Part 3 (1/2)
I shrug. ”A variety of places. I endowed a scholars.h.i.+p. I put a lot of it towards building the new firm. There's a small foundation that pays for a lot of the pro bono clients that come through. I gave to quite a few charities.”
”And left yourself with?”
”My salary at Cabot Ess.e.x Maxon and the building that houses it. That's pretty much it.” I shrug, leaving off the fact that it took a lot of convincing to get my financial planners to realize I wasn't losing my mind or the victim of a brain tumor, and that yes, I really did want to get rid of it all, and no, I wasn't interested in a tax shelter or other offsh.o.r.e accounts of any kind.
Which, by the way, I discovered was my father's specialty, and untangling all of those after inheriting the estate took weeks and quite a lot of doing. Turns out giving away money is a lot harder than I antic.i.p.ated, and required that I pay an awful lot of it to people who absolutely didn't want to do it.
”And how does it feel to be poor?” She asks. She's awfully feisty tonight, definitely not into taking any s.h.i.+t from me, or letting any s.h.i.+t slide.
I like it. I like her.
”I'm hardly poor,” I tell her. ”Despite my lack of stock options and bonuses, I still have a pretty nice salary. Anyway, what about you? What have you been up to?”
And then the seal is broken. We spend the next hour talking over gla.s.ses of pinot noir and bowls of fresh pasta and braised pork shoulder. She tells me that she's been temping for the last month while she looks for a permanent job, and that she's been surprised to find that she likes administrative work.
”Turns out I thrive on being organized and organizing for other people,” she explains between bites of risotto.
”And your art?” I ask, thinking back to the canvas in her apartment.
”Frankly, it's better if my art is separate from my paycheck. It makes it easier to create. To be honest, my painting has never gone better than when I took a seemingly mindless office job. I've been working on a series of little city details. I'm only a few works in, and I'm still getting the feel for it, but I'm happy with the direction.”
”I'm glad to hear that,” I tell her, and I am.
She tells me that she managed to sc.r.a.pe together the money to move out of her parents' house (with a little bonus money her dad snuck her on the side) about a month after she left Maxon Law. She thought about getting roommates, but she managed to find her tiny studio and loves living alone for the first time in her life.
”It means I can stay up all night at the easel, and no one's there to give me s.h.i.+t,” she says, and I can just imagine her hands and cheeks streaked with paint, working as the sun rises over the Atlantic.
”Between Oliver and Logan and Julia always around, I'm rarely alone these days,” I say. I'm shocked to realize the truth of it. That after she left me, my life suddenly got bigger. Before Cadence, I'd managed to isolate myself almost entirely, both in the office and outside of it. Maybe it was that she'd left a hole I knew I had to fill. Whatever it is, I'm thankful for it, and it's just another reason I have to be grateful to her for precipitating the change. Even though I've been barely three steps above miserable since she left, I can't help but admit that my life has gotten exponentially better than it was before she ever arrived.
We finish the meal with a shared slice of tiramisu; our chairs slid closer, our heads bowed over the rich, sweet cake. All trace of her anger, my misery, or our shared awkwardness seems to have faded away. I have no idea what comes next, but I feel like we're off to a very good start.
When the waitress brings the check, we both reach for it. ”Please,” I say, pulling it away from her. ”I asked you out, so let me pay.”
She narrows her eyes at me with a devious grin, but finally acquiesces. ”Fine,” she says with a carefree shrug. ”That seems fair.”
I pay the bill, and we make our way out into the autumn evening, which has grown considerably colder since we went into the restaurant. Next to me, Cadence s.h.i.+vers and pulls her jacket around her. Without thinking, I put my arm around her shoulders and pull her into my side to keep he warm. I feel her tense, just for a moment, but then her body seems to unwind and melt against me. It feels familiar in the kind of way that also stings, like rubbing alcohol poured on a wound you're trying to heal. It's helping, but it hurts along the way.
We get to the car, and again I open the pa.s.senger door for her. I hate to let her go so she can get in, but I have to. We can't stand out on the street all night, as much as I'd like to.
And so I climb into the front seat, the question I want to ask on the tip of my tongue, but I'm far too afraid of the answer. Instead, I start the car and start towards her apartment. Because I can't ask for more than what we've had tonight. I shouldn't. I don't deserve it. I should simply bid her goodnight and hope she'll see me again.
