15. Felicity

felicity

. . .

The day after Hutton and I returned from our trip, I met Millie and Winnie for breakfast at Frannie’s bakery.

Saturday mornings were always crowded at Plum & Honey, but Winnie had managed to snag a table in the back, and she waved frantically to me as I walked in. Millie was already at the counter, and a moment later she sat down with a plate Frannie had heaped with our favorite treats—monkey bread muffins for Win, blueberry lemon scones for Mills, pain au chocolat for me.

After sneaking into the kitchen to hug her hello, I ordered a cup of black coffee and sat across from my sisters, who swooned over the ring, the box at the Met, the story about the dress.

“Nooooo! You and those bloody noses!” moaned Winnie. “Is the dress ruined?”

“Not really,” I said. “You can hardly see the spot.”

“I love that you had one fancy day and one day just dressed down for yourselves,” said Millie.

I smiled. “Me too. We had so much fun both nights.”

“I bet you did.” Millie’s eyebrows peaked above her coffee cup.

Winnie’s sister radar perked up, and she glanced back and forth between us. “What’s that look? What don’t I know?”

“I was just wondering if Felicity had to use a safe word in New York.”

Winnie’s jaw fell open. “Oh my God. What?”

“Didn’t you know?” Millie grinned wickedly and whispered, “Hutton has a kink.”

Winnie’s eyes bulged as she stared at me across the table. “I cannot believe you have been withholding this information from me, and I demand that you tell me everything immediately.”

I rolled my eyes and pushed my glasses up my nose. “Listen. Do I ask you everything about Dex in the bedroom?”

“No, but I tell you everything anyway.”

I laughed. “Well, I’m not like that. Some things are private.”

My sisters exchanged a look. Winnie blew a raspberry. Millie booed and gave me a thumbs down.

“At least one little detail, please?” Winnie clasped her hands.

I sipped my coffee for dramatic pause. “I did have a safe word. Although I don’t think I used it correctly.”

Millie burst out laughing.

“Whatever you did, was it fun?” Winnie asked eagerly. “Did you like it?”

“Yeah,” I said. “It was hot. I mean, I can see why some people would not like it, and it definitely takes a certain level of trust, but we had a good time.”

“And he’s okay with the party?” Winnie asked, her eyes worried.

“Winnie!” Millie whacked her on the shoulder. “That is supposed to be a surprise.”

“Ow!” Winnie rubbed her arm. “She already knows, okay? She dragged it out of me.”

“It was like shooting fish in a barrel.” I smiled. “But I was glad she told me. I can’t say he’s thrilled, but we’ll be there.”

“And what about a wedding date?” Winnie looked at Millie. “Any progress there?”

“There’s one Sunday afternoon available at the end of August,” Millie said, shooting me a glance. “I have it reserved for now.”

“Thanks, Millie,” I said. “I promise to get you an answer in the next day or so.”

“I hope so! Invitations need to go out—that’s only a month away.” Winnie checked her phone. “Shoot. I have to go, I promised Hallie and Luna I’d go swimming with them at eleven. Let me see the ring one more time!”

I held out my hand, and she gazed longingly at my finger before sighing. “It’s so beautiful. I’m so happy for you. When do we talk bridesmaid dresses?”

“Uh. Soon.”

“Yay!” Winnie stood up and shoved the rest of her muffin in her mouth. “Okay, I’m going.”

Alone with Millie, I felt her eyes on me. “What?”

“A real wedding dress? A real ring?” She shook her head. “What’s going on? I’m starting to wonder if the joke’s on me. Maybe I should save the date.”

“We had to buy the dress because my nose bled on it,” I insisted. “It doesn’t really look like a wedding gown. Just a party dress. And I even tried to pay for it.”

“What about the ring?”

“The ring was just a gift,” I said, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling in my stomach.

“A gift.” Millie blinked at me. “From Tiffany.”

