Since You Happened by Holly Hall
Chapter 9
I hear something beating on the edge of my conscience, but I’m wrapped up in an irresistible fog of slumber that I can’t bring myself to disturb. Maybe if I ignore it, it will go away.
The banging stops for what could be one minute or ten, then resumes, firm and insistent. It’s only when I begin to stir that I realize it’s coming from my front door. I bolt upright and squint my eyes against the intrusive morning sunlight. By the way the mystery person is banging, it sounds like there’s a fire or something.
Shit. Could there be a fire in the building? Wouldn’t the alarms be going off? Knowing how old this building is, a part of me doubts that. I swing my feet over the edge and head toward the door to tell the person to shut up.
When I yank the door open, I swallow my words. Landon is standing in the hall outside with his fist paused, mid-knock, his hair nearly standing on end like he’s been running his fingers through it. His arm drops, and his entire body relaxes when he sees me, his eyes wandering over the dress I’m wearing, along with my obvious bed-head. Unfortunately, the messy hair doesn’t look as good on me as it does on him.
I smooth my hair down as much as I can, only now realizing that I didn’t even bother changing out of the fitted, burgundy dress I wore to my dinner date with Paul last night. The date where I talked about how scarred I am from an accident that took place four years ago and basically scared him away from ever talking to me again. I shake my head to clear those thoughts from my head. Remembering how understanding he was makes me feel a little guilty.
“Thank God,” Landon says with a sharp exhale. “I was beginning to wonder if I should report you missing.”
“Why would you do that?” I ask, my voice husky from sleep. I’m still a little confused as to why he’s here, and not entirely convinced that there isn’t drool on my face.
Landon slips his hands into his front pockets and rocks back onto his heels. “I didn’t get a response from you last night or this morning.” I get a rare glimpse at what I think might be worry displayed in the furrow of his brow, the slight downturn of his lips.
“Oh yeah, my phone’s in my bag.” I jab my thumb toward my entry table.
“Makes sense. Just get home?” he asks, jutting his elbow toward my very un-Friday-morning-like outfit.
“Oh no, I slept in this,” I explain, snapping the bottom hem against my thighs. Really? Who says that? And what sane person sleeps in a dress this tight?
His eyes flick over my shoulder and I follow his gaze, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, before turning back to him and leaning against the doorframe. “He didn’t stay here, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Landon nods casually, biting back a grin. “Good. I didn’t want to ruin your date by saying something inappropriate.”
“Like what?” I ask, instantly curious about what his smart mouth would come up with in this situation.
“Invite me in and maybe I’ll tell you.”
I sigh, suddenly finding my chipped toenail polish very interesting. “I don’t know if I feel up to it, Landon. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Do you have coffee?”
“Yeah, I do.” When I realize what he’s asking, I step aside and wave him through.
Once he’s settled on a bar stool, I insert a pod and fire up my coffee maker. Then I use the time it takes to brew a cup to rake my hair off my neck and into a messy ponytail. Thanks to sleeping in volume-enhancing spray, it feels like a rat’s nest.
I set the steaming mug in front of him and pop another pod into the slot of the machine, pressing the button to brew one for myself.
“Dare I ask how it went?” he asks after taking a careful sip.
I chew on my lip for a few moments, watching the liquid stream into my mug. “It went well. Really well.”
He smiles and nods in approval. “Good. Probably because you didn’t meet him on an app. So why are you still dressed in what I assume you were wearing last night? Don’t tell me I just missed him,” he eyes me with laughter in his eyes, but I shake my head.
“No. I didn’t invite him over.”
He gauges my expression before slowly shaking his head. “What am I missing here, Blake?”
“Nothing.” I sigh, irritated that I had to explain myself to someone so soon. I was going to put off talking to Arielle so I wouldn’t have to immediately tell her why I turned down her golden boy, but it looks like I’ll have to face the consequences sooner than planned. When Landon’s gaze hovers on me, I set my mug down so hard it almost breaks. “He was too perfect.”
“Too Perfect? Is there such a thing?” he asks mockingly.
“Yes, and his name is Paul Montero.”
“I thought that’s what girls like you wanted.”
