Some wounds are so deep it's possible to believe that you will never get over them, and I'll admit that I still think that of mine.
Only, I seem to trust Nicole. I've witnessed manipulation at its most calculated, and this doesn't feel anything like that. She's run away for her own self- preservation. I'm confident she isn't playing games with me by fleeing merely so that I'll give chase. I saw the pain in her eyes before she knew who I was, and it's real.
And I want to take it away from her. To see the light in her eyes unclouded by the past.
Admitting that to myself is tough. Acknowledging how I feel means that I have to do something about it. I'm not someone who lives well with regrets in any form. They tend to leach into everything.
I should know because my one regret has been shaping my interactions with women for over half a decade.
But what to do?
Maybe, if I can see her again, and we can talk, it'll be enough. If I could apologize and speak to her about what is hurting her, then I wouldn't have this gnawing feeling inside.
It's a simple plan.
I ask my chief of security to run a search for Nicole's UK address and send her more roses and a bottle of whiskey, knowing that they will rile her, but hoping she'll also smile. I want to leave my mark, so she knows as soon as she arrives home that I'm still thinking about her. I want her to know that her leaving without saying a proper goodbye wasn't the end of it. Then I tell Sandrine to ready my private jet and tell Goodwin, my personal shopper, to deliver a suitcase to the airport by lunchtime, containing everything I would need for a two-day trip.
I'm going to England.17
NICOLEI take a taxi from the airport, watching the gray of London pass by, missing vibrant Atlanta. The road is lined with parked cars, so the driver pulls over before the entrance to my apartment.
It isn’t until I’m on foot and approaching my door that I see what’s been left for me: three-dozen white roses, a bottle of whiskey, and another note.
The first thing I do is step over everything, open my front door, and shove my suitcase into the hallway. Then I grab the bottle of whiskey, placing it on my telephone table before tackling the ridiculously large bouquet that very nearly doesn’t fit through the doorway. Resting the annoyingly beautiful blooms on my minuscule dining table for two, I tug the envelope from the cardholder and tear it open.
I’m so annoyed with Aaron. What the fuck gives him the right to seek out my address? The man has no sense of propriety and has acted as though it’s his God-given right to do whatever he wants, and damn how it impacts anyone else.
The note is cryptic.
I wanted you to have these flowers, Nicole. The smell of them reminds me of you. Maybe the whiskey will remind you of me. It was fun, but not as fun as it could have been. Hurting you was not my intention, and for that, I am sorry. Maybe you’ll forgive me. I hope I will see that day. Until then…
Aaron
What the fuck? I throw the note on the table and stamp into the kitchen to put the kettle on, seething that he had to have the last word. The man is infuriating. But I rationalize, as I stand at the counter to make myself some tea, that he is an ocean away and the flowers will be dead in a few days. The whiskey will make a nice gift for my dad; it looks like an expensive brand.
And then I’ll have nothing to remind me of Aaron except my memories. It might take a while, but I know that they will fade too.
Tea in hand, I relax on the sofa and text my mum to let her know I’m home safely. Moving out has its privacy benefits, but I know she worries, even though I’m independent. I’m not tired despite it being 2 am, so I flick on the TV, searching for something to fill the time until my eyes started drooping. The program I choose isn’t that engaging, and I find myself looking at the flowers, mind wandering back to Atlanta.
I wonder what Aaron is doing. He’s five hours behind, so he’s probably having dinner, or maybe he’s in another hotel bar, nursing a whiskey and telling another unsuspecting girl to take off her underwear in public. The thought makes me angry and, I hate to admit, jealous. My memories are vivid enough that I can almost see the glint in his eyes and the arousal. I imagine him taking those new panties home and using them when he needed some self-relief, and I hate the thought that he might prefer them to mine.