Gramercy Nights (The Argo Press Trilogy Book 1) (11 page)

Last night may have been amazing, but I don’t think I can do this. I rub my temples, hoping that if I do it for long enough, I may be hit with a well-earned moment of clarity.

I can’t figure out why he went through all the trouble of coming here just to scream at me. He seemed sincerely contrite afterwards, and not just because I slapped him, and that’s what I don’t understand. I mean, there’s a lot I don’t understand here, but that’s the big thing. Sure, maybe I should have left a note. Or at least checked my phone when I got home. But this isn’t about me. This is about Sebastian. And why the hell he flipped out.

I sip my coffee and stretch out my legs. Every muscle in my body aches, and it’s a delicious, unwanted reminder of everything that happened between us. How could such a generous and gifted lover turn around and be such a jackass? It’s like he’s two different people: one kind and compassionate, and the other completely self-absorbed.

I agreed to Sebastian’s outrageous terms because I didn’t think I’d be able to live with myself if I didn’t know what it was like to be with him. At least I was right about one thing – Sebastian is an amazing lover. The type that doesn’t come around every day. The sex was indescribable. He made me feel beautiful and wanted and for the first time in my life, not broken. He took my biggest shame, my biggest fear, and taught me that I have nothing to fear. That I’m not broken. And for that, I’ll always be thankful.

As much as I don’t want to think about the money, it’s there, the inescapable elephant in the room. I heard him on the phone. I know he wired the money. Maybe this makes me a shitty person, but I want to take care of things before he can ask for it back. He said he wouldn’t, but I’m guessing he also expected our little arrangement to last for more than one night.

I tear myself off the couch and switch on my laptop, biting my thumbnail as it whirls to life, angrily protesting my intrusion into its naptime. One of these days, I need to buy a replacement, but it’s never been an option.

Until now.

I groan. I just want to pay off the student loans I’ve been drowning under since graduation. After that, I don’t care. I’ll find another job. Would it have been great to finally have the time and money to just focus on my book? Obviously. But there’s no point in crying for what could have been. With my loans taken care of, everything else will eventually fall into place. I can’t count the number of times I’ve regretted my decision to go to a fancy private college instead of state school, even knowing I made the right choice. Sure, my father offered to help after mom died, one last ditch attempt to salvage our broken relationship, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. No way was I forgiving the man who walked out on us. He ruined my mother’s life, and by extension, he did a hell of a lot of damage to mine.

I take a deep breath, amazed by how much venom I can still feel for a man I haven’t seen in almost six years.

As the computer continues its slow grind towards life, I pour another cup of coffee. When I log into my online bank to check my account balance, I choke, spraying coffee all over my computer screen.

“Holy shit.”

It’s all there. Everything we agreed on and then some. It’s enough to pay off my loans and still get by for a couple of months if I play my cards right. Staring at the numbers on the screen, I can’t believe it’s real.

I spend an hour and a half on the phone, mostly listening to the same six depressing cords on repeat as I wait for someone to answer my call, but when I hang up, my loans are paid. It’s like a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders. No matter what happens next, at least I won’t be struggling to pay them back each month.

Because the only people who say money doesn’t matter have it. For the rest of us, it matters a hell of a lot.

I’m knee-deep in dictionaries, chewing the end of my favorite red editing pen when the doorbell rings. At least editing takes my mind off Sebastian. Somewhat. I’ve been trying to figure out the best way to convey the loss of Serrat’s poem #62. It’s the most complex poem in the book, a dizzying combination of longing and loss, a meditation on the death of a parent that feels more like the loss of a lover. It’s at once hauntingly beautiful and terrifyingly taboo. I know I’m close but not quite there yet and I’ve been tweaking the same 450 words for hours.

I get up to answer the door, thankful for the momentary distraction. I press the intercom to ask who it is and a muffled voice answers delivery. Chloe has something of a compulsive online shopping problem and not a week goes by without FedEx or UPS showing up with boxes for her.

I prop the door open with my hip as I wait for the deliveryman to walk up the three flights of stairs. When he rounds the corner, I see the bouquet of long stem white roses.

“Miss Sutton?”

“That’s me,” I say, nervously eyeing the over-the-top flower arrangement. No one has ever sent me flowers before, unless you count funeral flowers, which I most certainly don’t.

“I just need you to sign for me,” he says, passing me a piece of paper and a pen.

I take the large bouquet inside, putting it on the coffee table. The flowers are beautiful. I almost want to laugh, looking at them. He really couldn’t have picked a more virginal flower if he’d tried. Tucked among the blooms is a small white envelope with my name printed in careful block letters and I take out the card, my heart fluttering nervously.

Please give me another chance. I promise I’m not usually such an insensitive ass. x Sebastian

I find I’m smiling in spite of myself. When Sebastian left, a part of me thought I’d never see him again. That I’d never want to see him again. I close my eyes and breathe in the faint perfume of the roses. My phone vibrates, alerting me to a new text message.

Please forgive me?

There’s so much to consider, but I’m happy to know he doesn’t want it to be over just yet. I can’t answer his question, but I’m cheered that he asked. That he still wants us to be together, in whatever capacity he’s capable of. And I need to ask myself: after last night, am I really willing to give up Sebastian?

And the truth is, I don’t know.

Last night was the most amazing sexual experience of my life. And I can’t even begin to imagine what it will be like if we continue seeing each other.

I thank him for the flowers but don’t answer his question. When I sit back down with poem #62, I’m grinning, and every time I look up, I see the roses in the living room, reminding me I’m wanted.