“Girls like me?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. “Girls like me don’t want to spend their lives trying to live up to the veneer-sporting, golden-retriever-owning, Seven-Series-driving, suburban-living, Barbie and Ken lifestyle.” It’s not that that life sounds all bad. In fact, there’s a beauty to simplicity. I just know I couldn’t live up to that—living in a world fueled by the highest expectations and the lowest tolerance of individuality. There’s no way Paul could ever understand what I’ve gone through.
“Did Ken dump you?”
I give him a sharp look. “No. Not that it’s any of your business. I told him I didn’t see it going anywhere.” I don’t tell him about the entire half-hour conversation that followed that statement.
He tilts his head, as if he knows I’m not telling him everything. “And what you told him has nothing to do with me?”
“No.” Mostly. “I’m not sure how you got up the elevator with that ego, Farrar.”
He gives me a smile, but it’s half-assed. “Fair enough. Do you want to do something to cheer you up?”
“I don’t need cheering up. But I don’t want to hang around here.”
He stands from his stool and rounds the corner with his mug, rinsing it in the sink. “I have some work to do, but come over to my place. I promise that I will not cheer you up.”
He’s never invited me over to his place. I don’t even know what area of Denver he lives in. He could live in Milwaukee for all I know. “Okay,” I agree, my curiosity winning out over my desire to sulk.
Landon does not live in Milwaukee. Landon lives in the Cherry Creek area, a neighborhood in Denver characterized by its upscale shopping and picturesque bike trails. I can’t imagine Landon getting much use out of the boutiques, but he could secretly be an avid biker. He has the legs for it.
My first impression of his apartment is that it’s very bare. It would almost look staged for prospective renters if there was anything resembling decor. A careworn, brown leather couch occupies one wall of the living room opposite a minimal TV stand. The dining area is noticeably empty, with only a couple of black bar stools serving as seating at the counter. The only aspects of personalization are the wide flat screen, a coffee maker on the counter, liquor bottles on top of the fridge, and what looks to be a camera bag on the coffee table.
“Home sweet home, huh?” Landon asks from where he’s just come back out of his bedroom.
“It’s very . . . minimal,” I say carefully. I look around again. “You can’t even tell someone lives here.”
“Well, I assure you that I do. Every day.”
“Where’s all your stuff? You’re an artist; I though you people were supposed to be messy and chaotic in the name of creativity.”
Landon just shrugs, leaning his elbows on the bar. “Not all artists are ‘chaotic.’ And besides, I’m not really an artist anymore.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes when he doesn’t elaborate. I seriously doubt that he could just quit being that man; the one who’s traveled the world, taken photos of beautiful places and immersed himself in other cultures while living out of a backpack. You don’t just un-see all those things. You can’t undo how they made you feel.
I look around him through a door off the living room, catching a glimpse of his bedroom. I expected to see the mess that’s noticeably absent from the main areas, but there’s only a clothes hamper with a sweater sleeve draped over the side to serve as a hint that a grown man actually lives here. Other than that, it’s well-kept and masculine, with a sleek, black wooden headboard flanked by matching side tables and a dresser; the kind you purchase as a set at some generic furniture store. It’s nice, but it bears none of his personal touch. The weird thing about it is, I don’t know what his personal touch would even be, but I don’t think it’s this bland. I’ve known him for almost a month and hardly know anything about him.
It’s only when Landon clears his throat that I realize I’m staring off into space like a crazy person. “Not quite the ‘Red Room of Pain’ you were expecting?”
His comment transports me back to the day we had lunch, and the fact that he remembers anything about the time when I thought he couldn’t care less about me, brings a small smile to my face. I never thought we would end up here, but where is here, really? Screwing a few nights a week? On the nights he’s not with me, he could be with myriad other girls. That thought gnaws at the pit of my stomach, and I force it out of my head. It’s a sharp reminder that we’re not much further along than we were a month ago.
“No. But I don’t really know enough about you to expect anything, do I?” I didn’t want to sound like the prying girl, or the needy girl, but the edge in my voice kind of gives that impression.
Landon says nothing, just switches his gaze back and forth between my eyes. It’s not like he’s contemplating the right way to answer. He’s just watching me; wondering what I’ll say next. I don’t want to think that he could be gauging whether or not it’s the right time to get out of whatever this is unscathed.
“You know more about me than any girl I’ve met in the past four years,” he finally answers. That doesn’t feel like an accomplishment.
