Authors: Jillian Leeson
She takes out a crumpled paper from her pocket. “I have the proof right here.”
But when she holds it out to me, I swat her hand away.
“I don’t care what it says. I’m telling you the truth. And if you don’t believe me, that’s too bad. You’ll just be breaking another of your promises.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You promised me you’d trust me. That you wouldn’t run when the going gets tough. But I guess that goes out the window when you talk to your friends. Whatever I say, it won’t carry half as much weight as what they tell you. And why? Because I’m rich. That’s why I tell lies, that’s why I’m a control freak. I’m evil, I’m the enemy, and I can’t be trusted. Right?”
Elle puts her hands on her hips, but the fire in her eyes has started to die down somewhat.
“At least you should have told me about my apartment. That was a lie. A lie of omission, but it’s still a lie. I’ve been nothing but honest with you.”
“I’ve said it already, but I’ll say it again. I. Am. Sorry. I would have told you about it. But I didn’t even expect you to go back and live there.” My voice drops. “I expected you to stay with me.”
My words spark another flare of fury in her. “Yeah, because I’m yours, right? I’m yours to play with, to do whatever you please with. Well, no thanks. I’m not anyone’s possession and never will be, and you can’t control me like you do everyone around you. You can’t use me for some PR advantage when the truth comes out about the apartments. Find someone else who’s willing to be controlled like a puppet.”
“Is that what you think? You think I would use you for PR? What kind of asshole do you think I am?”
For the first time since she’s burst into my office, Elle looks hesitant, unsure.
“I don’t know, I—”
I slip my finger under her chin, lifting it to look deep into her eyes. “You don’t understand. I don’t want to control you at all. I want you to be mine. All I’ve ever wanted is your heart. Because you already have mine, and you always will.”
Closing her eyes, she whispers, “Ryder, please. I can’t. I can’t do this.”
“So you’re willing to give everything up? Give
us
up, just like that?”
She shakes her head. “There is no us. Not when it was all based on lies.”
An acute pain slices through my heart. I spin around, unable to face her for another second.
“Get out,” I growl. “And leave my key card at the reception on your way out.”
A second of silence.
A violent slam of the door.
And Elle is gone from my life.
Fuck.
I want to hurt someone. Someone, something has to pay.
My hand lashes out at the desk, swiping off the piles of paperwork, again and again, scattering the leaves around the room until the table’s surface is clear. Only the framed picture remains. Blood pounding in my ears, I pick it up and smash it on the marble top till it shatters. I grab the shards of glass and hurl them against the wall, not noticing I cut myself until blood stains appear on my shirt, my pants, my shoes. Sinking down on my knees, I bend over, resting my head in my hands. My body aches all over, my throbbing hand is sore, my head is about to explode, and my heart hurts so bad I wish I could carve it out of my chest.
How dare she call me a liar. How dare she. Everything I’ve ever wanted was to make her happy. Everything I’ve ever done was to make her happy. Granted, buying the apartment building behind her back to ensure her safety and alleviate her from her financial burden may not have been the smartest move, but my intentions were honorable—I only wanted to help her.
I’m furious, but not with Elle. I’m disappointed in her for not trusting me. I’m disappointed that she chose to believe her so-called friends, who have been feeding her with lies to turn her against me.
I’m furious with myself for letting it go too far. She’s gotten under my skin, like an uncontrollable virus spreading through my veins, twisting cruelly around my heart. I should never, ever have let it come to this. I should have stuck by my belief that has guided me throughout life: never open up your heart—it is the fastest way to get hurt.
I had been right all along, pursuing only fleeting relationships with escorts or women who I used, as well as they used me, for sex. The moment I suspected they wanted more, I quickly made an exit. But the ironic fact remains that this time, it was I who had been relentlessly pursuing Elle, not the other way around. I couldn’t help myself—it was like a raw, primal force that spurred me on. Even now, I can’t help but wonder where she is, what she is doing, whether she hurts as much as I do. And if she is thinking of me, playing with that eyebrow piercing of hers that I love.