When I check my phone later, these’s another message from Sebastian.
Please? I want to take you out. I want to make you feel special. Please let me. Give me an opportunity to make it up to you. After that, if you want to walk away, I won’t bother you again.

The smart thing to do would be to say no. To tell Sebastian that I can’t see him again before I get any deeper into this than I already am. I should tell him I’m still mad. That flowers can’t buy forgiveness. But of course that’s not what I tell him. Instead, I say yes.

Chapter Fourteen

I check my email one last time. I’m waiting to hear back from Marc about a question I had, but there’s nothing from him. Instead, amongst the spam, there’s an email from Argo Press. The subject line reads Marc Serrat. I chew on my lip, puzzled. Argo Press is a relatively new publishing company that specializes primarily in poetry and translation. I’ve been planning on sending them a copy of my manuscript when I finally finish.

I click the email and scan it quickly, my eyes widening in surprise and I have to read it a second time before I can fully process what it says. There’s no way…

I grab my phone off the table and call Connor, holding my breath until he answers.

“Did you send my poems to Argo?”

“No,” Connor responds and I can hear the confusion in his voice. “Why?”

“Because their poetry editor wants to set up a meeting this week.”

“Oh my god, Danny, that’s fantastic!”

I sag into my chair, suddenly relieved at the sound of Connor’s sincere excitement. Not that I thought Connor would actually do something like that behind my back, but he’s always nagging me to get my work out there. I know his heart is in the right place, but it’s a little stressful at times.

“She must have read them in Brooklyn Quarterly,” I muse. It makes sense. It’s a well-respected magazine with a decent readership, as far as lit mags go.

“There were a couple of people from Argo at the launch. What’s the editor’s name?”

I glance back at the computer screen. “Megan Thomas.”

“Nope, don’t remember her, but it’s possible she was there. Either way, way to go.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“If you hadn’t forced me to submit to Brooklyn Quarterly, this never would have happened.”

“Celebratory dinner later? My parents are in town and they’d love to see you.”

I smile. “That sounds amazing.”

“Great. I’ll let them know. And Danny–”

“–Yeah?”

“I’m really proud of you.”

Julian Stuart stands from the bar and pulls me into a fierce hug. “I hear congratulations are in order,” he says, releasing me with a pat on the shoulder. “What do you want to drink?”

Elizabeth grabs me before I have a chance to respond. I laugh, letting myself melt into her hug.

“I’ll have a beer,” I say when she finally lets me go.

“Tell us everything,” Elizabeth says as Julian pulls out a stool for me.

“There’s not much to tell,” I say, suddenly embarrassed.

“Don’t be modest. We want to know everything,” Julian adds.

“Dad,” Connor says in warning but I just shake my head.

“Well, I just heard from them this afternoon and we set up a meeting for later in the week.”

“So they are publishing your book?”

“Oh dear, that’s fantastic. You’ve worked so hard for this.”

I shrug my shoulders, taking the beer from Connor with a smile of thanks. Whenever I see the Stuarts, it feels a little like an inquisition. But I know they mean well. I’m just not used to parental concern anymore.

“What’s the occasion?” I ask, changing the subject. The Stuarts come to New York a few times a year. They claim it’s because there is no culture in Southern California but I know they just miss Connor. He’s an only child and you don’t have to spend much time with their family to realize how close they all are.

“Thirtieth anniversary,” Julian responds proudly.

“Oh my god, that’s amazing!”

“Hard to believe I’ve been able to put up with this one for so long,” Elizabeth says, taking a sip of her chardonnay. She’s trying to hide her smile but she’d not doing a very good job.

“No, it’s hard to believe that I was lucky enough to snag you,” Julian responds, gazing lovingly into Elizabeth’s eyes. I watch her flush with pleasure. It’s amazing that after all this time, they still act like two love-struck teenagers. Sometimes I wonder if Connor realizes just how lucky he is, having parents like this. Parents who still look at each other like their worlds begin and end with the other person.

“Come on, you two, let’s get a table,” Connor grumbles and I just laugh.

“Spoil sport.”

“Spoil sport?” He points at his chest defensively. “Do you have any idea what it was like growing up with them as parents?”

“Yes, we were absolutely terrible to him,” Julian responds dryly. “Did he tell you we wouldn’t let him get a dog in the second grade?”

“He might have mentioned it.”

“Did he mention he’s allergic to dogs?”

I laugh. “He might have left that part out.”

“And we ended up getting him a poodle. Did you know, poodles are hypoallergenic?”

“What ten year old boy wants a poodle?”

I pat him on the shoulder. “Did the other boys make fun of you?”

“You are all terrible, terrible people,” he grumbles.

“Oh come on, you love us.”

“Terrible, terrible people,” he says, making us all laugh. The waitress comes over and tells us our table is ready and we find our seats.

I glance at the menu, but I already know what I’m ordering. I want a burger. Medium rare. And French fries.

“How long are you in town for?” I ask, closing my menu.

“Just a week.”

“Does that mean you’ll come to the launch party?” I ask. Connor already mentioned the Brooklyn Quarterly launch to me earlier, but I’ve had it down in my planner for weeks.

“We can’t,” Elizabeth says, and I can hear the regret in her voice. “We have theater tickets that night. Connor should have mentioned it earlier.”

“It’s no big deal. There’s always next year.”

“But we’re so proud of you.”

“Elizabeth, you’re embarrassing him.”

I laugh. When the waitress takes our order, Julian asks if I’m certain I don’t want a steak. As much as I know the Stuarts don’t have a problem taking me out to dinner, I feel a little guilty ordering the most expensive thing on the menu. Plus, the burgers here are fantastic.

“She can have some of mine, dad.”