CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE WINNIE

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

WINNIE

Romeo and Julietis a smashing success.

Ma, Dad, Lizzy, Georgie, Rhys, and my friends all arrive to show their support. My students nail it, every single part of the play, and hope gathers in the bottom of my belly.

Sure, it’s not what I grew up dreaming I’d do. The scent of the worn stage floor, the bright lights in my eyes, the waiting glances—these are the things I live for, but directing is close enough to acting. And it’s fun working with kids. I don’t regret taking the job offer from my old high school to run the theater club.

Not when Whitney, who plays Juliet, gives her final monologue on stage, and I repeat the words, transfixed, my lips shaping out her words soundlessly.

Not when Jarrett, who plays Romeo, drinks the poison, and tears almost run down my cheeks.

Not when the audience gives the kids a standing ovation.

When the curtains fall.

When I think about a certain man who lives states away from here, and the fact that he is obsessed with Mars almost as much as I’m obsessed with Bowie’s “Space Oddity,” and isn’t that a coincidence?

No. I don’t regret taking the job at all. Because even if there is life on Mars .?.?. there’s not one for me in New York.

Two weeks after Romeo and Juliet, I cave in to Rhys’s requests, and we go out. This time, it’s a date-date. Rhys knocks on my door, a bouquet of flowers in his hand. I peek at him from my bedroom as Georgie leans one hip against the front door, slurping iced tea.

“My dad’s out for today, so consider me the designated worried parent. What are your intentions with our Winnie, Rhys Hartnett?”

“Dine her, kiss her, and down the line wed her,” he replies without missing a beat.

Georgie tips her head back and laughs. “My God, Rhys. Still cheesy as a chicken parmesan.”

I emerge from the bedroom. Funny, I don’t feel the usual butterflies that accompany a date. I chalk it up to Rhys being Rhys. My Rhys. My safety net. Not everything needs to be electric and exciting. A relationship can also be stable and comfort—. Nope, not gonna say that word. Not even in my head.

I gather the roses into my hands. “Thanks for these.”

“Well, I got them for your momma, but since I see your parents aren’t here .?.?.” He winks. “I’ll just have to give them to the most beautiful woman in Tennessee.”

We get into his car and drive south to Nashville. I don’t ask where we’re going. I’m guessing it’s an Italian restaurant named Bella where we had our first date.

Turns out I’m not wrong. An hour later, we are in Bella, and we’re even being seated at the same table.

When the waitress arrives to take our order, Rhys and I glance at each other from over the rim of our menus and share a conspiratorial grin.

“I’ll have the meatballs,” I say.

“Calzone for me, and the best wine on the menu.” Rhys hands her our menus back. We both ordered exactly what we did the first time we were here, minus the wine. And the time after that.

“We used to come here every anniversary and order the same thing, remember?” Rhys turns his attention to me, taking a sip of his wine.

I nod. “It became such a thing for us I was almost superstitious about it. Even when I wanted to order other things on the menu, it seemed wrong. Because what we had worked so well.”

I’m not just talking about Italian food right now.

Rhys reaches across the table and takes my palm into his over the red-and-white-checked tablecloth. “I like how this place works. I like that the menu, the tablecloth, the staff doesn’t change, and neither do we.”

I’ve changed,I think. I’ve changed a lot. That’s the problem.

“And just think.” Rhys looks around himself, at the brick walls, at the candlelit tables, at the giant pizza trays splayed on tables. “We can come here next anniversary, say, after we’re engaged. And then again, when you are pregnant. Year after year. Baby after baby. We’ll bring our kids here. Our .?.?. our grandkids!” His eyes light up animatedly. “This could be our thing. A tradition. That’s why I brought you here.” He stares at me with eyes so fierce, so hopeful, I want to cry. “To remind you what we had was good, and real, and worth it. We can still get it back, if you’re willing to try.”

Instead of feeling giddy, all I feel is dread. I’ve done this before. I’ve seen this movie. And I’m starting to suspect there was more to the breakup with Rhys than my Juilliard dream.

“I don’t know,” I admit quietly. My hand slips from under his, just as the waitress approaches to refill our wineglasses. I tuck my hands between my thighs, looking down. When she leaves, I continue. “There is a part of me that wanted to give us a second chance ever since Paul died. I think, in a way, you always symbolized to me the qualities a good man should have. I know you’d never cheat on me, never lie to me, never put yourself before anyone else. And those things are still true .?.?.” I suck in a deep breath. “But Rhys, you are wrong. We have changed. I got a taste of the big city, and now I’m addicted. I went after my dream .?.?. and you went after yours.”

