He sighed. “Nora . . . and I . . . we have a serious problem.”
I straightened up as my stomach plummeted. “What kind of problem?” I asked with barely controlled rage, the first thing running through my mind was Nora being pregnant with Sebastian’s baby. I held my hands under the desk so he couldn’t see my clenched fists. Agony ripped through me at the thought of her big with his baby, and I forced myself to stay calm and not react the way I wanted to, which was to jerk him up and beat the shit out of him. And I didn’t want to do that. Not really. He was all I had.
But, I couldn’t stop my imagination from going crazy when I pictured Nora happy and smiling with a child, her child. And envy gnawed at me. Wondering what it would be like if she belonged to me, I pictured these possible fragments of my future, where I took care of her, where I made love to her everyday, where we got married, where she delivered our precious babies.
And those fake, future memories . . . the beauty of it took my breath away.
I startled at the suddenness of my realization, recognizing it for the truth that it was. What had I given up when I told her we would never be? Had I lost my only chance at real happiness when I’d rejected her?
I grappled with my emotions, not sure what to call it or how to describe it.
Was it love?
No, that didn’t cut it. This was no lukewarm, vanilla feeling. It was a madness, making me feel like a weak-kneed boy on his first date, like I had fucking butterflies in my stomach when I pictured her face. She consumed me, my head, my heart, my skin, my blood, my muscles, everything aching for the physical touch of her body against mine. I’d had an inkling of what we could be at the open house; at the movies, I’d realized that she could be mine if I let her; now I knew I’d made a mistake.
Did this mean she was my soulmate? Because she held my gutless piece-of-shit heart in her hands; because I thought I would die if I never got to kiss her again?
Yeah.
I felt the beginnings of a splitting headache and wished for a good bottle of whiskey.
“Leo?” he asked, bringing me back. “Dude, you alright?”
“Just tell me. Get it over with.”
He squirmed. “She’s got this guy sending her texts,” he said and stopped, not elaborating.
“Cuba?” I bit out unsure whether to be relieved or angry Nora was sleeping with some other guy. Or maybe both?
Sebastian must have seen the conflict on my face, because he sputtered. “Jesus . . . someone . . . I can’t say who . . . keeps sending her texts and trying to scare her.”
“Scare?” I rose up from my desk and braced my arms on top. “How?”
His face whitened.
I rapped my fist against the hard wood of the desk. “Tell me, Sebastian.”
He stood and backed toward the door, his eyes wary. “This was a really bad idea. I’m breaking Nora’s confidence, and I shouldn’t have. It’s not a big deal anyway.” He ran his eyes over me dismissively. “I’ll protect her.”
“Yeah, because you love her, right? You guys gonna go steady now? Get married someday? I hope you’re using protection, Sebastian.”
He let a small smile slip out, like he had a secret.
“What’s with the smile?” I snapped.
“We use protection, don’t worry,” he said, his eyes trained on my face as blood drained from it.
I swallowed painfully and closed my eyes, trying to get the mental picture of them together out of my head.
He snorted. “We don’t have sex, Leo. You’re so stupid, man. And you’re right, I do love her. Like a sister.”
“These boots were made for staggering.”
–Nora Blakely
ON SUNDAY, I woke up at five when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Finn.
--If you won’t call me, then I’m coming to you.
If he was up texting that early, I knew he had to be either drunk or high and that made him unpredictable. I immediately scooped up my purse from the side table next to my bed and took out my knife, assuring myself it was still there.
I had to be ready.
Later, I made my way downstairs to help Aunt Portia get the breakfast crowd started. I cleaned the kitchen from the morning muffins, make the daily coffees, and prepped the stations. At eight, I called the Piano and Friends studio and told them I wouldn’t be back. They’d been calling my phone and leaving voicemails, asking if I was returning for lessons. For the past several years, I’d spent many weekends there, sometimes hours at a time if I was preparing for a recital or a pageant. Would I miss those lessons? No. I’d never had a choice in taking them.
At noon I was upstairs when my dad called and asked if I wanted to come by and pick up some of my things. He said he would meet me there to help load up. I got excited thinking about my sewing machine and laptop, so I threw on some jean shorts, a tank, and flip-flops. I decided to head over to the gym to see if Sebastian would mind following me so we could load both vehicles.
When I got downstairs, I noticed a package sitting inside by the front door. It was a large brown box and addressed to me with no return name on it. I pulled it past a couple of staring customers and back to the kitchen where Aunt Portia was cleaning up from the lunch crowd.
“Oh, glad you found it. It was delivered by courier while you were upstairs. What do you think it is?” she asked, washing a baking pan.
“Don’t know,” I said, pulling some scissors from the utility drawer. I cut through the taped-up box. When I had it open, I peered inside and saw a shoe box with the words Texas Traditions Customs written on it. TTC was a boot-making company in Dallas owned by Scott Ryan, who made boots for people like Lyle Lovett and Mick Jagger. The average cost for a pair was around a thousand dollars with wait times up to a year.