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Zx
He scrunched up the note in his fist, as all his carefully rehearsed arguments wadded up in his throat. She hadn’t even stuck around to say goodbye? But as he showered and shaved and got ready for his next day in court, the last thirty-six hours reeled back through his head and hope blossomed under the hurt.
This was fixable. He’d call Faith, get Zelda’s cell number, and contact her, to arrange a date to meet up. All he needed was a chance to make his case.
If she wasn’t interested, if he’d read her all wrong and made a mistake about her feelings, he would respect the rules they’d agreed to and he wouldn’t contact her again.
But until she told him that to his face, as far as he was concerned all bets were off. Because he wasn’t a prince, he was just an ordinary guy. And unlike when he was a kid and his Pop told him he had to leave Coney Island for another summer—there was no freaking way he was going to do as he was told this time, without putting up a fight.
Chapter Nine
‡
Zelda entered the comforting half-light of Sullivan’s pub on a Thursday night ten days later, not feeling at all comfortable. She scanned the bar and the tables at the back by the stage, where Faith’s twin brothers, Ronan and Casey, were warming up the small Thursday night crowd with an old, rebel ballad on accordion and guitar. She sent the two of them a quick wave, then headed towards the last booth opposite the bar where she knew her friends would be waiting. She spotted the posters of Faith’s younger brother Finn’s illustrious career as a concert violinist which Faith had tacked up during the party at the pub a couple of months ago. She passed the fireplace and the portrait of John F. Kennedy which hung above it, letting out the breath she’d been holding, and ignored the jabbing pain, that might just be regret, under her left breast.
It was good that Ty wasn’t here. She didn’t want him to be here. Skipping out on him while he slept on Tuesday morning over a week ago had been tough enough. Not to mention letting the succession of calls from him the next day and the day after on her mobile go to voicemail. It was cowardly, she knew that, but they’d had an agreement. And he’d broken it. And she wasn’t sure she would be able to do and say what she had to say if she heard his voice again.
She blinked away the emotion as she made her way past a group of city workers, remembering the hushed apology Ty had given her their last night together. A hushed apology that had moved her in a way she couldn’t allow herself to be moved.
There were reasons why she couldn’t contemplate a relationship with anyone, but she especially couldn’t fall for someone like Ty. A guy who was genuine and kind and nurturing. She’d heard him hesitate, while she lay listening to his heart beating, her body still humming from afterglow and the sweetness of his apology, as if he were debating whether to say something more. And for one foolish moment she had yearned to hear him say he wanted her to stay, that things had changed, that the rules didn’t matter.
That what they had was more than a sex thing.
Recalling that bit of foolishness had terrified her once she’d woken up the next morning, still snuggled against him.
Thank goodness he hadn’t said it. And when she’d woken up with his arm around her, her flight instinct had finally kicked in. The way it should have done the night before.
Of course, she could have simply told him the truth. That she was an alcoholic in recovery—and as a result, she would never be able to make a commitment to any man, because her commitment must always be to her recovery. But she hadn’t wanted to say it, hadn’t wanted to shatter the illusion he had of her. Or watch the affection in his eyes die. She didn’t care if it was dishonest, or delusional, she’d wanted to keep that one memory sweet. Telling him the truth would have killed it altogether, and felt like too cruel a price to pay, if she didn’t have to.
As she edged past the last of the city slickers at the bar, she had another wobble when she noticed a tall, broad-shouldered guy with his back to her, his dark hair curling against the collar of his blue, pinstriped suit. But then he turned and winked at her and it wasn’t Ty.
“How about a drink, hot stuff?” he said.
Instead of delivering the flirtatious slap down that would usually have popped out of her mouth, she simply broke eye contact and walked on.
She spotted Mercy in their designated booth, her luscious hair gleaming ebony in the low lighting. Mercy dropped her head back, the rich throaty laugh carrying over the plaintive melody of Ronan’s accordion and the hubbub of Thursday night conversation.
Dawn sat beside her, sleek and professional in a crisp blouse and pencil skirt to go with her neat and efficient chignon, probably completely oblivious to the way her smile drew the eye and held it. Like Mercy, Dawn’s face could have put her on any catwalk in the world. But her friends hadn’t taken the easy way out like she had. They’d followed their brains instead of their looks—with Mercy currently taking a break from running her parents’ wine empire to do an MBA at Stern and Dawn heading a medical research company that benefitted the world.
Tucking away the sting of inadequacy as she approached the booth, Zelda inhaled the scent of yeast and cigarettes that clung to the woodwork despite New York’s smoking ban. She’d always loved the smell of stale smoke, polished wood and hard liquor—a bit too much for a while. But despite the emotional upheaval of the last week and a half, as she had struggled to wean herself off her addiction to Tyrone Sullivan, the temptation to drink had been noticeably absent. Plus, she’d finally begun to take the first steps on a career path that would give her life real meaning. She could be proud of that.
She was somewhat less proud of the fact she’d seriously considered skipping out on the monthly meet-up with her friends, just in case Ty showed up, but was glad now she hadn’t. Ty wasn’t here and Faith, Dawn and Mercy were her lifeline, her support network. The only family she had that was worth having. Ronan went into a riotous reel joined by his twin brother Casey on the Irish flute and Zel’s spirits lifted out of the doldrums they’d been in ever since she’d left Ty’s house barge.
She couldn’t tell them about Ty, because of his connection to Faith and Dawn’s relationship with Faith and Ty’s brother Finn, it was way too close to home. Virtually incestuous. But just seeing her friends, hearing their voices, sharing whatever stupid stories they had to tell since the last time they’d met up a month ago ought to help blast her out of her present funk. Hopefully. Maybe.
Mercy spotted her approaching first and gasped as she leapt out of the booth. “Dios! Zelda, your hair!”
Zelda laughed and touched her fingers to the boy cut she’d all but forgotten about. Fantasy still hadn’t done a press release on her departure as their ‘it girl’ and when she’d arrived back at the Mausoleum there had been no paparazzi in attendance—so her new look had yet to hit the newsstands.
Seb’s response when she’d finally gotten up the guts to visit his study on the townhouse’s top floor at the weekend had been to flick his glance up to her hairline and then say nothing. He’d been equally dismissive of her apologies for not showing up at the Foundation Gala the previous Thursday, saying simply, “I find if I expect nothing from you, Zel, I’m rarely disappointed.”
The cutting remark had stung, as it always did. But she’d tucked the hurt away with more ease than usual, because her misery over Ty had felt a lot more immediate.
“What do you think?” She slid into the red-leather booth opposite them as Mercy took the seat beside Dawn. “I had a radical hair rethink over Labor Day
weekend.”
Dawn whistled. “Not that I know much about current hair trends, but I’d say it totally suits you.”