I look around myself, realizing that Rhys never wanted the life I wished for myself. He’s always been happy here. And why shouldn’t he be?

“And these lives of ours.” I lift my eyes to look at him, and his expression makes my heart break. He knows what’s coming, and he is bracing himself for it. Every muscle in his face taut. “They’re not meant to be together. I realize that now, in this restaurant. I don’t want to know where I’ll be next year. Or in five years. Or in a decade. I want to go where my job takes me. I want life to surprise me. It might not be the most rational thing in the world .?.?. but it’s what I want.”

He swallows, about to say something, when the waitress interrupts us again, this time bringing our dishes. I look down at my meatballs, and all I can think is that I should’ve ordered pizza. And that says it all. Things don’t feel right with Rhys. Maybe they hadn’t for a while, even before I left Mulberry Creek.

Just because a man is perfect doesn’t mean he is perfect for you.

Rhys turns his plate around a few different ways, rearranging it on the table as he clears his throat. “Can I be honest with you?”

“Always.”

“I had a feeling.” He breaks the edge of the calzone, where it’s all crusty bread, and pops it into his mouth. I know this is not a you-can’t-break-up-with-me-because-I’m-breaking-up-with-you scheme, because it’s not Rhys’s style. “At first, when you came back, I was excited. I used to think—or maybe hope?—that the acting bug was just a phase. That you would grow up and realize your place in the world is here. But even though you’ve done some pretty awesome healing here, I’m not gonna lie, you don’t look happy. And I’ve seen you happy. Something is missing, and that something isn’t Paul. I know, because I’ve seen videos of you on YouTube when you were performing in The Seagull. You looked alive on that stage. You look less alive now. And the truth is .?.?.” He smiles sadly. “I deserve more than an unhappy, unaccomplished girlfriend who’d always wonder what could have been. And you deserve more than settling for a job you didn’t want in the first place.”

Like magnets, we both stand up from our seats, fumbling away from the table, and crash into a hug. My face is buried in his shoulder. I whimper, and for the first time in over a year, I feel like I’m on the verge of crying. I don’t know what devastates me more. The fact that Rhys is not my one, or the fact that I know who is.

A man who is never going to have me.

An enigma who has love only for his dead fiancée.

The day after my date with Rhys, I wake up to an empty house. With Georgie at work and my parents gone for the weekend for a wedding, I decide to tidy up the place. Afterward, I pay a visit to Mrs.?E, an elderly neighbor. I promised I would drive her downtown for a book club meeting. We stop beforehand to enjoy a key lime pie and some tea and catch up.

When I pull my parents’ car in front of my porch, an odd vision comes alive in front of me. Of a man standing in front of my door, his silhouette tall, imposing, and dark—so dark I can feel the temperature dropping around him—holding a bouquet of flowers. I kill the engine and sit back, glaring at the unbelievable sight in front of me.

I can’t see his face, because he has his back to me, but I can see the flowers, and they’re not the romantic red roses Rhys brought over yesterday. No. They’re gorgeous and colorful and surprising. Red dahlias and purple orchids and pink tulips and yellow gazanias. Pale lilacs and orange marigolds and beautiful daisies. It is rich and dazzling and giant and messy. So messy. It takes my breath away, just like the man who is holding it.

My pulse quickens under my skin, and my stomach dips. I draw in a breath, the oxygen hitting the bottom of my lungs. I push the driver’s door open and make my way toward him, up the stairway to the front porch. He turns around when he sees me through the reflection of the screen-and-glass door, his face betraying nothing.

I stop in front of him. I want to fling my arms around his neck and hug him, but I don’t know what’s appropriate and what’s not. I don’t know what we are to each other. He is the kind of man who never shows you where you stand with him.

“You’re .?.?. here.” I blink, still wondering if it’s all a dream.

A dream or a nightmare? Can you put your heart on the line again?

He hands me the flowers, completely at ease, like the last time he was here didn’t end up in a third world war.

“For you.”

“That’s .?.?. a lot of flowers,” I observe.

“One for each facet of your personality,” he remarks dryly. “I’ve yet to determine whether you’re too sweet or too assertive.”

“You didn’t sue me.” I narrow my eyes at him.

“Yeah, well, I thought it would be a terrible inconvenience if I ever decided to date you.”