I'm halfway down the block when she reaches over and places her hand on my knee, her thumb stroking absentmindedly across my thigh.
I turn to see her looking over at me.
”Maybe back to your place?” she says.
She doesn't have to ask twice. I pause only to pull out my phone and shoot a text to Logan and Julia.
Coming home. GET. OUT.
CADENCE.
I don't know what possesses me to say it.
I know it's exactly the wrong move. But then I have to ask myself, what is the right move exactly?
What am I trying to do? Am I trying to play games with him? Do I want to punish him? Or do I want to be happy? Because at this moment, nothing in the world would make me happier than going back to Levi's place.
I spent so long broken to pieces over the fact that I'd given myself to him, only to find out that our relations.h.i.+p was built on the worst kind of lie. I trusted him, and he shattered that trust beyond what should be able to be repaired.
But once the initial pain of it wore off, I was left with emptiness: over the loss of him, the future I saw, and also the way he made me feel. Literally, I missed the things he did to my body. I'd never experienced anything like it, and I was worried I never would again.
Over the course of our date, which started a little rocky but quickly fell into a comfortable rhythm, I realized that even though the premise of a first date was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard, it was working.
Sure, we'd already been engaged. We'd had s.e.x and lots of it. But in sitting at the counter and devouring plates of the best Italian food I'd ever eaten, I was realizing that I never really knew Levi.
Probably because he never really knew himself.
As we talked, I realized that I'd already forgiven him. It was easy to see that he'd suffered, and that he'd changed. He was a different man, and it was clear that this new Levi would never do what the old Levi had done. But it was also clear that while I may have forgiven him, he hadn't forgiven himself. And I'm not sure he ever would, unless I convinced him that he should.
And so, as we started down Congress Street, clearly heading for the Longfellow Bridge and my apartment in Somerville, I knew I had to do something to show him, to convince him that I understand what he's been through.
More than that, I really really like the man he's become.
It also helps that I took one look at him in jeans and a cashmere sweater over a collared s.h.i.+rt, a pair of rugged boots on his feet, looking for all the world like he could pilot a fis.h.i.+ng boat and then go brew his own beer, and want nothing more than to jump him.
I want to rip those clothes off him and sink my teeth into those muscles and feel his arms wrapped around me.
He pulls to a stop in front of the limestone mansion, someplace I've been purposefully avoiding since I walked out the first time. Seeing it now brings back a flood of memories, only some of them painful.
We're silent as we climb the stoop and he unlocks the door. Inside, I see the changes almost immediately. The family photos are gone, as are a lot of the expensive, oversized antiques.
The former sitting room has been transformed into a small waiting room, with a few chairs and a table with some magazines. There's a large desk for an a.s.sistant just outside the waiting area, in the foyer, but no nameplate.
The rest of the rooms have been outfitted with doors where there previously were none, I'm a.s.suming to turn them into offices and conference rooms to give their inhabitants privacy.
”I'm on the third floor,” he says, and I nod. I follow him up the familiar stairs, but when we get to the third floor, instead of the expansive landing with the fireplace and the leaded gla.s.s windows, we're met with a brand new wall and a front door with a bra.s.s plate that reads ”Private Residence” in loopy script. He pulls his keys from his pocket and unlocks the front door, letting me in. ”Welcome to my humble abode,” he says, almost sheepishly.
I step in to find a beautifully redesigned s.p.a.ce with the site of the landing now a cozy living room. Down the hall, I see one of the bedrooms has been turned into an eat-in kitchen with white tile and cabinets and s.h.i.+ny stainless steel appliances. Further down I suspect I'll find bedrooms, though I remain rooted in my spot, suddenly nervous. So I decide to deflect the only way I know how. By making stupid jokes.
”Humble? Please. Did you see my place? Even the mice are embarra.s.sed to bring guests back there.” I laugh at my own joke, which only makes it less funny. When Levi laughs, I suspect it's more kindness than anything else. But still, his accompanying smile calms my nerves.
”It's definitely a drastic change to the property, but really I was only living in like, three rooms of this place anyway. Now I've just relocated them all to the same floor.” He gazes around, clearly trying to take it in with new eyes for a moment.
”It's great, Levi. I know it's a giant cliche, but I like what you've done with the place,” I tell him, and I mean it.
We both fall silent and suddenly the air feels charged.
Levi looks at me, his eyes dark with a kind of need and longing that makes my belly tighten and my nipples stiffen.