My flight to New York is long and tearful. My emotions swing wildly from heartbroken and hurting to angry and defensive.
Why didn’t he fight for me?
Did I really read all the signs wrong? Did I fall for an act instead of the man?
No, my heart screams. Obviously, my head scoffs back.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” the sweet flight attendant who has already brought me tissues and chocolate chip cookies from First Class asks when we’re somewhere over France.
I give in and nod. I definitely need something to take the edge off. Besides, all my crying and trying not to cry has given me a wicked tension headache that can’t be much worse than a hangover.
She squeezes my shoulder empathetically and I hate myself a little for losing it in front of a stranger. On the other hand, it’s also a relief because I would abhor being this vulnerable, this pathetic, in front of anyone I care about.
Once I have a wine glass in hand, I take a deep gulp and let my mind wander over the last few days. It’s as if I’m searching for clues to understand what the hell went wrong. When did Torsten decide he knew what was best for me, for us? Why didn’t he speak to me about it? How did I read the situation wrong? I thought we were growing together, building the foundation of something special. And he thought, what? That we were becoming great friends who sometimes have amazing sex but will ultimately end up divorced?
I tip my wine glass all the way back, grateful that my row is empty.
As the hours tick by and my erratic emotions calm, new thoughts replace the frantic ones. Like how it was a privilege to meet Farmor. And Magnus sure is one adorable kid. My niece is only a year younger and similarly, I’ve never met her. Wouldn’t it be amazing if I could patch things up with Jesse the way Torsten did with Anders?
Wouldn’t it be something if I could mend my relationship with Dad?
Is it even worth it to try at this point? After all these years and so much hurt? Will reaching out help me find closure, help to heal the wounds that still fester? Or will it cut me deeper, make me bleed when I’m starting to scab over?
The flight attendant returns with another glass of wine and I accept it greedily. At 35,000 feet in the air, the wine hits me harder than usual. I’m grateful when my eyelids grow heavy and sleep beckons. Because sleeping means not thinking. Not thinking means not agonizing over Torsten.
Right now, I need to reimagine what my immediate future looks like. I need to think about the life that I want, the career I want to commit myself to, the place I want to live. Making those kind of life-changing decisions requires sleep. Energy. A clear head.
I pass out somewhere over the Atlantic and don’t wake up until we’re touching down at JFK. While I glance at the New York City skyline as we land, a ripple passes through my chest. It’s definitely not excitement but it’s not devastation either.
Feeling bold and a little bit reckless after having spiraled so spectacularly, I pull my suitcase off the baggage claim belt and line up for a taxi. When it’s my turn, I slip into the back seat of a cab and rattle off my brother’s address, a penthouse on Fifth Avenue my dad gifted to him as a wedding present. I haven’t been in years but I remember it well.
I remember him and Mira well. Jesse always tried to please Dad. He did everything right, followed the rules, and never rocked the boat. If I’m oil, he’s water. But one of my greatest takeaways from Norway is that there’s always a road home, even if it’s all scorched Earth and an arduous trek. Maybe I need to start remembering instead of trying to forget. Maybe it’s time for me to make amends too.
When we pull up to the building, I pay the taxi fare and collect my suitcase. I stand in front of the building, craning my neck all the way back to see the penthouse. The warm spring breeze whips my hair over my shoulders. People rush around me, maybe not even seeing me. I close my eyes and breathe in the city. The sunshine. The anonymity and the freedom and the moment.
I forgot how much I love Manhattan. I forgot how much I adore traveling and experiencing and being. After a year of just trying to survive, I forgot that at one point, I didn’t have to try at all.
I smile at the doorman and pull my suitcase behind me.
“Can I help you with something, Ms.?” he asks politely.
I study him for a long moment. “Dale?”
He frowns. “Yes.”
I grin. “It’s me, Rielle. Jesse’s sister.”
His eyes widen but he smiles back. “Rielle Carter. Wow. Your brother is going to be delighted to see you.”
