Page 3 of The Love You Fight For
“I said it’s time for you to leave. I’ve got a schedule to keep.”
I don’t give him a chance to question me, and truly, it’s not too far out of the realm of possibility for someone to be starting their day at 4 a.m. on a Sunday. Especially not in this city. As he sits up, I gather his clothes from where they’ve been discarded on the floor and hand them to him one by one. Designer boxer briefs. Perfectly pressed button-down. Bespoke navy-blue slacks and jacket. Brown Italian leather belt. No tie, though. He was too trendy for that.
The metal bracelet jangles as he slips on his Cartier watch. His eight-hundred-dollar cap toe Oxfords are downstairs by the front door where he took them off. The shoes are what caught my eye last night. I’m a sucker for a stylish shoe.
“There will be a car waiting for you downstairs,” I say flatly as he stands and starts to dress. I grab my phone off the charger and head to my walk-in closet. “Turn the lights off when you leave, please, but don’t worry about locking up. Security will take care of it.”
“Can I call you?” he asks my back, and I pause.
My hand flexes on the knob of my closet door and my lips purse before I force my face into a soft smile and glance at him over my shoulder.
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
I push open the door and step inside, then shut it tightly behind me. With my ear trained to the noise coming from my bedroom, I listen to him dress. The bedroom door opens. The soft click of the wall switch is paired with the disappearance of the light beam seeping under the closet door, plunging me back into darkness.
I send my security detail a text, telling him to let the gentleman out of the building, then wait for theall clearbefore I use my app to relock my door and reset the alarm.
In the comfortable darkness, I make my way to the back of my closet, to the section of racks that hold cocktail and evening gowns. Hundreds of thousands of dollars hang delicately on display, but I don’t bother looking at them. Instead, I drop to my knees and crawl through them until I’m nestled in the corner behind a wall of longprotective garment bags. Then I put my phone on speaker and dial my only emergency contact.
“Hey,” my best friend answers, and her knowing voice is warm with concern.
It’s around 9 a.m. in Paris, so I close my eyes and picture her sitting at the window in her small apartment with a croissant and a coffee surrounded by painting supplies.
“Hey,” I reply. “What are you working on?”
“A commission piece. Landscape. I’m almost done.”
I hum in response and listen to her soft movements on the other end of the phone. Clinking of what could be a coffee cup or a pastry plate. Rustling of fabric. Shuffling of papers. The faint music that I heard when she answered gets louder, then shuts off completely.
“Where are you?” she asks, and I smile grimly to myself.
“Hanging out with my friends, Oscar de la Renta and Tom Ford.” I sigh and force a weak laugh as I run my fingers over one of the garment bags hanging next to me. “Donatella and Vera are here somewhere, too.”
I hear pages of a book, then, and the tension in my neck and shoulders loosens. Tears of relief prickle the backs of my eyelids, and I inhale deeply through my nose.
“I think we were on chapter fourteen,” she says smoothly, her voice low but free of pity.
All I hear is love and unwavering support.
Her tone suggests that there is absolutely nothing wrong or shameful about me calling her up at 4 a.m. my time while cowering in the back of my luxury walk-in closet. I don’t need to be embarrassed or sorry for interrupting her painting. I know she knows about the shots of bourbon that came before this phone call and the vomiting before that. She knows about the nightmare. She doesn’t ask, but she doesn’t have to.
And anyway, none of it matters anymore.
“Chapter fourteen is perfect.”
I rest my head against the wall as she inhales smoothly, thenstarts to read out loud fromPride and Prejudice, picking up exactly where we left off the last time.
In only takes a few sentences for my muscles to relax, a couple paragraphs for the threat of tears to abate completely. As she ends the chapter and begins a new one, my body sags with exhaustion, but the panic and fear are gone.
“Hey, Len,” I interrupt.
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
I can’t see it, but I can feel her soft smile. I hear her sniffle, then chuckle lightly before she responds.
“I love you too, Sam.”
