Flawed Page 2

  I turn my attention to her; hers is on my phone. “Do you always read over people’s shoulders?”

  H: We have to get back together. We have something great going on.

  H: At least give me a chance to talk about the summer.

  H: Can we rent a house in the Hamptons? My parents would love to join us.

  “What do you mean?”

  She twists her lips to the left while her dark, blue eyes stare at the screen. “She wants you to rent the house. As in you pay for it.”

  My eyes narrow, the memory of last December hitting me hard on the head like an ice-cold bucket thrown from the sky. H wanted a big cabin in Vermont for the winter. I paid for it, and her family enjoyed it all fucking winter long.

  “No. You shouldn’t overthink it.” Her eyes brighten, not sure if it’s the unshed tears or the light hitting her face. “Or regret it. Next time, try to get to know her before offering her a trip to Barbados.”

  The cab stops right at the corner of Park Avenue and Seventy-second.

  “This is me,” she says, sighing. “Reality awaits. Let’s confront my master, my demons, and beg for a little help.”

  “Sounds like you don’t want to do it.”

  She hands me a ten-dollar bill. “Thank you for the laugh.”

  “At me?”

  “No.” She smirks. “Maybe.”

  “Should you be begging for help?” I don’t assume, but maybe she’s going back to some rich guy who will solve her money situation.

  “In this case, yes. Let’s hope he forgives me and opens his home and wallet for a few days.”

  With that, she shuts the door, dragging herself off to the third building on the left. I wonder where she’s going and who she is visiting. Mostly, why do I care about her and her name?

  Willow

  I hate working in an office. The buzzer of the phone goes off again. It’s like a hungry newborn. Wailing and pleading for attention every five freaking seconds. This isn’t any different from being a nanny. I should get one of those jobs again, shouldn’t I? Nope, last time the boss hit on me all the time. I had to leave her before her husband joined the pursuit. The nanny from 3B told me that’s why most nannies left the couple in 2A—my former bosses. The things I learned about some of those parents were downright scandalous. I could write an entire book about them, call it The Gossip on Madison Avenue or Tales from the New York Cribs.

  That would get me out of my current situation. If it hits the New York Times Best Seller list, I could produce my own play. My first expense would be hiring a helicopter to fly me away from this godforsaken office. All day long, I’ve been sitting at this desk, answering every damn call coming through. I’ve said, “Beesley Enterprises,” more than a thousand times, I’m sure. My cheeks hurt from smiling during every call and at every person who steps out of the elevator as the chrome doors slide open. My left hand cramps from signing all the receipts I’ve been handed along with packages. The clock ticks on the wall.

  The loudest noises, the working elevator and the chatty assistants that come up to pick up the correspondences, won’t take my mind away from . . . I exhale. Tomorrow night would’ve been the opening of my play. I was the lead, knew all the songs, all the moves. My big break was about to happen until the producer broke the news.

  “Due to unforeseeable circumstances, we have to shut down production.”

  Unforeseeable? Sleeping with the promoter and then cheating on him was predictable. Next time, keep it in your pants, buddy. Did you think about those who worked for you? My checking account balance is in the single digits. As a theater actress, I live paycheck to paycheck. If I don’t work, I don’t have money. Therefore, I’m doomed.

  Last Thursday, I had to make the call. More like go and visit them. Crawl all the way to the mighty Mr. Beesley’s lair and beg him and my little sister of all people. That sweet, little girl I’m supposed to look after and make sure she’s doing well. Nothing went the way I wanted.

  “How about moving to Queens with me?” I sounded enthusiastic. Usually, she would receive me with a big hug and a smile. Not that night.

  “Are you high?” her voice somber, not a trace of humor coming from her. “Why would I want to move to Queens, Wills?”

  “To be with me?”

  “Try again,” she quipped, eyeing me suspiciously. “What happened to your roommate?”

  “She’s moving to LA next month,” I said, casually avoiding the part where I needed money to pay my rent—now.

  “If I move, will it be rent free?”

