Crushing On The Billionaire (Part 3) (4 page)

I wasn’t that anymore, I realized, slowing my pace as I trekked toward my apartment. I was one of the worst students now. I was behind in the senior project, behind on all other assignments, and lacking clear direction—besides the contest for the gallery, which had precious little to do with my education.

Maybe I should drop out. It didn’t really make sense for me to pretend to attend the institute if I wasn’t actually doing the work or showing up for classes. I could jettison this place easily and make a life for myself somewhere else. All I had to do was stay behind a camera and I knew I would be okay.

I was kneeling on the floor of my apartment, spreading out my printouts, when there was a knock on my door. I paused for a second, wondering who it might be, and continued examining my photos. I wasn’t expecting anyone. There was no one in the world who could possibly have any reason for coming to my door, unannounced, after dark. And if there was such a person, I wasn’t interested in seeing what he or she wanted. I had a mission, and my mission was to figure out which photos to submit for the contest.

The knocking came again, and I expelled an exasperated sigh. Why wouldn’t they take a hint? The lights were on inside, sure, but that didn’t mean that they were welcome, whoever they were. I was busy. I was going to do great things, and I needed to figure out how to move on with my life in order to get these things done.

The third time my mystery caller knocked, I pushed myself up off the floor and stalked to the door.

“What?” I demanded, ripping open the door, my rage instantly faltering when I realized it was Patrick who stood there. How long had it been since I’d seen him, fragile in that hospital bed, a machine acting as a metronome for his heartbeat?

“You haven’t been answering my calls,” he said. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

I swallowed. My mouth was inexplicably dry. “I’m just fine. I know you have the resources to figure that out without coming all the way over here.”

“That’s probably true.” His tone was even, reasonable, friendly. “But I wanted to see for myself.”

He was bothering me. I was busy. His appearance at the threshold of my apartment did things to me I couldn’t quite explain. It enraged me, and it made me want to cry. It made me wistful for things that could’ve been. I wanted to shake him and demand an update on his health, on how Shawn was doing, but I didn’t know how to ask such things without coming off as desperate, and I didn’t want to look like I was desperate.

That was just the thing though. I
was
desperate to hold that green gaze with my own, desperate to fall in his arms, desperate to kiss his lips, and desperate to relearn their touch on mine.

But I was scared to death that, after I’d rejected him, after he’d accepted it without so much as a sigh of protest, he’d look away. I was afraid he’d let me fall instead of catching me. I was afraid he’d turn to the side instead of kissing me.

“Well, now you see,” I said, turning around in a circle sarcastically. I had to be angry to hide that hunger. I didn’t want him to see how big of an effect he still had on me. I didn’t want to give him that power again. I was in charge here. I was the one who made the decision for us not to be together anymore.

But what if it was the wrong decision? What if I’d thrown away the one and only chance I had at being happy?

“I do see,” Patrick said, his voice soft but not really gentle. It was hard to describe, as if he were whispering so he didn’t snarl.

“What are you doing here, Patrick?” I asked, putting my hands on my hips. “You agreed that we shouldn’t be together.” Why was he lingering at my door?

“Tell me you’re not attracted to me.”

My eyes widened at that. Of course I was attracted to him. His voice, his very presence was intoxicating. I’d missed him, missed our contact, our physicality. I hadn’t been intimate with anyone since, and I missed that addictive, healing release.

“Loren, say it.”

“I’m attracted to you.”

“Then that’s why I’m here.”

Our mouths were on each other, then, hot and sloppy and eager. I took him in my arms, and he kicked the door shut as an afterthought, fully focused on the present. We tore at each other’s clothes until they gave way, and we pressed together, bare flesh against bare flesh. I traced my hand over his chest, and paused. There was something new there.

I pulled away for a moment to examine the unfamiliar terrain, then realized it was a fresh, livid-looking scar. The scar from when Shawn shot him. The terrible thing that I had caused.

“It’s fine, Loren.” Patrick took me by the chin and made me look at him. “It’s fine. Good as new, practically. They tell me I can get plastic surgery to get the scarring reduced even more, but I don’t know. Seems like a silly thing to go under the knife for. I don’t mind it. It doesn’t hurt. And I don’t want you to worry about it.”

That was a lot easier said than done. It was all I could think about even as we kissed, even as his hands explored places I was craving to be touched, even as we forgot about trying to pick our way to the bed and instead slowly settled together on the floor, like the first time we were together, in his house, Patrick reclined, me astride him.

