I give him a watery smile. “I love you, too.”
I leave him to the rest of the dishes and go upstairs. I’ve settled into my old bedroom and London into hers. It’s been a safe haven here at home, but it’s getting time for me to leave. London has already been accepted into an upscale rehab center only an hour’s drive from here, and Elijah is…. In the past.
My cell phone sits with taunting darkness.
Of course he could get my number. He could call me all gruff and angry with me for leaving. Or he could call me acting all casual, as if I only stepped out to the store. I have a faint smile on my face just imagining it. He could call me. But he doesn’t.
For three weeks I’ve maintained radio silence. With shaking hands I pick up my phone and call the number Liam gave me. The words Liam North flash on the screen. His private cell phone.
“Hello,” he says, sounding brusque and businesslike.
“Hi, it’s me,” I say. And then with a little laugh. “Holly. Holly Frank.”
“Hello, Holly. Is something wrong?”
“Oh no. Nothing like that. I only… wanted to see if Elijah is okay.”
There’s a pause. “Why are you asking?”
“Well, you know, he did save us from Ian Taggart and help with that. I wouldn’t want him to be hurt or anything. You know, hurt physically. I know I can’t hurt him emotionally.” I’m rambling, and it’s only by clamping my hand over my mouth can I stop.
Liam clears his throat. “He’s fine. Angry. I have a nice shiner.”
I wince imagining Elijah punching his brother. “He didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t be angry at him. He loves you and Josh so much.”
“You don’t have to defend him, Holly. I understand why he did it.”
“Oh. Well.” There’s a tightness in my throat. A tingle behind my eyes. I’m near tears just thinking about Elijah. Maybe I need my own rehab center. Not recovery from cocaine. I need to recover from Elijah North. He’s the addiction I can’t shake.
“Holly.” Liam’s voice softens. “He’s gotten on with his life. You need to, too.”
The tears spill over. “Right,” I manage. “You’re right.”
“He’ll be safe this way. And despite what you might think, I don’t hate my brother. I want him to be safe from the lieutenant colonel. You did that for him. You saved him.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Holly
I’m missing a shoe. I hop around my loft apartment with only one high heel on my feet, the other bare and stockinged. I’m wearing a white T-shirt with the words I read past my bedtime on it. The black pleated skirt and heels will make it vaguely professional.
“Are you on your way?” comes the voice from my phone. It’s sitting on the entrance table on speaker, because I’m supposed to be out the door.
“Very, very soon.”
There’s a laugh over the phone. “That means no. It’s a good thing I made the appointment for thirty minutes after two instead of two o’clock sharp.”
I glance at the clock. A smile hovers on my lips. “You knew I’d be late.”
“Because I know you,” comes the singsong answer. My agent is more than my business partner. She’s been my friend since I sent my very first round of queries, and she replied back, “Let’s hop on the phone. Right. Freaking Now.”
She loved my tooth fairy story, but it hadn’t been the first novel we sold. She shopped it to publishers who said it had great writing but was too strange to be accepted by readers. Give them a vampire, please. But I’ve always had an aversion to blood.
They finally relented when I wrote a shifter story for them. Only when my books cracked the New York Times bestseller list for young adult were they willing to take a chance on the tooth fairy. She’s my highest grossing book to date, and the sequel has been a major success.
Finally I spy my shoe hiding underneath a tall bookshelf. I fish it out and slide it on, then I’m out the door. Then back inside again as I’ve forgotten my laptop bag.
“Coming,” I say into the phone, breathless as I press the elevator button.
“Good,” she says, her voice tinny. “This mermaid book is going to be big. I can feel it.”
“I hope so.”
“I’m heading into the elevator. I’ll shoot the shit with Trinity for half an hour, then we’ll meet you at the cafe down the street for lunch.”
“See you soon!”
Despite the number of books I’ve written, I haven’t actually met my editor that many times. There were a few awards ceremonies, a panel at an author convention.
Once, I received an official invitation to visit the publishing house, but from what I could gather, the main purpose was to snap photos for their Instagram account.
They had a sheet cake with my book cover on the top, the castle of teeth artwork even more startling on something meant to be eaten.
The elevator begins to close, but someone slides his hand between the doors.
Only distantly I realize that I don’t know the man wearing a hoodie and jeans, who steps onto the car and stands in front of me. I can’t see much of him from this angle, but I would remember those broad shoulders if I’d seen them around here. Then again, a lot has changed in a year.
Maybe some of the tenants I knew have left.
Hopefully the guy who plays oboe is one of them.
I’m digging through my purse, looking for some lip gloss to swipe over my lips. It’s been so long since I got ready to go out that I’ve lost the hang of it. But I’m determined to fit into my old life, so when my agent suggested we have lunch with my editor, I accepted. We’ll discuss my proposal for the new book and hopefully get a contract.
The elevator car slides down the ten floors and opens at the ground. We’re immediately swarmed by a young woman with three small children in tow, and I have to step carefully to avoid getting trampled by a boy with an action figure.
The man who was on the elevator disappears in the direction of the parking garage, but like most New Yorkers, I don’t have a car. Instead I head toward the street exit, where I’ll take the subway to the publishing house offices.
The same flickering neon latte hangs in front of my favorite coffee shop.
I glance at my phone. There’s just enough time to grab a mocha frappe if I hurry. Sure enough, there’s no line. I step right up to the counter, where the same barista turns the pages of a science fiction book.
He glances up at me and grins. “You’re back.”
“It feels so good to be back,” I say, which is not entirely a lie. Certain things feel good. Like having an endless stream of boiling hot water for my shower. Wearing my super comfy pajamas to sleep. Other things feel… different. As if I’ve changed while I’ve been gone and don’t quite fit into my old places. “I’ll have my usual.”
He nods and turns to begin making my mocha frappe. It’s been years of coming here. I don’t even know his name; this isn’t a nametag kind of place. And he doesn’t know mine. But I know what series he’s on, and he knows my drink. There’s comfort in that.
“So,” he says, pouring the syrup in, heavy handed the way I like. “Where did you go? I figured you must’ve moved away or something.”