  “Well, you’ll have to pay your part, Hazel.” I faked annoyance, adding a little fact, “This is New York. Rent isn’t free.”

  “Funny you mention it; I don’t pay rent at Gramps’,” she retorted, her index finger swirling while she pointed at the penthouse. “Why would I want to give up my room at the Park Avenue apartment, which I should remind you is close to work, for Queens?”

  “You’re such a snob.” I became desperate, wanting to throw a few insults at her. Then, stopped. My little sister hadn’t been in a mood to play games lately. I approached the fun factor. “Living with the old guy isn’t as joyful as living with me.”

  “Willow, do you need money?” Life had hit her so hard that her sense of humor had disappeared. I didn’t want to say yes straight away, but it didn’t matter what I wanted to tell her.

  She spoke with that new business, serious like tone. “I’m only here for the weekend—till Monday. Then it’s back to North Carolina.” Turning slightly to the leather couch, she pointed at her books. “You seem to forget, I only live here during summers and weekends. I can’t afford to pay for two places.”

  I huffed, defeated. Why did she go back to school? Wasn’t a college degree enough?

  “Do you need money?” she repeated the question, exasperated.

  My back slumped, but I didn’t cry. Nope, I shed all the tears while leaving the theater. “The play. It got canceled.”

  “Oh no, Wills.” Hazel walked to me, hugging me tightly, her hand patting my back. The endearment broke the dam, and I began to cry again. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I sobbed.

  “Why don’t you come to work for us?”

  “What?” I choked with my tears. She’s insane.

  “We’re hiring a new receptionist, but I can’t find the right one.”

  “I’m an actress,” I reminded her. “A server if I’m desperate, not that I plan on going into the food service industry.”

  “It’s an easy job. You won’t regret it. Please?” She gave me those big, puppy eyes that made me say yes to anything she requested. “At least cover the position while we find a new girl.”

  “Will that cover my expenses?”

  Hazel lowered her head, sighing heavily. “You can always move in with us,” she suggested, throwing another adorable, you can’t say no to me, look. “Gramps has plenty of room.”

  “Fine.” I mouthed the hardest, yet the easiest word.

  And that’s how I became Beesley Enterprise’s new assistant and the reason why today I sit in an uncomfortable chair answering the phone. Saying no to Hazel is impossible. We’re close to each other, and I love her as if she were my child because I cared for her for as long as I can remember. My parents aren’t great in the parental department. I had to raise my sister and look after her when they were out of town.

  Adulthood sucks—my life is a complete mess. Nothing says “successful adult” like being twenty-six and living with your grandfather—and having your little sister as your boss.

  Only a few months, Willow. A few months of what? My career isn’t taking off.

  The glass door to the left opens. My sister, wearing a dark red, fringed-trimmed dress, steps into the reception area. Her wavy, brown hair pulled back into a French twist. She looks professional, elegant, and nothing like the little tomboy I grew up with back in Santa Cruz. I am yet to understand what she does here. Loaning money, i
nvesting—something related to that—and real estate. Between the two of us, I was the one who loved to dress up with elegant gowns, wearing high heels and makeup. Her . . . not so much.

  “Stop staring at me like I’m your little kid, ‘all grown-up.’” She imitates the voice of an older woman. “Twenty-four is a good age to look like an adult, Wills.”

  What happened to us? When did we become women, instead of children?

  “What do you want for lunch?” she inquires, snapping her fingers in front of me. “You’re daydreaming too much. I thought we were past the canceled play and ready to move on, aren’t we?”

  “Perhaps?” If, and only if, the lottery ticket I bought at 7-Eleven this morning has the winning numbers as Pedro, the clerk, promised.

  “Lunch?”

  The ding announcing the elevator is about to arrive interrupts my thoughts. It’s all so familiar now. The doors slide open, whoever is behind them will step out asking if this is Beesley Enterprises. I’ll stop myself from pointing at the big golden letters, and just plaster on a smile. I get ready, massaging my cheeks before it all happens. Hazel rolls her eyes, you’re such a drama queen, Willow, they scream internally.

