Can You Make It Easier

Chapter 1: "You Know That You Need Her"

Melissa Daniels stepped out of her red car, placing her black ankle boot—new, with inch-thick soles—onto the blacktop and shifting weight onto it. The parking lot was nearly empty under the heat that beat down on her—most people preferred to use the front one. Matter of fact, most people didn't know about this one. But Melissa knew Hank Beecham, and Hank Beecham knew Tyler Connell, and her roommate loved Tyler Connell, and therefore Melissa Daniels was here today at Connell Cellular Phones.

Her layered brown hair hung loose around an oval face, strands falling into gray eyes and onto darkly tanned skin. Shoulders were bared by a red halter top, and dark denim jeans fit her form perfectly. She was undoubtedly beautiful, but that was the whole point of this visit—she wanted to see how Tyler reacted.

No, she wasn't trying to get him to like her—quite the opposite, actually. She was trying to get him and her roommate back together after a long five years. Her roommate?

Valerie Lanier—better known as Val.

The building was modern, reflective glass rising amongst silver concrete to look cold, and forbidding. But the owner and founder, whose office was on the top floor, above eighteen other stories to look down from a nineteen-story lofty height, was neither cold nor forbidding.

He was heartbroken.

Melissa had played matchmaker many times before, and been successful in most attempts. These twenty-three year-olds were successful, but undoubtedly miserable—Val in medical school, Tyler head of a giant corporation a year out of college—not because of their job, but because of a loss that had disappeared five years ago. The loss? Each other.

Melissa read feelings well, and she was so sure of what she read here.

Unrequited love.

*

Tyler Connell sat at the wooden desk in his office, looking around it with a slight feeling of satisfaction, but another, more powerful feeling of loss. Cellular phones—new models, up for testing—were on display stands arranged on shelves around the room. The room was furnished in red cherry wood and gold handles, high-class and obviously expensive. Tyler was a multimillionaire—he could afford expensive.

A Waterford vase sat on a table inside the door, filled with yellow roses. A few pictures hung on the wall, framed with gold, matching the décor. A painting was artfully placed on a wall next to the bookshelf and tall wooden file cabinets. Atop his desk sat a state-of-the-art computer, with a 30" screen that was only 1" thick. The computer was equipped with high-tech software that allowed him to create 3D virtual models of new phone designs, scan in pictures of other designs co-workers had invented, send data to the numerous factories that manufactured his world-famous phones.

He swiveled his leather chair to face the lake visible through the floor-to-ceiling window. A wonderful view, especially from the nineteenth story of the building that had exquisite lakefront property. He had borrowed money to start this company, but had paid it all off. He may only have been worth fifteen million dollars, but his company was worth a billion, and so maybe that increased his value, because the company would never go without him. He knew he was amazingly lucky, a year out of college with a degree in business, had owned this company that had been started—unsuccessfully—by his grandfather for close to two years now. He had brought it to its feet and increased its value thousand times over, had become well renowned to everyone who owned a cell phone. He had even recently been included on top 50 most eligible bachelors list, as number 21.

Oh, he was aware he was lucky, but he was also aware that he was far from satisfied, far from ever complete. How could someone be complete when their heart was shattered into a million pieces? And his heart was so certainly shattered.

For the most valuable thing in the office to him, the office that held Waterford vases and golden frames, high-tech computers and valuable paintings, the most valuable thing sat in a silver frame on his desk—a frame marked with fingerprints, a frame that showed years of gazing upon it, a frame he had looked at millions of times in his effort to see the picture.

The picture of Val Lanier.

*

Melissa walked over to the door manned—more like guarded, actually—by the doorman, a man with a hooked nose and pale silver-white hair that owed its color mostly to age—he was the ripe age of sixty-two, though he often looked only fifty-eight—and missing two teeth that were replaced with dentures. He was skinny, not frail, but skinny, and his blue jacket and black trousers added to his toothpick-like figure. His name was Randolph McCabe.

Melissa swung open the glass door, but it had hardly swung shut behind her when Randolph cornered her.

"What's your name?" he asked, breath slightly raspy. He had had tracheotomy once, but it was minor and they had cleared his air passages again and sewn the hole so he could speak normally once more. However, the gentle—small but noticeable still—harshness was still there.

"Melissa Daniels." She tried to sound businesslike… and when Melissa Daniels wanted to be businesslike, watch out, world. He scanned the list with a gnarled finger and blue eyes, but evidently found no name that resembled hers.

"No name, missy, sorry." Randolph grinned, a habit that had infused itself in daily life. He grinned much, smiled hardly. There is a difference, for the lack of one makes the other one more noticeably gone and different, but many don't know that for a while.

"I'm sure I'm on there," Melissa said. "In fact, I bet I'm right on the VIP list."

"Nope, sorry, no Melissa Daniels," replied Randolph, squinting. "The only people on the VIP list are Valerie Lanier, and Hank Beecham, and…" He looked up suspiciously. "I wasn't supposed to tell you that."

"Look, Randy," Melissa began; noticing Randolph's wince at what was presumably an old childhood name. "I'm a very good friend of Valerie Lanier's, and I bet if you tell Mr. Connell I'm here and that I'm Val's roommate, he'll let me through."