He moved inside me and I responded, tossing my head, murmuring, but I only had eyes for that scar I’d caused. Had the circumstances been different at all—the angle of the gun, the position of Patrick’s body, it was more than probable that he wouldn’t be panting beneath me right now, holding my waist with his hands, looking up at me like I was a delicacy he’d been too long without.

I wanted to feel good. I wanted that release, and the relief that followed. But all I felt was guilt. How could he possibly want to be with me after how twisted Shawn had become over me?

“Loren?”

I didn’t realize I’d started crying until Patrick stopped thrusting and cupped my face in his hand. I sniffled at having been found out, at my emotional turmoil manifesting itself at a most inopportune time.

“The last thing I want to do is cause you pain,” he said, sweat still wet on his brow, watching the tears roll down my face. “Talk to me, Loren. Tell me what’s in your head.”

“I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” I said. “I’m lost, and I thought I’d found a path forward, but now I’m not so sure.”

“If you’re not sure, then it’s not right,” he said. “Is the love there? Is any love there anymore? I would get it if there wasn’t. We’ve been through a lot—more than what many people go through in a lifetime—just over the past weeks.”

I searched in my heart and I couldn’t come up with an answer. I was attracted to him, sure, but the part of me that had loved him was damaged, scared, confused. I didn’t know what to say, and he saw it.

Patrick held my chin between his thumb and finger for a long moment before nodding.

“I understand,” he said, and my heart broke anew when he gently set me aside, stood up, and got dressed, that scar livid, a tangible reminder of what we’d almost lost by being together. I wanted to say something, anything, but my throat felt thick and slow.

I let him walk out the door without another word, and then I cried myself to sleep, a girl who’d had something she thought she wanted until she realized she didn’t know
what
she wanted anymore.

Life after having Patrick, and letting him go, was hard. Photography was my only anchor. I was wary and jumpy and wished that I could find my equilibrium.

It helped immensely when I heard back from Mere at the gallery, telling me that I was the “great photographer” she’d been looking for and they’d plan on exhibiting my work in the spring, right around the same time that my senior project, if I’d done one, would show. It helped bolster my decision to turn my back on school. If I could succeed in the real world, what need did I have for a degree? It was just a piece of paper, after all. I’d gleaned all the knowledge I needed to while I was here.

***

I’d grown leery of answering numbers I didn’t know, ever since I’d gotten the call from Shawn, requesting me to bail him out of jail. Still, though, I had to answer. What if someone needed my help? I couldn’t leave anyone in the lurch. 

“Hello?”

“Hey, Loren.”

I blinked a few times, quickly. Could this call really be happening?

“Shawn?”

“Yeah.” He sounded almost sheepish. “It’s me.”

Several more awkward moments of silence passed before I cleared my throat. 

“How are things?” It was a stupid thing to ask, but I didn’t know what else there was to say. We hadn’t spoken since that wretched day Patrick had been shot. 

“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” he said, sounding somewhere between sheepish and hopeful. “But not over the phone, probably. You deserve to hear this in person…if you want to hear it.”

Whatever “it” was, it didn’t sound like something I really wanted to hear about, but I didn’t want to discourage Shawn. If I was being perfectly honest, I was curious about what he had to say.

“What do you have in mind?” I asked him.

“I’ve been in a residential treatment center since…you know,” he said. “It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve been working hard at what they’ve asked me to do. I’ve reached the point in my treatment where I’m trying to get ahold of people I’ve wronged, and I have a lot of amends I have to make to you.”

“Shawn, it’s really water under the bridge,” I said quickly, hoping to spare the both of us the awkwardness of apologies. “I’m just glad you’re feeling better.”

“I appreciate your kindness,” he said. “But I really need your understanding…and your time. I know it’s not ideal, and I know you’re busy with school and your time outside of it. But if you could, I would really like to say what needs to be said while looking you in your eyes. Nothing romantic. Sorry if you got that connotation. But honestly. I’m sorry. This is super awkward.”

“Say no more.” He was trying hard, and I wanted to help him with whatever he happened to be going through. It was the least I could do for ruining his life. “Where are you, and when is a good time to see you?”

We firmed up the details and said our goodbyes, and I blinked slowly, staring at the display of my phone long after the call had ended.

