The Thrill of It

Chapter Twenty-Two

Trey

When I reach the sixth floor, I race out of the elevator and down the hall, praying Michele is still here. I called her once, but it’s Friday night, so who the hell knows if she’s still working.

I yank open the door to her office suite.

“Trey,” she says with surprise. A black purse is slung over her arm, and she’s dressed in a pencil skirt and a sleeveless top. Weird – she’s not wearing her shrink uniform and it’s jarring to me to see her like this, as if I ran into a teacher at the mall, outside of her natural element. “What can I do for you? I’m just on my way to the theater.”

“What are you seeing?”

She flashes a quick smile. “Crash the Moon.”

“Oh. Cool. I’ve never seen it, but I heard it’s good.”

“It’s amazing. I’ve seen it several times. This will be my first time seeing it after it swept the Tony awards - best show, best director, best actress. But enough about me. What can I do for you? We’re going to need to talk and walk so I don’t miss curtain.”

“I fucked up big time,” I admit as we head back into the hallway.

“Then unfuck it up,” she says, as if that’s the easiest thing in the world. She hits the down button on the elevator panel.

“How?”

“Well, considering I don’t know what you did, the answer may vary. But it almost always starts with a heartfelt apology.”

On the ride down, I tell Michele what happened yesterday with Harley, how I freaked out when I saw the bag from Bloomingdale’s. “I didn’t even give her a chance to explain, but the fact is, she doesn’t have to explain. I believe her. I know I overreacted, because that’s what I do.”

We reach the lobby and leave the building together. “You need to work on that Trey. You have a lot of anger and you have some insecurity, but most of all you let fear of feeling control you. You can shut off and shut down, but none of those reactions are ultimately going to heal your heart. What will help you is speaking your truth. But don’t jump to conclusions. Don’t make assumptions. Say only what you know to be true,” she instructs me as I keep pace with her down Lexington Avenue. She looks at me as we slow at the crosswalk. “What is the one truth you most want to speak?”

A bus rolls to a stop, fumes pouring out and flooding the muggy June night. It’s sticky hot, and the nearby garbage can is overflowing, and this city makes me crazy, and I don’t even know if I want to be in New York anymore in the middle of all these piss-stained sidewalks and neverending garbage. But in spite of all that is ugly, there is her. Harley is what I want. She is the truth I most want to speak.

I tell Michele what I want to say to her.

“Good,” she says and smiles. “And now I want you to remember even if it feels scary to say that, I believe in you. I know you can do this. And don’t forget, we have a lot of other issues to work on still. So you better show up for your next appointment.”

Then I say goodbye, grab my phone from my pocket and dial Kristen as fast as I possibly can. But my fingers are shaky and I miss a number. So I try again. I miss another number. One more try and still my fingers keep slipping off the dialpad. I remind myself to slow down, to calm down, to stop being eaten alive by impulses. I don’t have to grab hard at what I want, and then run like hell from what scares me. I can take a moment, take a breath.

The call goes through this time. Kristen answers on the second ring.

“Hey. It’s Trey. How are you?”

“I’m good,” she says with a small laugh. “Thanks for asking.”

“So,” I begin, as I head north on Lexington. But I don’t even know if I should be heading north. She could be anywhere in the city. “Do you know where Harley is? She went to some,” I pause, fighting every instinct to spit out the next words with disgust, and instead I manage to be calm, “Some event. She went to some event.”

“Yeah. I know where she is. But if you’re going to fuck her up more, I’m not going to tell you. You did a number on her, Trey.”

I nod, absorbing the blow, deserving it. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“You need to tell her that, Trey,” she says and I can picture Kristen, hands on her hips, sharp-eyed stare through those red cat’s eye glasses, all intense and serious.

“I will.”

“And she is not in a good place. Her mother worked her over yesterday and said awful things, and then you walked out and didn’t even give her a chance, and she’s a mess, but she doesn’t even realize it because she’s trying to be all tough and badass.”

“Shit,” I say, feeling horrible for adding to her misery yesterday. “I knew it was bad with her mom. But that bad?”

“Like you wouldn’t even believe,” Kristen says, punctuating each word, as if she can emphasize the awfulness more that way. “So you need to promise me if I tell you where she is that you’re not going to ruin things for her.”

“I won’t.”