I slump backward against the doorframe a little, a battle waging inside of me consisting of two conflicting sides: one that urges me to suppress all the questions I have and be the uncomplicated, indifferent girl Landon wants, and one that can’t help but dig deeper into the mystery of a man I see before me to unearth all his issues. But what am I so afraid of? That he’ll shut me down once again and come up with some snide remark about me asking too many questions?
The curious side is making the more compelling argument, so I give in.
“Look, I know it’s hard sharing things about yourself, and trust me, I’m honored to know ‘more than any girl you’ve met in the past four years,’ but you can’t expect me to not be curious.”
When he looks at me warily, like I’m about to demand to move in or something, I throw my hands up. “I’ve asked you for nothing, Landon. I’ve demanded nothing. I think you have a pretty sweet deal here, not that I have any complaints about that. All I’m asking is that you just tell me about yourself. Not fifteen-year-old Landon, either. The one I see standing before me—all impatient and stern and sometimes kind of sexy.” My joke doesn’t even earn the slightest of smiles, but I remain unbothered. If I want him to lower his defenses, I have to tread carefully.
Landon crosses over to the couch, dropping onto it and running both of his hands through his hair for what might be the hundredth time today. I perch tentatively a few feet away from him while he studies the ceiling for what feels like several minutes. Then he leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, and finally, he exhales what sounds like a balloon’s worth of air. “You want to know about me? Fine. Buckle up, because this is a pretty fucked up story.”
At the resignation in his voice, I turn to him, folding one knee underneath me. He avoids my gaze as he begins. “My last date took place four years ago, because four years ago, I lost someone very dear to me. I still have . . . a hard time with it. She was the best, most giving person I ever knew, so when I opened the bookstore, I knew I had to do something with the profit other than pocket it. Two years after opening it, here I am. That honest enough for you?”
He spreads his hands, as if what I’m seeing now is somehow disappointing. It isn’t. My heart hurts for him, but I try my best to keep that feeling to myself, because from what I know about Landon, he doesn’t want anyone’s sympathy. I know from experience that sympathy is often the last thing someone needs in the wake of a tragedy. He is so unaware of just how alike we are.
“Yeah, that was honest enough.”
Instead of responding, he stands up and walks toward the bedroom. I don’t even question whether I should follow him. I just do. He flips on the light, crosses the room, and disappears into his closet. When he returns, he’s holding a shoebox, which he drops onto the bed. I look at him questioningly, but he just gestures for me to open it. Sinking down onto the edge of the mattress, I lift the lid carefully.
The box is filled to the brim with photographs. They’re all sifted together with no system of organization in sight. Some are glossy eight-by-tens, some are only Polaroids, but all feature the same beautiful woman. She’s exotic—of Latin descent from what I can see—and young, with stunning sienna eyes, dark features, and a gorgeous body that’s apparent from the artfully-posed photographs. Even the ones taken in a casual setting, like the beach, share a common theme with the others: tasteful, elegant, and beautiful. I see more in these pictures than he’s ever told me. Mostly, I see love in its purest form. I recognize it, although I accept now that it’s nothing I’ve ever experienced.
“She’s beautiful. Your ex?” Though he hasn’t told me that this is the woman he’s mourning, I can see it written on his face.
“My fiancé. And she was beautiful. She died.”
I feel empathy twist in my gut like a blunt knife. “I’m sorry. I know you must be sick of hearing that, but really, I am.” He just blinks at me.
“Did you take all these?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know you took portraits . . . these are incredible, Landon.”
“I had a fascinating subject,” he murmurs.
“I have to agree, and I didn’t even know her.” I replace the photos carefully, placing the lid atop his memories.
It’s only when he takes the box away that it strikes me. He said he lost his fiancé four years ago. Four years ago. I exhale sharply, shocked by the coincidence. My accident took place around the same time. The flashes of that night nearly blind me with their clarity. I can almost feel the snowflakes melting on my skin.
I feel momentarily sick, struck by the coincidence. I may have lost a relationship four years ago that probably wouldn’t have gone anywhere, but he lost an entire future. I close my eyes and shake my head, and when I open them, he’s standing in front of me with a puzzled look on his face. “I think I need a drink,” I say weakly.
