ELLA
It’s a rotation.
Damon, Zander, Kam, Zander, Silas, Zander. Occasionally Dane. Zander is a constant but gives them space. And they take shifts watching, questioning, and observing every little thing I do more often than not.
Men revolve around me and I’m held accountable to each of them. Any slight stress from any of the men monitoring me is immediately alleviated by Z.
In a past life, I’d have resented all of them. I’d have pitched a fit and fought tooth and nail for privacy and freedom. Even Kamden for interfering, for being overbearing, for not leaving me the hell alone, would be on the receiving end of my wrath. But this go-around? I look forward to the sessions, the questions, the appointments. Maybe it’s because they’re all I have left. Or maybe it’s because Z is there at the end of all of them, rewarding me and reminding me that none of this matters.
As I stir sugar into my tea, Kam shuffles the papers on the counter next to me. He has stacks laid out along the granite. This is cup two for me and the steam billows outward as I blow across the top. The mug itself is a present Kam gave me only two hours ago when he arrived. A pearl blue iridescent mug that’s limited edition from Tiffany.
“I can’t help but think you’re trying to butter me up.”
“I wish,” Kam answers absently as he shuffles through the papers. He doesn’t look back at me, very much consumed with the next line of business.
Shifting on the stool, I’m careful to gather the fabric of my skirt so it doesn’t bunch. It’s a classic navy blue high-waisted number and I paired it with a simple short-sleeved white blouse that’s loosely tucked in. I decided to attempt to look as if I’m prepared for business, even if in reality I won’t be leaving the house and I could have stayed in my pajamas from yesterday.
I rock gently to and fro on the stool, watching Kam squint at the papers until he pulls out his glasses from his shirt pocket.
With the slacks and thin wire-rimmed glasses he reminds me of his father for a moment. He was a hedge fund manager and as Kam gets older, he looks more and more like him. Not that I would tell him that. He hated his father and for good reason. For similar reasons that I hated mine.
“We have three offers but we shouldn’t take any on the beach house. The one in LA you may want to consider, but I wouldn’t say yes to anything yet.”
His statement makes me pause the easy motion of back and forth. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘offers?’ How do we have bids if we haven’t put them on the market?”
His glasses clink as he closes them and then he passes me three papers. I don’t bother looking at them, he’ll explain it well enough. “We haven’t put them up on the market, but some realtors have contacted me. There’s clear interest but I thought maybe we should wait until you can see them one last time. Make sure that you are set on selling them?”
My heart does a little tumble and my fingertips go numb. I take a sip of tea, allowing it to warm my hands instead of replying.
If I were to go to those homes, especially the beach house, all I would see are memories of James. Even now, without stepping foot on the premises, I see him.
“I’d rather just sell them,” I tell Kam with finality and set the mug down. Memories flood in and I can’t shove them away.
“You don’t want to say goodbye? Have a look around? We’d be selling fully furnished and I don’t want you to regret that. Or regret anything.”
I remember the moment James and I bought our first house together in LA. I remember the snapshot we took, how he kissed my cheek and whispered, I love you, my wild girl.
Tears prick as I imagine never setting foot in the same bedroom where he made love to me, the same kitchen where he told me he loved me for the first time.
“Is it bad if I don’t?” I ask Kam and steady myself. I’m not going to cry. Not over houses and furniture. This is the home we spent the least amount of time in. We bought it because of the bedrooms. We wanted a family. And that family will never happen now. It was only hopeful wishes that lived here and they have since been replaced by reality.
“Not at all,” Kam is quick to answer and then offers, “Do you want pictures of any of them?”
“Pictures?”
“I had a photographer take photos of everything in the houses …if you want to see them to have a look over? Especially the items left behind. Is there anything at all you can think of that you don’t want sold with the properties?”
My answer is immediate. “There’s a picture by the bed in the beach house.”
The moment the statement leaves me, Kamden gives his complete attention to a manila envelope and takes out a bundle of photos held together with a paper clip.
I glance, but just as quickly return my attention back to the mug in front of me. The nervous energy doesn’t leave me alone. Neither do all the memories.
“This one?” he asks, handing me a printout of what could be a home decor magazine cover. I forgot how much we spent decorating that house to make it perfect. I forgot how luxurious it looked. The painting by James’s bedside was a gift I gave him the weekend before we got married.
He wanted to elope on an island off of the coast. I didn’t and he caved easily, telling me we could do whatever I wanted. The weekend before the wedding, which was set in an expensive hotel in Maui, we took a jet out to that island where in a simple white sundress, I told him my vows and Kam married us. Trish snapped the photo and my artist friend made it into a painting.
We both got the wedding of our dreams and none of our guests beyond our inner circle knew there were two.