I laugh in response because that’s a stretch but sweet of Dale to say. It’s the extra reassurance I need that I’m doing the right thing, that I should step into the elaborately decorated building with its high ceilings and expensive scent. The private elevator, the guest code, the entire ritual brings me back to a million years ago, when Mom and I went to see the New York City Ballet. Her friends had disapproved that it wasn’t the American Ballet Theater and I remember how she laughed and laughed, winking at me across the table. Later, we shopped in Chinatown instead of the fancy shops dotted along Fifth. We ate hot dogs from a cart on the street corner and had giant, Mister Softee ice cream cones with sprinkles as a late-night snack. Mom said she wanted me to see the real New York and I fell in love with the bold way the city imprinted itself on me. The grit and grind, the colors and scents, the way millions of people milled about with little concern for playing a part. That trip taught me the importance of being, of enjoying, of actively engaging in one’s own life and choices. That trip changed the trajectory of my life because after Mom passed, I clung to her laughter and the way her eyes danced, and I channeled it to stand up to Dad.
The elevator doors ping open and my brother is standing there, his arms crossed over his chest and a frown on his face. His eyes are dark like mine, like Dad’s. His eyes scan me quickly, lingering too long on my red, puffy eyes.
Then he sighs, “Jesus, Rielle.” He reaches out and pulls me straight into an embrace, wrapping his arms around my back and squeezing.
My nose is pressed into the soft material of his shirt and the scent of his cologne, familiar, rushes over me. Tears well in my eyes and for the second time in twenty-four hours, a sob works its way up my throat. I fall apart in my brother’s arms but this time, it feels like a homecoming.
“What happened?” Jesse asks a little while later.
I twirl the spoon in my mug of tea slowly and think about how to answer that. He lifts an impatient eyebrow at me and his wife, Mira, places a hand on his wrist. The nanny whisked little Leah out to the park the moment my presence was known.
“Ri?” he prods and I don’t miss the worry that blazes in his eyes.
I sigh, “Which part?”
Jesse pinches the bridge of his nose but Mira turns an understanding gaze my way. “Why don’t you tell us what led you here today? Now? We’ve been hoping you’d connect for years now. After Leah was born…”
A lump grows in my throat and I feel like shit. Sitting across from them now, I can understand the hurt that my disappearance from their lives, from their happy occasions, caused. But in the moment of proving my independence to my father, I never considered how Jesse would feel. I figured he wouldn’t care one way or the other. We were never overly close. I was Mom’s daughter and he was Dad’s son and after Mom passed, I felt like I could never align with the Carter men. But maybe drawing that dividing line was more on me? Did my decision, my choice, fracture us?
I let out a sigh and glance up. Jesse watches me with so much concern, his lips pressed together, his jaw tight, and my chest squeezes. I rack my mind for a moment, a memory, where Jesse and I were truly at odds and I realize there were none. I always assumed he would do Dad’s bidding and I desperately wanted to blaze my own trail. Staring at my brother, I realize that I’ve hurt him just as much as I believed he’d hurt me. I open my mouth, and the whole story tumbles out. College and photography classes and Claire. Jerry Jensen and Stu Sanders and Merck No-Last-Name. Eviction notices and interest rates and unemployment. Torsten Hansen and a magical wedding day, Farmor and a hospital bed, Norway.
When I’m done, Mira has tears streaking down her cheeks. My brother looks like he’s going to be physically ill or put his fist through a wall but he does neither of those things. Instead, he opens his arms again and when I hug him, he murmurs, “God I’m glad you’re home, Rielle.”
I snort-laugh and run my hands over my face. “I never thought I’d come back.”
He shakes his head and pulls back. “Dad was always too hard on you. I kept telling him he needed to compromise with you but he truly believed that being a hard ass was the only way to parent.” Jesse shrugs. “I know you think I never cared or never got involved. But really, Rielle, I was trying to do everything his way so you wouldn’t have to. I know you never wanted the life that came along with Carter Enterprises. You live your life under a microscope with too many fingers in too many pies. I liked it though and thought if I could be great at it, the expectation for you to be involved wouldn’t be there. It didn’t work out that way.”
Surprise rocks through me at his confession. My eyelids drop closed and I recall memories, moments after Mom’s death when I was angry and hurting and confused. With Jesse’s words ringing in my head, I process them differently. My mind flickers to Torsten and his family business. Was Anders trying to protect him too? Or did the drama, manipulation, and hurt send Torsten running like me? If Jesse and Dad welcomed me back into the family fold right now, would I want to stay? When I open my eyes, I process Torsten’s predicament differently. I also see my brother in a whole new light. “I’m sorry, Jesse. I’m so sorry.” Remorse is heavy in my tone.
My brother squeezes my shoulder. “I am too, Ri. More than you will ever know.” He tips his head to my chair and I sit back down.
Mira reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. I give her a grateful smile.
