Page 63 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

16

Ella

“Thanks for meeting me here,”my brother says as he lets me into my father’s huge apartment on the Upper East Side, where my mother and I lived until he died and his wife unceremoniously kicked us out when I was seven. “I really appreciate it. I didn’t think you would.”

“Neither did I,” I admit.

“Why did you?”

I think about the miserable several days I’ve spent since Ryker and I had the Big Talk. The sleepless nights. The doomed self-analysis as I try to figure out what’s wrong with me and what prevents me from opening my heart to him the way he’s opened his to me. I think about all the times I’ve picked up my phone to call or text him and all the times I put my phone back down again.

“Let’s just say it’s already been a pretty tough week,” I say. “Visiting here isn’t going to make it any worse.”

I wish this were true. But I decide it’s a lie as he leads me through the foyer and down the hall to my father’s paneled office. A big lie. Because there are ghosts in every inch of this gorgeous apartment that feels as though it’s been suspended in a time machine and preserved for all eternity.

And those ghosts haunt me.

That’s the spot where I kicked off my shoes every day when I came home from school. That’s the kitchen where my mother, Aunt Gilda and I baked Christmas cookies. That’s the window overlooking the park, my favorite spot to try to see the carriages as they went by. Even the scent is the same, a faint trace of the potpourri my mother always loved. Jasmine, I think.

This is the apartment where my father, my mother and I lived as a family, but I’m the only one left. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt lonelier in my life.

“Can I get you anything?” he says, gesturing to the sofa.

“I’m good. Thanks.”

“I’ll have one for you, then,” he says, helping himself to some scotch from the drink cart in the corner. “Cheers to dear old Dad and this apartment that caused so much trouble between my parents when I was growing up. It’s mine now. I’ve been avoiding it this whole time since my mother died. I don’t even want it.”

“Not sure I blame you there. Too many memories.”

“Yep.”

He joins me on the sofa and sips his drink, as lost in his thoughts as I am in mine.

We’ve never been close. I have no idea what to say to him and no idea why he asked me to meet him here. But I know what it feels like to lose a mother. Maybe that’s enough of a beginning for right now.

“How are you doing?” I ask.

“It’s a struggle. Not going to lie.” He tries to smile, but it never quite takes off. Like an ostrich trying to fly. “My mother was a handful, but she was my mother. Now it’s just me. Not sure what to do with myself.”

“Been there, done that.”

“Yeah? How’d you get through it?”

“Went to cooking school. Kept busy.”

“Right,” he says, and it’s impossible to miss the disappointment in his expression.

“I’m sure you’ll feel better once you get the apartment—”

“How were your parents together?” he asks abruptly, pivoting to face me and leaving me startled. He pauses, his mouth twisting and flattening as though the words cause him pain. “I’ve always wondered.”

My answer takes a minute to arrive, probably because I don’t want to cause him any additional grief right now. Plus, I was so young at the time and my memories consist mostly of fleeting images and feelings. But they’re all beautiful. Slipping back into that space between my loving parents while here in this apartment makes me smile.

“They were happy. Big hugs when he came home. Little presents. He brought her flowers all the time. She always met him at the door and greeted him like he’d just returned from D-Day.”

He nods stiffly, saying nothing.

“We’d eat takeout and cuddle on the sofa when we watched movies. I loved The Parent Trap. They tucked me in. Read me bedtime stories. He always asked how school was going for me. I remember him asking about my friends.” I hesitate, another memory bubbling to the surface. “I used to hear noises coming from their room down the hall after I went to bed. I used to always wonder what they were doing. Now I know.”

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