My sister tracked down her phone number last week, and all morning my thumb has been hovering over that same contact, wanting to cancel this meet-up altogether. Panic has been racing through me, anger too. But I couldn’t cancel. I’ve needed to face this woman since I was sixteen, but it wasn’t until now, realizing that my past with her was holding back my future, that it became an urgent necessity.
I can’t even count the number of messages I typed to Stevie, telling her what I was about to do, needing her help, wanting her to be there for me. But I didn’t send a single one. How selfish would that have been? Her desperate and pleading face, her strained and cracked voice have all been ingrained in my mind since that day I broke up with her. I couldn’t ask for her help when I did that, when it’s all my fault. So, I’m going to get through this on my own while knowing it’s a step to help me win her back.
As I’m pacing my living room, finally, the speaker by my door rings.
“Mr. Zanders, I have a…” my doorman hesitates. “A Mrs. Zanders here?”
She’s still using that name? Convenient.
Inhaling a deep breath through my nose, I exhale just as slowly. “Yeah, thank you. You can let her up.”
It’s less than two minutes later that I hear the elevator stop on my hall, and another fifteen seconds after that, her knock echoes through my penthouse, causing an unwelcome shiver to run up my spine.
Fidgeting with the watch on my wrist, I then adjust the collar of my shirt, unable to get comfortable. I contemplated dressing down, but I’m treating this as a business meeting, so a button-down shirt and slacks it is. Regardless, it’s not my attire that’s making me feel itchy and claustrophobic right now. It’s the woman standing on the other side of the door.
But this is my home, and this is my life. I’m in control here. I’m successful and proud of what I’ve created for myself. No thanks to her. I won’t allow her to make me feel as unimportant as she did the day she left.
With another calming breath, I straighten my spine and reach for the handle, swallowing my nerves as I open the door.
“Evan,” my mom says with pride. “It’s so good to see you.”
She holds my stare, her smile forced with hidden intention, and having this woman standing in front of me, I sense myself crumbling, turning back to that hurt sixteen-year-old boy she left.
Her eyes are as I remember, mirroring my own. Her hair is styled to perfection, but her light brown skin has aged over the last twelve years. She showed up at my game two years ago, but I only saw a small glimpse of her before security escorted her away. I hadn’t noticed the details.
Her clothes are designer, seasons old at this point. Her shoes and bag are worn beyond belief, reminding me why she left in the first place—for money. And why she’s most likely back now—for more.
“Can I come in?” she asks, breaking me out of my daze.
I move aside, allowing her into my home. It feels wrong, having her here. She brings a cold energy, fake and almost venomous as she enters, vastly contradictory to Stevie’s bright aura, wild spirit, and sweet nature. But I have to remember I’m doing this all to better myself and get that girl back.
“Wow.” My mother takes in the space, head spinning. Her eyes may as well be shining with dollar signs. “Your penthouse is amazing. How long have you been here?”
“Just over six years.”
She nods, silently appraising every little thing and reminding me that nothing has changed. “Can I have something to drink?”
“I have water.”
She lightly laughs. “A spritzer or even champagne would be fine.”
I roll my eyes, heading to the kitchen, leaving her to find the living room. My fridge is stocked with IPAs and sparkling water, neither of which she’s getting.
“Your neighbor with the curly hair is something else,” she calls out from the living room, and I can’t stop the smile spreading across my lips. “Quite the attitude on that one.”
I have no plans to explain who Stevie is. It doesn’t matter because the woman sitting in my apartment will hold no value in my life after today. She doesn’t need to know about the most important piece of all.
Putting the glass down on the coffee table in front my mother, I take a seat in a chair perpendicular to her.
“What is this?” She eyes the glass as if she’s shocked I didn’t pop a bottle of bubbles specially for her.
“Water.”
She forces that fake smile again before taking a sip. “I’m so glad you called me, Evan.”