Taking Turns (Turning #1)(108)

“You do good things, Smith. Don’t ever think you don’t.”

But I’m not sure about that. Money, yeah. I have a lot of it. And I give it all away. It felt good for years to do that. To have that kind of power over people. Corporations.

But now it just feels… very self-righteous. Self-indulgent, if I’m being honest.

“I think I’m going about this all wrong,” I say, standing up.

“How do you figure?” Bric asks.

But I don’t answer. I just walk out. I need to rethink things. Everything.





Chapter Forty-Two - Quin




“Rochelle?” I say into the phone after the beep. She still has voicemail picking up this number, so I’m hoping it’s still one she checks. “I’m sorry. I just found out about… about the abortion. And I’m so f*cking sorry. I wish I would’ve been there for you. I really…”

I don’t know what else to say. What can I say? How the hell do you fix something like this?

“I just want to see you again. I’d beg if I thought it would do me any good, but I know you better. You told me once that everyone thinks you’re flighty and stupid because you’re easy-going. But you’re really very decisive, and once you make up your mind and commit to something, you stick it out no matter what.”

I guess that’s why we lasted so long. She was just trying to stick it out. She did, after all, go to Bric with her problem. Not me.

Not me.

“But I just want you to know… I lo—”

Beep. “The voice mailbox you’re trying to reach is full.”

I just look at the phone. Really? This is how it ends? Really?

I throw it across the room and yell.





Chapter Forty-Three - Chella




I sit out on my back courtyard on New Year’s Eve, my hands tucked into my coat pockets, and watch the snow falling down. It’s so thick, it looks like a curtain.

I came home yesterday and found this here. Sitting out in the middle of the snow, covered in flakes, like it’s always been there.

The two ballet children from Matisse’s exhibit.

There was a note attached from Smith.



Dear Chella,



I think this is a better Christmas present for you. I never had the childhood I imagined either, but it was perfect compared to yours. So when you look at this sculpture, think of better times.

Think of us.



Love,



Smith



I’m not sure what to think about it, to be honest. I love the sculpture. A lot. I check my watch and it’s three minutes till midnight. Three minutes and another year is over. But the gift just isn’t enough for me anymore.

I have been considering my options all week and I finally called Bric last night to help me make a decision.

So I sent Smith a note back this morning.

I smile, thinking about my note.

And then I laugh.

“Hey,” Smith says from behind me.

I turn my head to find him standing in my patio doorway, half in, half out, of the house.

“Hey,” I say back.

“I got your note,” he says, holding up the linen napkin from the Club. “And I have to say, Marcella Walcott, you have made me very curious. Again.”

I nod, trying to stop my smile. But then why should I? He’s here and that makes me happy. “I figured out what I wanted to put in the box.”

He holds the napkin up. “I know. You said this in the note.” He steps out into the courtyard. He’s wearing a dark winter coat and a nice suit. His thousand-dollar shoes drop six inches into the snow, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “Is that it?” he asks, motioning to the blue Tiffany box I pick up off a table. “You only get one anything present, Chella. I hope it’s really what you want.”

“It is,” I say, waiting for him to join me on the bench.

I cleared off a spot for him when I came out here twenty minutes ago, but snow is already piling up. He doesn’t care about that either. He just sits down.

“Do you like it?” he asks, pointing to the sculpture.

“You know I do. But I like this present better,” I say, shaking the box.

“Are you going to tell me what it is?”

“Eventually,” I say. But then I pull another box out of my coat pocket. This one is long and thin, about the size of an envelope. “But I need to give you your present first. You gave me two already and I never even gave you one.”

“I don’t need presents,” he says, wrapping his warm hand around my cold one.

“Right. I know that. But I think you’re wrong. And I think you gave me a hint that very first night we became friends.”

“Friends?” He raises one eyebrow.

“Lovers?” I ask back.

“Both?” he says.

We laugh.

“Open it,” I say, handing him the box. His box is white with a black ribbon. I will never see black and white quite the same way after my experience at the Club. But it reminds me of happiness. Of all the things that made a difference to me. One month, that’s all I had with them. Just one month. And it was enough to change me forever.

“You know, people have been giving me daily presents for more than a decade. Shoes, and a place to crash. A car to drive me around.”