14. Hutton

hutton

. . .

“Your turn,” she said sleepily. “Tell me something.”

“What do you want to know this time?” I asked, curled up behind her between the soft, cool sheets of our hotel bed.

“If you could do anything else with your life, like if it had gone in another direction, where would you be?”

Here, I thought. Right here with you.

In this place where I felt sure of myself. Comfortable in my skin. Were there still doubts buzzing around in my head? Yes. But they were softer. Quieter. I could endure them when it was only the two of us like this. I could accept them as part of me, because she could—just like she’d accepted the part of me that craved power and control in private because I felt so overwhelmed in public.

So often my mind was ahead of itself, on to the next worry, the next room I’d have to enter, the next time I’d have to be on . But when we were alone, it was blissfully quiet in my head. She made it easy to stay in the present—she made it impossible to want to be anywhere else.

She rolled onto her back and looked at me. “You can’t think of anything? I guess that’s what it’s like being a hot billionaire. You’ve reached the zenith. There’s nowhere else to go. Nothing else to achieve.”

I laughed. “Hardly.”

“Okay, so then what? Like, let’s say you never created that algorithm. What would you be?”

I thought for a moment. “Okay. Don’t laugh.”

“I would never!”

“I’d have liked to teach math. Like be a professor or something.”

“I could see that. You’d be great at it.”

“Uh, standing at the front of a room with everyone watching me? I don’t think so.”

“Yes, you would. You were a great tutor back in the day—those middle school kids loved you.”

“That was one on one. Teaching a class is very different. You have to be on every single minute. You have to explain things exactly right, you can’t get a single word wrong. If you say something in error, you look like you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I’m not saying being a teacher is easy or doesn’t take preparation.”

“It doesn’t matter how prepared I am. I could plan a lecture, rehearse it a thousand times, bring notes into the classroom with me, and still second guess myself to the point where I’m standing up there sweating and shaking, unable to even read my own writing because a hundred pairs of eyes are on me waiting for me to fuck up.”

She studied me for a moment. “Did this actually happen?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“A couple years ago, I was invited to give a guest lecture at M.I.T. to one of my mentor teachers’ classes, and I bombed.”

“Your mentor said that?”

“No. But I knew she thought that. And I knew every kid in that room was like, ‘who is this fucking hack and why does he make billions of dollars when he can’t even form a coherent sentence or write on the board without staring at every problem wondering if he wrote it right?’”

“Wow. That’s so cool that you can read minds.”

I frowned at her. “That’s what it felt like.”

“Sorry.” She snuggled closer. “But if I don’t call you out on this stuff, who will? It’s like Winnie with the Wicked Witch of the West.”

“Huh?”

“Everyone in my family always wanted to watch the Wizard of Oz, but that witch scared the bejesus out of Winnie. She would hide under a blanket every time the witch came onscreen. But then Frannie bought us a nonfiction book about witches. We learned the truth about where the idea behind evil witches came from, and how female healers and priestesses were accused of getting their magic powers from the devil when really , it was just terrible men trying to suppress women’s influence.” She stuck her tongue out at me.

“Sorry for all terrible men,” I told her.

“Apology accepted. Anyway, I think your fears are based on something you’re guessing at rather than something you know for sure. Just like a witch.” She brought two fingers together above her head, forming a pointy hat. “Not real. Feels real, but isn’t.”

“Okay, but that doesn’t make my nerves any better. The thoughts are still there. And they cause physical reactions I can’t hide.”

She sighed and cuddled closer. “Would you consider trying therapy again? This is going to make me sad that you have a dream to teach but won’t do it because of the witch.”

I paused. “My sister wants me to try acceptance and commitment therapy. There’s a woman in her practice who does it.”

“Can you get in to see her before you leave?”

“It won’t work.”

“How do you know?” She sat up. “This is something new, right? An approach you’ve never tried?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said stubbornly. “It won’t work.”

