I lock up the bistro and send a group text to Mom and Popster.
Me: Hi. I think I was wrong.
Popster: About time. What are you going to do about it?
Me: I don’t know yet.
Mom: Call him, text him, go to his house, anything, honey.
Then, I have an idea.
I walk into the law office balancing the pie and quiche, and I take them to the kitchen. As I go to set them down, I see Ryker’s dad, getting a cup of coffee.
“Hello, Mr. Miles.” I say, and he looks up.
“Hi, Aspen, it’s good to see you. How are you?”
I know Ryker’s close with his dad, so I’m guessing he knows we broke up. I give him a small smile and say, “I’ve been better… you know.”
“I know,” he says and nods, with a kind and understanding smile.
I take a breath and smile, “But I wanted to see Ryker. Is he in his office?”
He frowns. “No, Aspen. I’m sorry, he went to his house in Kauai.”
“What?”
“Yeah, he was a bit of a mess, said he had to get out of here.” I swallow, and he adds, “I’m sorry.”
I drop my chin to my chest for a moment and stare at the floor. Then I look back at Mr. Miles. “OK. Well, thanks. Enjoy the food, and see you next week.”
I turn on my heel and leave. I run out to my car and get inside, slamming the door behind me, and the tears come again. Shit!
I’d thought I was done crying.
He’s gone. He left.
32
Ryker
The burnout of heartbreak has made me feel like a walking corpse the past couple of days. It’s evening, and the sun is setting by the time I pull my rental car into the driveway of my new house on Hanalei Bay, on the island of Kauai, Hawaii. I need to sleep and be alone. I don’t even care if there are sheets on the bed, or hell, a bed itself.
I step out of the car, and the dense humidity hits me like a steam room. It’s no joke that Kauai is known as the wettest place on earth. I beg to differ, that honor goes to Aspen’s pu… It’s no time for joking. I have to stop thinking about that. And her.
God, I want her back.
But I know that’s not likely.
I came here to get the hell out of town. It was too hard being within a twenty-mile radius of her. Dad understood, and he didn’t mind when I told him I had to take off. I brought my files and laptop. Though my plans of getting some work done on the plane quickly morphed into dowsing myself in rum-and-cokes and binge-watching Netflix. And a few hours of just staring at the seat in front of me.
I pull out my phone and read the message from Patrick, telling me where to find the keys. In the back, under the red planter. I walk around to the back and take a moment to enjoy the view of the ocean, and the acre of property, ringed by coconut palms. It’s stunning, but it makes me feel empty. All I want is to enjoy this with Aspen.
I let myself into the house and see the remodeling is going well. The workers are almost done. Only the deck and spare bedrooms need finishing.
I find the master bedroom and sit down on the bed. My injured back hurts from the flight, but I’m glad my shoulder is doing better. I didn’t even bother packing anything. I just figured I’d buy whatever I need here. Besides, I don’t like to carry luggage.
I walk around the mostly empty, 5-bedroom, 4700-square-foot house. I chose this house because of its unsurpassed views of the crescent arch of the bay, and the majestic, emerald green mountains, cut by narrow waterfalls that look like strands of diamonds. My plan had been to spend my winters here, and the place has a studio workspace and a full gym, too.
I head to the refrigerator, grateful that Patrick found somebody to stock it with food and drinks. I grab a beer and head to the breezy, screened-in lanai, and I sit down at the 10-seat centerpiece dining table. I’m bored. Aching. I take my journal out of my satchel and start to scribble.
Being here alone, the beauty of this place is dampened. My empty body is unable to feel anything but anguish without Aspen in my life. My chest tightens. I finish my beer.
I need to move on, though.
She wants nothing to do with me.
I walk to the bathroom and wash my face, bending over the sink as I do it. “Ouch. Shit.” My lower back fights me. I head into the bedroom and open the doors that step out onto a big, unfinished deck. I take a deep breath.
I don’t have any patio furniture out here yet, but there are some white plastic chairs for the contractors, so I sit down and open up the browser on my phone and search for patio furniture. I distract myself by ordering a bunch of shit, wondering if Aspen would like the pieces I’m choosing. I buy grey wicker furniture, couches and chairs, and a table with an umbrella. For the cushions and the umbrella, I choose the color red.
Maybe I should call her. I pull out my phone, and I see her last text message to me. Lose my number.
OK, maybe not.
I drink another beer, and silence fills my head as I watch the sun go down over the ocean. Fucking miserable.
Maybe I’ll feel better tomorrow.
The days go by like Los Angeles rush hour. Maddening and slow. It’s lonely, and not only do I miss Aspen, but I miss working with Dad. I chuckle, a minuscule one, because it’s all I can muster right now… I never thought I’d miss being a lawyer.
I’ve spent my boring time here shopping for shit for the house and walking on the beach.
