Just as she said, there he is. Looking gorgeous. But instead of the guy I’ve grown to know, on the screen is a man of intimidating power. Every article is of businesses he’s developed, bought, or flipped. He went to Columbia University, confirmation he’s as brilliant as I knew he was. He owns three restaurants, a tech start-up, a media house . . .
And that doesn’t count the business he inherited when his grandfather passed away. That’s at least one portion of the story he is telling the truth about. His grandfather was Edward Asher, a Scottish billionaire and real estate developer who was a big deal in New York City.
I try looking up Asher’s parents, but nothing comes up. There are a few mentions of his mother. She was a very talented young woman, performing at Julliard and winning awards for her piano playing. But after the age of twenty, she vanishes. It’s as if she doesn’t exist.
One article mentions Asher’s career highlights and a charitable concert event he was funding. Of the four pages long article, it merely mentions his family, stating his mother died in a car accident and his grandfather took him in. The article makes his grandfather seem like a really good guy. Not the monster Asher alluded to.
I look over to the ground beneath the bed and see the magazine sitting on the floor. New York Magazine. On the cover is Alexander Asher standing on top of a tall building in Manhattan above the city he controls. The headline reads: Asher. The new face of an empire. I don’t even have the heart to open it up.
Something doesn’t feel right. Why would he lie to me? He is guarded and complex. He wanted to know if he could trust me. I thought I gave him every reason to believe I was trustworthy. I thought I had his trust.
I guess I didn’t have enough of it to have him tell me the truth.
I pop up from my spot of the sofa and walk to the window. The sun is coming up. My body is too antsy to sit back and wait for word from him. I need to see him now. If this is all a misunderstanding, then I need to hear it from him. And if he is a player, then I need him to tell me to my face.
Opening the sliding glass door, I peer out into the marina. Even if I have to hire a boat to take me to him, I will. Walking back to the room, I go into Leah’s suitcase and take out the binoculars. Walking them back outside, I raise them to my eyes and look for his boat.
It’s not there.
It has to be.
I follow the water to the furthest point west, looking for the massive yacht. I don’t see it there nor do I see it anywhere to the east.
My heart drops to my stomach.
He left?
Clad in only pajamas bottoms and a tank top, I sprint across the grass and through the lobby of the building. When I reach the street, I take the stone steps, three, four at a time, nearly breaking an ankle flying down the narrow walkway.
When I reach the bottom, I jog the street, barefoot, until I’m at the marina. The binoculars find their way to may face again as I look out for his boat.
It’s still not there.
He left?
He left?
He left.
He’s gone.
Alexander Asher, international playboy, used me, abused me, and deserted me.
I am such a fool.
The slamming of brakes and a prolonged, ultra loud horn honk causes me to jerk and spill my evening latte on the pavement. It happens to me every time. A cab and a sedan have nearly collided and two men are screaming at each other from their respective windows. No one gets out of their vehicles though. They just flip each other off and go their merry way.
It’s an occurrence I have almost gotten jaded to. That and the slouched being hanging outside my building’s door.
“Hey, Mattie. Locked out again?” I ask, whipping my keys out of my coat pocket and leaning over my neighbor.
Mattie opens his eyes and is taken aback to see me hovering over him. “Oh, hey, Emma. Yeah, keys are probably sitting on my counter.”