“Just so you know, Dad kept tabs on you. He was getting ready to intervene right when you threw him a curveball and married the hockey player.”
I inhale a sharp breath. “Dad knew?”
My brother snorts. “Carter’s Steakhouse?” He mentions the exorbitantly priced steakhouse in downtown Boston.
“That’s you guys?”
“It’s all of us, Ri. It’s a family business. Dad thought you’d eventually come home. He waited freshman year. Then, he thought after college. When he found out that Jerry Jensen was the lender behind your loan, he tried to pay it off outright. He hated the thought of you, of any of us, being under Jensen’s thumb.”
“Jensen refused.”
Jesse nods. “Dad was furious. I think his anger is what held him back from reaching out earlier.” Jesse leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “I know you think you’re just like Mom, Ri. And you are. You got all of her sunshine and sparkle. You sure as hell got her mischievous side.”
I smirk.
“But your pride? Your stubbornness? That rivals Dad’s. Neither one of you wanted to take the first step. But when Dad saw, truly saw, how you were living, he called me from the parking lot of your apartment building raging.”
“He did?”
Jesse nods.
“Imagine his surprise when he learned you had moved. Had married,” Mira offers.
Oh God. I drop my head, imagining the betrayal my father must have felt. The awful guilt that must have settled on his shoulders to learn that his daughter married a stranger instead of reaching out to him.
“Rielle,” Mira’s voice breaks through my voice. “Why don’t you stay for a bit?”
My brow furrows. “Pardon?”
She grins. “Do you have anything to get back to in Boston?”
I shake my head.
“Then stay. Please. Spend some time with Leah, with us. We’ve missed you.”
If the lump in my throat could expand anymore, I’d be suffocating. I swallow past it and nod, tears filling the corners of my eyes. “I’d like that. Thank you.”
She squeezes my hand again. “Besides, you shouldn’t go through a divorce on your own.”
My brother’s eyes narrow at the word divorce. “You’re pretty torn up about a fake marriage.”
I look down at the table but see Mira scold him from the corner of my eye.
“What?” he mutters.
I look back up. “I’m in love with him.” I declare it to the room even though it makes me look pathetic. My tears make me appear weak. But in many ways, I’ve already hit rock bottom and anything I say and do now can’t possibly make me feel any worse.
Jesse swears but Mira nods, understanding in her eyes. “I know,” she says. “So, stay. New York is a great place to lose yourself in when you feel lost.”
I nod, thinking over her words.
“Come on, I’ll show you to your room.” She stands from the table, clasping the handle of my suitcase.
Right before I clear the table, Jesse’s hand darts out and wraps around my wrist.
I turn and look at him over my shoulder.
“I’m glad you came here,” he says and the conviction in his tone tells me he’s serious.
“Me too.”
He squeezes my wrist. “But don’t ever fucking do that to me again, Ri.”
I smile. “I won’t, Jes. Promise.”
The corner of his mouth tugs up and he drops my hand. I follow Mira to a bedroom they’ve designated for guests, taking in the pretty white lace bed coverlet and the elegantly framed photos on the walls. Once I’m alone, I lie back on the bed. Exhaustion sweeps through my body and the thud of my heartbeat echoes in my temples.
Jesse’s concern and Mira’s invitation were definitely not what I was expecting but God, it felt good to belong somewhere. To belong to someone, a family. A flicker of relief catches in my chest that I’m not going to have to navigate this next chapter alone. A shock of warmth blooms in my stomach that all this time, while I was swearing off my dad, he was still watching from afar.
I roll to my side and dig through my purse for my phone.
When I see Torsten’s name on the screen, my fingers begin to shake. I swipe right and read the message.
Torsten: Please, Ri. Just tell me your safe. Where are you staying?
Me: Make things right with your father.
I text instead, letting him know I’m okay but also upholding my promise to Farmor. Torsten replies immediately.
Torsten: Are you okay?
His words cause a fresh wave of pain to crash over me. Will I ever be okay without him? It’s only been a handful of hours and my heart misses his so much it aches.
I bite my bottom lip to keep my emotions in check. I’ve cried more in the past two days than I have in the past two, hell, five years. Now that the dam holding back my feelings has broken, everything I thought I was managing has rushed forward, manifesting through traitorous tears and broken sobs.
Me: No. But I will be.
Then, I dial my dad’s number.
“Rielle?” he answers on the first ring.
“Daddy,” my voice cracks but the breaks in my heart begin to mend.