Page 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
AMELIA
The hush of my apartment wraps around me like a sobering shawl, a jarring silence that marks the end of my time with the Titans. No more early mornings fueled by caffeine and late nights drenched in gossip. No more afternoon rituals of cheekily ogling players from the stands.
Yet beneath the nostalgia, anticipation flickers. Tomorrow’s the Nurture NYC Gala—months of hard work culminating in one final celebration with my colleagues.
It’s also the evening Jake and I reveal our relationship to the world. I’m a tangled tango of excitement and sheer terror at the thought of the limelight.
It’s rather scary, yet there’s loads to look forward to. I’ll be diving into RhythmRoutes full-time, and Jake and the Titans have made it to the Playoffs. I’ll miss those snatched moments together at work, especially now that our lives are set to become utter chaos, with his practices ramping up and my whirlwind preparations for the Gotham Guides vetting tour, which, unfortunately, coincides with the first game. I’m certainly not about to ask them to reschedule.
To top it all off, I found the most adorable flat—a bed-sit. Or studio, as they call them here. Not large, but perfectly sized for me. With this last paycheck and what’s left in my reserves, there’s just enough for a security deposit and the first month’s rent. Although daunting, I know such places are rare, prompting me to apply immediately.
The broker assured me it’s all but mine, and I can collect the keys the moment the owner signs off. I’ve even chosen a king mattress, which should keep Jake from constantly trying to have me over to his towering monstrosity.
Time to start packing. The room is littered with Titans swag: caps, tees, and tiny Teddy keychains mixed in with a rainbow of venue wristbands; pages of scribbled notes, and optimistic RhythmRoutes signs—witnesses to a whirlwind two months. It’s shocking, really, the pile of life I’ve built so quickly.
My gaze lands on the familiar suitcase perched above the cupboard, Gran’s name dangling from its handle.
It’s time for The Call.
No more putting it off. I have to break the news I’m not returning to England.
Uncertainty coils in my stomach like a tight spring. I owe Gran everything. She stepped in when my mother stepped out. Will she ask me to go back? And if she does, how will I find the courage to refuse?
A sigh heaves out of me. Maybe I should send her a carrier pigeon instead. Or a telegram. Or a message in a bottle. Something sans the possibility of audible disappointment.
Steeling myself, I approach the dining table to face my charging phone before summoning up her contact details. My thumb hovers momentarily above “Matilda Bartlett” before crashing down. My knees lock, a feeble attempt at fortitude as the call connects. Ring by ring, my confession nears.
Then, her voice: “Amelia. It’s been a while since you’ve rung.”
Guilt hits me through the speakers, and I flinch. How on earth do I even begin to explain?
“I’m sorry. Things have been a bit mad over here.”
She harrumphs, the sound echoing down the line. I can picture her pursed lips and the high arch of her brow, the look of stern disapproval I know all too well.
I tread carefully, knowing my query will be fraught. “You’ve been managing all right?”
“I’ve coped.” She makes no effort to hide the curt reproach in her tone. “Needless to say, Benjamin has been a great help, and Margo has stepped up too.”
Of course, she has. Gran’s mercifully unaware of the sordid saga that is Amelia, Ben, and Margo. A lump forms in my throat. It’s fine. This is a good thing, really. Now there’s no need to feel as if I’m abandoning her. Yet the strangling sensation persists. Would she be less inclined to accept their assistance if she was privy to the ugly truth?
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, the words feeling inadequate.
“And when might we expect you back?”
The moment I’ve been agonizing over has arrived. Squaring my shoulders, I barrel into my announcement before fear can take over. “I’ve decided to stay in New York and started a business of my own.” Be proud of me. Please. You’re an entrepreneur yourself.
But my declaration only makes the distance between us seem more vast. “Is that so?” she finally asks.
I dive into an explanation. “Yes. I’ve begun offering tours. Centered on music history. New York is full of it.”
