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  I sigh with frustration. “There’s a whole contract now; he’s using me to get his hands on a family heirloom. It’s all fake—pretending to get engaged just to trick some lawyers. I don’t see how this could give way to anything real.”

  “Don’t you see it?” my mother asks. “It’s just like you’ve used working as an excuse to keep yourself safe from intimacy. Julian’s using contracts, lawyers, bankers, and a ring. He’s afraid, Shelby. He’s afraid of letting himself care for you, but he also knows that he wants to be with you. Why else would he have chosen you, out of millions of women? He picked you. But he’s pushing it away at the same time—holding you at a distance with the pretense of getting this jewel.”

  “You think so?”

  “Honey, I know it. And I’d also venture to say that Julian doesn’t know it. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Let him figure it out.”

  I feel myself processing what she’s just said. A part of Julian wants to be with me. That makes sense. After all, he did ask me to participate in this scheme with him.

  Maybe my mom’s right. Maybe the only way Julian can allow himself to spend time with me is with the safety net of this whole ring quest. If it’s just about getting the ring, he can’t get hurt.

  My mother’s breath is labored.

  “Mom, how’s your breathing lately? Did you go in for your lung capacity tests yesterday?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did. I’m fine, Shelby.”

  “You don’t sound fine. Did Dr. Melbourne give you the stronger inhalers?”

  “He—well, yes, he recommended something stronger.” She coughs weakly, and then resumes panting. “It was awfully expensive. I told him that I’d like to stick with the one I’ve got.”

  “I don’t think it’s working for you anymore,” I hedge.

  “Oh…it’ll do. I don’t need to be out running marathons.”

  I don’t bother to protest. I’ve had so many conversations like this with my mother, I know how they always end up: my mother insists that she’s okay, and I feel guilty for not being able to do more for her.

  Not this time. There’s one part of the ring scheme that I haven’t told my mother about, and that’s the paycheck at the end of the tunnel.

  With half a million dollars, I will get my mother the best treatment out there. Her lupus will no longer be a victor, leaving her gasping for air, her immune system weak and frail.

  There has to be a way to fight back. And I’m going to help her find it—no matter how much it costs me.

  “Mom, you sound like you need some rest. Are the visiting nurses coming today?”

  “Yes,” my mother says. “Your company is sending them twice a day while you’re gone, plus additional help when I have appointments.”

  “Okay, good. I’ll let you get some rest. I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you too, sweetie. Have fun with Julian. You deserve love, Shelby. You deserve happiness.”

  By the time we each get off the line, I have tears in my eyes. My mother would do anything for me, including sacrificing her own quality of life for my happiness. For all these years, I’ve been trying to do the same right back for her—giving everything that I can so that she can feel comfortable, even if it means I’m not.

  I feel like we’re in a downward spiral, both of us drowning while trying to save the other.

  There has to be another way. There must be a way for both of us to find happiness.

  But how?

  I think about my mother’s advice while I get up and move around the hotel room. It’s almost eleven now, and I still haven’t gotten back to Julian. He must be wondering if I’m all right.

  I have to respond. I stand at the window and look down at the city streets below me.

  My mother’s advice is sound, and it’s made me hopeful. Maybe there is a chance for Julian and me, after all.

  Only, now, I can see that the issue is much deeper than the complication of the Meijer Ruby. It comes down to our walls. Am I going to be strong enough to open my own door? Is Julian going to be strong enough to open his?

  There’s only one way to find out.

  I pull up my messages and hit reply.

  I’d love to do dinner, thank you.

  There. Done.

  His reply comes mere seconds later, which gives me a boost of confidence. He’s clearly been waiting to hear from me.

  Great. I’ll pick you up at six.

  His words make me feel like I’m standing at a great wall, thirty feet wide and one hundred feet tall. It’s made of cement and barbed wire. I’ve just found the one and only door, and I’m resting my hand tentatively on an old and rusted door handle. I begin to turn it, slowly…one millimeter at a time.

  It’s tough going, nearly welded shut with age. But, at the same time, I know that at least the hardest part is behind me.

  At least now, I have found the door.

  Chapter 11

  Shelby

  I spend the rest of the morning and into the afternoon catching up on work from my laptop in the hotel room. At four, a Vermaak intern knocks on my door and offers to help me relocate to a new hotel.

  Forty-five minutes later, I find myself in a penthouse suite in one of the fanciest sections of Amsterdam.

  I’ve never stayed anywhere so luxurious. My suite has multiple rooms: a bedroom, kitchen, sitting area, gym, and a massive bathroom. Each room is so immaculately designed that for the first five minutes, I just walk from room to room, turning slow circles.

  “Can I put your suitcases here?” the intern asks.

  “Yeah, that’s fine,” I say, not bothering to look at where he is depositing my luggage. I’m too distracted by the beauty all around me.

  The sitting room is designed in shades of blue. A painting that’s hanging above a grand fireplace is larger than any I’ve seen in my life before, not counting museums. It’s a combination of a Renaissance-era portrait and contemporary art. The image is just of a woman’s torso and sleeve, and the material of her dress is created with intricate, swirling strokes. The result is both classic and cutting-edge at the same time.