Love.
Is this what love feels like? I don’t know. How the hell am I supposed to know? All I know is that the only time in my life I’ve been truly happy was when we were together. And that the excruciating hurt I feel now that we’ve broken up, is unbearable.
It
has
to be love.
A tidal wave of regret washes over me. Maybe I shouldn’t have thrown her out of my office. The least I should have done is look at the letter she wanted to show me and search for a reasonable explanation. But when she denied what we had between us, I broke. I couldn’t think straight any more.
I look down at the mess on the floor and realize how perfectly it reflects my life right now. When I spot the broken picture frame, the jagged edges of the glass covering our faces, I pick it up and carefully remove the shards.
If this is love, then I should not let it slip away. I should do anything to make it right, to tell her I never want to lose her again.
To tell her I love her.
Elle
I’m going crazy.
My mind keeps on playing and replaying everything that has happened with Ryder, from our first race, the night picnic, and our weekend in the Hamptons, to the evening in the soup kitchen, the Thanksgiving lunch, our nights together, and finally our falling-out.
I’ve been in a daze since I left Ryder’s office; I don’t even remember how I managed to get home. But here I am, lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I’ve hardly moved in the past two days and haven’t got a clue what day it is today. I don’t care if I have to work, if I have to attend classes. All I want is to forget what happened, but my thoughts keep on wandering, mulling over the smallest details. Was there anything I could have done differently so I wouldn’t have ended up in this big mess?
But whatever alternative scenario I come up with, the answer is no. The bottom line is that I never really trusted him; sooner or later we would have come to a head. Realizing this finally makes me come to my senses. There is no point dwelling on this. I have to move on.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, getting up slowly for I am slightly dizzy, from lying down too much and hardly having eaten. Trudging my way to the kitchen to get a glass of water, I spot my cell on the couch. I pick it up and switch it on.
A flurry of missed calls and text messages appear on the screen. I scroll through them, and my heart lurches. Ryder has tried calling me more than ten times and left several messages.
Call me.
We have to talk.
When you’re ready, give me a call.
Let me explain.
I have to see you.
I miss you.
I swallow hard. I can’t deny I miss him, too. I miss talking to him, kissing him, waking up next to him. I miss everything about him. But what should I do? I am still pissed off at him for lying to me, but I think I ought to give him a chance to explain. It is the least I owe him, and myself; what we have between us is just too special to throw away. But even though I want it—
us
—to work out so badly, I can’t bring myself to call him back yet. I need some time to let it all sink in.
With a sigh, I check my other messages. The owner of the café where I work wants me to come in, Rose asks me to call her, and Adam and Mark expect me to attend the occupation of the buildings to be demolished, which is scheduled for today. Sighing, I get ready to go out. I can’t afford to piss my boss off—I desperately need my job to survive. I make a plan for today: go to the café, appease her, try to pick up some extra shifts, and on my way home, stop by the occupied-building site for a quick look.
And that is what I end up doing. Thankfully my boss is in a good mood and forgives me for missing two shifts, largely because it was the first time I’ve ever missed a shift in the two years I’ve worked there. It makes me feel a little better by the time I reach West Chelsea.
I am surprised to see that the occupation of the building site has attracted a large crowd, packed behind the wire fence that surrounds the site. Jostling to the front, I notice a huge banner dangling from the windows: ‘No more luxury apartments for the 1%!’
A police officer and a middle-aged man in a brown tweed suit are standing in front of me, staring up at the windows.
The suit says, “I don’t understand why the hell they’re trying to stop the demolition. Don’t they see it’s a pointless exercise? They’re not even going to build luxury apartments there.”
With crossed arms, the cop nods. “Yeah, we’ve tried to talk some sense into them earlier, but they just wouldn’t listen.”
I freeze. This can’t possibly be true. It can’t be.