“Yes. Look, I know it’s a bit extravagant, and I told him that, but he wouldn’t listen. He said he knows diamond rings are normally reserved for people you’re asking to spend the rest of your life with, but since he knows he always wants me in his life, it’s fine.” I picked up my coffee for a sip. “We’re not really getting married, and it’s fine.”

“It’s fine?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” But my fingers trembled as I set down my cup.

Millie glanced at my shaky fingers a moment, then met my eyes. “I don’t think you are. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I sipped my coffee, cradling the cup in both hands. “I’m tired is all. I didn’t get much sleep in New York, and I had to work last night.”

My sister broke off a piece of her scone and put it in her mouth. As she chewed, she kept looking at me.

“What?” I said, uncomfortable with her scrutiny.

“I know you. Something has you nervous. Jumpy.”

“That’s ridiculous.” I tried to sound dismissive.

She took another bite, never taking her eyes off me. “Did Hutton tell you he loves you or something?”

“No!” I laughed as if she’d said something hilarious. “Things aren’t like that with us. This isn’t a real relationship or a real engagement. It’s something I made up, remember?”

Millie rolled her eyes. “I remember.”

I took a bite of pain au chocolat without tasting it. Glanced out the window. On the corner, a woman took a small child by the hand and looked both ways before crossing the street. “I know it might look real on the outside, but that’s just because we’re having a good time. It’s one hundred percent fake. We are not together.”

“If you say so,” she said.

“I do.” My head was spinning, my breath was short. “It’s not real.”

I’m fine.

Nothing’s the matter.

Everything’s good.

As days went by, I said it out loud to anyone who asked if I was okay, and I said it to myself, trying to convince myself that this pit in my stomach wasn’t anything to worry about.

So I had the ring and the dress—so what? They were just gifts.

So there was a wedding date on hold at Cloverleigh Farms—it was part of the act.

So I was lying to people who loved me—it wasn’t hurting anyone.

So the internet continued to obsess over photos of Hutton and me—some sleuth had even managed to get their hands on a prom photo (I suspected Mimi, who kept texting me asking to meet, like we were old friends), and even reputable news sites ran it along with captions about “the hometown honey that bagged herself a billionaire.” It was fine—I only let myself read a couple hundred shitty comments before putting my phone down and walking away. And I deleted Mimi’s messages without a second thought. The last thing I needed was her voice in my ear.

So I spent every night in Hutton’s arms, woke up next to him every morning, and desperately tried not to think about the day it would all be over—all good things must come to an end, right?

I threw myself into work.

I responded to lots of inquiries about catering and booked half a dozen new jobs for the fall. I created new recipes and took stunning photos in Hutton’s kitchen. I took phone calls regarding some of the offers for collaboration that had come in.

Hutton spent a lot of time alone in his office getting ready for the hearing, but he’d warned me on the flight home from New York that would happen. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It will seem like I don’t care or like I’m self-obsessed, but that’s not it. When something like this is hanging over my head, I just get really focused. I can’t think about anything else.”

“I get it,” I told him. “And you don’t have to apologize or worry about me. Concentrate on you.”

He wasn’t exaggerating—I hardly saw him the week after we got home. And when I did, he was quiet and introspective. But we still had mind-blowing S-E-X before falling asleep in each other’s arms every night, and in many ways, it was the happiest I’d ever been.

It was also the most terrified.

Which made me crazy mad at myself. Because it’s not like I didn’t know what was going to happen. It wasn’t like walking into my bedroom imagining there might be a witch about to jump out—the fucking witch was in there and I knew precisely when she’d show her face. This thing with Hutton had an expiration date.

Every time I booked a catering gig for the fall, I’d think, He’ll be gone by then, and my stomach would pitch and roll. My breath would catch.

But it was fine. I was fine.

Until the voicemails.

The first one came on Monday. I waited three days to listen to it, which I did sitting in my car in the grocery store parking lot.

