I’m not entirely sure how I get to my car, but the next thing I know I’m on the 101 and I’m headed toward downtown. Honestly, my head’s in such a mess, I probably should have called a cab or had Edward pick me up. But I make it downtown without causing a horrific accident, and then take our private elevator all the way from the parking structure up to the penthouse on fifty-seven.
I get out of the elevator on the office side, then head straight past the reception desk for the closed door to his office. “Is he alone?”
“He’s not here at all,” Rachel says. “I’m catching up on paperwork.”
“Not here?” I think back, trying to remember what appointment I’d forgotten. “I thought he was coming back after his lunch.”
“That was the plan, but some sort of crisis came up and he had to go to Santa Barbara. Is there a problem? Do you want me to call him?”
“I—no.” I must look more shaken than I thought if Rachel is offering to call Damien for me. “I just finished work early and thought I’d entice him into the apartment.”
She laughs. “He’s going to be sorry he missed out on that.”
“Well, I’m going over there now. When you see him, tell him I’m waiting.” I force a light-hearted wink, and she laughs.
“Will do.”
I make a point of seeming nonchalant as I head back to the elevator. Normally, I’d walk down the corridor that connects the office side to the apartment’s rear entrance, but that keeps me in Rachel’s sight for longer than I think I can handle. And right now, I’m certain my legs are going to collapse out from under me, and I really don’t want her to see that.
The elevator has doors on both sides, and I know that it’s sitting right there, just waiting for me. I want to scream and cry and rant, but I’m pushing all that down, forcing myself to look normal. To act normal. To give absolutely nothing away to Rachel, whose eyes are burning into my back as I press the elevator call button. The office-side door opens, and I step on, then punch in the code to operate the opposite door that enters the apartment.
It glides soundlessly open, and I step into the familiar foyer, and as soon as the door closes behind me, I quit fighting. A wave of tumultuous emotions crashes over me, and I sink down to the tile with no goal other than trying to control my breathing.
The only ornament in the foyer is a round marble table topped by a stunning flower arrangement that the office staff replaces weekly. The vase is pottery, and as I climb back onto my feet, I imagine myself ripping at those flowers. Pulling them out and strewing them across the floor, the thorns on the roses scraping my skin and raising a thin line of blood. My arms, lashing out to send the vase crashing to the ground. My knees aching as I kneel on the hard marble floor. As I reach for the shards. As I trace the ragged pottery deeper and deeper along the path the rose cut.
As I finally—finally—cling to the pain and let it pull me away from thoughts of my mother. From my fears. From all of the anxiety that swirls around inside of me.
My mother.
I don’t want her in my head. I don’t want to see her.
Most of all, I don’t want to lose myself simply because she’s near.
What I want is Damien. I want him here. I want him next to me. And I hate that I’m unreasonably irritated that he’s not here beside me when I need him.
I swallow, breathing hard, then pull my phone out of my purse.
I start to dial—and then with one violent sob, I hurl the phone across the room, then watch with pleasure as it smashes against the far wall, bits of glass and plastic scattering everywhere.
I gasp, choking on a sob.
I should be stronger than this.
I am stronger than this.
But as I crawl to the living room and curl up on the couch, my hand pressed against my abdomen to shield the baby, I know that I’m not.
And as the tears stream down my face, I can’t deny that no matter what Damien says, I’m not really strong at all.
15
“Goddammit, Charles, I’m not interested in your best guess. I want some fucking answers. I need to know if she’s really—”
Damien’s voice stops, and I stay perfectly still on the sofa, my head still fuzzy from sleep. I realize he must have come in through the rear, and now he’s passing the archway that leads into the foyer.
The foyer where the shards of my phone are still scattered all over the floor.
“Just get me answers,” he says, his voice low and distracted as he ends the call.
I wait, perfectly still, as he whispers, “Nikki,” under his breath. Then his footsteps continue, and I realize he hasn’t seen me and is heading for the bedroom.
A moment later, he’s back. I’m still on the sofa, my arms clutching a pillow and my eyes toward the floor. But even without seeing him, I can tell that he’s standing behind me. “Oh, baby,” he whispers, then reaches over the couch to brush my shoulder. The touch lasts only a moment, but I soak it in like a tonic, and by the time he’s come around the couch to sit beside me, I’ve propped myself up on the pillow and am reaching for his hand.
“I called you,” he says. “I guess now I know why I only got voicemail.”
“What time is it?”
“Late,” he says. “I came back to pick up a few things, and then I was going to head to Malibu. And to you, I thought. What are you doing here, baby?” The question is simple, his voice steady. It doesn’t matter. I hear the worry in his tone. And I hear the unspoken question, too—What happened, and are you okay?
I push myself up, my head full of fuzz. “I came to see you, and Rachel said you’d gone.” I rub my eyes, grainy with sleep. My head aches, and I know it’s the hangover-like effects of a crying jag. “What was in Santa Barbara?”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Just work. Just one of a hundred fires that never seem to go away.”
“You didn’t text me.” Usually, Damien sends me a text whenever he has to head out unexpectedly.
“Sorry about that. I didn’t expect to be gone that long, and I had Charles on the phone for most of the flight there. But I did call. You might not have gotten the message, what with your phone being in a million pieces. Nikki,” he says, his tone shifting from light to firm as squeezes my hand. “Are you okay? You didn’t—”
“No.” I cut him off firmly, because that answer is absolutely one hundred percent true. “But I wanted to,” I admit, because this is Damien. And because he needs to know.
His body goes tense, and his eyes cloud with worry. “What happened?”
It takes me a second, but I manage to say, “My mother’s here. In LA, I mean. Really, positively here.” I wanted the words to come out strong so that it at least sounds like I have a handle on this. Instead, my voice is choked. I sound lost. And the moment I see the mix of anger and loathing and regret on Damien’s face, my throat fills with tears, and I sit up so that I can cling to him, letting his body shield me from a reality I really don’t want to face.
“Baby. Oh, baby, are you sure?”
I nod against his shoulder, damp with my tears. “She called Frank. She wants to see me.”
“Fuck that,” he says, his voice so harsh that I actually smile.
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess.”