  Unlike the other hundred times, the man stepping outside wears a surprised look.

  Oh, fuck!

  Why is he here?

  The man from last Thursday. Mr. I’m-going-to-solve-your-life-because-you’re-a-woman. As if I would let him. He’s good looking in that Chris Pratt kind of way. Why is he here?

  “You’ve been ignoring me all weekend, mister,” Hazel chides him with a smile on her lips as she walks toward him.

  They hug lightly. He’s almost a foot taller than her, wide shoulders, and a killer smile. His tousled, brown hair swept to the side letting me see his light brown eyes, almost as light as my sister’s. Not extremely handsome, but he holds a worldly personality. For a moment, I play in my head the game of guess who he is and what he does.

  Maybe a geek who’s searching for an investor. He’s smart and knows many languages. He likes to travel the world with only a few hundred dollars, carrying a backpack. This man has visited Europe and gone to Latin America. I stare at his expensive suit. Armani? Hugo Boss? Oh, he’s old-money rich. During his trips, he stayed in five-star hotels while visiting small villages and helping the poor. Suddenly, I want to join him on those crusades. We can do it between my productions—that is if I win the lottery tomorrow night. Or he can finance those trips, and find me an audition with one of his buddies who works on Broadway.

  Whoa, Willow stop right there.

  You sound like your mother, a hippie with only one goal in life. She travels on her husband’s dime and cares for those in need more than her own family—not that I’d have a family. Maybe it’s what my grandfather said last night that’s set me off, “you look like your grandmother but have a lot in common with Laila.” I didn’t like that one bit. I don’t like to be like my mother. Unlike Hazel who . . .

  Crap, is my sister H? The one needing a cabin in the Hamptons. Nah, she wouldn’t, would she? After her failed marriage, I have no idea what’s going on inside her head. She doesn’t talk about him anymore. I prefer to avoid talking about anything that might upset her—or make her cry.

  “Miss Beesley, you’re just as demanding as every female I know.” He laughs it out, handing her a folder. “I just need you to sign, and the deal is done.”

  “I doubt it.” She snatches the folder.

  “How so?” He crooks an eyebrow, crossing his arms.

  “I pay you for your services, unlike the string of skanks that you know.” She opens the folder, reading while speaking. “You charge too much not to be demanding.”

  What does he do? He can’t be one of those geeks who require investors for their new gadgets. He’s getting paid. Hmm, is he a real estate agent?

  I’m gawking at him trying to guess his profession and what his real relationship with Hazel is. Are they friends? Acquaintances with benefits?

  His attention goes from my sister to me. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” He takes four long steps, extending his hand. “Hunter Everhart.”

  “Don’t start hitting on her, Everhart,” Hazel demands running to meet us and waving his hand away as if he was an insignificant fly. “She’s not your type.”

  “How do you know my type, Beesley?”

  “Met her last month. What was her name?” she snaps her fingers biting her bottom lip as she recalls who I think is Hunter’s girlfriend. “Was it Heinie?”

  He snorts, and it takes a moment for him to compose himself and side glance at me.

  “I call her H. Her name is Henie. Short for Henrietta,” he explains to me. Then, gives Hazel a pinched expression. Annoyed at her remark. If we are talking about the same H who texted last Thursday, my sister is spot on about me not being like her. Not. At. All. “Who told you that nickname? Fitz?”

  She laughs, and there’s a pinch in my heart. I hate to know he’s making her laugh, as much as I love to see her smiling freely maybe for the first time in months. Is she attracted to him? Maybe it is time for her to move on and find a new person to make her heart beat.

  “Hey, Willow.” Hazel sobers up giving me a funny look I can’t read. “How about that lunch?”

  “What about it?”

  “I need you to go and get me something to eat?”

  Am I her delivery service too? Two thousand dollars a month doesn’t justify being her butler. “Weren’t you going for it?”