Puzzled, I tap Tweed Suit on the shoulder. “Excuse me? What did you say just now? About it not going to be luxury apartments?”
Giving me a quick up-and-down appraisal, he shakes his head. “It’s absolutely useless, this protest. The site has been earmarked for subsidized housing. It’s a charity project endorsed by the City to help the homeless.”
“But—but they were planning to build upmarket condos, right? I have a letter that says so.”
I reach into my pocket and retrieve the crumpled letter. When I hand it over to Tweed Suit, he pulls out a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket.
“Hmm… Where did you get this from? It’s true, originally the site was slated for luxury apartments. But that was about a year ago. This must be an old letter.”
“No, it’s dated last month. See?”
I point at the date, and Tweed Suit brings the letter close to his face, scrutinizing it.
“Look carefully,” he says. “The date on this letter has been changed. The last number of the year has been tampered with.”
I check and it’s true. At first glance, it is undetectable, but on close examination, it is clear that the date has been altered.
No. This can’t be happening.
Tweed Suit produces a file that he has clenched under his arm. “I work for the City and I can assure you, after these buildings are demolished, they’ll make way for low-cost housing.”
He opens the file, and it jumps right at me—the logo of a crested mountain peak, appearing on all of the documents outlining the plans for the construction of subsidized apartments in West Chelsea.
I feel my heart sink. Everything Ryder has told me is true. And I was a stupid idiot for refusing to believe him.
Muttering a “Thanks,” I spin around to leave.
“Hey lady, where did you get that letter from?” Tweed Suit calls after me, but I dash off, pushing my way out of the crowd. I need to get away from here. I run along the wire fence surrounding the buildings to be demolished, and cast a last glance back at the occupied building. But before I realize what is happening, I lose my balance, tripping over a bump or a rock, and crash to the pavement on my hands and knees. I grit my teeth, trying to suppress the stinging pain, and slowly sit back on my knees, wiping off my hands of the grit that has left small indentations in my palms.
Wincing, I grab hold of the wire fence to help me get up, but when I’m almost upright, it gives way, and I land back on my bottom with a smack. Holding the broken part of the fence in my hand, I peer at the hole it has made. It is a perfect square, obviously deliberately cut and big enough for a person to creep through. This must be the way Adam and Mark managed to get themselves into the building site.
Adam and Mark—would they have doctored the date on that letter? But why? Just to push through the occupation and get more publicity for The 99? That would be insane. Because even if they get wide media coverage, the truth will surface eventually. They obviously don’t care less about getting their facts straight; all that matters to them is their five minutes of fame.
Blood is pounding in my ears. How dare they treat me like this after all I’ve done for them? I’ve put so much time and effort into this group, all because I was so grateful to them to take me into their fold when I needed them most: in my darkest hour when I was homeless and alone. Adam literally picked me up from the street and let me stay on his couch for a while until I got back on my feet. From then on, I’ve been helping them every way I could. I’ve done the grunt work behind every single campaign: the planning, the research, the execution. But after the success of our previous protest and since I’ve taken my distance from them, they’ve become cocky and reckless. I can’t believe they have stooped so low.
My hand feels sore, from the fall and the fence wire cutting into my skin. I have to do something. I have to tell those jerks they’re doing the wrong thing. They have to put an end to this ridiculous occupation so the demolition can go ahead. I have to stop them.
I drop down on all fours and crawl through the opening in the fence, carefully covering it up again with the broken segment. Stealthily, I creep along the fence towards the back of the buildings, with the police megaphone screaming in the distance. Right at the end of the row of buildings, I find an open door, leading to a steep staircase. I climb up two steps at a time, determined to end this once and for all. When I reach the top of the stairs, I find myself in a spacious loft-like area with graffiti on the gray, cracked walls. It is eerily quiet. I take a tentative step forward towards the windows at the opposite end of the room. Where the hell are they? Am I in the right building?