“Felicity, darling, it’s Mom. I heard the big news! At first I just couldn’t believe it—it seemed so unlikely for you—but I’ve seen the photos and don’t you two look cute together? And wow, a billionaire. That’s really something. I’m sure your father is happy about that. He’ll never have to worry about money again, right?” (Unkind laughter.) “Anyway, I’m dying to talk to you. Give me a call, it’s been too long.”

I was fuming by the time I got to the end. Unlikely for me? My father happy about the money ? It’s been too long ?

“Not long enough,” I snapped, deleting the message.

Later that night, as we were getting ready for bed, Hutton asked me what was wrong.

“Nothing,” I said, unable to meet his eyes. I opened a dresser drawer and messed around in it, not looking for anything.

“You’ve been so quiet tonight. Actually, all week.”

“Have I? Sorry.” I shut the drawer and took off my glasses so I could rub my eyes. “Just tired, I guess.”

“Hey.” He came over and turned me into his arms, the place where I felt safest in the world. “Talk to me. I know I’m distracted with work, but I’m still here for you.”

I wrapped my arms around his middle and pressed my cheek to his bare chest. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him about the voicemail from Carla, but I didn’t want to do it. Hutton had enough to worry about—the hearing was only a week away. I refused to add more stress to his life. “It’s nothing. I promise.”

She left two more messages over the weekend, whining that I hadn’t called her back, reminding me she was still my mother, and faking enthusiasm for my wedding. “I just can’t wait to meet a real billionaire,” she said. “And I’m dying to see that rock up close. It looks huge. Is he paying for out-of-town guests to stay somewhere nice?”

I deleted them both immediately, mad at myself for even listening.

Monday night, Winnie asked me to come over and help her create a vegetarian menu for a wine dinner she and Ellie were planning at Abelard. Glad for the distraction, I spent the evening at her condo helping her plan, eating takeout, and sipping wine. Hutton had said he needed to work late, so I lingered at Winnie’s, envying the easy affection between her and Dex. What would it be like to know you could have forever together?

I left around nine, and my phone rang just as I got behind the wheel. I should have checked the number before answering.

“Hello?”

“Finally,” Carla said, slurring the word a little. “I was wondering when I’d actually get you.”

Fuck , I mouthed, closing my eyes. “What do you want?”

“I want to talk.”

“About what?”

“About life.” She laughed drunkenly. “About this wedding thing. Why would you want to get married anyway? You’re too young.”

“Do you even know how old I am?”

“Don’t be rude,” she snapped. “I’m still your mother.”

“When did you decide that?”

“Hey. I’m trynna do you a favor. I get wanting the money, but make sure he signs a prenup. You need to protect yourself for when he leaves you.”

My blood boiled. “I don’t need a prenup.”

“Yes, you do,” she slurred. “You think everything will be wine and roses, but it won’t. The good times don’t last. He’ll make promises he won’t keep, just like your father did.”

“You leave Dad out of this,” I said furiously. “He’s never broken a promise to me my entire life. And I bet he never broke one to you either!”

“He promised to love me . Instead he drove me away. He took my children from me,” she accused.

“Leaving was your choice,” I shot back. “You betrayed Dad. You betrayed Millie and Winnie and me.”

She laughed again. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know anything. ”

“I know enough,” I said. I ended the call, blocked her number, and tossed my phone on the passenger seat.

I will not cry. I will not fall apart. I will not give her that power over me.

But it wasn’t just her call that had me bawling into my hands—it was everything. The lying to my family, the dread of losing Hutton, the fear that my feelings were hopeless, the envyof anyone who’d found love, the doubt that my heart would remain in one piece...

What had I done?

Hutton was still working at the kitchen table when I walked in. “Hi,” he said, giving me a tired smile.

My gut instinct was to run for him, bury my face in his chest, and let him hold me while I sobbed. But I refrained—I couldn’t be dependent on him to comfort me. He wouldn’t always be here to put me back together when I felt myself coming apart.