  Her eyebrow raises, her head tilts. Fuck, I think this is what she meant when she said I shouldn’t undermine her authority. “No.” She lifts the folder that this man brought. “I have work to do.”

  “Who will be tending the phones?”

  “I can answer the phones while I go through the contract.” Her eyes remain glued to the folder. “Just bring me a grilled cheese sandwich and a chocolate shake.”

  “Nutritious.” I grab my purse, biting the health risks she faces if she continues eating like she’s in an eternal state of PMS.

  Standing up, I study her. “Are you okay, Bee?”

  “Yeah, I just have a ton of work.”

  “I’m here if you need to talk.”

  She nods, giving me a sad smile. Whatever she has going on inside her head won’t come out in front of Hunter. I hurry to the elevator, pushing the down button. I step inside, and the man follows me. Maybe moving to my grandfather’s home was a good idea. Hazel needs me. My spirits are back up in full big-sister mode. Hazel needs me at my best, doesn’t she?

  “I never caught your name,” Hunter interrupts my thoughts.

  He did, Hazel mentioned it a couple of time. I dismiss him by mumbling, “Willow.”

  “Did things work out with whoever you went to visit?”

  “Huh?” I stop strategizing about Hazel and what we’ll do to keep her entertained. Turning to him, I find him studying me. His warm eyes are speeding my heart rate. “What are you talking about?”

  “You were going to find your ex the night we met.” He tilts his chin down, frowning.

  Suddenly the rich aroma of amber notes envelops me causing me to almost break into a mating-ritual song. I take a step back. Musicals are my passion, this man and I have nothing to sing about—or dance along to either. “Whoa. You’ve got it all wrong.”

  Why would I have to see him again? That night was the worst night of my career. And I’ve made some pretty bad career moves. Like the month I pretended I was a ballerina instead of a stripper. That planning party company where I worked as Elsa and sang “Let It Go” for months at children’s parties. Back then, there was hope that something better would arrive. Now, the something better shuts down, and I’m back to square one. I have no leads. My agent assures me something will come along.

  “How so?” Hunter waits for more than my retort.

  Fuck. I didn’t plan to see him again. More like, I begged never to see that guy again. He saw me at my lowest. Weak, defeated, and I even l
et him help me into a cab. He saw a part of me I hate to show. One only Hazel has seen.

  Willow, take it easy. It doesn’t matter. By tomorrow he won’t remember your name, and he’ll be dating another Fanny. Or was it Heinie? Who cares? Not me. I’m not interested in dating anyone, not even Chris Pratt’s doppelganger. In the meantime, I should make a plan to avoid him. Maybe I can ask the front desk to call every time he’s in the building. Stop, Willow, you’re overthinking it. My sister is right. I’m a drama queen. The elevator car comes to a stop and the doors open. I scurry through the crowd of people entering it and dash outside the building through the glass revolving doors.

  “Hasta la vista, Hunter,” I mumble.

  When I enter the deli, I look behind me. He didn’t follow me. That’s good, Willow, I tell myself. Isn’t it? I can pretend with everyone that I don’t care about what’s happening to me, show the people around me that nothing affects me. The ice-queen façade protects me from being hurt. My parents taught me not to trust those who say they love you. They leave without caring about you. At least, my parental units never gave a fuck about us.

  For a second, Hunter’s playful, warm eyes made me forget the rules I’ve established for years. Never fall for a charming smile or a kind gesture. Only a few minutes ago, I was drooling while dreaming of our future. Last week, he woke something inside of me, something I’d numbed a long time ago, and I don’t care to feel ever again. For a few moments, I felt safe as he broke my fall and offered to take me home. And that’s all you need, one second to let a man into your life. They destroy you slowly with false promises and a sense of security.

  Sure, he looked like a gentleman. A caring man who might pledge the woman he falls in love with the sky. Is he the kind who won’t stop at anything to fulfill his promises?

  No, most men take everything away and leave without giving a second glance.

  Two

  One date

  It didn’t work for me, but that doesn’t mean love isn’t real. ~ Hazel Beesley