from the dating app she put me on.
I hit ignore.
Soft lights shimmer around the bathroom mirror as I shave. My eyes keep darting to them.
They’re just bathroom lights. That’s all. But I can’t shake the feeling that they’re flickering when they are fucking not.
I finish shaving, set down the razor, then splash water on my face.
Shake it off.
I need to get away from these lights. In the bedroom, I grab a shirt and button it up.
This weirdness in my chest? That’s just party nerves, right? That’s all it could possibly be.
The antsy, caffeinated sensation rolls through me again as I tuck the shirt into my slacks.
Regular old jitters. Nothing more.
Except, I’ve thrown a ton of romance soirees, and I’ve never felt anything like this insistent, too-big sensation in my chest. It expands through my ribs, pushes against my skin until I feel like I don’t fit inside my body.
With a rough swallow, I slam a hand against the wall. I take a deep breath. In, out. In, out.
Get it together, man. Now is not the time for your first panic attack.
I haul in a breath, let the air fill my lungs. Will away the thoughts of window curtain lights, and years gone by, and all these emotions.
So many goddamn emotions.
Old ones, new ones. Too many ones.
That’s the trouble. There’s just no room in me for them. I’ve got to do my best to ignore these feelings. As I walk to the warehouse, I pounce on my sister’s text, eager for the distraction.
Mom and Dad’s favorite child: Listen to any good podcasts lately?
Your favorite brother: No. Why? Should I?
Is she talking about Bellamy’s show?
I click over to my podcast app, but I don’t have time to wait for Rory’s reply or to check for a new episode. I’m inside the building, and it’s go time. Vendors are here, and I have a party to throw.
Matches to make.
A brand-new guest to introduce to the men of Manhattan.
Except, that’s the last thing I want to do.
Just the thought of it stirs a hornet’s nest of emotions in my chest. So clearly, the solution is to do more than ignore the fuck out of my fidgety heart. My angry heart. My warm, squishy soft one.
My heart in all its crazy forms.
The only answer is to take these damn feelings, stuff them in a cage, lock them up, and throw away the key.
In the elevator mirror, I square my shoulders, run a hand through my hair, and then look straight ahead.
I’m steel, and I’m ready for anything that could come my way.