“And I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for her. Because I tried to stop her. I tried to keep her from going, but she’s spiraling bad. So if you can be the one to save her, then do it. But if you’re going to go show up and make her feel like shit, then I will fucking break your knees.”

I stop in my tracks, back into a doorway of an office building closed for the night. “Kristen, you are one scary bitch and I would never cross you, and that is not why I want to know where she is. I want to apologize. I want to grovel. I want to tell her I want her back. That I want her. Always.”

“Well then, as Carrie’s best friend said in Sex and the City, Go get our girl. She’s at the Parker Meridien. Ballroom level.”

I punch a fist in the air. “I owe you big time.”

“If you save her, I owe you.”

The Parker Meridien is a swank hotel on Fifty-Sixth Street near Central Park. It’s stylish and cool, with one of those sleek glass entryways tucked into a gray brick building, the kind that’s understated, that says if you need to know we’re here, you don’t deserve to know who we are.

But inside, the lobby is overwhelming with towering white columns and slick marble floors. I’d stand out if this weren’t the type of hotel that attracted all kinds – actors, rock stars and businessmen, so I walk past dressed-down dudes like me, in boots and jeans, as well as the tuxed-up and bow-tied guys and the women in slinky dresses on their arms.

A metal sign by the escalator tells me there are several ballrooms, so I decide to start on the third floor. I ride up the escalator, mentally talking back to my nerves that are operating on overdrive. I don’t want to fuck this up. But I know I have to rescue her before she falls too far away from herself. Her mom might have kicked and beaten her while she was down, but I delivered a punishing blow and now I need to undo it.

Stepping off the escalator on the second floor, I notice a dude in the bar reading Bridget Jones’ Diary. Weird choice for a guy, but he seems to be the happiest fella in the world, lost in a book. Fine, whatever.

I head up another flight.

Soon I find the ballroom on the third floor, and sounds filter out. Waiters serving drinks, glasses being clinked, small talk being exchanged.

I stop at the doors and my heart rises to my throat, then lodges there. I stare at the sea of people, talking, toasting, laughing. They’re milling about and chatting, so dinner hasn’t started yet.

I survey the massive room, scanning for her, wishing I had infrared glasses that would zero in on her instantly. But then, it’s not that hard to find the girl you’re in love with because she’s often the only one you see. There she is. Near the stage, a closed-mouth smile on her beautiful face, that dress nestled against her body like it was made for her. Her arm is tucked into the crook of her date’s elbow. I press my fingers hard, hard, hard against my temple to remind myself to think about anything but this red-hot jealousy.

I step into the hallway and flatten myself against the wall as if no one can see me that way. Which is stupid. But still, I need these racing feelings to die down so I can figure out what to do. I don’t even have a game plan. What kind of dumbass am I to show up at a formal event without even an idea of what to do?

But hiding here sure as hell won’t help me get the girl back.

I flash back on the last week with her, the nights we spent, the things we shared, the stories we told. They fill my body with strength and fortitude.

I turn around, peer into the ballroom, and assess the options. I spot a door leading into the kitchen. Then take note of how close it is from where Harley’s standing with the little dude by her side.

I walk into the ballroom, and a woman in a black dress is now on stage, clearing her throat, speaking into a microphone. “Thank you so much for coming,” she says as I thread through the crowds in Harley’s direction, hoping, praying, I can whisper in her ear, grab a quiet moment. “We are so grateful for all of you, and we hope you are having a wonderful time. Before we sit down to eat, we want to extend a heartfelt thank you to one of our most generous supporters, Mr. Stewart.”

Everyone claps, and then the short guy with Harley takes a bow and waves. Harley plants a kiss on his cheek that makes my stomach churn. I grab hold of a chair so I don’t topple over.

“And now I’d love to invite Mr. Stewart to the stage to say a few words,” the woman says, and Harley lets go of his arm, squeezes his hand, and watches him walk to the stage.

I am withering as I witness her work, but yet this is the moment. This is my golden fucking opportunity and it’s not going to come around again. I seize it, moving quickly to where she stands.

As I near her, I’m sure everyone can hear my heart beating at this frantic pace, like it’s riding on a slingshot to the moon, and its safe passage hinges on the next ten seconds of my life.

I reach her, tap her shoulder, and whisper her name.

She turns to me, shock in her eyes for a nanosecond that quickly morphs into a cool, plastic mask. Distance, she’s keeping her distance.

“Can I talk to you?” I whisper.

