Even though I got everything I’ve ever wanted, it was never enough. I always wanted more. I was working, always working. I rarely slept at the Midtown penthouse that I shared with my fiancé since I was always staying late at the office. It wasn’t a problem. Rachel had her own high-power law career to wrestle with. We both worked hard and rarely saw each other.
Maybe I should have seen the signs. The unusual flashes of temper, the hasty goodbyes, and the faraway look I sometimes caught in her eyes. But I had too much on my mind. I had just sold my second company and trying to get the third one off the ground. There was a constant rotation of meetings with employees, investors, and customers. I had just lost Dad. I worked like a maniac and to make up for my absence; I gave her a blank check for whatever she wanted for our wedding.
“I never wanted a fancy wedding. I just wanted you, but you couldn’t even keep that promise.” I remember her saying on the morning of our wedding, which was supposed to be held at the fanciest, most lavish hotel in town and where we invited five hundred people including the mayor of the city. Her bags were by her feet. “I’m sorry, Fletch,” she said, but her eyes were not apologetic.
Picking up the pieces is never easy, and you have to start from the beginning. My parents’ house has been boarded up for years now, and it’s time for me to finally get it in order. I could’ve just hired someone to put everything into storage and then sell the house for me, but it feels too much like just kicking the can down the street. I can’t just hide from my problems anymore. I need to face my life and the consequences of my actions, whether I like them or not.
Also, I couldn’t trust someone else to just deal with everything and decide for me. This is the house that I grew up in, that I thought I would grow old in. I have to give up on those dreams, as well as dreams I had with Rachel. A stranger wouldn’t know what is important to me or what I want to keep, or to whom I am comfortable giving it away to. The girl from today seems alright. She doesn’t seem local. There is a quiet and reserved vibe about her. She seems to struggle with life and could use the free stuff. There are shadows on her face that tell of hardworking days and sleepless nights.
Something about her makes it hard for me to get her out of my mind. Maybe it’s the way her full hips sway even though she hides them well under her frumpy clothes or how her quiet intelligent eyes speak volumes. I shake my head. No, my instinct tells me that girl is trouble. My instincts tell me.
She is not like the woman in the silk robe who was here earlier. It’s so transparent what women like her want from me. It’s easy for me to fritter away boredom with them while never taking any of them seriously. They are more than happy to trade sex and attention for money and fame, and I can get rid of them as soon as I tire of them, which would be rather quick.
The local non-profit calls me to confirm their appointment to pick up the Chevy for donation later this week. Then I delete the messages from the woman in the silk robe without responding. Women like these are a dime a dozen, I have no trouble letting them go.
But the girl from earlier today is not one to be trifled with. She wears her poverty proudly, the way some people wear their wealth. She lives life the way she wants to. And proudly so. She’s got spirit. Those other women are not even real human beings compared to her. They are just empty shells wrapped in nice clothes and expensive jewelry.
I’m used to dealing with people who want money or fame. They are easy. I can manage and control them and get whatever I want from them. With this girl, the usual tricks wouldn’t work. Money and status mean nothing to people like her. They want things I can promise but can never give.
I’m a selfish man and I refuse to take any woman seriously.
Chapter 3
Amelia
I despise rich people.
The cafe where I work is situated right next to the most expensive office park in town. Every morning and afternoon, we get a constant rotation of high-maintenance, rich clients who think that by paying five dollars for coffee they can treat you like dirt.
The worst is Penelope Winston, who comes here a few times a week because it is on the way to her father’s business. It is Sunday, so I wasn’t expecting her at all. It is my usual day off, but I need the extra cash. It also happens to be the day when the cappuccino machine breaks (again) and I am soaked in ugly patches of brown coffee stains and doubting my life choices on the whole.
“I’ll have