“If you decided to date me?” I arch an eyebrow, grinning. This is not how one asks a woman on a date. At the same time, every cell in my body blossoms. I’m so excited, there’s a real possibility I am about to throw up on his shoes. Which I absolutely cannot afford to replace, seeing as I’ve yet to start my new job and am still paying the bills on a vacant apartment in Manhattan. “Last I heard, you shredded my contract in front of an audience at Calypso Hall. Not exactly the stuff love declarations are made of.”

He strolls over to one of the rocking chairs on the porch and takes a seat, crossing his legs at the ankles on the table. “Come on, Winnifred, it’s unlike you to hold a grudge.”

“It’s unlike you to care so much about an employee.” I remain standing, folding my arms over my chest. “Why’re you here?”

He looks up at me, and the mocking scorn is gone. I don’t think I’ve ever seen his face so naked.

“You know why Mars was named after the god of war?” he muses, squinting up at the sky. “It’s because it has two moons called Deimos and Phobos. The two horses that pull the god of war’s chariot. For me, those horses are my friends, Riggs and Christian. They have an annoying habit of talking sense into me.”

“Are you impaired?” I squint. “I just asked you why you’re here.”

“I’ll tell you exactly why I’m here. But first, sit.” He pats the chair beside himself. “And tell me all about your new life in Mulberry Creek. Spare no detail.”

It is a bizarre situation, but then again, everything about my interactions with Arsène is usually on the weird side. I think that’s what drew me to him in the first place. The delicious feeling of never knowing what I’m going to get from him next.

I sit beside him, worming my fingers together to keep myself from rubbing at my chin.

“Tell me.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “What have you been up to?”

The words pour out of me without warning. Without heed. Like I’ve been saving them all for him. I tell him about my sisters, about Lizzy’s new baby, about my volunteer work, and Romeo and Juliet, and my upcoming job. I try to sound upbeat, still unsure about his motives and not wanting to look desperate for him.

He said he might decide to date me, not that he has any intention of ever asking me out. And even if he does want to date me—should I want to date him? He is a million times more dangerous than Paul was. More sophisticated, quick tongued, and ruthless. If losing Paul broke me into pieces, losing Arsène would shatter me into dust.

Last but not least, Arsène lives in New York. As of now, I live in Tennessee and have made a commitment to a job that’s due to start in three weeks. That’s plenty of reason to keep my cards close to the chest.

“And Lizzy’s baby, Arsène. Oh, she is a little doll. Too squishy for words!” I gasp.

“Speaking of Lizzy’s baby.” He sits back in his recliner. “Have you seen the doctor to discuss your future procreation options?”

“That’s one of the first things I did when I got here,” I confirm.

“And?”

“I was right,” I say quietly, staring down at my hands in my lap. “It is endometriosis. An outgrowth of tissue around my uterus. Mine’s at a moderate stage, also known as stage three out of four. It’s not a complete disaster, but it’s going to make my journey toward motherhood a lot more difficult.” I haven’t spoken about the diagnosis with anyone other than my doctor. It surprises me that I open up to Arsène so easily when I haven’t had this conversation with Ma or my sisters yet.

“What’s the next stage?” he asks.

“Well.” I gnaw at my lower lip. “My doctor says I should freeze my eggs. Or, better yet, embryos. They last longer and have a better success rate.”

“But .?.?.??” He searches my face, leaning forward. He is doing that thing again where his body is in complete sync with mine. It reminds me that having sex with him is a euphoric experience. The back of my neck tingles, and my palms get sweaty.

I decide to go for broke and just tell him the God’s-honest truth.

“I still need to think about it. It’s very expensive, and I can’t afford it. Not all of it, anyway. Especially now, when I don’t have Paul’s .?.?. er .?.?.”

“Sperm,” Arsène finishes for me, standing up abruptly, businesslike. “Well, I’ll give you both.”

I peer at him through my lashes, confused. “What do you mean?”

“You need money and sperm. I’ll give you both. I will do that for you,” he says decisively.

“But .?.?. why?”

He opens his mouth to answer. I hear a car door slam in front of my porch, and the sound of it being locked automatically. Arsène’s mouth shuts into a tight-lipped scowl. I stand up and peek at the person making their way up the stairs to the porch, and my heart sinks.

Talk about worst timing ever.

“Hi, Rhys.” I hope I sound friendly and not murderous. It’s not Rhys’s fault I was in the middle of the most important conversation of my life. “What’re you doing here?”

Rhys eyes Arsène with surprise and dissatisfaction, lifting my cardigan in the air between us. “You forgot this in my car yesterday. I’d have given it to you earlier, but practice ran late.”

My eyes snap to Arsène. I can see he’s done the math, that he gathers Rhys is my ex-boyfriend. The very one who got away. Arsène plasters a cocksure smirk on his face and sits back like a bored king, a sign his hackles are on the rise.