  I wander into the bathroom for the second time.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” the intern calls from the sitting room.

  “No, I think I’m all set!” My voice echoes in the expansive space.

  The entire bathroom is made of marble, and the space is as big as my bedroom at home—I’m not kidding. A massive bath with glistening, golden jets invites me for a soak. A mirror above the sink reflects my awestruck reflection.

  The intern calls out goodbye, and I hear the door close.

  I’m alone.

  It’s nearly five. I have an hour until Julian picks me up, and I can’t resist turning the knobs of the bathtub so that water pours out. I’ll just take a quick soak.

  There’s silky, aloe-infused bubble bath in a basket by the tub, and I pour some in and then start up the jets. I light candles, play music on my phone, and relax for a bit longer than I planned on.

  It’s simply divine.

  Once out of the bath, I polish my aloe-nourished skin with cocoa butter, and then dry my hair. The conditioner I’ve just used has saturated it with moisture, and I’m pleased at how shiny it looks as I straighten out my curls with a flat-iron.

  Next, I sift through my suitcase for a suitable outfit. It’s either more business attire or a black dress that I brought along on a whim. I choose the little black dress.

  Lastly, I work on makeup. I’ve been going with a minimal look lately—sticking to neutral tones and barely-there highlights. But now, I choose to apply dark, smoky eyes.

  I’m feeling bold. My mother’s words have been stirring around inside of me, and as I lean forward, applying mascara, I look into my eyes. Am I ready to put myself out there like this?

  I finish up my makeup and then step back. I only have time for one quick glance before the sound of a text message pulls me away from my reflection. It’s a good thing, too, because allo
wed another minute of thought, I might have changed my mind. I might have decided that the dress is too short, or too revealing. I may have second-guessed my makeup, or started to get self-conscious about leaving my hair down and straight.

  But as it is, I rush to the bedroom and pick up my phone.

  A text from Julian informs me that he’s down in the lobby.

  Should I come up? he asks.

  My heart is fluttering in my chest. I feel like high schooler, about to be picked up for prom! All that’s missing is a corsage and an awkward goodbye from parents, reminding me to be home by curfew.

  No, I’ll come down, I reply.

  I start to search frantically around the hotel room for my heels and purse, and that’s when I realize just how worked up about this dinner I really am.

  Taking a deep breath, I remind myself to cool it. My shoes and purse are right where they’re supposed to be. I slide into my heels and shoulder my purse.

  Here goes nothing.

  Or…everything. Time will tell.

  The elevator ride seems to take forever. The doors open and I step out into the lobby, looking for Julian. It takes me a moment to spot him in the vast room, and by the time I see him, he’s already walking towards me.

  I stop in my tracks.

  I don’t know if it’s fear or doubt that makes me freeze, or that same ‘Wow, Julian is so handsome’ feeling that has caused me to go brain-dead before, but I do know that my high-heeled feet simply stop moving.

  He crosses the room towards me. I’m watching him move, taking in his presence. I feel him taking in mine.

  He’s not wearing his usual full suit and tie. Instead, he’s dressed in a navy button-down shirt, the top undone slightly. I can see the top of his tattoo, which serves to remind me of how much I don’t know about this man.

  I knew Julian as a teen, but he has grown up since then. A lot.

  His blond hair is styled up and over to the side, and the stubble along his jaw is thicker than I’ve seen it so far. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in a few days, and I like it. His eyes are bright blue, popping out against the navy tones of his shirt. Black dress pants, a black belt and black shoes finish off his look, making him look polished and cool, and the perfect accompaniment to my black dress.

  Ha. As if Julian could be an accompaniment.

  “Shelby, hi,” he says. Not exactly the gushing greeting I was hoping for, given the extra attention I’ve put into getting ready for our evening, but it will have to do.

  “Hi,” I say.

  There’s a beat of silence.

  I feel my nerves firing up, tempting me to ramble to fill the tense quiet between us.

  “Julian, about last night—”

  He shakes his head and speaks, stopping me mid-sentence. “It’s no big deal,” he says. “We’d both had some wine. Let’s just forget about it, okay?”

  I want to babble about our kiss, or to apologize, even. I don’t know what I want to say; I just know that my stomach is a ball of nerves and I feel like if we talk about it, I’ll feel better.

  But Julian clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, and since my nervous rambling has never really gotten me anywhere, I take his advice for once and zip my lips.

  Okay. If he doesn’t want to talk about last night, I won’t go there.

  “Did you have a good day?” he asks instead. “What do you think about the hotel room?”

  He throws me easy-to-answer questions, luring me into small talk which carries us through the lobby, out to the sidewalk, and then into his car.

  Another sports car, this one even nicer than the last, if that’s possible. The doors open up above the roof, and I feel like I’m in some futuristic movie as they close around us. Enclosed in our respective front seats, I feel like he’s so close to me. I could reach across the console and touch him…but I don’t.

  The next move—if there’s going to be one—has to be up to Julian.