Randolph looked uncertain, but he pressed a button on the intercom on the wall: "Sir? There's a Melissa Daniels here and she says she's a roommate of Valerie Lanier's. Should I let her up?"

The voice that came from the intercom was surely Tyler Connell's, and Melissa knew that, instinctively.

"Send her up, and Randolph?"

"Yes, sir?" Randolph was suddenly formal. He knew this man, almost forty years younger, could fire him and stop his income completely. This man could turn his life around—for the worse or better.

"Put her down on the list, please."

Randolph seemed flustered, but he complied and let Melissa through the door.

*

Rat-a-tat-tat.

Melissa's knock at the door was as business-like as her air was, as formal as she needed. She wouldn't turn on the charm, all she wanted to do was see the twitch in his eyes, not steal him away from Val forever. But if his eyes did flicker, she would be angry—Val was so helplessly, inexplicably devoted to him, and if he didn't feel the same way… Melissa would be angry. Five years of Val's young life, heart split clear down the middle, all for nothing? No. Not if Melissa could help it…

The door swung open, and before her stood Tyler Connell. It was strange, she supposed, being such good friends—not to mention roommates—with Val and Hank's girlfriend for a year, and never having met Tyler Connell, the cell phone tycoon after two years on the job.

"Melissa," he greeted her, pleasantly, but not as happily as he would have greeted Val. The flicker in his eyes never occurred, though she had almost fooled herself into expecting it. She supposed he knew her name from Hank.

"Tyler." Melissa allowed cheer to creep into her voice—she'd never even get inside the door if she wasn't nice.

"Come in, why don't you?" he asked. Melissa nodded and stepped inside, onto the white carpet with an Oriental rug in the middle. Looking around, she realized he probably spent most of his time here, in this elaborate office, rather than at home where his thoughts could shift to Val.

"Nice place," she commented politely.

"Thanks," Tyler replied, wondering why in the world his best friend's girlfriend—and, he remembered painfully, his ex-girlfriend's roommate—had come. He didn't like calling Val his ex-girlfriend: it made everything too final. It should have been final after five years, but no… he had a feeling that, for him, it would never be final. Because when it was final, when the last, slightest flame of hope was extinguished, he would die. His soul would deteriorate rapidly, and he would be an empty shell.

"Welcome," said Melissa absent-mindedly, looking around the room as Tyler stood awkwardly. The flame of hope had flared suddenly, brightly, when she came—after all, who else to discuss Val with—but it was quickly dwindling once more. If she wasn't going to get to the point, why had she come? Did she even have a point?

"I'll be frank, Tyler," she said suddenly, turning to face him. Tyler was startled for a moment—had she read his mind? "You must be pretty special for Val to still like you after five years."

The words hit him like a sledgehammer, melting his knees into oblivion. He scrambled to hold onto the desk behind him—Val still liked him? How on earth? Was Melissa telling the truth? Why would she lie? Did he still have a chance with Val? Or was Melissa playing a game—a game that rose people's hopes and then flattened them instantly?

"She—she still likes me?" The words came with a gasping tone—he needed air, needed to regain senses and stop his heart from slamming into his chest and for once not have his throat go dry.

"Oh, sure." Melissa's words were casual, but she knew what an impact they would have on him. She had seen him stutter, seen him fall like a leaf off a tree, composed millionaire to trembling twenty-three-year-old. The change had been abrupt, but now she knew his weak spot.

Of course, she admitted, I always knew it.

He fell into his chair, heart thudding against ribcage. This girl had suddenly become more than an acquaintance—she was now a connection to someone he had lost, someone he was dying to get back.

"But," Melissa added, "I want to know how you feel about her before I let you know how she feels about you." His eyes narrowed—she was cunning, intuitive, but not in a sly way… though she could make it sly if she wanted to. "After all, how do you know this isn't some harmless high school crush that you enhanced to make it seem like love? Maybe you don't really care about her."

The arrow had found its mark, and Tyler knew it. His eyes grew angry, not quite at her, but at the thought.

"Don't ever," he seethed, "say that I don't care about Val, all right? I have thought of her every day for five years, every second, every waking moment…" The words were enunciated; making sure that no meaning was mistaken in the outpour of the travails of what seemed the perfect life. "I would die just to be with her again! 'Absence makes the heart grow fonder', right? Well, I guess my heart has grown pretty fond over the years, huh? But," Tyler continued, voice softening, "that particular epigram forgot to mention that my heart has also broken into pieces, time… after time… after time…" His breath was quiet, and Melissa had no doubt that every last word of what he had just said was utterly and completely true.

"Right, then," she said, to shift the uneasiness of that particular moment. Melissa's heart involuntarily forgave him for breaking Val's heart—somehow he had broken his heart at the same time.

"Has she forgiven me yet?" he asked, looking up from his hands, eyes red. "Does she still hate me?"

"She thinks she does," Melissa said, slowly choosing her words. "But I think she still loves you, deep inside. I think she knows it, but won't admit it. I think—I think she'd kill to have you back, to have you hold her again."