She looked at me for a moment. “You can read minds and predict the future. Maybe you’re the witch!”

I yanked the pillow from behind my head and swung it at her, and she toppled over dramatically. Rolling on top of her, I pinned her arms to the mattress. “Enough. I’m set in my ways and not going to change. Take me or leave me.”

“I never want you to change, Hutton. I’ll always take you. I just wish you could see yourself like I do.”

I kissed her, glad that she saw me in a positive light, that she thought I was capable of doing things I knew I wasn’t. It meant that I was doing a good job playing this role—this version of me that deserved her—and she couldn’t see the man behind the curtain.

I had her convinced.

The following day, we slept late and ordered room service for breakfast, which we ate in bed while we looked at photos of us from last night online. I wasn’t at all surprised that pictures of us had been snapped without our even realizing it, but Felicity seemed shocked that she was now a figure of public fascination.

Many of the photos were blurry, zoomed-in shots of the ring on her finger. The internet speculated wildly about where it was from, how many carats the diamond was, and what it might have cost.

“Hutton.” Felicity looked at me with alarm. “Tell me some of these guesses are way too high.”

I shook my head. “I’m not even looking at that bullshit.”

The comments, as always, were a mix of effusive praise and shitty garbage.

OMG so cute together!

Seriously? Her??!

Couple GOALS!

He could do so much better.

Omg so pretty DM to collab pls

WTF Zlatka was way hotter

“Wow. People just say what they think, don’t they?” Felicity scrolled down through hundreds of comments on one pic. “How do you deal with this all the time?”

I took her phone from her hand and tossed it aside. “Fuck the internet. What would you like to do today?”

“I’d love to sightsee a little bit, but will people be following us everywhere trying to get pictures?” She touched her hair. “I feel weird about that. I’m not Zlatka, and people expect a supermodel, or at least someone with symmetrical hair and?—”

“Hey.” I pulled her close to me and leaned back against the headboard. “I cannot tell you how happy I am that you are not Zlatka. You are superior to her in every way. You are beautiful inside and out, and you are real.”

“Thanks.” But her voice was hesitant. “I guess I’m stupid. I didn’t foresee this problem. But why would a billionaire choose a girl like me?”

Rage burned in my chest—at the idea she thought she wasn’t good enough for anyone, at the assholes out there who couldn’t just mind their own business, at myself for dragging her into this. “Listen to me. You are way too good for every billionaire I’ve ever met, and that includes me. Fuck those people.”

“I’ve never worried about, like, leaving my house before. It’s kind of a shitty feeling.”

I kissed the top of her head and held her tighter. “Being in the public eye is really fucking hard. Especially when you didn’t ask for it.”

“How do you handle it?”

“I don’t leave the house much. But I’m sorry I dragged you into this fucked-up orbit. I should have known better.” I paused. “Want to head home?”

She didn’t answer right away, and for a moment I was scared she’d say yes. But then she sat up and looked at me. “No. You’re right—fuck those people. They can’t steal our joy. Our fake engagement joy.”

I laughed. “Damn right.”

“We’re only here one more day,” she said, her voice getting more fierce. “I want to do things. If we hide out, the jerks win.”

“You tell me what you want to do, and I’ll do it. Even if there’s a crowd.”

“Nothing too fancy. How about the zoo?”

“Done.”

“But cancel the driver, okay? Let’s just walk. I don’t want to call any attention to us.”

“Good idea.”

We dressed like regular tourists in jeans and sneakers and T-shirts, and wore matching navy baseball caps (which I sent a concierge out to purchase) pulled low over our faces.

“Ready?” I asked her as she finished tying her shoelaces.

She stood up and grinned. “Ready.”

We left the room and walked toward the elevator. I was glad to see the excited smile back on her face, and honest to God, if I saw one person with a phone or camera pointed at us, I was going to kick their ass. Reaching for her hand, I pulled it to my lips and kissed it.

That’s when I noticed she wasn’t wearing the ring.