“And you’re able to make a living?” Her voice is steeped in skepticism.
“I am.” I’m barely breaking even, but now that I can devote all my time to RhythmRoutes, there should be enough to live on.
“So you won’t be coming home.”
Home. Memories rush back, bringing with them a melancholic pang. Despite the work required, the inn’s been home for most of my life. The cozy fireplace in the family lounge where I accidentally scorched my favorite book. A guest room on the third floor I’d sneak into whenever it was vacant. The blend of polished wood intertwined with lavender notes that enveloped the place. Nooks and crannies that cradled my childhood treasures—journals filled with teenage scribblings, a compact mirror of Gran’s, the old bangle I’d found of my mom’s. Dad’s cherished vinyl collection, postcards he’d send from the various places his band performed. Even a tiny plastic horse from one of the Kinder Eggs he’d bring me.
“I’ll visit,” I say in a small voice. And I will. The inn and Gran are my constants, solid and sure, as I sail shifting currents afar. But on my return, I plan to glide in as a guest, not as staff, and definitely not as the prodigal granddaughter who gambled on a dream and failed.
The icy silence stretches as I wait for my news to sink in, each second ticking by like a metronome, steady and unforgiving. Uncertainty begins to edge in, sly and unwelcome, not about the decision I’ve made, but in the enormity of persevering beneath the looming cloud of Gran’s doubt.
“And you think it’s best to do this?”
“Yes.” All the conviction I can muster is in that one word.
I steel myself, ready to list my justifications, to lay out my carefully planned future. Before I can launch into them, my phone erupts into a frenzy of vibrations that cuts through the quiet as Yvonne’s name rolls over Gran’s in a series of messages.
Yvonne
Code red at Saks. Stat.
Yvonne
Found the cutest Valentinos. They hurt like hell, and misery needs company—and an opinion.
A second later, hot pink heels pop up, their gold spikes sharp enough to double as a weapon of feet destruction.
Yvonne
Some woman’s salivating over them, UES type who looks like a regular. Sales dude says they are the last pair. Get here before a cage fight breaks out or he amputates my feet to appease her.
Yvonne
Hurry, unless you want me buying sensible shoes for my prosthetics. Like flats. FLATS!
I’m almost grateful for the excuse to hang up, but also guilty.
“Nan, I have to go…”
“Very well then.”
“Take care of yourself.”
“Goodbye, Amelia,” There’s a soft finality to her tone, a reproach mixed with a quiet acceptance.
The line goes dead, and the weight of Gran’s voice gives way to the RhythmRoutes backdrop on my screen. All at once, a sparkling glee fizzes to life in my chest, a tickling bubbly rush, only an instant from exploding. I message Jake to call me as soon as he’s done with practice because some news is too grand to be trapped in a text.
Moments later, I’m strutting out into the city, its vibrant hum now my personal soundtrack. Every stride is a buoyant step into my future, the New York streets a red carpet under my feet. I weave through a sea of faces, each one a witness to my independence, then dive into the subway. The uptown train’s screeches rise to echo my inner victory chant. I told Gran, and the sky is still firmly in place, thank you very much.
At Saks, I sashay past the perfume counters, offering beaming smiles to sample-wielding clerks, welcoming every spritz like a misty high-five, before floating up the escalator, basking in fragrance clouds heady with the scent of my own gumption.
When I waltz into the shoe department, I find Yvonne on a plush peach couch, arms and legs crossed tight in a regal pose. The pointy, spiked heels she’s wearing scream, “ready for the runway battle royal.”
“You took your sweet time,” she chides, shaking her head. “Thought you’d been kidnapped by a roving band of tourists hungry for your accent.”
“Sorry, got held up.” I fight to suppress my smile, but it’s a lost cause. “I told my grandmother I wasn’t returning to Fordwich! Can you believe it?”
Yvonne leaps up, all elation and arms wide. “No way! You brave, brave woman!” She engulfs me in a bear hug that conveys a thousand words of support. Pulling away, she searches my face. “And how did she take it?”
