94. To Pack or Not to Pack?
“Maybe this is a mistake.” I said. “Moving in together?” Something I never did with Vic. I’d never lived with anyone, save those months with Cammie.
“Why?” Cammie asked, sipping a red Starbucks cup, her elbow knocking Benta’s arm when she reached for her cookie. “You guys’ve been together, what … three months?”
“Two and a half, exclusively.” I corrected. “But we’ve dated since…” I scrunched up my face and tried to think. “July.”
“Carlos moved in with me after three months,” Benta unhelpfully supplied.
“Exactly. And we all remember how well that social experiment turned out.” Benta and Carlos lasted three weeks after he moved into her place. It took that long for them to come to the conclusion that they, in fact, hated each other.
“You know what the issue was?” Cammie asked, pointing a navy fingernail in Benta’s direction. I waited for this gem of knowledge with all the excitement of a root canal. “Carlos moved into your place. I think it works better when the girl moves in with the guy. Otherwise, you feel like he’s a freeloader.”
“Didn’t you guys split the rent?” I looked at Benta, who nodded through a mouthful of—damn her—my cookie.
“It doesn’t matter,” Cammie said. “Call it tradition, patriarchy, whatever. A woman wants a provider, and you don’t feel that way if he’s suddenly taking over half your closet.” This coming from a woman who’d never lived with anyone other than me. “You guys won’t have that problem, since you’re moving in with him. And plus…” she popped a peppermint into her mouth, “you’ll save on rent!” She beamed, like she had ever once worried over a rent payment.
But … she did have a point. Now that Nicole was back home and settled, the plan was for me to quit on Monday. I’d offer to work a final two weeks, but Nicole would most likely kick me out the door. Unemployed just in time for the holidays. JOY. It would help the situation if I didn’t have to worry about rent. But was that really a reason to move in with a guy? I voiced the question.
“What you need to think about,” Benta reasoned, “is if you would move in with him if your rent stayed the same. If the answer is yes,” she shrugged, “then you’re good to go.”
It was kind of a stupid hypothetical because I couldn’t even decide if I should move in with him and my rent wasn’t staying the same, but I understood her point.
“It’s the next step,” Cammie said. “Either you and Carter are serious about each other or you aren’t. If you are, then you need to know if you can live together.” She blinked at me as if it was so obvious, and I eyed her eyelashes suspiciously. The girl got extensions. She had to. She wasn’t that lash-blessed before. I swallowed the observation and tried to focus on her advice. She was right. It was the next step. Did I want a future with him? It was a question that took a minute to answer, a decision that I wanted to be absolutely sure about. And the answer, after three long sips of my coffee and a lot of time staring out the window, was yes.
I loved him. I fell in love with him thinking that he had nothing. And I wanted a future with him. The man was willing to risk his entire financial future on me … I could certainly risk the next step with him.
I wanted to try. I wanted more. And if the next step toward our future was moving in together, then I wanted to take that step. I swallowed hard and looked away from the window. “You’re right,” I nodded. “I’m going to do it.”
I didn’t know why they squealed, coming forward and hugging me tightly. But the celebration was what I needed. Validation that gaining a relationship didn’t jeopardize this friendship. “I’m proud of you,” Cammie whispered against my ear.
“Thanks.” I released them and sat back, glancing at Cammie one more time before I decided to risk her wrath. “Now, what the hell did you do to your lashes?”
95. We Are All Worthy of Love
Two weeks after Nicole’s hospitalization, I slowly climbed the steps to the Brantleys’, my eyes on the toes of my Jimmy Choos, my heart hiding somewhere in my chest. I stared at their front door and remembered, a year ago, how desperate I felt, ringing their doorbell. When I looked back at that woman, I barely recognized myself. Cammie was right. I had changed. Everything in my life had changed. I inserted my key and turned it in that lock for one last time.
Maybe I should have rung the bell.
I opened the door and stepped into a fight. Clarke and Paulo, standing toe to toe in the foyer, a maid standing in front of me, her mouth half-open, a broom in hand, her steps hurriedly moving to the side to let me in. The director’s shirt was gripped in Clarke’s fist, Clarke’s dark and angry face growling out something too soft for me to hear.
The New York wind sucked the front door shut with a loud slam that announced my presence. I winced at the sound, but neither man moved, their eyes locked.
“Where’s Nicole?” I whispered to the maid.
“In bed.”
“Does she know about this?” I watched Paulo attempt to push Clarke away, his struggle against solid muscle worthless.
“No.” The answer was a hushed whisper and almost lost in the loud crash. I’d heard that sound before. The sound of expense and turned to see Paulo bent backward over the foyer table, the glass centerpiece—one that replaced my broken one—now in a thousand pieces on the marble floor, Paulo’s hands frantic as he attempted to hold off Clarke.
“I’m going to tell you a final time,” Clarke threatened, “and then you’re going to get the hell out of my house. Stay away from my wife.”
“Easy.” Paulo’s squeak was embarrassingly feminine, and I didn’t move, as fascinated by this train wreck as I was horrified. “I just wanted to tell you it wasn’t mine. I got snipped five years ago. I just thought you’d want to know. And she and I—we’re done. We’ve been done. She broke it off when she found out about the baby.”
Clarke shoved off the man, Paulo’s body rolling to the side, his arms failing to catch his fall, his knees landing in the crystal and he wheezed out a cry. Clarke stepped another pace back, his breath hard, emotions barely controlled, his hands on his hips as if he were resting from a sprint.
I needed to go upstairs. None of this was my business. It was too personal, the emotion on Clarke’s face too raw, for me to witness. Yet, my feet couldn’t move, my eyes watching as Paulo made it to his feet, carefully limping toward the door.
“We still have to film,” Paulo said. “Just a few press things. Shouldn’t take but a day or two per week.”
“That’s fine.” Clarke spat out. “I’ll be there with her.”
“Seriously,” Paulo said, shuffling the last step to the door. “We’re through. I just thought you’d like to know.”
Clarke said nothing and the scrawny man made his exit, my attempt to sneak by thwarted by a loud crunch of crystal underfoot. Clarke’s eyes met mine and my heart sank at the sadness there.
“I’m sorry.” I said, my shoulders falling. “I wanted to tell you. I just…” I swallowed. “I just kept hoping she would.”
His jaw tightened and he glanced upstairs, to their bedroom. “I wish she had.”