She saw me studying her hand. “Don’t worry, I left it in the safe.”

“That’s fine.”

“It’s not because I don’t love it or I feel strange wearing it. I just didn’t want anyone recognizing us. The ring seemed like a giveaway.” Her expression was concerned, like she was afraid I might be upset with her. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I understand.” And I did—I’d taken my expensive watch off too. “You can wear it or not wear it whenever you want. That ring is yours, Felicity.”

She smiled. “Thanks.”

I meant what I said, but as the elevator descended, I still felt an ache take root in my chest. It was true—the ring was hers.

But it didn’t make her mine.

After touring the zoo, we ate lunch at the little café and strolled through Central Park. “Now what?” I asked her as we ambled down 5th Avenue.

“Shopping?” She peeked at me from beneath the bill of her cap. “I’d like to find a dress for our engagement party.”

“That’s what the internet is for.”

“You don’t have to come,” she said, laughing. “You can go back to the hotel if you want and I’ll meet you back there later. I get it—I’m not a huge shopper either, I just want to find something unique and stylish. Winnie told me to try NoLita or Soho.”

“It’s fine.” I sighed heavily. “I’ll go shopping.”

“Okay.” She jumped in front of me and stopped me with a hand to my chest. “But to be clear, you are not buying me anything. Your job is just to stand there and tell me how things look when I try them on.”

I groaned. “I have to go in to the stores?”

“Yes.”

“Is it too late to go back to the hotel?”

“Yes.” She moved to the curb and put up her arm to hail a cab. “But I promise it won’t be that bad.”

I spent the next couple hours trailing Felicity in and out of stores, watching her hold things up and check her reflection in the mirror, and hearing her comment about how great something would look on one of her sisters, but not on her. Occasionally, I waited while she tried something on, feeling like a creeper lurking about, keeping my eyes glued to my phone, positive all the other customers were staring at me and thinking they should call the police.

One time, Felicity came out from the dressing rooms in something and asked me what I thought.

“It looks great,” I said after giving her a passing glance. “You should get it.”

“Hutton, you didn’t even look at it.”

“Sorry.” I studied the short red dress with the ruffles at the bottom. “I like it.”

She stuck her hands on her hips. “What about it do you like?”

“The...” I gestured vaguely at the bottom. “Frilly things.”

She burst out laughing. “Thanks.”

“Can I wait outside?” I asked, wiping sweat from my forehead.

“Why?”

“Because I feel weird. People are staring. They think I’m a pervert here to spy on women changing clothes.”

Felicity pressed her lips together, then slowly brought her index fingers together above her head.

“Yeah. I know,” I muttered.

She sighed. “You can wait outside.”

Grateful to be released, I headed out and waited on the sidewalk. She came out a moment later without a bag. “You didn’t want to buy it?”

“Nah.”

“Why not?”

“It was expensive, and I?—”

I headed toward the shop door. “I’ve got it.”

“Hutton, no.” She grabbed my arm. “It wasn’t right anyway. I didn’t love it.”

“Are you sure? Or are you just saying that?”

“I’m sure.” She tugged my hand. “Come on, let’s keep going.”

We strolled down the block in comfortable silence, and then she stopped short. “Oh, look.”

I followed her line of sight toward a small boutique named for a designer I’d never heard of: Cosette Lavigne. In the front window were three white dresses. “Are those wedding gowns?”

“I think so,” she said wistfully. “Aren’t they pretty?”

I couldn’t take my eyes off her dreamy expression. “Go try one on.”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t.”

“Why not? Just for fun.”

“No, because what if I fall in love for real?”

“Would that be so bad?”

“Yes! I don’t want to try something on for fun, get my heart set on it, and then have to walk away.”

“You won’t,” I told her, taking her arm. “Come on.”

“Hutton, wait.” She braced herself and pulled against me like we were in a tug-of-war. “Why are we doing this?”

“What do you mean?”