“Er, thank you. Rhys, this is Arsène. Arsène, this is Rhys.”

They shake hands, with Arsène not even bothering to stand up.

“An old friend?” my ex asks politely.

“God, no. I can’t befriend women I want to fuck.” Arsène laughs, deliberately crass. “No, I’m here to make Winnifred an illicit proposition.”

Rhys’s face pales, and his eyes bulge out. Christ.

“Well, thank you so much for the cardigan! You know I run cold. Ha ha.” I place a hand on his arm, ushering him back to his car. I am all but kicking him out, and I don’t feel good about it. On the other hand, I think I might die if Arsène and I don’t finish our conversation soon. My ex-boyfriend stumbles his way toward his car, glancing behind his shoulder.

“Who’s this guy, Winnie? He sounds like Satan’s big brother.”

“Don’t worry about him,” I singsong. “He’s surprisingly tolerable once you get to know him.”

“I don’t know.” Rhys stops in front of his Jeep but doesn’t make a move to enter. “I feel like I should stay here, make sure you’re okay.”

“I can handle this on my own.” I smile tightly.

Please, please leave.

“But .?.?.”

“My goodness!” I throw my hands in the air, losing patience. “I know you mean well, but please, Rhys, just let me handle this. I’m a big girl, and I’ve been doing my thing for over a decade without your help.”

I finally get it. It all comes rushing back to me now, at an incredible speed. The reason why I left here. Not all of it was Juilliard. Some of it was the suffocating feeling of being coddled by everyone, including—but not limited to—Rhys.

While it is true that he always meant well, he also frequently overstepped. He had defended me tooth and nail in front of Mrs.?Piascki, our physics teacher, when I’d failed her class in tenth grade, which made her hate me for the rest of my high school years. When Georgie and I had gotten into arguments, he’d always plead my case and beg her to talk to me, when I simply wanted to be left alone. And whenever I’d gotten upset with him, which wasn’t often, he’d chalk it up to me being bored or on my period.

I didn’t like it then.

I don’t like it now.

Rhys stares at me in horror. “No one said you can’t handle yourself.”

“No, you didn’t say it, but you keep thinking it. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be acting this way.”

This makes him shut up. He presses his lips together, shooting his gaze to where Arsène is waiting on my porch.

“I guess you’re right. I’m sorry, Winnie. Sometimes I just .?.?. I don’t know. I get carried away when I care about people.”

“I’m fine.” I wrap my arms around him and squeeze, reassuring him that I’m not mad at him. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

He slides into his car and—thank heavens—drives away. I return to Arsène, who is waiting for me on the porch with his usual amused smile, like this is all a big fat joke to him. Only now I’m onto him. He isn’t amused. And he does care. This is just his defense mechanism when dealing with people.

“I see your tearful reunion with perfect Rhys is going well,” he remarks.

I roll my eyes, falling back into the rocking chair beside him. “I like you much better when you aren’t being sarcastic.”

He tilts his head skyward, letting out a sigh. “Then there’s no chance for me. Better grab my things and head back home.”

“Stop this,” I snap. “Say what you came here to say. We were in the middle of something.”

“Right.” He taps his knee. “Where were we?”

“I believe you were about to offer to be the father of my hypothetical children and pay for the entire delight.”

“Children?” His eyebrows shoot up. “I thought you wanted just the one.”

I shake my head. “Three. And I will need a surrogate to carry them. Which also costs a pretty penny. Still interested?”

I’m not seriously considering this, and neither is he. This is just one of his many games. I’m sure of it.

“I’m still interested,” he says flatly. Dang him and his weird sense of humor.

I give him a lopsided smile. “We can go around in circles forever, but I wanna know why you’re really here. With flowers.”

Do you really want to ask me out? Am I really about to abandon everything I ran away from and say yes?

“I just told you,” he says, slowly and with distinctive irritation. “I came here to ask you out, but also, if you wish, to give you babies. What’s so hard to understand?”

“Well”—I let out an awkward laugh—“that usually exists only after you’ve had a few good years of the other. You’re acting like you want to give me babies now.”

“There’s no better time than the present,” he informs me gravely.

I cover my face with my hands, laughing hysterically, to the point of hiccups. “Arsène, do you mean for me to take this seriously? We’ve known each other properly for less than a year.”

“Time is not a good indicator for anything. I’d known Grace since before she could tie her shoelaces properly, and she let me down. You can’t convince me this isn’t a good idea, because I’ve already made up my mind, and I never make bad investments.”