Resisting the urge to pinch myself to ensure I was awake, I stared sightlessly across the room. I hadn’t dared to ask Patrick about Shawn’s fate, and I had considered my angst over not knowing to be part of my penance for what had happened. Really, I hadn’t expected to hear from my friend ever again. Maybe that was morbid—or maybe just evidence of me trying to avoid the things that caused me pain. But now that I had heard from him, now that I heard he was okay and wanted to “make amends” with me, I dreaded seeing him. I imagined him in a bathrobe, shuffling along a corridor along with other lost souls, and I didn’t think I could handle seeing him like that. I preferred to remember Shawn as my happy friend, the one who loved to share a beer and talk about school and dream about the future, the one who had come back from visiting his mom and had been so inspired by the experience that he’d roped me into completing a senior project with him. I’d been the one to ruin our relationship by pursuing something with Patrick. If I felt awkward visiting him in this treatment facility, then I would embrace every second of it. I felt that I needed to be punished for what had happened, and this happened to fit the bill.

Part of me wanted to call Patrick and get his take on things, but I wanted to get out of the habit of reaching out to him. He said he wanted to be a support system for Shawn, and that he would always think fondly of me, but I knew he was forever traumatized by Shawn’s reaction to our being together romantically…as was I.

No, I had to deal with this alone. I needed to be an adult about it. I needed to suck it up and get it over with, just like a dentist’s appointment. I never thought I’d be comparing seeing my former best friend with a necessary but hated procedure, but there it was. I flat out didn’t want to go.

The days passed quicker than I wanted them to before the date we had agreed to meet. I had to take several buses until I got to where I needed to go, hiking up a long hill from the bus stop until I reached a lush, gated driveway. I had to ring the buzzer and state my name and purpose before I was admitted.

It was different from what I expected when I tried to picture a treatment facility for people like Shawn. There were people dotting the emerald lawn, lounging on benches and blankets, tossing Frisbees and kicking soccer balls around. The landscaping was fantastic, and it reminded me of the botanical gardens I’d visited when I first moved to the city. The main building of the facility was an old, rambling manor that had been obviously loved and cared for over the years. I wandered inside and was greeted with friendly smiles from people in both uniforms and street clothes. I realized that there wasn’t a standard dress code for the people seeking care here. It was nothing like Hollywood had led me to believe. I was almost embarrassed by my first thought of shuffling and bathrobes. 

Then, there was a tap on my shoulder as I signed in.

I whirled around, nervous, but was greeted by the sight of Shawn. He looked good—different, somehow, but good. His dark hair had been closely cropped, and he had a scruffy beard that looked good on him. His eyes were the deep, soulful brown that I knew—not the flat, dull color like when he’d been high or drunk during our last few encounters.

I couldn’t help myself and didn’t know how it would be taken, but I had to do it. I threw my arms around him and hugged him tightly. He hesitated for only a moment before hugging me back.

“I’m sorry,” I said in his ear. “But if you were me and I were you, and the last time you’d seen me was under the same circumstances as the last time I saw you, you would hug me, too.”

“I understand, and I’m sorry.” His voice was the same. It had been the same over the phone, but it was just so good to hear it in my ear, right there, present and sober and self-aware that I hugged him even tighter.

“No, I’m sorry.” I broke the hug and glanced around. “Is hugging even allowed here?”

“It’s a treatment facility, not prison,” he said, laughing at me. “Though maybe I deserved prison. I don’t know.”

“You don’t and you know it.” A woman in a uniform had joined our little reunion. “Shawn, if you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it right.”

“Meet Dr. Adams,” he said with a long-suffering sigh. “Dr. Adams, this is Loren.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” she said warmly, holding out her hand. I shook it. “We’re so happy you could make it.”

“What have we said about the royal we?” Shawn demanded, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Oh, I was speaking for both of us,” she said, laughing. “Believe me. I know you’re happy she could make it. And that makes me happy, too.”

“How could I not have come?” I asked, shaking my head.

“Well, because I was an asshole,” Shawn offered. “For one.”

“You had some pretty good reasons,” I began, but he waved me off.

“I had some pretty stupid reasons to treat you the way that I did, and you didn’t deserve that,” he said.

“Why don’t we have this conversation somewhere more comfortable,” Dr. Adams suggested. “My office is available right now, and I just made a fresh pot of tea. I could leave you both to it, Shawn, if you promise to remember what I said—and Loren, if you promise to help him remember.”

I looked at Shawn, a question in my eyes, until he sighed and let me in on what the doctor was talking about.

“I’m not allowed to disparage myself,” he said. “It’s self-serving and I don’t need pity. I need progress.”