“The ring was one thing. Like you said, a symbol of our friendship. And it’s something I can wear every day.” She looked at the dresses in the window. “I’ll never wear one of those dresses.”

“How do you know?”

“I guess I don’t know for sure, but it seems like a good way to jinx myself—buy a wedding dress when I have no idea if I’ll ever get married.”

The thought of her walking down the aisle toward some asshole who didn’t deserve her jumped into my head. I fucking hated it. “What about wearing it at our engagement party?”

“A wedding gown?”

“You don’t have to get a big fluffy one. Get something more simple.”

She smiled, but still hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“Cosette Lavigne sounds like a French name,” I said. “Wasn’t that what you told Mimi? Your dress was French?”

Felicity laughed. “I did say that.”

“Then it’s meant to be. Come on.”

She groaned but let me drag her into the shop. Inside, the air was chilly and smelled like perfume. A saleswoman with jet-black hair and chiseled cheekbones approached with a quick glance at our jeans and hats. “Hello. Can I help you?”

Suddenly, I had no idea what to say, and I looked helplessly at Felicity.

“I’m—I’m looking for a dress,” she said.

The woman tilted her head. “A wedding dress?”

“No. I mean, yes, but no.” She took a breath and closed her eyes a moment. “Sorry. The dress would be for an engagement party.”

The woman seemed to relax a little. “Wonderful. Congratulations. Did you have a style in mind?”

“Something a little more casual than what’s in the window. White is fine, but no ball gown or long train or anything. The party is outdoors, on a patio.”

“And will you need to leave with the dress today?”

“Yes,” she said. “We’re going home tomorrow. But if you don’t have anything, I?—”

The woman held up a hand as she looked Felicity over head to toe. “I have something. We’ll need to go off the rack, of course, but I’m seeing something short, perhaps tulle with pearl beading, something to emphasize your waistline, maybe a full skirt, a statement sleeve. Give me a moment.”

“Thank you.”

The woman disappeared into the back and Felicity and I looked at each other.

“What the hell is a statement sleeve?” I asked. “Is this dress going to talk?”

“I think it means the sleeves will be big and dramatic.”

“Interesting.”

Twenty minutes later, Felicity stood on a raised platform in front of a half-hexagon of mirrors, up on her toes as if she was wearing high heels. She couldn’t stop smiling. The dress was pretty, but I couldn’t have told you one thing about it other than it hit her above the knee, had short (big and dramatic) puffy sleeves, no back, and made her glow with happiness.

“Like it was made for you.” The saleswoman—Olga was her name—shook her head. “It doesn’t even need alteration, I can’t believe it.”

“It’s so pretty,” Felicity gushed, turning to check out the back over her shoulder. She’d removed her hat and put her hair up in a ponytail on the top of her head, sort of like Pebbles Flintstone.

“Let me see if I have a shoe for you to try on. What size are you?”

“Seven,” said Felicity. “But that’s okay, I don’t know if?—”

“I’ll be back.” Olga disappeared into the back again.

I’d been standing back, out of the way, but now I moved closer. Met her eyes in the mirror. “What do you think?”

“I think we should get out of here while we can. This is nuts.”

I grabbed her arm to keep her right where she was. “Or it makes perfect sense,” I said with a smile. “Both things can be true.”

She shook her head. “Not this time. It’s too much.”

“Too much money?”

“Just—too much.”

“What do you mean?”

She closed her eyes. “I guess I’m getting nervous that the line between real and make-believe is growing a little blurry. Know what I mean?”

Of course I did. I was the one blurring it. But it just felt so fucking good to give her everything she wanted, to be able to spoil her for this short time. “Felicity, it’s just a dress.”

She turned to face me. Seconds ticked by. “Is it?”

I have to admit, I hesitated too. “Yes.”

Her mouth opened, and I thought she was going to call me out on the lie. But suddenly, blood streamed from her nostrils, and she clapped her hands over her nose, her eyes wild with fear. “Shoot!”

