Trust Me (Rough Love #3) (22 page)

“And I’m unhappy that you’re unhappy,” he snapped back in his crotchety-old-retail-magnate tone. “You make beautiful things, Chere. If you were happier, think how much more beautiful they might be.”

“Sometimes you annoy me,” I said, closing my sketchbook.

“I assure you that you annoy me much more. Isn’t that right, Jino?”

This time Jino gave a full nod. Traitor.

Vinod sighed and began to gather up his things. “I’ll give you the time you need to find more happiness, Chere. I’m going back to India for a while, at least for the next few weeks. That is where I am happiest.” He gave me a very sharp, direct look. “And so, you see, that is where I always return.”

*

I leaned back
in my chair and rubbed the muscles at the base of my neck. I was supposed to be finishing a bridge design for the City of Vancouver. Instead I had two computer windows open, one to Chere’s studio camera feed, and the other to the guest room feed at our apartment.

Not that I would have gone after her if I saw her. I just wanted to be sure she was okay. She’d been gone a week now, and I didn’t know where the fuck she was, which kept me in a constant state of uneasiness. She hadn’t gone to Andrew’s. I’d called him, and he said she wasn’t there, but that she’d gone someplace safe. He said I had to leave her alone, and I agreed, or I would have put a tail on him by now to find out where she was holed up. I was sure Andrew had visited her at some point. That little shit didn’t respond to any of my other texts pleading for information.

Does she need anything? Is she okay?

Of course she was okay. She was away from me, wasn’t she?

“Price?”

Jennifer said my name again, a little louder. “Price? Did you hear David’s question?”

I tore my gaze from the camera feeds. “What? No, I’m sorry.”

“About the proportion of the towers and suspender cables?” said David. “I don’t question the viability of the structure, but the design is so…spare.”

“I want it to be spare. It’s the Un-bridge. That’s the whole point.”

We’d been over this already. Vancouver wanted a bridge, and I wanted to try something new, an homage to Chere’s spare and delicate jewelry designs, only scaled to massive size.

“I’ve done the math,” I said. David, the fucking upstart. “Praneesh has looked at it too. The numbers work.”

“I’m sure the math works, but you’ll have to light the towers and the main cables. Otherwise, no one will see them.”

“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Bridges don’t have to be solid, inflexible behemoths. This one can move with the earth.”

Jennifer and Hannah were on David’s side, even though the City of Vancouver was on board with the visionary design.

“They want something new,” said Praneesh. “Vancouver’s a progressive city.”

“It’s barely there,” David persisted. “People won’t feel secure when they’re on it. It’s not appropriate bridge design.”

“Not appropriate?” I wanted to follow that up by shouting “Fuck you and what’s appropriate,” but I kept the words inside, because this was a business meeting and I was the boss, and I had to present a composed and capable front. That way, when my associates told me something wasn’t appropriate, that a design wouldn’t work, I could stand my ground and say, yes, it fucking will.

Because there was always a way to make things work, if you looked hard enough. I’d done the math and calculated countless distances and angles. I’d designed the safest, most understated, environmentally friendly, weatherproof, and elegant bridge anyone had ever seen, and fuck me if some MIT grad with a hard-on for girders and concrete was going to tell me it
wasn’t appropriate
.

“The cost of the lights will be offset by the durability of the materials,” I said. “If you start adding more bulk to the cables and towers merely for visibility—”

“Visibility is an important part of bridge design.”

“So is innovation,” I snapped.

“It’s just…” Hannah the peacemaker spoke up. “It’s just a real departure from our usual designs. I think it’s beautiful and viable, just…really different.”

“It’s growth. It’s expanding our portfolio. It’s changing with the times, moving from amplification and ostentation to refined simplicity. In that setting, in that geographical location, it will work.”

The voices at the table went quiet as I showed them the renderings again. This wasn’t just about the bridge; it was about the bridge’s place in the world. Funny how it had taken Chere’s unconventional aesthetic to teach me that.

God, Chere. It still fucking hurt to think about her. I stared back at the camera feeds while my associates debated the merits and drawbacks of the Vancouver bridge. Through the haze of my disaffected pain, I could hear David and Hannah coming around and admitting it was a visionary project. That should have made me happy, but it was an empty victory. The woman who had inspired this elegant vision was gone.

We put the Vancouver plans aside and moved on to other projects on the docket. Chere was gone, but life went on. Cities expanded, skylines changed, and structures came into existence through deep and thoughtful planning. There was more work to do. There would always be work to do, even if there was no one to share it with in my personal life.

Jesus, I was so fucking lonely without her. I still loved her, that was the fucked up thing. I’d always love her, just as she’d always loved Simon, even though their whole thing was a train wreck. Sometimes there were just
bonds
between people. Not manacles or leather cuffs or rope, but bonds deep inside you, because someone understood you and accepted you despite all your pathetic flaws.

But whatever. I could still work. I could go home and eat, and read, and drink wine now and again to remind me there was some good in life, even if I didn’t have Chere kneeling at my feet. I was on my second glass of wine Thursday night, deep in the poems of Percy Shelley, when my phone pinged with a text from Vinod. Because of his association with Chere, we’d become something more than business acquaintances.

I’m leaving for India soon
, he wrote.
Need anything?

I thought a moment, then texted,
Saffron from Kashmir. And Kismi Bars. Hundreds of them.

He texted a line of pig emojis, then the words
As you wish.

I frowned at the screen, wondering if Vinod had been in contact with Chere since she left me. They used to speak by phone at least once a week. I could ask him if he’d been in contact with her, but it was none of my business, since Chere and I weren’t together anymore.