  But now that we’ve kissed, and I know what it’s like, it’s all I can think about for the entire ride to dinner. I keep looking over at Julian as we chat, and instead of looking to his eyes, I look to his mouth. I’m thinking about the way his rough stubble felt against my skin as we kissed.

  By the time we park, I can’t open my door fast enough. I have to get out of this car.

  I stand up, and as soon as the door closes I look across the roof at Julian. He looks relieved to be out of the confined space, too. Maybe this is hard for both of us. As we walk to the restaurant, he doesn’t rest his hand on the small of my back, like he did the evening before. In fact, he walks two feet behind me, leaving a more than respectable amount of room between our bodies.

  I’m still struggling to get a read on the situation as our waiter brings us the menu and wine list. The restaurant is Asian fusion, and our table is situated outside, just on the edge of a smooth, glass-like river. A scattered collection of boats drift by, and between the small talk that Julian and I are still making, I hear snippets of conversations from the water.

  “A toast,” Julian says, lifting one of the glasses of white wine the waiter has just brought. I lift mine as well. “To old friends,” he says.

  I can’t miss the way he emphasizes the word, holding eye contact as he speaks it. Friends, Shelby, he seems to say. That’s what this is. Nothing more.

  It’s my first clear clue. Maybe my hope, due to my mother’s pep talk, was overly-optimistic. I try to smile brightly.

  “To friendship,” I say.

  Our glasses clink against each other. We’re still looking into one another's eyes as we sip the wine. Something is passing between us. I feel myself daring him—daring him to open up to me just like I’m trying to open up to him. At the same time, I feel him pushing back. He’s spelling out the boundaries, and asking me if I understand.

  I don’t understand, and so I break eye contact. I pull the menu up to my face, holding it like a shield.

  “Have you eaten here before? What do you like to get?” I ask. My words seem so trivial compared to what has just passed between us, but he answers dutifully.

  He lifts his menu and looks it over. “The wasabi black pepper scallops are delicious, and so is the mango shrimp. You’re not allergic to seafood, are you?”

  I laugh at that. “Nope. Just mustard.”

  “Well. Glad to have that straightened out. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  “I can’t believe you don’t remember,” I said. “It was so embarrassing when I found out. It was on a Saturday when we went to that museum we were so enthralled with, that one winter—what was it, the…” My voice trails off.

  “The Chinese Pagoda!” Julian exclaims.

  “That’s right! We were riding up that rickety wooden elevator. I can’t believe we even got in that thing! And you looked over and told me that my eyelids were all puffy. I’d eaten a sandwich from the cafe down the road, one I didn’t usually get—”

  “Oh,” Julian says, nodding. “That’s right! We had to leave early.”

  The waiter comes over and takes our orders. After he leaves, I return to the subject of my misfortunate first brush with mustard.

  “My top lip swelled up next, like a balloon. My mom had to take me to the emergency room.”

  “I can’t believe I forgot about that!” Julian shakes his head. “And that museum…I wonder if it’s still there.”

  “It is,” I say. “I passed by when I visited Paris a few years back, on business.”

  “You didn’t go in?”

  “No.” I don’t tell Julian the reason that I didn’t go in. Though I wanted to see the familiar rooms, I knew that it wouldn’t be the same without my best friend at my side.

  “You should have,” Julian says. “You could have sent me pictures. Why don’t we send each other pictures? We both have phones.”

  I shrug. “We parted ways before smartphones came out. Before communication got so instant. Remember how big phones were?” I hold up my hands, miming an chunky dinosaur o
f a cellphone.

  Julian laughs. “Everything changed so fast, didn’t it?” he says. “We should stay in touch this time. I mean, after you leave the country. I’ll send you photos every once in a while, if you promise to do the same.”

  This is my second clue.

  Now, he’s talking about when we’re apart again. Is the future so set in stone, in his mind? Is he positive that we’re going to go back to being distant acquaintances?

  I look out over the water. The buildings across the way are pristinely reflected in the mirror-like surface. I try to gather myself so that I don’t show my disappointment.

  “What do you say?” he asks, as if he’s trying to pull me back to the conversation.

  I suck a breath in through my nose and nod. My chest feels tight.

  “Okay,”” I say. “Deal.”

  “Great,” Julian says. “I know the first thing I’m going to send you. I meant to show you Tennis Coach Tristian last night, but I completely forgot. So, the next chance I get, I’m going to take him out to the tennis courts out back and film a bit of a demo for you.”

  “What, in case I want to invest?”

  “You could be Tennis Coach Tristan's last chance at making it big in this world,” Julian jokes. “You are about to come into money, after all. You might be considering investing in a friend’s business venture.”

  There he goes, with the dreaded f-word again.

  “Oh,” I say. “You’ve already told me the technology is obsolete, and that his arms fall off during coaching sessions. Tempting, but I think I’ll have to pass.”

  “I don’t know…I can be very convincing when I want to be,” Julian says. If it wasn’t for all of the “friend” messages I’m picking up from him, I might think he’s flirting with me. But, at the same time, I’m thinking that if he needs to send me a video of his failed prototype, that means I won’t be going to his home again.