The bottom line was this: no matter what Van hoped, his regard, without his love, wouldn’t be enough for her in the long run. And he would never love Van the way he was, at one time so long ago, capable of loving a woman. His bitterness and disappointment would become hers, and ultimately he’d kill the light inside her that some other man would have cherished. Staying away from Van as much as possible was the best course of action. At least until she found someone who loved her.
“Erik?” said Hillary. “Are you listenin’ to me? Because I think you should go spend a few days out there. See the places where you and . . . and she spent time together and say good-bye to those memories. See if you can’t move on now. It’s been years. You need to face your past, or you’ll never be able to move forward. I mean, wouldn’t you like to love someone? Be loved by them? Maybe get married and have a baby?”
The problem was, the only time he’d really ever envisioned himself happily married with children was with Laire, and when she crushed his heart, she crumpled up that dream and threw it away.
“Do I look like I want a kid?”
Hillary stood up, her patience over, her eyes flashing. “Well, I’m not goin’ out there. My plate’s full. Either you go or you call Fancy up in Vermont and tell her to figure it out herself.”
“Hills—”
“No! You shut up. You just shut up!” She tucked the résumés under one arm, then crossed both arms over her chest. “You want to live in a cold dark place because love stomped on your heart once upon a time? Fine. Go ahead. But you’re damaged, Erik. You’re broken. You let her break you. And you’re still lettin’ her break you every day.” She nodded emphatically to make her point before continuing. “You have given the memory of some eighteen-year-old girl this . . . this . . . this power over you, and you know what I think?”
Erik narrowed his eyes. “Enlighten me.”
“I think you like it. I think it makes you still feel connected to her in some sick way. You’re like a . . . a male version of Miss Havisham.”
Whatever the fuck that means.
“But one day you’re goin’ to wake up thirty or forty or seventy, and you’re goin’ to have nothin’ good to show for your life. and you know whose fault that’ll be?”
Hers.
“Yours!” she cried, as though she could read his mind. “Yours. Because you chose not to move on. You chose to wallow in your memories of her. You wasted your life. Willfully. And it’s such a goddamn shame!”
He stared daggers at his furious little sister, wanting to say something to slap her back into her place, but no words came. His mind was a blank, her words reverberating in his head like pebbles in a tin can and just as annoying. As much as he hated to admit it, she made sense.
Turning around, she marched to the door and yanked it open, then looked back at him, raising her chin and pinning him with a sour look. “I’m not goin’ out to the Banks, Erik. Furthermore, I’m takin’ vacation time until after the New Year!”
The door slammed shut.
“Fine!” he bellowed, leaning back in his chair and spinning it away from the door. He stared out the windows at cold, gray Raleigh. The sun had almost set, and cheerful Christmas lights started to dot the dark and murky cityscape below, which pissed him off.
Christmas was over. Christmas lights after Christmas just looked pathetic, celebrating something that was already long gone.
Move on. Move on. Move on.
“Fuck!” he muttered, turning back to his desk and placing his fingers on the keyboard.
***
In a last-minute decision that surprised and delighted his staff, Erik sent out an e-mail advising that the law offices of Rexford & Rexford, LLC would be closed from December 29 through January 2. Then he went home, packed a bag, walked to the Enterprise Rent-A-Car office around the block from his condo, rented a car, and pointed a shiny new Porsche Cayenne SUV east to the Outer Banks.
With downed trees and icy conditions reportedly worse near the coast, the usual four-hour drive would take him twice as long, especially in the dark, but he felt a responsibility to observe and manage the damage to his family’s property. Someone had to do it. And truth be told, the week between Christmas and New Year’s was an especially quiet time of year. It made sense to check on things, didn’t it? Of course it did. It was the sensible thing to do.
He was not going back to the Outer Banks to “purge demons” or “say good-bye” to lost loves or anything else so patently ridiculous. Absolutely not. He was merely going as a property agent for his parents, and once his business there was finished, he’d return to Raleigh.
Realizing that he’d have nowhere to stay upon his late arrival prompted him to call the only year-round hotel establishment he knew of in Buxton, the Pamlico House Bed & Breakfast, which also had nothing to do with “facing the past” and everything to do with sleep.
Fuck Hillary’s harping.
Fuck Hillary, who was fat and happy in her blissed-out state with Pete.
Fuck anyone who thought he knew what love was, and woe to him who trusted it.