Magnus Page 18

“It is! You—”

  “It’s not!” she screams like a crazy person. “I stayed away because I was sick of him, and you, pretending like everything was okay with us. Like mom hadn’t died and left us—left dad—miserable to the point that he went downhill so fast, it’s like we lost both of them. I’ve always felt like we lost them both at the same time. Now daddy’s gone, but be honest – he’s been gone. He’s been gone for a long time.”

  I don’t want to argue with her. I don’t know what she’s on and thus I don’t know her level of comprehension so I stay quiet about the subject.

  “I have to clean this place up,” I tell her. “Are you going to stick around for a bit and help?”

  “Nah. I’m outta here,” she says, then brushes past me and on out the front door.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Magnus

  “Do you believe in coincidences?” I ask Bransen as I enter his office, snacking on Twizzlers. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I wish I could pull them back in. I find myself needing to discuss Shiloh with him again. I’m certain he’ll read too much into it. Why wouldn’t he? I rarely talk about anything in my personal life. I’m sure he’s getting a kick out of this.

  I keep my face straight, awaiting his response.

  He glances up from his agenda and says, “Ay, man. Sharing is caring.” He opens his hand.

  I take the small pack of Twizzlers from my pocket and hand it to him. He takes out a rope and hands it back.

  “I know you got a lot on your mind when you get to eating these things.” He takes a bite then asks, “What is it, big dawg? Does this have something to do with that girl again? Or should I say wife?”

  “Or you could use her name. Shiloh. And yes, it does have something to do with her.”

  “Ah, so that’s why you’ve been so busy this past week. Now it all makes sense.”

  “Can you answer my question?”

  “Sure. I’ll answer your question with a no and yes. I’m one of those people who believe most things happen for a reason, but some things are coincidences. Why do you ask?”

  “Shiloh’s father passed.”

  He frowns. He doesn’t know the man, but it’s hard to hear about anyone dying. It’s especially difficult for me since death has cut me to my core twice with the passing of Nicoletta and MJ.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Her father passed. He was in surgery for a kidney transplant and something went wrong. I was in and out of the office last week because I was helping Shiloh with funeral arrangements and all.”

  “Wow. I’m sorry to hear that. How’s she coping?”

  “As best as she can. I think—ah—” I pause before getting philosophical but it is my belief that Shiloh and I met for a reason.

  “You think what?”

  I pull in a breath and slide my hands into my pocket. “I think my connection to her is deeper than the surface. It’s deeper than me having a baby. When I was helping her with the funeral arrangements and everything this past week, I could literally feel her pain. That got me to thinking about all those days I spent watching her. It helped me understand what kind of person she is. I used that intel to help her through this. I know what she’s going through, Bransen. Who better to help her than me?”

  “No one.”

  “And since I’ve been helping her, I don’t have time to think about my problems. I find myself feeling more like her protector. I have to be strong for her because I know she’ll need me.”

  “Amazing,” Bransen says.

  “What’s amazing?”

  “This conversation. This is the most I’ve seen you in touch with your emotions in years.”

  “I already have a therapist, man.”

  “Nah, I’m serious, Mag. You’ve been so closed off but standing here now, you are a different man, and it’s all because of her. That, to me, is amazing.”

  I know there’s some truth to what he’s saying, but I don’t want him to go overboard with his epiphany. It is because of her. She’s special. I know that now.

  “Anyway, now that the service is over, I know she doesn’t want to continue this contract with me.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “No. Her reason for accepting my proposal was so her father could get a kidney. Now that he’s gone, she has no use for me.”

  “Maybe she likes you. Have you considered that? Who knows how you’ve affected her after everything you’ve done this past week?”

  I shake my head. I like to think I’m good with calculating moves in business and with the people in my life. I know Shiloh. She’s not going to want to continue with this. “I know what’s coming next, Bransen. I can feel it.”

  “Okay, so what if she doesn’t want to continue with your lil’ experiment? Then what? Didn’t you make her sign a contract?”

  “I didn’t make her sign anything. She signed on her own. With that being said, she lost her father, man. I won’t enforce the terms of the contract under those circumstances.”

  “Which means you really do like this girl. Normally you wouldn’t care. That says a lot.”

  I reflect back on the week I had with her. On how devastating this loss has been for her. I think about all the times I watched her struggle to hold herself together. All the tears I saw fall from her pretty eyes. I think about the woman I met at the bistro versus the woman who’s probably sitting in her father’s house trying to make sense of something that makes no sense. She’s not the same. I won’t make her do anything she doesn’t want to do.

  * * *

  I left work early today to find Shiloh’s Porsche in the driveway at the guesthouse. It’s the first time she’s been back since her father passed. I let myself in and head upstairs to the bedroom where I know I’ll find her. At the top of the steps, I stand and watch her cram clothes in a large suitcase. She must’ve purchased it because I don’t recall her bringing a suitcase that size when she moved in. She had a smaller one – one she used for shoes.

