Don't Speak (A Modern Fairytale, #5)(85)

“Wonderful. Then do.”

He hung up the phone before Mr. Leatham could work more of his passive-aggressive objections, and whipped the covers from his body. He’d unpacked last night, but now he grumbled as he stood naked in front of the sheer curtains of the balcony doors. Parting the flimsy fabric, he noted the large icicles hanging from the railing and sighed. The sun was out, but the hill from the inn porch to the sidewalk that led to the dock, was white with snow and ice. And around the dock, where the water was brackish from the Atlantic inlets, he could see a fairly thick coating of ice. When seawater froze, it was cold out. Icy cold.

Christ, but winter in the Banks was depressing.

Pulling the curtains closed again, he crossed to the bathroom, took a piss, and turned on the hot water. Stepping into the Victorian bathtub, he let the hot water soothe his still-weary bones, leaning his forehead against the tile wall under the nozzle and sighing deeply.

You want that I yell at a young lady with a li’l’un?

He pursed his lips and shook his head in annoyance.

“Yes.” Then he paused. “No.”

He turned around in the shower, letting the water pelt his back.

Is that who I am? Who I’ve become? Someone who yells at women and children for waking up on the right side of the bed while I perpetually wake up on the wrong one?

He shook his head again and grabbed the tiny tube of shampoo from the soap dish, squeezing a glob into his palm and working it into his hair.

I wasn’t always this way, he thought sadly, backing up to rinse out the lather.

He soaped his body, running his hands over the well-defined muscles of his chest and arms. Over the years, especially after he’d been kicked off the Devils in his senior year at Duke, he’d found solace in working out. At home in Raleigh, he had an excellent gym on the roof of his apartment building, complete with an Olympic-size pool, and when he’d moved in, he’d made arrangements for his keycard to work at the health club twenty-four hours a day. Many nights, when he couldn’t sleep, he’d make his way to the elevator and up to the thirtieth floor, where he could work out his disappointment and aggression and find the peace to let him go back to sleep.

On autopilot the year after he’d graduated from Duke by the skin of his teeth, he’d allowed his parents to pressure him into law school. He concentrated his studies in public policy as they’d suggested, instead of entertainment law, which had always held his fascination. Locked into a course of study, he graduated three years later and took a job at his father’s law firm, as planned. The following year, he launched an unsuccessful campaign for state senator. Though his parents did most of the work and hoped for the best, his icy demeanor and sour expression lost him the vote.

He still had little interest in politics or public policy. He’d allowed his parents to railroad him into a life he didn’t truly love. Why? Because most of the time, he simply didn’t care.

He had an overwhelming sense of apathy. Work was work. Work made money. Money made life comfortable. But none of it really mattered.

What matters? he asked himself.

He paused as the water whooshed the suds from his skin and down the drain.

“What matters?” he whispered, his voice a little desperate when his mind remained a blank.

Hillary mattered, of course. And Pete. His parents annoyed him, but he cared about them. But he had no great loves. No sports team he played for. No issues he’d die for. No woman he loved.

And in that instant, Hillary’s words revisited him: You need to face your past, or you’ll never be able to move forward. I mean, wouldn’t you like to love someone? Be loved by them? Maybe get married and have a baby?

Did he want those things?

He reached for the shower lever and twisted it to Off, reaching for a towel and drying his hair first and then his body.

Do I want those things?

He used his forearm to clear a circle of steam from the mirror and looked at his face. Here you are, back on the Banks, in the place where your dreams began and died. So it’s time to answer the question, Erik: do you want more than you have?

“Yes,” he whispered. I want to move forward. I want to love someone. I want more than I have.

Face your past, or you’ll never be able to move forward.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, watching as the steam covered the mirror again, blurring his reflection.

To face his past, he’d need to remember the precious days he spent with Laire. He’d need to look at them and examine them and let them hurt him one last time before letting them go. Without answers. Without explanations. Without anything except the sheer force of his will to have a different life than the cold, lonely, angry, meaningless existence he’d been carving out for himself since her loss.

And he may as well start today.

Pulling on jeans and a sweatshirt, he sat down at the desk in his room and reviewed some e-mails and business correspondence, then closed his laptop, grabbed his coat and keys, and headed downstairs. He’d start at Utopia Manor, where his love affair with Laire had started and ended, and when he was done, maybe he would finally—finally—be free.

***

Laire finished the last of her coffee, grinning across the bistro table at Ava Grace, who had just asked for a second helping of pancakes.

“Mama, don’t be mad, but Kelsey makes the best pancakes ever.”

Laire chuckled at her daughter as Ava Grace dug into another helping.