He nods like he’s grateful for something to do, and I follow him out of his bedroom toward the kitchen. He pulls a bottle of bourbon from the top of the fridge and a couple of wine glasses. “Hope these suffice,” he says, nodding toward the glasses.
I shrug, doubting the glass will make much of a difference when it comes to bourbon. When he pours me two fingers of amber liquid and hands it over, I down a gulp, wincing at the taste. That first sip burns all the way down. “It doesn’t ever get easier, does it?” I ask.
“The bourbon, or the sadness?” he asks, settling back against the counter with his arms crossed.
I give him a half-smile. “Both. Mostly the sadness.”
“He shakes his head, pulling his lips between his teeth. “No. I think we become desensitized to the pain, but it doesn’t really lessen over time.” I nod; truer words have never been spoken.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” he says, and I nod again. It doesn’t hurt my feelings that he doesn’t want to talk about his ex. I’m too ashamed to bring up mine.
“Was her name Grace?” I ask, and he furrows his brows at me. He did say he didn’t want to talk about it. “Just curious about the bookstore,” I quickly add.
He brings his glass up to his lips, looking at me over the top of it. “Yeah, her middle name.” He takes a long sip.
“Did she want to open a bookstore?”
He shakes his head. “Her parents wanted to memorialize her with this monstrosity of a pink marble headstone. It just seemed wrong. But how do you properly memorialize someone who was so alive . . . and then . . . just isn’t? She loved books. She loved giving. I thought the bookstore would honor her best.”
I smile sadly. She loved books and he gave her a bookstore. It’s romantic and sappy and depressing, all at the same time. An ache forms in my chest somewhere near my heart. “And Black Beauty?” I ask, remembering the sharpness with which he told me it wasn’t for sale.
His eyes study me with that intense stare that toes the line between anger and deep contemplation. “I was digging through my closet one day when a box of her things fell from the top shelf and everything spilled out of it. I was so volatile at that point that I was ready to soak it all in gasoline and light a match, but the first thing I saw when I looked down was mother-fucking Black Beauty. She loved that damn book. Apparently her father had given it to her when she was a child. I got the cabinets from an antique store just for that book, though I have no intention of selling that one.” He finishes his drink and sets the glass on the granite countertop.
“Anyway, that’s why I haven’t been involved with anyone for so long. Not because I don’t think you’re great, or worthy of someone else who’s also great. It’s just not fair to love someone with only the little bit of me that’s left. If I can’t put my whole heart into it, then what’s the point?”
I consider him over my glass, thinking those are some of the saddest words I’ve ever heard. Then I shake my head deliberately. I’ve been through my fair share of loss and heartbreak, but even I am sure of what I’m about to say. “Love is made by God. Something like that can’t be restrained; it has no limit.”
“Yeah, well, God and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms at the moment.”
“You’re a good man, Landon.” I’m not sure why I even say it, but I feel like it’s something he needs to hear. Landon meets my eyes for a few seconds before shaking his head.
“No. Determined, maybe. Hardworking. But not good.” The thing that’s most disturbing about his statement is that he’s not even sad or regretful. He says it like it’s the only thing he’s sure about.
“You’re not the first good man to say that. You’ve made it your life’s work to contribute to people in need. That’s not something a selfish man does.”
“It is when that’s the only thing keeping him from living a self-serving life.”
“I don’t think that’s what you’re doing.”
“You didn’t know me before.”
“You can’t live in the past, Landon,” I say, finishing my drink. I know that because I have to tell it to myself every day. “You’re not that man anymore.”
He pours another finger of bourbon for each of us, the sound of the liquor bottle clinking against the wine glasses punctuating the silence. “Am I scaring you away?”
“How do you think you’ve done that?”
He shrugs. “I’ve just shown you a box full of photographs I keep of my ex and told you my entire career revolves around her memory.”
“I’ve met people with more baggage.” I match his shrug. Like me.
He gives me a sarcastic grin. “That’s strangely encouraging.”
I close the distance between us, coming to a stop in front of him. “You’re not the only one who knows heartbreak, Landon, and you won’t forget about it tonight. But maybe I can distract you for an hour or so.” I remove his glass from his hands and set it down, sliding my hand into his hair and pressing my lips to his.
And just like that, it’s me distracting Landon from his past instead of the other way around. Or maybe we’re both doing it for each other.