She shakes her head.

That won’t do. That won’t fucking do at all. I didn’t come all the way in here for this. I came for her and I’m not leaving without her.

“I am deeply honored to see all of you here tonight. To know that you have come out to help the plight of orphaned elephants as well,” Mr. Stewart begins from the stage. The lights shine brightly on him, and I hope to hell they blind him to the audience and to what I’m about to do.

As he keeps speaking, I eye the door to the kitchen, then the stage, then her. I can do this. I have to do this.

I inch closer, lean in, and whisper in her ear. “I’m so so sorry for what I said, and I’m so fucking in love with you, and I can’t stand the thought of losing you, Harley. Please talk to me.”

She doesn’t speak, but her breath catches in response, and that’s all I need to know. I nod to the kitchen door, not far from here. She says yes with her eyes, and I step away first, not drawing attention, not making a scene. She follows me, so casually, so coolly, she could even be heading to the ladies room to powder her nose, for all they know.

Well, if the ladies room were in the kitchen.

But I stop caring what anyone else thinks when I push open the silver door and, seconds later, she’s behind me. Waiters bustle in and out with plates spread across their arms and cooks serve food for the next round of servers. They are too busy to care about us.

“What the hell?” She holds her hands out wide in question. The softness of the moment has unraveled. “You can’t just come in here and do this, Trey. You can’t. I am working. I am on a job. And you can’t show up and whisper this shit in my ear, and make it seem like everything is okay. You can’t,” she says but her voice is trembling with emotion, on the brink of tears.

“But it’s true, Harley. It’s true, and I’m sorry I was a dick yesterday. I’m sorry I freaked out. It’s not like I know what the fuck to do when I feel this way. I’ve never felt this way. I barely even know what it is. But I know I’m crazy about you, and I’m in love with you, and I love you, and it’s real, and true, and messy, and sloppy, and I don’t care because I want you back. I want you with me. I want an us. I want you,” I say, and I am helpless before her. I am serving myself up to her, giving her my bleeding heart, and hoping to hell she doesn’t take a knife and stab it to pieces, then eat it for a snack.

She winces as if this pains her.

“How can you do this?” She speaks in a low voice. “How can you just say these things? It’s so unfair. I’m working, don’t you get it? This is me. This is who I am. This is where I belong. This is the only place I’ve ever belonged. This is my job. You fell in love with a whore, okay? I know that’s what you were going to call me yesterday,” she says, nailing me with cutthroat honesty.

“But I didn’t,” I plead. “I didn’t say that. Because you’re not. You’re not a whore, you’re not a slut, you’re not anything but the most amazing, resilient, badass, tough, cool, hot, smart and brave person I have ever known.” I take a step closer, risking it. Reaching for her hands. She doesn’t brush me off. But she doesn’t push me away either. “You told me I was brave, but I think you are too. And I want to be brave with you, Harley. And stupid with you. We can be better together.”

She glances to the door, her eyes etched with longing. But for what? For what’s out there with that short little dude who hired her to play pretend? Or what’s here?

“Harley,” I say, gripping her hands tighter. She starts to squeeze back and the small gesture emboldens me. “You don’t belong to him or them.”

“I do,” she says, but her voice is fading out, like maybe she doesn’t believe it anymore. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever belonged to.”

I shake my head adamantly. “No. You belong to a stained glass window in an abandoned building. You belong to the flower in the junkyard. You belong to the beach that you miss. You belong to your shoes, even those Mary Janes I hate, but also your combat boots that I love,” I tell her, and her lips part, her shoulders rise, and she laces her fingers through mine. She is all I will ever want on this earth, and I have to make sure she knows without a shadow of a doubt that we might be damaged, but we are perfectly damaged together. “You belong to the beer you never drink, and to your friend Kristen, and to that group that I used to wish I never went to, but now I’m so damn glad I did because it might not be how I met you, but it’s how I fell in love with you. And you belong to my brothers,” I say, and it’s then that a tear slides down her cheek. “And to the tree you kissed. Most of all, you belong to the ugly beautiful. You belong to this messy, crazy, brave and honest love.”

She breaks her hold on my hands to loop her arms around my neck, her body trembling against mine. She doesn’t seem as if she ever wants to let go as she brushes her hands against the ends of my hair and says in a broken voice, but one that is still so strong: “Trey Westin, when I walked into No Regrets more than six months ago, I had no idea that I was getting a whole lot more than a tattoo. That I was getting you, and us, and a place to belong. Because I belong to us.”

