I don’t reply Laurie’s last text. I don’t know what to say, and I don’t want to give myself any hope. I may not have gone into this clear-headed, but I know I have to be strong enough not to punish myself, or him, for the decision I made to stay with him.
In his apartment, the dinner I ordered is in the kitchen, still warm in the hot plates. Silently, Landon pours me a glass of wine, then disappears upstairs. When he returns, he has changed out of his work clothes and is wearing sweats and a t-shirt.
“You should go change,” he tells me. His voice is sober, and he hardly looks at me. “I’ll lay out the food.”
Silently, I do as he says, making my way upstairs to his bedroom, where my bag is still sitting on one of the chairs. In the bathroom, I wash my face, then go into the dressing room. I’m about to reach for one of his t-shirts when I notice that the other side of the large space, which was empty the last time I came over, now has clothes hanging from the racks, clothes that from their varied colors, cannot possibly be for a man.
Don’t bring anything, he’d said, and now I realize why. There are at least two weeks’ worth of clothes for the office, a few casual ensembles, and evening wear. There’s nightwear folded on the shelves, lingerie in the drawers, some simple jewelry, and shoes too. Everything I need so I never have to hesitate before coming over.
I sit on the carpeted floor and cover my face with my hands, fighting back tears. All my suspicions and fears now seem so ridiculous. There is no doubt that he wants me in his life, no doubt that I’m important to him, but while he’d been opening his home and himself to me, I’d done the one thing I promised him I wouldn’t do. I’d walked away.
Without waiting to hear his side.
I compose myself and start to look for something to wear. I finally choose a sleeping shorts and tank top ensemble that closely resembles a pair I have at home, over the collection of smooth satin nighties. I return downstairs, and Landon is not in the living room. Following the sound of a TV, I find him in an adjacent room that looks like a den, with a huge couch facing a wide screen TV. He has set out dinner on the coffee table, and on the TV screen, a popular period drama is showing.
He looks up when I enter the room, his eyes going over my clothes. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says. “I thought having a few things here…”
“I don’t mind,” I whisper. “They’re all perfect.”
“I’m glad you like them.” His voice sounds distant, and it makes me ache. “The shoppers came highly recommended, but in case there’s anything else you want, or something you wish to change, I’ll make sure you have their contact details.”
“Okay,” I murmur. There’s a lump in my throat, and so much I want to say, but the events of the evening seem to have built a wall of awkwardness between us. I join him on the floor in front of the couch and we eat. At first we’re silent, then we talk about the show, about the actors, the historical accuracy of the story, anything but what we’re really thinking.
When the show is over. I help him take the dishes to the kitchen, and stack them in the sink, then sitting side by side on the couch, we finish the wine and watch another episode. He doesn’t make any move towards me, and whenever I look in his direction, his eyes are fixed on the screen. I want to reach out to him, to smooth away every sad memory, and every fear I’ve evoked by my actions. I hate to see that I’ve hurt him, that I’ve reminded him of the type of emotions that ruined his parent’s lives.
When the credits start to roll on the screen, I reach for his hand, my touch tentative. He turns to look at me, his eyes searching mine, and there’s a stark vulnerability in his features that tugs at my heart.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him again, my voice soft.
His fingers curl around mine, and something in his touch gives me hope that I haven’t ruined something between us irreparably. “You don’t have any reason to be jealous, Rachel. You have to believe me when I tell you that.”
I nod. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” I say with a sigh. “I wasn’t thinking at all.”
“No matter what happens,” he says, “don’t run. I want this to work, and I want to be sure you want the same thing.”
“I do,” I tell him.
He nods and draws me closer to him. I lay my head on his chest, and one arm comes around me while the other hand strokes my hair. “I was so worried,” he says, his voice low. “When your phone went off…” he sighs. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so afraid in my life.”
I close my eyes. I want to tell him then. I love you Landon, and I was jealous because the thought of you with anyone else makes me feel like I’m dying. But I’ve become used to holding those words back. I sigh as he keeps stroking my hair, the sensations gently lulling me to sleep.
THE next day in the office, I go to the Swanson Court website to read about the opening gala. Landon has told me a little about it. There’s going to be a charity event, to announce the opening as well as raise money for a good cause.
The information on the Swanson Court website confirms what I already know. There are some press events, then the main event, a fundraising gala for the Shelter Project.
I don’t know much about that particular charity, so I follow a link to their website and read about the annual event, usually held in New York. It generally attracts some of the richest socialites, politicians,
and Hollywood stars in the country. Now, they would all go to San Francisco to open the Gold Dust. It made a lot of sense. Landon would get maximum publicity for his hotel, and the Shelter Project would get a substantial injection of funds from people with money to spend, people who couldn’t afford not to be seen at such an event, and those who were curious to see the changes to Gold Dust hotel.
The same information about the gala from the Swanson Court website is presented at the Shelter project site. The theme is a Midsummer Night’s Dream, and honorary chair of the event is Dane Riddell, a Hollywood heartthrob who recently broke hearts all over the world by getting married.
Wondering if there’ll be someone else from Gilt Travel to write about the event. I look over the list of chairs for the event. The name of the editor of Gilt Style jumps out at me, along with another, familiar name.
Ava Sinclair.
I frown. Not sure if my suspicion is right. I remember a few weeks ago, that first time in San Francisco, at the ballet event, Evan Sinclair’s voice in my ear, hateful and angry. “He’s been fucking her for years.” He’d been talking about Landon and his sister. The one who had convinced his family to sell their hotel to Landon.
I didn’t know her name so I couldn’t be sure that she was the one.