  She looks surprised when she pivots to see me standing here, but sadness is the predominant look on her face.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, but it’s obvious what she’s doing.

  She’s packing.

  She’s leaving.

  Leaving me.

  “Um, I was hoping to do this over the phone but you’re here so—um—”

  She takes a breath and continues, “I can’t do this anymore, Magnus. I know I signed a contract and all, but with my father passing, I don’t think I can do it. No, I take that back—I know I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”

  I’d predicted this. I don’t say a word even though I want to grab her in my arms and hold on for dear life. Still, I understand where she’s coming from so I let her make the decision she thinks will be best for her without attempting to sway her one way or the other. I’ll be alright. I’m good at burying feelings. Faking emotions. Putting on a straight face and absorbing the shock of things, situations and circumstances that pains me. This is no exception. I soak in everything she tells me. I lock it away, throw away the key. She wants out. I quietly allow her to have that.

  “I put the keys to the car on the counter downstairs along with the bank card you gave me,” she says. “Most of the money is still there. I only used a few hundred dollars for gas and food.”

  “You can keep the money, Shiloh.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  She zips up her suitcase and grabs her purse.

  “I’ll help you with the suitcase,” I say walking over to her. I grab a handle and carry the bag downstairs. “Since you’re leaving the car, how do you plan on getting around. You don’t have a car.”

  “I’ll worry about that later.”

  “Shiloh, you can have the car.”

  “No, but thanks.”

  Outside, there’s a car waiting. The ‘U’ in the windshield tells me it’s an Uber. I don’t like it but again, it’s her decision to make.

  The driver gets out to retrieve her suitcas
e. After fitting it in the trunk, he asks, “Both of you or just one?” He sounds Jamaican.

  “Just me,” Shiloh says.

  I open the back, right-side passenger door for her. She barely looks at me when she says, “Bye, Magnus.”

  I can’t bring myself to say a word, especially not bye. Deep down, I know this isn’t the end for us. This isn’t an actual goodbye. I’ll see her again. Even if I have to sit outside Bistro Le Bon until she shows up, I’ll see her. Talk to her. Interact with her.

  I close the door and the driver pulls off. I stand there until he’s out of sight.

  It’s in this moment I hate myself for letting her leave. For not stopping her. For allowing this to happen. Allowing her to exit my life so easily.

  I throw my head back and sigh my displeasure into the atmosphere. I already feel a loss.

  What if she’s pregnant?

  Even if she’s not, I still feel like a part of me is inside her. Like we have a purpose together. What’s wrong with me? Why’d I let her leave?

  I hate the way I need her. Hate this tightness I feel in my chest. She wasn’t supposed to mean anything to me, but the sadness I feel tells me she means more than I ever wanted to admit. I lick my wounds, turn off my feelings and walk back toward my home, leaving the front yard of the guesthouse.

  Lucille is watching me from the kitchen window…

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Shiloh

  Wednesday afternoon, Rico calls me in to sub at the bistro. It’s the distraction I need to take my mind off of burying my father. Most people would say it’s too soon to be working after losing someone in death, especially someone close like a parent, but I figure it’ll be good for me. Plus, I need to discuss getting my job back on a more full-time basis since I’m back to being broke again. My father’s house is paid for but the bills – not so much. I still need to make money to support myself long-term and I know I need a better job than waitressing to accomplish that. It’ll have to do until I figure out what I want to do with my life. Right now, I have no clue.

  So, serving wine and tapas it is…

  Tying on the black skirt-apron and getting back into the groove of things makes me realize the truth in the sayings life goes on and time waits for no one. My customers don’t know my father died. They’re here for a good time and good food. They’re laughing it up, sipping wine, telling stories of their day at the office – they have no idea I’ve suffered a heartbreaking, tremendous loss. That’s why they show no mercy when I screw up – when I bring Merlot instead of Moscato and shrimp scampi instead of fried shrimp. One of my tables even asked Rico if a different waitress could serve them instead.

  “I shouldn’t have come back so soon,” I tell Rico.

  “You’re doing fine, Lo,” Rico says in a whiny way. That’s a dead giveaway he’s lying.

  I go back to the kitchen to get another tray of food, but instead of picking it up, I pause and stare at it instead. I’m not doing fine. I’m not.

  “I can’t do this,” I say. “I can’t do this.”

  I take off my apron and retreat to the back office to get my purse and coat. My heart is beating so fast, I think I might faint, so I touch the wall and steady myself. That doesn’t work. Before long, I feel my back sliding down the length of the wall towards the floor where I end up sitting.

  I shouldn’t have come back so soon. It gives me the feeling my papa’s death never happened. How can I resume my normal routine when he’s gone? My life needs to pause because at his death that’s what it feels like my world has done.

  Paused.

  There is nothing in me that wants to un-pause the way I feel. I have no motivation. I suck as a waitress. I suck at life in general.

  “Shiloh,” Rico says frantically. “I’ve been looking all over for you. What’s going on?”