Without another word, I whipped off my T-shirt and held it up to her face.

“Get the dress off me!” she cried, her voice muffled by the cotton.

Shirtless, I was fumbling around looking for a zipper when Olga returned holding a pair of high heels. She stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of us, her expression horrified. She probably thought we were trying to have a romantic tryst right there in her shop.

“She has a bloody nose,” I explained. “Can you help?”

Olga shrieked and dropped the shoes as she raced for us. Twenty seconds later, she was cradling the dress and looking with alarm at the red stains on my white shirt. “Should I call an ambulance?”

Felicity shook her head. “It’s not that bad,” came her muffled reply. “I can wait it out.”

“No,” I told Olga. “She’ll be fine. Is the dress okay?”

“I think so.” She held it up and gasped. “No! There is a spot of blood right here on the neckline! It’s faint, but I can see it. The dress is ruined.”

I smiled at Felicity. “Then I guess we have to buy it.”

“I’m sorry.” Next to me on a bench in Washington Square Park, Felicity stared down at the garment bag across her lap. She’d tried to pay for it while I ran over to the men’s shop next door to Cosette Lavigne to buy a new shirt, but her credit card had been declined.

“Don’t be.” I put my arm around her.

“This dress was too expensive.”

“It’s worth it.”

“I bled all over your white shirt.”

“That’s why I bought a black one.”

“I’m so embarrassed.”

“You never have to be embarrassed in front of me.”

“No?” She looked up at me.

“No. I guarantee I’ve made a way bigger fool of myself. Did I ever tell you about my road test when I was getting my driver’s license?”

She shook her head.

“I had such a bad panic attack, I had to stop the car, get out, and walk home. It took me another month to try again.”

She smiled. Her feet started swinging. “I never knew that.”

“I was too ashamed to tell you. Then there was the time I took an F on a presentation in a college class because I got up to give it but instead of going to the front of the room, I walked out the door.”

“The teacher didn’t offer to let you redo it?”

“Sure he did. I said no way. And then there was this girl I was kind of crazy about—I totally blew it with her.”

Her feet stopped moving. “What girl?”

“This crazy smart, smokin’ hot babe in the Chemistry Club.”

She laughed, swinging her feet again. “Yeah? What did you do?”

“I worked up my nerve to ask her to the prom, but at the end of the night, I fucking shook her hand instead of kissing her.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“I was scared. I never thought she’d want to be with a guy like me.”

“Smart? Handsome? Section leader of the marching band?”

“I was a nerd with a filthy mind.”

“That’s the best kind of nerd.” She gave me a little sideways smile. “You should reach out. See if she’ll give you a second chance.”

“You think so?”

“Definitely.”

We sat there for a little while longer, just watching people go by with their friends or dogs or significant others, hands clasped. A little old couple toddled by, arm in arm, and the woman’s steps were so tiny and slow, the man took one for every four of hers. They both had glasses and thinning white hair. Hers was sort of short and fluffy and his was combed over from a deep side part.

“He’s carrying her purse,” Felicity whispered. “How cute is that?”

When the woman spotted the bench, she pointed at it, and the husband led her over. Immediately, Felicity and I scooted down to make room.

“Thank you,” said the man, helping his wife sit down next to me, then seating himself on the other side.

“Of course.” Felicity leaned forward and beamed at them. “It’s a beautiful day for a walk.”

“Yes. We’ve walked in this park just about every Saturday for seventy years,” said the woman. Then she laughed. “I just can’t get as far as I used to.”

I smiled. “That’s what benches are for.”

“But it’s our anniversary,” she went on, “and I said, ‘Edward, we have to walk today.’”

“Happy anniversary!” said Felicity. “How many years?”

“Seventy-two. We moved here when I was expecting our first baby. We had eight of them,” the woman said proudly.

Felicity grinned. “That’s a lot of years and a lot of babies.”