I’m speechless, so I just stare at him, waiting for more. A few months ago, this man yelled at me that I was nothing but an employee of his, threatened me, then proceeded to destroy my contract publicly. When he came here the first time, he made no sign that indicated he wanted anything more than to wring my neck. Where is this all coming from? And am I really so lucky—or unlucky, depending on how you look at it—that the man I fell for fell for me too?

“This is just all so .?.?. sudden?” I manage, finally.

“For fuck’s sake, Winnifred!” He stands up, flinging his arms in the air, exasperated. “Don’t tell me this is coming out of left field. My need to be near you and next to you at all times had stopped being about Grace and started being about you very, very early on. Since you ran out of the New Amsterdam after knocking poor Cory to the ground.”

“You acted like I was a peasant back there.” I stare at him, confused.

“That’s because to me, you were. So what? You were also the most infuriating, entertaining, sweet, fascinating creature I’d ever laid eyes on. Those two things are not mutually exclusive. It was never really about them. Grace and Paul—so help me God, I’m tired of saying their names over and over again. They were an excuse. Something to fall back on every time you questioned why I was in your sphere, in your line of sight, every time I wanted into your rehearsals and your apartment and your bed. It hasn’t been about them since I walked into that theater and saw you.” He stops, frowning now, mulling it over. “Maybe even since Italy. Who knows? Not me, and I don’t care to find out. I’m completely consumed by you, and the last few months have been hell on earth trying to forget you.”

“But Grace—”

“What I had for Grace doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of how I feel about you. You’re the only woman who’s ever made me feel worthy without the armor of estates, money, and pedigree. You don’t care about any of those things. And it makes you special. You’re the exact opposite of Grace.”

My mind is running five hundred miles a minute. It’s going to take me a month, maybe two, to digest this entire conversation. I don’t even know where to begin.

“Then why did you insist on not kissing me at your apartment, the night you held me?” I finally find my voice, and it is choked. Tears prickle the backs of my eyeballs, never making their way out. “Why did you want to walk away the night we got into Paul’s office?”

“Because it was too much.” He starts pacing across my porch, murmuring, more to himself than to me. “I knew that if I had you, I would never let you go, and not letting you go wasn’t an option, because you were still hopelessly in love with Paul. I didn’t want to insert myself into another disastrous situation, of becoming obsessed with a woman who could never be mine. Once was enough. More than recommended, actually.”

He stops. Stares at me helplessly. “I am Mars, and there might be life on it. There could be. Thanks to you. I burn for you, Winnifred. And I’m tired of living in the cold. Come back to New York. Make the place livable. For both of us. Please.”

I’m tempted. Oh, I’m so very tempted. But I’m still not sure if it’s the right thing to do. To leave everything behind again and go back to the place where every awful memory of mine was created. And there’s another part of me. A more apprehensive part that thinks of me as Nina. Chekhov’s Nina. And if I’m Nina, he must be Trigorin. A master of turning love into an unhealthy obsession like he did with his fiancée. He would try to ruin me without even meaning to—and he’d succeed.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks urgently. I stand up, and he gathers me in his arms.

I close my eyes. “I want to believe every word that comes out of your mouth, because I’ve been in love with you from that moment in Italy when our eyes met and the world ceased to exist. But I’m afraid I’m another obsession. Another great idea that could turn into a lackluster reality for you. I don’t want to change my entire life and move back to New York for another man. You may burn for me, but I’m terrified of getting burned.”

When I open my eyes, his face is still tender and hopeful. I want to say yes. But ultimately, and especially after what Paul put me through when we were trying to get pregnant, I have to put myself first. Ask all the right questions. And I’m not sure what they are yet.

“I’m not going to let you down,” he says quietly. “Try me.”

“I need time.” I’m proud of myself. Proud of my ability to put myself first for a change. Even if I’m frustrated with the idea of saying goodbye again.

This is the part where I expect him to close up on me. To become indifferent, aloof, but he surprises me by placing a kiss on my forehead—a gentle brush of a feather—before he steps away.

“I’ll be waiting.”

“I might never come back.” I look up, searching his face for .?.?. something. I don’t know what. But he is done convincing me. I can see this on his face. He said his piece, and now the ball’s in my court.

He smiles, tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear, and kisses the tip of my nose. “I’ll still be waiting.”

“Don’t I have a deadline?” I ask.

He shakes his head, grinning. “I feel strongly that you could do with some unconditional love, and that’s exactly what I’m going to offer you, Winnifred.”