The breath I didn’t know I was holding, the fear that lined my heart, falls away, crumbles to the ground, turns to dust and shadows. I pull her close, never wanting to let go. But she pushes back, her palms firm against my chest.

“But you have to understand that you can’t freak out all the time,” she says. “My past is messy and it’s unfinished and it will spill over into the present and the future and you can’t walk away when that happens.”

I make the easiest promise in the world when I say, “I won’t. I promise.”

“Then take me out of here.”

I glance at the door we came through, then look for another one. A waiter about my age, with a pierced ear and a tat barely visible on his neck that he’s trying to hide under his white button-down shirt, grips my shoulder. “There’s another door that way. It’ll take you to the escalators.”

I clap him on the back. “Thanks, man.”

Harley

“I have to tell Cam,” I say as we step onto the escalator. I expect Trey to fume, but he doesn’t.

“But you’re going home with me.”

“Seriously?” I roll my eyes. “Of course I am. Tonight, every night. Always.”

I want to run down these moving stairs with him, leap off the escalator like a ballerina, and fly out of here. Not because I’m running away, but because I’m running to something. I’m running to a new beginning, a new start, a new hope. Where I don’t erase the past. Where I own the past, but I claim the present and all of the future too.

Except, I don’t want to trip on an escalator and catch my dress in the metal teeth of these steps, so I walk carefully in my four-inch heels, then turn the corner to the bar.

Trey waits by the door as I find Cam where I left him, parked happily in a black leather chair with chrome armrests, a vodka glass on the table in front of him, his paperback open wide. He’s chuckling to himself, shaking his head as if he just can’t believe what he’s reading.

I am nervous as I walk to him, the unmistakeable sound of my heels clicking against the floor. But I’m also not nervous. Because I can be scared and I can be strong at the same time.

“Hi, Cam.”

He looks up, surprise registering in his big baby blues. “What’s going on, babydoll? Is he giving you trouble? Cause if he is,” he says, his voice trailing off as he smacks a fist into his other palm.

I shake my head. “No. He’s a very nice man. But I can’t do this anymore.”

He sets his book on the table and rises. “Now, now. You don’t mean that. You’re just nervous. You need your old man Cam to give you a pep talk? That’s what I’m here for.”

“No. I don’t need a pep talk. I’m sorry, Cam. I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’m sorry to walk out in the middle of a job. I’ll pay you if you want for the money you’re losing. And I’ll give you the dress back too. And I’m sure you want to convince me, and there was a time a few weeks ago in Bliss when I wanted to be convinced, but not anymore. I have to let Layla go, Cam,” I say, and there’s a note in my tone like begging, as if I’m pleading for him to go gently into the night, to let me float away like a bubble blown into the breeze. But there’s another part of me that’s firm and resolute in a way I wasn’t at Bliss. I was toying then, teasing then, and he knew it. Now, I am serious and he senses the change. “I have to let her go for me, and I have to let her go because I want to know if I can love for real with that boy over there,” I say, gesturing at Trey who’s waiting – patiently as he can and I know this is progress for him – by the entryway to the bar.

Cam stomps his foot and curses loudly. “Fuck.”

He turns around, grabs his hair in his hand, and pulls hard. He’s such a big man, but something about him right now, the foot stomping, the hair pulling, reminds me of an angry leprechaun.

He whirls back to me, grits his teeth and blows out steam. “No. Really? You’re messing with me, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not,” I say, standing my ground, shaking my head. “This is my choice. I have to do this.” I flash back to my conversation with Joanne about accountability, about ownership. I don’t know if I’m doing it right, but I’d like to think I’m starting to figure it out. I’m stumbling and bumbling and messing it up, but at least I’m starting to speak the truth.

“I don’t want to say goodbye.” For the first time Cam sounds like he’s whining. A chink in his cool-as-a-cucumber style.

“I know. But I have to try. I have to do this.”

He grabs my shoulders, grips me tight. “No. You don’t have to do this,” he says, his hot breath painting my cheek. I can feel the burn of the vodka he just downed.

“Cam.” I stare sharply at his hands that pin me. “I do. I do have to do this.”

He moans angrily and narrows his eyes. But he lets go of his hold on my shoulders. “I just got you back, babydoll. Don’t do this to me.”