“That’s pretty catchy,” I said, hiding a smile behind my hand.

“I thought so, too,” Dr. Adams said. “Follow me.”

Someone had worked hard to preserve the historic guts of the facility while updating it to be comfortable and state of the art. I found myself marveling at some of the decor, wishing that I could snap a few photos of it without offending anyone. We walked down a long corridor, and I could hear the whir of exercise machines and smell the sting of chlorine in the air.

“You have a pool here?” I asked, my tone bordering on accusatory. “This place is so nice.”

“I’m really lucky to be here,” Shawn said. “I’d lost some weight before, a little too much, and being here, being on a healthy diet and a good exercise plan…really, I’ve never felt better. It makes me realize just how important it is to take care of myself.”

“I think that’s wonderful,” I said, and I really did. I wanted nothing more than for Shawn to think he was worth the time and effort. I appreciated this new rule of Dr. Adams’—to resist disparaging himself. The Shawn I used to know would complain bitterly about his lack of physical fitness before asking me what I wanted on my pizza, already dialing our favorite delivery spot. It was refreshing for him to admit how taking care of himself was important, and something he’d been devoting a good bit of time to.

“Here we are,” Dr. Adams announced as we stopped in front of a door. “You all go right in and make yourselves at home. The teapot is on the table, along with sugar and milk. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” Shawn said, then held the door open for me.

The office was comfortable—again, nothing like what I could imagine such a place would actually be like. It was dotted with plush chairs and side tables and windows that faced a garden path.

“Ah, here’s the teapot.” Shawn pointed to a low table between two armchairs. “Want to sit?”

“Sure.”

He looked at me, amusement making his eyes sparkle. “What are you thinking?”

“You’re going to laugh.”

“Maybe.”

“Where’s that weird chaise lounge thing you always see in the movies?” I asked.

Shawn guffawed, nearly spilling the tea as he poured it. “It’s not like that at all.”

“Obviously.”

“I had my doubts when I first arrived here,” he said. “And I was scared. But mostly of myself. Of change, and not wanting to.”

I hated the image of Shawn, terrified and alone, even as nice as this place was.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, grabbing his hand as he reached for the sugar.

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, smiling at me. “This place is one of the best things that has ever happened to me. It made every misgiving I had worth it. I feel better now than I really ever have before.”

That was a shocking thing to say—that a stint at a treatment facility had been the best thing to ever happen to a person. People entered these kinds of places when they were at rock bottom, but I supposed that was just where Shawn had been—spewing foam from a bottle of pills in the foyer of his house, just after shooting his father in the chest.

“Have you been in contact with Patrick—your dad?” I asked, feeling tentative. “I’m sorry. I…that was a really personal thing to ask. Don’t answer. Forget I asked about it.”

“Loren, I asked you to come here because I wanted to talk with you—and I mean really talk,” Shawn said. “Nothing is taboo, okay? I’m not going to fly off into a rage or start taking drugs again just because of a few words, okay?”

It was definitely Shawn sitting in front of me, but not the Shawn I was familiar with. The Shawn I used to know—thought I knew—would get upset at certain things and be unwilling to process them if they upset him. He would pout and stew if something wasn’t going just exactly right with one of his paintings, or one of his teachers, or Patrick. If possible, the Shawn sitting across from me had actually grown up.

“I just…I know things have been really tough for you,” I said. “And I know that I’m the reason for that, and I really want to apologize.”

Shawn took a long sip of his tea before answering. “I’ve had a lot of time to think since I’ve been in here. A month might not seem like a lot of time to you, when you’re busy with school and everything, but here, when all you can do is think and focus on yourself, it’s a significant amount of time. My days have been pretty structured—the diet and exercise thing, of course—but lots of meetings, lots of assessments, lots of talking and writing and figuring things out. Am I perfect now? Of course not. Nobody’s perfect. But I’m better than when I came in here. Definitely. And I’d like to think I’m even better than before I got all twisted up with drugs and booze and everything.”

I blinked several times. “I think…I think that’s wonderful.”

“Thank you.”

He took another sip of tea, which reminded me that I hadn’t touched mine. It was fragrant and perfect just the way it was, but I added a little milk to it just to have something to do with my hands. I was nervous, even if I was trying to convince myself not to be. Shawn wanted to talk candidly about what had been going on, and it just so happened that what had been going on was one of the worst things that had ever happened to me. I shuddered to picture that scene in the foyer, one of my hands on an overdosing Shawn, the other on Patrick, who was bleeding out.