I tilt my head and study her. Her features are softer than the last time she spoke with me. Her eyes have a hint of amusement, and she’s on the verge of a grin. I decide to push my luck. “You say that as if you almost enjoy my groveling.”
She rolls her eyes and gives me a wave as she turns back toward the club. She calls back to me over her shoulder, “I couldn’t say, H. I haven’t really seen you grovel yet.”
The rush from seeing her and talking without fighting stays with me until I get to the car. Then all at once it leaves. I sit behind the wheel of my Mercedes and try not to let the reality of the situation pull me under. Alayna’s moving out of the penthouse. Even though we’ve been apart, as long as her things are at The Bowery, as long as her bathroom products co-mingle with mine and her clothes hang on my hangers, then in my mind, we’re still together. The house is still ours.
Now she wants to end that.
It feels final. Like closure. And I don’t want closure.
Suddenly, I have to be there. I drive to The Bowery and enter my penthouse for the first time in weeks. The first thing I notice is the quiet. The tick-tock of the grandfather clock is the only sound stretching across the expanse of my four-thousand-square-foot condo. I walk into the living room and flick on the light.
Even with the glow of the high-wattage bulbs, the place feels cold and empty. There have been other occasions that I’ve been away on business for long periods of time, and yet when I returned, it never seemed so unlived in. It’s her absence I’m feeling. It’s all around me, everywhere I go, but here especially.
I slowly scan the room, taking in everything. That window where she stood, moonlight streaming on her face, the first time I saw her in my home. The dining room table where we reconnected over wine and food after a long day apart. The floor beneath where we fucked like rabbits.
Every inch of space has a memory but nothing from before Alayna. Four years I’ve owned this property, and the only life that’s ever occurred here has been this summer. After her. Was there ever anything before her? Could there ever be anything without her?
Since the truth came out, I’ve grieved. I’ve mourned and ached and felt her absence both physically and emotionally. But I’ve yet to let myself be angry. Until now.
Rage bursts through me, spiraling through my veins, heating my skin, tightening my jaw. I’ve earned my circumstances. I deserve these consequences. But I want it to not be fair. For just a minute, I want someone else to blame. My mother and her drinking. Jack and his absent parenting. Celia and the fucked-up game she played. The stone-cold asshole that occupied my life until Alayna came into it.
Him.
He’s the real person to blame.
This house without her, these things, this furniture—it all belongs to him. Perfectly placed according to the suggestions of Celia Werner. The two of them. Old Hudson and Celia. Weren’t they a pair? Twisted, broken narcissists who didn’t give a shit about anyone or anything but their own entertainment.
To fuck with them. I don’t want anything to do with those people anymore.
With a burst of adrenaline, I sweep my arms across the side table, knocking down the designer lamp Celia bought for me at auction. The fragile ceramic base shatters when it hits the floor, filling the space with a sound other than loneliness.
It feels so good, I do it again. This time it’s the occasional table I attack. With a hand clutched at each side, I flip it over. The decorative tea tray that sat on top clatters and clangs across the floor. I like the noise it makes so much that I kick at the pieces again, denting the pot with the force of my blow. I pull at the curtains next. A clearing of the mantle follows. Never before lit candlesticks and framed pictures of random city scenes join the mess on the floor.
Then it’s the couch. I pull and claw at the cushions, throwing all my energy into this destruction. When I don’t make any noticeable marks, I go to the kitchen and grab the largest knife from the butcher block. A glance at the blade makes me wonder if it has ever been used. No time like the present.
Back at the couch, I thrust the knife through the leather back and pull a deep slash along the length. I repeat with another slash down the arm. Then another. I’m not crazy or wild with my strokes, but the carving takes energy. By the time I’ve sliced up the piece of furniture, my arm is aching.
I roll my shoulder to relax the muscle and survey my handiwork. The place is a disaster. And it’s the most life I’ve ever felt in the room without Alayna. I cling to it, holding the life as long as I can.
All too soon, the energy fades and dies.
It’s then I know that I can’t live here anymore. Not alone. Not again.
I find my phone and dial my assistant. He’s used to requests at unusual hours, so though it’s after ten, my call isn’t out of the ordinary. I tell him to arrange a truck for Alayna on Monday. “Also I need packers and a moving crew for this weekend. I can be here at nine on Saturday to supervise. Most everything needs to be out by Sunday night.”
After everything’s arranged, I head back to the bedroom. This is where much of my time with Alayna took place. I fall onto the bed, and though the sheets have been changed and they no longer smell like her, I clutch them to me, pretending I’m clutching her. I let the memories of us settle in and sing me to sleep.
Sunday afternoon, I send Alayna a copy of the John Legend CD with a note that reads: This is the song that makes me think of you. Track 6. – H
By that evening, everything in the penthouse has been packed up and removed except the few things that belong to Alayna and the mattress from our bedroom. Celia had picked out the bedframe, which is now on a truck headed to a donation center, but I’d picked out the mattress. And it has too many memories to simply toss away.
I take a look around the empty space, remembering the first time I’d seen the place. I’d walked through it once before purchasing it. The next time I came back, Celia had finished designing and installing all the furniture and art. I’d forgotten how it looked in its blank canvas stage. There’s so much potential to be a real home. There’s ample wall space for personal pictures and mementos. The balcony has room for plants. The rarely used guestroom could be transformed into an office or a workroom. Or a nursery.
When I live here again with Alayna, I tell myself, we’ll decide together what we want our home to be.
Later, I waffle about contacting Alayna. When she finds the penthouse empty, she’ll have questions. I could call her before to explain, or I could wait until she calls me.
Or I could be there when she comes for her things.
It’s not really much of a debate. The conversation feels more appropriate for in person, and I’ll take any excuse I can to see her face-to-face. Preferably alone. There may be a way that could happen.
I decide to take a risk and call Liesl. She’s with Alayna, but she’s able to step away for our conversation.
“Laynie’s been listening to your damn song nonstop,” she tells me. “And let me tell you, all of me thinks you ought to buy me a pair of earplugs.”
I’m so fucking elated by this information that I offer to throw in a whole new stereo as well. It doesn’t take much effort to convince her to get Alayna to the penthouse alone in the morning. The gifts probably factored in Liesl’s cooperation. Or maybe she really is on our side.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I wake Monday more excited than I can ever remember being. Having spent a lifetime pushing down emotions, I’m frequently thrown off guard when I experience one. I’m not prepared for the adrenaline pumping through my veins or the sweat gathering above my brow. I know Alayna isn’t an early riser so I get in a few miles on the treadmill in the Pierce Industries gym before I have to head over to the penthouse to meet her. The run helps calm me.