“Cam, I’m sorry.”

His eyes light up with a sneaky sort of glow. “Then, I’ll beg. I told you when you came to my office that I’d beg you, and I’m not fucking above begging.” He drops to his knees instantly, raises his face, and looks at me with those big blue eyes. He clasps his hands together. Holy shit. He was serious. “Please, don’t go.”

A part of my heart aches not just for him, but for me letting him go too.

“But this isn’t fair. You leave me. You come back. You leave me again,” he says, shaking his clasped hands at me to emphasize his point. “And I don’t like it. I don’t like being jerked around.”

All my instincts tell me to fall to my knees, to hug him, to say I’m sorry I disappointed him too. But I keep my body still. I can’t give in to him. And I can’t give into my past. I want my future. I want to make the better choice now. “I never meant to hurt you, and I’m sorry I jerked you around, Cam. But there’s nothing you can do to change my mind. I have to move on. ”

“You belong with me.” He pounds a fist against the floor. “You’re mine. You’re my Layla,” he says, grasping to keep me.

“Cam,” I say softly, but firmly. “You had Layla. But that’s not me anymore. I have to be Harley now. Only Harley.”

He sighs heavily, then bangs his forehead once, twice, three times against the cool hardwood floor of the bar. It must hurt like hell. When he raises his head, I can see the start of a red, angry bump but also the resignation in his eyes.

I offer him a hand. “Come on. Get up. Let me say a proper goodbye.”

“Dammit to hell,” he mutters as he stands up from his plaintive post.

Then I look him in the eyes and I speak from the heart. “I want you to know you gave me something that mattered deeply to me, that I needed desperately at that time in life. You gave me choices, you gave me control, and you gave me a place to belong. And I don’t regret anything I did, because everything I did brought me to where I am today. And I will never regret you. You were there for me more than my own mother ever was.”

I watch him, saying nothing, trying to gage his reaction, predict his next move. He’s still as his eyes glass over, then he abandons the begging and pleading. “I’m going to miss you. Like miss you for real, Harley,” he says, and I don’t blanch when he uses my real name. Because that’s who I am to him now. I am shedding Layla, right here, right now, leaving her behind.

I hug him one last time. I want to tell him I will see him again, that we’ll grab a cup of coffee and catch up, but we won’t and we shouldn’t and that’s okay too. Some people come into your life for a little while to help you through. Some stay a lifetime. Cam and I had our moment, and now the moment is gone, but it won’t be forgotten. I won’t forget him. I won’t forget how he took care of me when nobody else would.

That’s when it hits me. In some warped way, Cam was like family to me too. Only better than my flesh and blood parents.

He groans and flubs air through his lips, like he’s letting out a long train of steam. “I’m not going to say I want this, but if this is what you need, babydoll, then I’m not going to stand in your way. Mr Stewart is going to pitch some kind of fit, but I’ll take my lumps like a big boy,” he says, nodding, and I can see the gears in his sneaky brain kicking in when he adds, “I’m just going to go up there, tell him you ate something nasty, you threw up something fierce, and you’re sick to the stomach and had to go home, because that’s about the only reason that won’t have him slicing off my neck.”

I laugh once, but hope he’s joking. “I don’t want your neck sliced off.”

“Believe you me, nor do I. I like what’s above the neck and below it. Now get the hell out of here before I try to steal you back.”

I hug him and I’m betting Trey is quaking in his boots, and if he is then that boy will just have to deal, because I need to say goodbye to this man who loved me too.

We leave the bar together and Cam stops when he sees Trey, shakes a finger at him, huffs out through his nostrils. For a fleeting moment, I can see the worst unfolding. But instead, Cam takes Trey’s hand in his, then places his other hand on Trey’s shoulder. “Now listen, you better fucking take care of her because I am about to endure a shitstorm up there for her. I’m letting her go and this better be real, and you better love her and treat her like a queen. Because she deserves everything good in the world. Got it?”

Trey is stunned speechless. His jaw hangs open, then he quickly recovers, and nods. “Yes, sir.”

Then Cam marches upstairs to fix the mess I made for him.

Forget the myth of the hooker with a heart of gold. He’s the pimp with one.

I turn to Trey. “I’m yours now and you’re mine.”

“You better fucking believe it,” he says.

He grabs my hand and we run like hell out of the Parker Meridien and into the New York night to a new beginning.