Safe travels
, I typed instead, hoping to draw the conversation to a close before I said something I shouldn’t.

All is well with you?
he texted.
And Chere?

I didn’t know what to reply. Nothing was well with me these days. Work was a hassle, home was an awful, empty place, and strangers were living in Chere’s apartment.
Everything’s fine
, I typed, just to give an answer.

Is it? I only wonder why you’re letting someone so dear to you live in a hotel. A nice hotel, the Gramercy, but still.

I stared down at the message. The Gramercy. The place I’d left her.

You saw her there?
I texted.

Just today.

A pause, and then another text popped up on my screen.

Why is she there, I wonder?
He inserted a few goggle-eyed emojis.
None of my business. I’ll bring you saffron and chocolate.

I typed two words in response.
Thank you.

I wasn’t thanking him for saffron and chocolate. I was thanking him because I finally knew where she was.

Fuck.

I finally knew where she was.

All The Wrong, Bad Things

I
was lingering
over coffee, staring out the window on Saturday morning, when a loud, pounding knock jolted me from my thoughts. I didn’t mind, because they were shitty thoughts, unfocused and conflicted even after a week of cowardly huddling in this room.

I knew Vinod was supposed to leave for India today, which was probably why Jino was pounding on my door at this hour. I threw the lock and opened it, expecting to find my silver-haired friend and his towering sidekick. I remembered too late that Price also had an aggressive knock, one he wasn’t afraid to use in the quiet hallways of luxury hotels.

My ex-Master looked beautiful and tired, his jaw scruffy with a day’s worth of stubble. He wore a gray coat with an ivory sweater, and flawlessly pressed pants that highlighted his muscular physique. His gaze was as blue and deep as it had ever been. A bundle of white tulips peeked from beneath his arm.

I stared at him, not ready for this moment. “How did you know where—”

“Vinod.”

He didn’t make a move to come in. I studied his expression as I had so many times, trying to decipher what he felt. As usual, he gave me nothing. Irritation washed over me. I focused it on the tulips. I’d always hated tulips.

“Flowers aren’t going to fix us,” I said.

“I know. These aren’t for you, they’re for Simon.” He finally reached toward me, but didn’t quite touch me. “I’m taking you to the cemetery. Do you need a coat?”

“The cemetery? Why?”

“So you can have your fucking closure.”

I frowned at him in exasperation. “This is all a little too late, don’t you think?”

I finally saw something in his face, some human emotion. Panic. “Will you please just come?” He reached out again, and this time he took my hand. “Please come with me, Chere. We need to talk.”

I sighed and went for a coat. Price stood at the door, looking around the hotel room. Wondering where to install the cameras? Or was he remembering the last time he’d come here, to leave that note that destroyed my life?

And then rebuilt your life, Chere. Don’t forget that.

Simon’s final resting place was in Fair Lawn, a half hour outside the city. Price had said we needed to talk, but we rode in the back of his chauffeured sedan in total silence most of the way. Price was in scary self-control mode. He wouldn’t even look at me. The tulips trembled on his lap, their delicate white petals too blatant in design for my tastes. I liked the mystery of roses, the frivolity of carnations.

Flowers for Simon. Did he think that would win me back?

But I’d missed Simon’s funeral, and I hadn’t had the heart to visit his grave on my own, so I might as well visit it with Price, even if everything felt weird. Maybe this was his idea of closure, but closure for whom? For him, for his guilt in making me miss Simon’s funeral? Even if it was for me, this trip to the cemetery was only necessary because of what
he’d
done.

“It has to be on your terms, doesn’t it?”

I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud until Price looked over at me. “What? What has to be on my terms?”

“Simon. His death. This final goodbye, or whatever you have planned.”

He was silent a moment, then he shrugged. “You’re probably right.”

“Forget it, then. I want to go back to the hotel.”

“We’re not going back. We’re going to Simon’s fucking grave and we’re going to put these fucking flowers on it.”

I let out a huff and pressed back against the seat, and stared out the window. “Tulips are my least favorite flower.”

“I don’t care.”

Ah, how I’d missed his bright, sunny personality. I wished I was on a plane to India instead. Vinod had invited me to go with him, but I’d refused because it seemed too far to go when my life was a mess.

You didn’t go because you would have been too far away from Price.

Ugh, I hated that I still loved him. I hated that I was fighting off tears because he was so close to me, holding those ugly, floppy flowers in his lap. I hated that I’d been waiting for him to come for me, even while I hid and told myself I was gathering strength to move on. I had no strength. I was an idiot, and always had been.

When we got to the cemetery, I jumped out before he could come around and open my door. I scanned the expanse of lawn and weathered memorials. It was easy to find Simon’s grave. There was no headstone yet, but there were piles of flowers and beribboned reproductions of his work. A couple art school kids hovered nearby, poking through the bouquets and cards. Price’s scowl sent them scurrying back to their car.

Once they left, he turned to me, holding out the tulips. I didn’t take them. I couldn’t take them. I was too preoccupied with the dirt. All the flowers and notes people had left didn’t cover the bare rectangle of turned earth packed down over Simon’s remains. The man who’d pleaded with me at my studio mere days ago was under that dirt now, in the ground, forever.
Shit. Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry.

Price leaned down and put the tulips near the other piles of potted plants and bouquets. I wondered if Simon’s family came here every day to look at them. His parents had moved here from Florida years ago to try to help him. I wondered if they could bear to visit with all that dirt staring them in the face. Why couldn’t I help him? Even before Price’s interference, I couldn’t help. For years and years, I couldn’t help.