What kind of arsehole let his sister live in a small, run-down studio when he lived in luxurious high style? I thought about Eileen and how I'd kick my own arse before I'd watch her struggle if I could do anything about it, if adjusting my lifestyle meant making things better for her. Then again, I'd done things I'd regret forever to make things better for Eileen. Maybe there was some sort of happy medium. Fionn enjoyed telling me I didn't always need to be so extreme. And yet I wasn't sure how to be anything else. Extreme had gotten me where I was today.
"Do you think we could spend the weekend in Greenwich?" she asked as she packed.
"Sure," I said distractedly, tracing a large crack in her wall with my finger and frowning. "Why?"
"I just thought it'd be nice to get out of the city, enjoy some sunshine," she said. She came up behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist and laying her head on my back. I dropped my hand from the wall and looked at her over my shoulder.
"Anythin' you want, Lydia," I said, my voice cracking before I cleared my throat. She smiled and pulled away.
I walked to her refrigerator and pulled the freezer open, noting two piles of Budget Gourmets and two ice trays, nothing more. I stared glumly at the small boxes of frozen food. Budget frozen food.
The first time I'd seen Stuart after I'd decided to take over his company, he'd been dining at one of the most expensive restaurants on Madison Avenue. I'd wanted to get a fix on him, find out what kind of life he was leading, how much he might be tempted to lose to me in a poker game. I'd found out he was already addicted to the lust of the game. I just hadn't delved any deeper into Lydia's life. If I had . . . would it have changed my mind? Would it have caused me to change course? I wanted to believe it would, but I wasn't so sure . . .
This though, right here, this was the life I'd interrupted. This was the life I'd set out to ruin.
I love you and you were living here and I hate myself for it. How can you not hate me, too?
If only I'd walked up to her at that party, like I'd mentioned to her in Greenwich. If only I'd found a way to let go of the past and returned to her and begged her . . . but no, I'd never beg. I'd promised myself I'd never beg again. And yet for Lydia . . .
"Are you hungry?" she asked, interrupting my thoughts.
I slammed the freezer door closed. "No," I said. "Ready?"
The expression on her face was mildly confused, but she smiled and we left her apartment and returned to mine. That night I made love to her three times, unable to get enough, unable to quench the longing, knowing somehow I was at risk of losing her, of being left hungry forever, and not being able to figure out why I was so gripped by fear.
**********
When the concierge at Stuart's apartment building called his line to announce me, the pause was so long I thought I was going to have to grab the phone and threaten Stuart to let me up. But just as I was about to do so, the concierge looked at me and nodded toward the elevators.
A few minutes later I knocked on Stuart's door and he answered as if he'd been standing right behind it waiting for me. "Stuart," I greeted, working not to grimace at the foul odor that permeated his apartment. God, had something died in here?
"What do you want?" he asked sulkily. I narrowed my eyes at him as he closed the door. He looked awful, far worse than he had the last time I'd seen him. Either this situation was severely stressing him out or he was consuming more drugs and alcohol than I'd imagined. Maybe all of the above. "I'm busy."
"No, you're not. Your only job these days, evidently, is drinking and doing a fuck ton of nothing."
A muted sort of anger took hold of his expression, as if it was the best he could muster at the moment and under the influence of whatever he might currently be on. "You're the one who told me to lie low," he growled.
"Lying low doesn't mean sinking into a state of utter uselessness," I shot back. "If it hasn't occurred to you, you have some decisions to make with your life."
"Fuck off."
"I plan to." I wouldn't stay a moment longer than necessary in this cesspool-smelling hellhole. Then it hit me: Stuart De Havilland had probably thought the same thing when he'd come to visit me in my own personal hellhole all those years ago. The circumstances were different and Stuart's hellhole was one of his own making, and still featured one of the best addresses in the city. And yet . . . it was a hellhole all the same. A pit of despair. I hesitated. "But first, I came to let you know your debt's been paid off. You're off the hook. And the men with whom you took out credit will kill you before they extend more, is that clear?"
He regarded me suspiciously. "You paid off my debt? I thought you were going to buy me more time."
"What good would that have done?" I asked. He kept staring at me, the wheels in his head turning as fast as they were able. "You'd never be able to pay them. Especially not at the rate you're going."
"You did this for some reason," he grated. "What is it?"
I stared at him, tamping down the anger his reaction evoked. I was fucking whoring myself again for this bastard, in a manner of speaking anyway, and the best he could give me was suspicion. I hadn't expected a thank you, but even so . . . "I did it for your sister," I said honestly. "I did it because I care about her. And for some reason, she cares about you. And if you have any decency at all, you'll take this second chance and get your life together, for her, if not for yourself."