What am I supposed to say that hasn’t already been said by hundreds of others? My parents were great people. They spent their years building the company together and spending all their money on humanitarian and environmental protection projects. They were well-loved, and even Tyler admits that they were a big part of the reason he decided to go into charity work whilst building his own empire.
“I don’t know how I’m gonna do this,” I admit, my voice hoarse. I clear my throat, but this is the type of ache that won’t go away so easily. I wish Alexis were here. If I could hold her hand, maybe I could convince myself to make it through. She’s hours away, though, trapped in that hotel room just because she went on a date with me.
Tyler sits up and leans toward me, unbuttoning the top button of his suit jacket. “I could always cause a scene,” he says, a playful grin on his face. His eyes, however, tell a different story. He’s trying to make me feel better, trying to find a solution to the hurt I can’t dispel.
“I’ll take that into consideration,” I reply. After all, if I really need something to distract the press from my inevitable failure, Tyler is a good resource to keep in my pocket. He’s always up for a little bit of recklessness.
He stands up, stretching as if he’s been sitting for hours. Then, he walks over to the window, looking out on the ocean that sweeps against the Miami shoreline. It’s been raining all day today, the side-effect of a tropical storm hundreds of miles away that will never touch our shores.
“Will Alexis be there?” he asks, his words a harder punch to the gut than any actual strike could be. I remain seated and stare at my palms as if they’ll give me a good answer.
“I don’t think it’s gonna work out with her,” I say honestly. She isn’t suited for my lifestyle, and she doesn’t deserve all the pain that comes with it. I saw it in her eyes when she rejected my proposal. The paparazzi had really shaken her, and being with me would only ensure that she’s at risk of that kind of exposure every single day of her life. She needs to be free to live her own life, even if that means I don’t get to be a part of it.
Tyler spins to look at me, leaning against the window. “And why is that?” He’s not merely inquisitive, but probing. He knows that it’s my fault that Alexis rejected me. I’ve told him as much. “I know I’m the one who suggested proposing, but still, that shouldn’t have been the end of it.”
“Because my life is too complicated,” I say. “She needs to have her freedom, and I can’t give that to her.”
Instead of sympathizing like I expect him to, Tyler lets out a single bark of laughter. “You know that’s not true, right?”
I look up into his eyes. “You’re being rude again,” I point out.
Instead of evaluating his words, he shakes his head. “No, you’re being dense, probably because of that rich kid mentality you grew up with. Alexis didn’t reject you because of the paparazzi or whatever. She rejected you because you think you can fix everything with money.”
I grimace. What can’t be fixed with money? I glance at my phone, that reminder of my parents’ memorial the only thing I can focus on. Right. That’s one thing that can’t be fixed. It doesn’t matter how much I spend or how much I make. They’ll still be gone. A lump forms in my throat, and tears well in my eyes. I turn away, unwilling to let my best friend see me cry.
“Come on, James,” he says, softer this time. “You can’t seriously think that gifts will fix the problem. She’s a person. You need totalkto her.”
I keep staring at my phone. “I don’t know how,” I say.
Tyler considers my words for a moment. “Fine. I guess I’ll help you. We all know I’m better at fixing lady problems than you, anyway.” Says the person that told me to propose, despite Camilla’s protests.
This elicits a small, humorless laugh from me, a tear splashing down on the glass screen of my cell. “Sure. Go for it.”
If nothing else, it will prove him wrong. Alexis doesn’t want me, and nothing he says or does is going to fix that.
Chapter Twenty
Alexis
One evening, I receive a text from Camilla just as I’m arriving back home after being given the all-clear. At this point, just walking up the steps gives me goosebumps, and I can’t help but look around, wondering if I’m being followed. A driver brought me here, followed by one of the hired bodyguards. At the very least, I won’t be assaulted in the time it takes to get from the parking lot to my living room.
When I walk in, though, my heart sinks. The place is a wreck. My dresser is open with clothes strewn everywhere, the kitchen cabinets are all opened, and there’s a lewd word spray-painted in red across one wall.
I check my message from Camilla. It’s an invitation to Miami for James’s speech tomorrow. I’m not sure if it’ll be worth going, but as I look at my destroyed apartment, I realize that I don’t have many other options.
I walk in carefully and grab a few things that mean something. My diploma, the frame askew on the wall, a photo of Mom and me at my graduation, and a comfortable sweatshirt that I’ve had since high school. I shove it all in a backpack, unsure of what else to grab.
As I look around, there isn’t much else worth salvaging. Maybe I should feel scared or violated, but instead, I’m content with the knowledge that this will be over. I’m done. I can’t do this anymore. I’ll finally have to admit that I’m a massive failure, and I’ll go back home and live out my miserable life working at the café where my mom and younger sister both work. They seem happy enough, and, perhaps, after years of repetition, I’ll be able to feel content.
I go back to the Rolls Royce, and the driver looks at me in surprise when I climb into the backseat. “Do you need to go elsewhere?” he asks, looking at me through the rear-view mirror.
I shrug. “I guess I’m going to Miami for the press conference.” I hate asking for favors, but maybe James will be willing to put me on a plane home if I ask really nicely. I don’t need anything fancy. The back of the plane with no leg room or services will do fine. It’s not like I have a lot of belongings to take with, either. Just me and this tiny backpack with my crushed dreams. I look back at the door to the apartment, closed but not locked. “I can’t live here anymore. Someone broke in.”
Instead of driving, the chauffeur texts my bodyguard. I watch as he gets out of his own vehicle and jogs up the steps to the apartment. He’s a massive guy, and I’m almost worried that the old metal steps will crumble under him. He opens the door and mouths a word that’s clearly a curse, then puts his phone up to his ear. While he talks, he looks toward us then back at the apartment, grimacing.
After he gets off the phone, a text comes through to the chauffeur’s phone. I don’t read it, but he frowns and says, “Miami it is.”
Then, he puts the car in gear, and I leave all my dreams behind.