  “I can’t do this, Rico,” I say. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.” I feel tears slide down my face. My body’s shaking. I hide sadness behind my hands.

  A few of the waitresses try to comfort me, but Rico sends them back to work. Tells them he’ll handle this.

  I’m this now.

  “Shiloh, why don’t you take the rest of the day off.”

  The rest of the day…

  It’s already eight o’clock. Dark out. The day’s gone.

  “Shiloh.”

  I’m stubborn to his calls for me. I focus on being miserable instead. I’ve already embarrassed myself in front of everyone. I’m on a roll. No need to stop now. So I cry. I cry all I want to and intermittently wipe my eyes with the sleeves of my white shirt.

  Rico sighs, whips out his phone. I hear him talking to someone. Hear him say my name. The call doesn’t last long. He hangs up soon after.

  * * *

  A short time later, I’m still sitting on the floor. My tears have dried up. My eyelids are heavy and puffy. I shouldn’t have come back. It’s hard to get into the swing of things when you haven’t really had time to recover from such a traumatic loss.

  “She’s in here,” I hear Rico say.

  The door swings open. Magnus enters. He’s suited, dressed in Italian. He looks like the billionaire that he is. He kneels down beside me, his pants touching the dirty floor.

  “Shiloh.”

  He says my name softly. I hear concern in his trained tone. He’s usually the opposite.

  “Shiloh,” he says again. This time, he nudges my chin up slightly so I’m looking at him.

  “Yes?”

  “What are you doing on the floor?”

  “I’m taking a break,” I say holding my head up like I have a little dignity left. I don’t.

  “According to Rico, you’ve been sitting here for nearly an hour.”

  “A long break,” I respond. “You can go back to work or wherever you came from, Magnus. I don’t know why he called you. I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine. You’re sitting on the floor—”

  “I’m fine!” I yell, glaring at him.

  He frowns a little. Analyzes me. “You’re not fine,” he tells me. “You’re still in pain.”

  “You don’t know what I am or who I am as a person, so don’t sit here and act like you care.”

  “I do care. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care.”

  “Well, I don’t need you to be here.”

  “You need somebody. May as well be me.”

  He does something that shocks me even further. He takes position beside me, sitting on the floor. He brushes dust particles from the knees of his pants then makes himself comfortable. He takes my trembling right hand into his left. Holds it steady.

  “Can I tell you a story?”

  I glance over at him like he’s crazy. I feel him squeezing my hand, then releasing it over and over again like he’s using my hand for his own personal stress ball.

  Squeeze and release.

  Squeeze and release.

  This from the man who said he didn’t want to touch me…

  “You want to tell me a story?”

  “Yes.”

  I smirk and say, “Sure. Tell me a story while we’re sitting on the floor at my job. Make it even weirder.”

  He cracks a smile. He uses the pad of his thumb to rub the joint of my thumb in circular motions. Then he says, “There was this guy who had it all together. He didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in his mouth, but he made a way. Carved his own path. Didn’t use the fact that he was given up by his mother as an excuse to be mad at the world. He grew up. Made a name for himself. He fell in love with a woman named Nicoletta—the love of his life and eventually, they got married and had a baby—a little boy—the second love of his life—and for them life was everything life should be. Happy. Full of hopes, promises and dreams. Then, one day, the guy asked his wife to pick up their little boy from school because he was buried in meetings, and so the wife picked up the little boy from school. On the way home, she—”

  He pauses. I look at the frown on his fac
e. The remembrance in his sad eyes.

  He swallows, blows a breath and continues. “On the way home, she was T-boned by a drunk driver. The accident killed her and his son and it left the guy lost and emotionally damaged for years, even now.”

  He crosses his outstretched legs at the ankles. I turn to look at him again. I still see sadness in his eyes, but he downplays it with a slight smile.

  “Are you the guy in the story?”

  He’s still fiddling with my thumb when he responds, “Yes.”

  “My God…” I feel my heart break for him a little. I begin to understand why he’s the way he is.

  He squeezes my hand. “I lost my wife and son five years ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Magnus.”

  “I didn’t tell you the story for you to feel sorry for me. I want you to know that I know what you’re going through. I know you’re in pain and you shouldn’t be alone while you find ways to cope. So, I want you to come with me. Not to your father’s house where you’ve probably been crying your eyes out. I want you to come with me.”

  I don’t want to, but how can I turn him down after he’s done something that must’ve been extremely difficult? He opened up to me. He sat on this floor and revealed things he thought he never would.

  “Will you come home with me?”

  “I—I would have to get some things first.”

  “You don’t need to get anything. I’ll get everything you need.”

  He releases my hand, stands up and brushes off his pants. Then he leans forward and extends a hand to me. I accept his grasp. He helps me up.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  “Yeah. I’m ready.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Magnus

  I have no intention of taking her to the guesthouse which is probably what she’s thinking. When we pull into the garage at my house. She looks confused.

  “What are you doing?”