"And I'd kill to have her back," responded Tyler. He suddenly swore. "I wish I could talk to her! I wish!" Tyler swore again, angry.

"Then why don't you?" Melissa asked. She knew that Val wouldn't talk to Tyler on the phone, couldn't deal with how hard it was.

"You guys have Caller ID," he said morosely. Under any other circumstances, that statement might be funny, but Tyler was heartbroken and he meant what he said, so Melissa didn't laugh.

"I'll call her, then," volunteered Melissa, drawing her cell phone from where it was clipped to her jeans and dialing the number. Tyler watched helplessly—couldn't she consult him a little? But he was dying to talk to Val… The phone rang. And rang again. And rang. And…

"Hey, Melissa," said Val's choked-up voice. "I've got a killer cold, so do we have to talk right now?"

"Of course we do," came Melissa's cheery reply. "You'll never guess where I am."

On the other line, Val rubbed her head and blew her nose. "No idea."

"In San Francisco."

That had gotten her. There was a hesitation, and then a change in Val's voice. "Oh, really?" She was trying to be casual… but Melissa wasn't fooled. "Say hi to Rachel for me." Rachel was Melissa's younger sister, who was in Delta Kappa Delta at California State.

"Actually, I'm not at Rachel's right now," said Melissa, like it wasn't a big deal.

"Where are you, then?" Val inquired, throat tightening and voice becoming anxious. Melissa would never forego a matchmaking plan…

"At Connell Cellular Phones, nineteenth floor." The statement drew silence from the other line… until Val realized what she had said.

"MELISSA ANDREA DANIELS, YOU WILL PAY!" Val shrieked, ignoring the fact that the whole apartment complex could probably hear her. Melissa wisely held the phone away from her ear until Val had run out of steam—and breath. Which was about five minutes, thirty-seven seconds.

"And," Melissa continued, "someone wants to talk to you." She smiled and handed the phone to Tyler, who took it uncertainly. For a few minutes, the phone was about a foot from his ear, because Val was screaming curses in every language known to man, but when she stopped he put it up to his ear.

"Hey, Val," he greeted her. Val was undergoing an internal struggle now—was she supposed to hate him or forgive him? And how was she supposed stop her knees from turning into liquid at the sound of his voice?

"Hello." Her voice was cool and business-like. Tyler inwardly noted how much Val and Melissa could sound alike when they wanted to be business-like. And how much Val had changed—it was evident in her voice that she was no longer exactly the same as she used to be. But he had changed too, Tyler admitted, and so how could that possibly make him less in love with her?

Obviously it couldn't.

"It's… Tyler," he said, stating the obvious for lack of better talk. How on earth were you supposed to make conversation with your ex-girlfriend that you hadn't seen for five years?

"I know." Control, Val, she ordered herself, knowing that deep down, she wanted to cry and say that she still loved him, even if he didn't love her back. And fall into his arms, and… get a grip, Val. She pulled herself out of her dreamy reverie. "Is Melissa listening in?"

Tyler looked around, but Melissa had pulled a psychology book off the shelf and seemed deeply engrossed in Chapter IV, Section II, the part about how child fears turn to adult phobias and paranoia.

"I don't think so." What was so important that Melissa couldn't hear.

"All right." Relief shone in her voice—she wasn't about to have Melissa listen in on the conversation, not when it was Tyler and her talking.

"Why?" It was probably the wrong way to go, but Tyler was curious.

"No reason."

Fine, she didn't want to tell him. He didn't care. Yeah, right, his inner voice told him. He scowled at it.

"So… I've missed you," said Tyler, looking at the sun glitter on the lake and the buildings across it. The words were out, and he didn't know if he wanted to hear what Val said next.

It was like her knees had been knocked out from under her, and she was lying on her back, gasping desperately for breath—and common sense.

"Oh," Val replied faintly. A long pause, then, hesitantly: "I've missed you, a little, too."

Tyler's heart banged into his chest again, full velocity. But those words—two small words—a little.

They were quiet for a few moments, trying very hard to understand what had been said.

"Put Melissa on, please," Val requested, business-like tone returning. Tyler's stomach dropped—though he had no way of knowing that hers dropped at the exact same time. Was this how it was supposed to end?

He silently handed the phone to Melissa, who had come over, sensing the end of the conversation.

"Bye," Val whispered into the phone as it left Tyler's ear.

"Bye," Tyler echoed. The end…

"Bye, Val, see you Friday," Melissa said briskly, then switched the phone off and clipped it to her jeans again. Tyler watched the phone, then turned towards to the window once more.

"Bye, Tyler."

Melissa had done what she came to do: she had planted the seed of doubt that was steadily growing, like a match ignited. She turned and walked deliberately towards the door, until Tyler's voice, sounding like it came from far away, stopped her.

"I'll live without her, right?" he asked. "Right?"

Her gray eyes bored into him for a minute.

"You know that you need her, Tyler," Melissa told him. "Now you just need to find out how much."

And with that, Melissa Andrea Daniels walked out the door of the office, firmly closing the heavy wooden door behind her.