“Be right back.” I dropped my keys and purse on the floor and made a beeline for the bedroom. Slipping into the bathroom, I shut the door behind me and braced myself on the vanity. Stared at my reflection in the mirror. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

I opened the top drawer and messed around, looking for scissors. Then the second drawer. The third.

Found them.

I pulled them out of the drawer and was about to start cutting when the ring on my finger caught my eye. I hesitated.

Then I heard a knock on the door behind me.

“Felicity?”

Ashamed, I shoved the scissors back in the drawer and slammed it shut.

The door opened. “Felicity.”

I spun around, hands behind my back, leaning on the vanity. “What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” I bit my lip.

He glanced at the sink behind me. “Were you going to cut your hair?”

I shook my head. Stopped. Nodded.

And burst into tears.

Wordlessly, he came forward and pulled me into his arms, holding me, rubbing my back, letting me cry my eyes out into his chest. After a few minutes, he reached over and grabbed a tissue. “Want to tell me what’s up?”

“No.” I took the tissue from him and blew my nose.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re busy and need to concentrate on work, not my bullshit. The entire point of this arrangement was for you to have time and space to work, and I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You are not a burden. Do I need to remind you how we promised to be there for each other when one of us needed a friend? I know you didn’t use the code, but I’m sensing the bat signal here.” He peeked behind me. “Those scissors are a cry for help. Now talk.”

I grabbed another tissue. “My mother called.”

“Oh.”

Mopping up my face, I told him about the messages she left, how she managed to push all my buttons, how mad I was at myself that I let her get to me. “After all this time,” I said angrily, yanking another tissue from the box. “Why should she still have that power?”

“Because she’s your mother and what she did left a scar,” he said.

“But I don’t need her. I don’t even like her.” I struggled to keep the sobs from erupting. “Why should it matter what she says?”

“Maybe it doesn’t matter whether you need her or like her. Maybe just the fact that deep down, you know she was your mother and was supposed to love and protect you, and instead she hurt you, is enough to fuck with your head.”

“Yeah.” I took some shuddery breaths. “I guess.”

“Maybe you should talk to my sister,” he said. “Or she could give you the name of someone else. While I am an expert at head fuckery, I’m not a therapist.”

That actually made me crack a smile. “Look at you promoting therapy.”

He shrugged. “Just because it didn’t solve my issues doesn’t mean it can’t help you with yours. My shit is my own fault. Your shit was done to you—I bet a good therapist could help you work through it.”

“Maybe. But how do you ever work through the fact that your own mother didn’t want you? Or love you enough? It’s like this stupid voice in the back of my head that I can’t turn off.”

He pulled me close again. “I wish I had a good answer. I can’t turn off the voices in my head either.”

Everything about his embrace soothed me—the hard body beneath the clothes, the clean masculine scent, the warmth of his skin. “Thanks for chasing me in here. I guess I did need you.”

“I like when you need me.” He didn’t speak for a moment, and then I heard him swallow. “I wish things were different.”

“Different how?”

“All kinds of ways.” He paused. “I wish I had my magic powers back.”

I laughed. “You’re enough without them.”

“What would you wish for?”

I’d wish for the guts to tell you I love you. Because I don’t need you to be perfect or magical. I just need you to stay with me.

But a wound had been opened up tonight, and it was too big a risk. In New York, when we’d talked about the forever kind of happiness, he hadn’t offered me hope. He’d offered to meet me in New York once a year. He’d offered me a piece of his life, of his time, maybe even of his heart, but not the whole thing.

I’d never wanted anyone’s whole heart before, and I didn’t know how to ask for it. I’d spent too many years being afraid, running away, convincing myself love was a losing game.

“I’d wish for some ice cream, a bubble bath, and an orgasm—probably in that order,” I said instead.

He laughed, probably relieved. “Now that I can deliver.”