“Tell me about it,” muttered Edward. But he patted his wife’s knee. “How’s the hip, Clara?”

“A little rusty. I’ll just rest a minute.” She looked back and forth from Felicity to me. “Are you two married?”

Felicity and I exchanged a look and tacitly agreed we would not lie to this little old couple.

“No,” I said.

“We’re just very close friends,” added Felicity.

“It’s so much harder these days,” Clara said with a sigh. “Especially for women. The list of things my daughters and granddaughters wanted to accomplish before they got married was a mile long. But finding love is an accomplishment too. That’s my two cents.”

Edward looked at us. “She’s got two cents for everything.”

“I’m ninety-three. I’ve saved up a lot of pennies,” said his wife indignantly.

“Well, I think you’re right.” Felicity smiled at the old lady. “Finding love is an accomplishment.”

“Holding onto it isn’t easy either,” Clara went on. “People make such a fuss about weddings these days, I think they forget that after the white dress and the I do’s, there’s a whole lot of hard work ahead. But that’s just my two cents.”

“See what I mean?” said Edward under his breath.

“Anyway, I think the best marriages are the ones between two close friends,” said Clara. “That’s what I was trying to say. Those are the ones that last, because you already know each other so well. You get along with each other. You appreciate things about the other person that you might not if it was just S-E-X all the time.”

Felicity tried not to laugh. “Yes, I know what you mean.”

“Of course, if you can have both,” Clara went on enthusiastically, “that’s really the best of both worlds. If you can find that close friend that you love and trust, and the S-E-X is good too, that’s when you know. Right, Eddie?”

“Right.” He patted Clara’s knee again.

“Because one might fade, but the other? Never. That’s my two cents.”

Edward sighed.

“Thank you,” Felicity said. “And happy anniversary.”

That evening, we wandered the streets of Little Italy, ate pizza, drank wine, and bought souvenirs for my nieces and nephew. We had fun, but I noticed that Felicity was quieter than usual.

“Everything okay?” I asked her as we turned back the covers and slipped between the sheets.

“Yes. I’m just tired.”

“Are you too tired for S-E-X?” I pulled her closer to me.

She laughed. “No.”

But she didn’t kiss me, or sling a leg across my thighs, or slide a hand down my stomach.

“Hey.” Rolling to my side, I propped my head on my hand and looked down at her. “What’s going on?”

She played with my chest hair, her eyes focused on her fingers. I noticed she’d put the ring on before coming to bed. “I keep thinking about that couple. Seventy-two years.”

“That’s a long time.”

“I think about your parents. My dad and Frannie. Your sister and Neil. Even Winnie and Dex—you can just tell they’re going to be together forever.” She looked up at me. “How do some people get so lucky, and others just...don’t?”

“Born under different stars, I guess.”

“I guess,” she said sadly.

“Hey, listen. Our stars might not come with seven-plus decades and eight kids, but they’re not so bad.”

She tried to smile. “No.”

I wanted a real smile back on her face. “What do you say we do this every year?”

“Do what?”

“Meet up for a weekend in New York—or anywhere else in the world. I’ll pick you up in a jet, we’ll rent a hotel suite, eat at fancy places, see shows, go shopping, or even better, avoid people and do nothing at all. Just. ..be together. Like this. You and me.”

“That sounds nice.” But there was no smile.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

I didn’t believe her, so I did my best to distract her with my mouth and my hands and my cock—I knew exactly how to kiss her, touch her, make her body arch beneath me. I knew what would make her gasp, what would make her sigh, what would make her cry out again and again. I knew how to bring her right to the edge and pull her back, and I knew when she’d had enough of the game and needed the release. I knew the taste of her, the scent of her, the sounds she made when I was so deep inside it hurt. I knew how it felt to have her fingernails rake across my back and her fists tighten in my hair and her body clench mine as I lost myself inside her.

We fell asleep immediately afterward, but I woke her up the next morning with my head between her thighs.

Because I also knew it was all going to end soon.