Page 106 of The Cruiser
“I’m saying it because the past couple months, you’ve been walking around like a lost deer. Every time your phone rings, I see the look in your eyes. You made me drive back to Burbank in rush hour because you left your Yacht Club pen on a table. I also know, very well, how you conduct yourself in business. You would not have gone down a path with him if there wasn’t something.”
Leave it to Vaughn to pile drive home the message. Surrounding myself with people who know me well is getting to be a real drag.
“So, what? You think I should reach out?” Butterflies erupt in my stomach at the mere suggestion.
“At the very least, thank him for getting rid of the photos.”
“You still think it was him?”
“I know it was him. It takes serious money and clout to vaporize shit off the internet.”
A few days after we became international stars, all the photos vanished. It doesn’t erase what everyone saw or how many screen shots still exist. Ironically, mango sales did rise.
Thanks for that tidbit, TQ.
Vaughn stands and sets one loafer on my coffee table to stretch out his calf. He’s casual about a lot of things around me, but I doubt he’d swim naked. “I think it will do a lot for your head and your heart if you clear things up with him,” he says. “Don’t sit here and wait for him to reach out. Like I said, men are weak. He’s probably watching the sunset from his yacht, crying into his foie gras.”
I chuckle. “You certainly know how to paint a picture.”
“It’s what we do, right? Spin the story, tell the tale. We’re in the business of manipulation and illusion. I don’t know if you gave me the whole story, but it sounds like there was some BS with one of his employees. Maybe you thought he was a certain kind of person, but he might prove you wrong. You’ll never know until you peek behind the curtain. And,” he says pointing his thumbs at himself, “don’t look any further for evidence that people can change.”
He kisses me on the cheek and before he ducks out for lunch, we discuss a couple of upcoming events, the pros and cons of a new client. TQ and I plan on gathering in my office for a salad and catch-up so I tidy my desk, coming across the envelope Vaughn left behind. With no return address or any type of logo, curiosity gets the better of me. I slice the top clean with my letter opener and upend the contents onto my desk.
It’s not the Agent Provocateur panties—I know, without counting, that there’s ten inside the bag.
It’s not the cream-colored stationary from the Fairmont.
It’s my name, written in his distinctive script.
Like the bold vertical lines, my heart starts to jump all over the place. For several minutes I don’t dare open the card. All I can think about is how our contract came back with VOID stamped in bitter red above our signatures. No message. How much it hurt.
Two months is a long time to sculpt the ultimate piss off letter, and I’m not sure I want to read it. But like Vaughn said, I need to clear my head and heart once and for all.
I tip it open.
Dear Vandana,
I am sorry for everything.
I’m here until Saturday morning.
Every night at 7 I’ll be waiting for you.
Please come.
Morgan
I plug my mouth with two knuckles, holding down the throb of emotion. It’s so very Morgan, minimal and to the point, but it’s a three-novel set to me. I trace the elegant lines of his writing and something inside me loosens. Remembering how, at his apartment, the soft brush of his fingertips left a glow on my skin. Remembering the taste of salt on his lips, kissing in the Mediterranean. Remembering our embrace at the hospital. How I never wanted him to let go.
I want to make him wait, all the way to Friday.
But I can’t wait that long.
Damn you, Morgan.
I’m never in control when it comes to you.
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