“Not thrilled, but she’ll manage.”
“This calls for a celebration!” She grabs my hand and drags me to a display of Christian Louboutins. In a heartbeat, she plucks up a pair of heels, ruby red with crystals shimmering like tiny stars, and presents them to me. “Behold! The glass slippers to your Cinderella story—minus the curfew and the pumpkin.”
With a mischievous smile, she drops her gaze to her pink Valentinos. “And of course, I’ve got to celebrate my friend staying in New York, too,” she ups her volume, cutting her eyes across the aisle to where another shopper hovers, glaring at Yvonne’s feet. The shoe vulture, I reckon.
My attention returns to the Louboutins still sparkling in Yvonne’s hands, and I eye them doubtfully. “Rather loud, don’t you think?”
She clicks her tongue. “Please! When has subtlety even made history? These darlings aren’t just shoes; they’re a proclamation. Your boldness in patent leather form.” She leans in, lowering her voice to a sly murmur. “Plus, let’s not forget, Jake’s underwriting all gala expenses—we can get backup footwear too, something more grounded. Maybe three inches?”
The crimson stilettos sparkle in her outstretched hands, almost a talisman of the future I’m grabbing onto. My fingers curl around them, the glossy veneer promising a rush of adventures yet to come.
While Yvonne rambles on about the virtues of platforms versus the stability of wedges, I toe off my trainers and slip into the heels, teetering a bit. Unsteady, until I find my footing. But I do. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. They’re a perfect fit. I feel a smile bloom on my lips, full and real.
I’ve cast my lot in with the city of dreams, and everything is slotting into place. I have a business just shy of a breakthrough. Should I plan more tours? Harlem’s packed with music history. Perhaps an indie-rock walk of Brooklyn? Goodness, I could even attempt classical tour around Lincoln Center. The potential is endless, and I can’t wait.
“Hello, Earth to Amelia. You’re needed here. Zip code 10022-SHOE, remember?”
“Right, sorry.” The smile doesn’t leave my face, though.
“What’s with the goofy look?” She narrows her eyes for a second, then wrinkles her nose. “If it has anything to do with my brother and S-E-X, I don’t want to hear it.”
Her words have the rather chaste scene of Jake spinning me, red heels gleaming in the moonlight, giving way to one decidedly less innocent, with him tugging them off. He lays me on my back, that devilish gleam in his eyes sending fire to my cheeks.
Right on cue, my phone rings, and Jake’s face fills my display, captured mid-laugh in a snapshot that screams “just your average heartthrob.”
“It’s almost like you’re broadcasting a dirty Bat Signal,” Yvonne says in disgust, and I fight another smile as I pivot away in case I need to spare her any scandalous commentary.
“Hey, Sweets, was just thinking of you.”
My heart swells at Jake’s voice and I melt inside. It’s all so surreal, as if everything is too good to be true.
I nestle the phone closer to my ear, whispering a breathless “Hi” in return.
“Just got done at the stadium. What are you up to?”
“Shoe shopping with Yvonne.”
“Oh?” His tone perks up. “Sexy shoes?”
“They’re red. And high,” I strike a pose for myself, relishing the reflection of a taller, bolder, sexier me.
The laugh that follows is warm and wicked. “We could start the party early tomorrow, with you wearing them and nothing else in the limo stocked with champagne.” His words wrap around me in a velvet promise.
Heat creeps up my cheeks, and an electric buzz zaps through me as a light storm of decadent possibilities fill my mind. I tingle in anticipation of what comes next. The day’s been a cascade of splendid moments, one high after another, leaving me on a precarious edge of wonder. Desperately, I try to leash my excitement, keep the giddiness in check, as if too much joy might send me toppling. “Really, I don’t need a lot of fuss.”
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39 (Reading here)
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 48
- Page 49
- Page 50
- Page 51
- Page 52
- Page 53