When I emerge from the train, I watch a man wearing a coat at least two sizes too large playing passable music on an old violin. I place a few dollar bills in the hat in front of his boots and keep walking.
I still love him.
Fuck her!
“You don’t get to come back into my life and say things like that,” I mutter under my breath.
Why couldn’t she just stay away?
I still love him.
My soul is stirring with uncontrollable emotions and I hate it. I hate that beneath my anger, there’s still hope, hope that we can make it work.
There’s also fear, and the certainty that she will wreck me again, just like she did before.
As soon as I emerge into daylight, the first thing I see is Liz looking down at me from a jewelry ad covering the two-story windows of a large department store. Her shoulders are bare, a half-smile plays on her full lips, and her hair is expertly disheveled. I stare, hating her almost as much as I want her.
It’s always a game with her. She drops her little cues and watches as everyone scrambles, and yes, I’m scrambling. She has ensured that I’ll spend the next few months unable to think of anything but what she said.
I still love him.
God! I hate her.
I really do. As much as it’s possible to hate her and yet know deep down that there’ll never be anyone else like her for me. Never.
It’s a sad thing to know for sure at my age.
I reach the Swanson Court hotel and nod a greeting at the doormen before walking into the familiar lobby. It has changed little since I was a child, but it still looks impeccable. Landon is a perfectionist with his properties, especially this one, the flagship hotel.
In the penthouse, the elevator deposits me in the foyer. Rachel redecorated a few years ago, and the spacious entrance is warm and welcoming. From the foyer, a carved metal door leads to the rest of the apartment. It’s one of the extra security measures Landon added after the horrible attack that almost took their lives seven years ago.
It takes a few moments before Esmeralda, the housekeeper, unlocks the door.
“Mister Aidan!” She sounds delighted. “Is so good to see you.”
“You too, Esme.” I grin and hand her a box of sweets I got from the gift shop downstairs. She loves them. “You look beautiful today. Is it the hair? Did you do something to your hair?”
She laughs, her eyes sparkling. “No! It’s the same!”
“Impossible!”
“Uncle Aidaaaaaaan!” I hear the scream from the top of the stairs a moment before two small bodies fling themselves at me with the speed and strength of high-velocity projectiles.
“Uncle Aidan!” Preston repeats, hanging unto my neck with his tiny arms. He’s the oldest of the two boys, a little over six years old and the exact image of his father.
I puff under their weight. “How are my boys?”
“We’re bored,” Preston proclaims.
“Will you take us to see the zebras in the park?” Damien lisps imploringly. He’s a sweet-faced boy who looks more like his mother than Landon.
“Of course,” I reply, placing them on their feet and tousling their hair. “That’s why I’m here. Where’s Miss. P?”
Damien giggles at the nickname for his baby sister. “She’s not Miss. P,” he corrects me. “She’s Penelope, and she’s sleeping. She’s always sleeping.”
“And crying,” Preston adds matter-of-factly.
“And eating,” Damien says, not to be outdone.