by Lily Foster
I guess everyone has their come to Jesus moment, though, and mine was the day I realized I was in love with Kasia. Christian’s was the day he walked in on his stepfather tapping Melanie. And Melanie? I don’t think she’s had that moment yet.
“Is CeCe nagging you again?”
“No.”
“Good.” Melanie arched her back as she stretched, pushing her chest out. She was always issuing the invite even though I hadn’t partaken in quite a while. “I told her that shit is annoying. And what’s the rush anyway? We’re thirty-five. No one has kids until their forties nowadays.”
I smiled and laughed. “That’s a lie.”
She winked. “I know. I’m actually surprised Bunny and Margot haven’t worn you down yet.”
“Mother doesn’t push at all. Bunny and Paul have made some subtle remarks, but they stay out of our business for the most part.”
“Ah, must be nice…I’d love to be able to put the fear of God into everyone like you do.”
“I don’t scare you.”
“No,” she said, licking her lips, “you don’t.”
“I guess it wouldn’t be terrible. I know Cecilia really wants a baby. I just—”
“You just want your baby growing inside of someone else’s fat, stretch-mark riddled stomach. What does she have, like, eight kids now?” When I looked up at her, annoyed, she tried to placate me in her own sweet way. “I know you, Cole. I know that behind that hard-ass veneer you’re still nursing a broken heart. Kind of makes me sick, if I’m being truthful.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
First off, she has four children, not eight. And the last picture I saw indicated that she’s bounced back from every pregnancy just fine. In fact, she’s never looked more beautiful.
“Right,” she shot back, making no effort to conceal the eye roll. “Bet if I knew your password, I’d find some encrypted file on your laptop with a photo collage of that girl. She wasn’t all that, Dylan.”
“Just for the record, none of that pining away crap is true, but admit it Melanie, even you wanted to fuck her.”
She threw her head back and laughed. “I’ll own up to that…Kasia had some body.”
At the sound of her name, a familiar memory crept up. I’d been stalking my prey for days, obsessed with the practically naked girl in that picture since I first saw it. She was lush, sinful and innocent all at once, and I had to know her. I smiled remembering her smart mouth when I finally caught up to her, butchering the pronunciation of her name. “It’s not Kah-see-ah.” She tried to act bored but I caught the gleam in her eye. I wanted to suck her face like an animal when her soft lips finally spoke her name, so much sexier, pronounced like Sasha with a K.
Everything about that girl had always brought me to my knees. And I realized I was now rubbing a spot on my chest, easing an old, familiar ache when Melanie cut into my stroll down memory lane.
“But you and I both know it wouldn’t have worked out. Kasia barely had any time for you and you’re a pampered little bitch who expects to be waited on. I repeat, never would have worked.”
Yes, I would have made certain it did.
I stood to signal that our little chat was over. “You and Jonathan are coming over for dinner Friday night?”
“Guess I’m being dismissed,” she sighed as she tried to extricate herself from the chair. “Yes, we’ll be there. Please invite that sweet little junior VP of acquisitions or marketing or whatever.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know…Anderson or something?”
I sighed. “He’s getting married next month, Mel.”
“Are you telling me not to let him bend me over the table in your wine cellar like he did last time? I can just picture his cute little fiancé trying to get in good with all the executive wives while I was deep throating her man.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. This girl was like my brother-in-arms. We were more alike than I’d ever care to admit. “Love you, Mel. I’ll see you Friday.”
“You’re florist is really exceptional, CeCe. Do use Violet’s on Columbus?”
“Yes, they did the table arrangements, but this one is from Dylan.” A few women were standing in the entryway, admiring the towering vase of bright orange long-stemmed roses interspersed with willow tree branches. I wasn’t one to even look twice at that sort of thing, but I’d recently taken a keen interest in flowers. She looked over in my direction, smiling wistfully when she added, “He sends me flowers every Thursday, like clockwork. I don’t know where he orders from…I’m never here when the delivery comes in.”
“It’s so different,” Delia Parker remarked.
The dreamy look in Delia’s eye was courtesy of the card that came with the flowers. The card Cecilia left prominently displayed in the arrangement. The card that read: I’m so lucky you chose me. The card I did not write.
Four weeks.
I don’t have time to deal with this. I run Cole Industries. I make decisions that impact workers, consumers—global economies for fuck’s sake. So given the relative insignificance of this issue in comparison to what I deal with on a daily basis, I hadn’t given the notes that came with Cecilia’s weekly flower delivery much thought. She never used to display the cards, the ones with the generic, impersonal note I dictated to my secretary in haste long ago—something along the lines of: To my darling wife. Same note for the past seven years. Come to think of it, those were the same words my father attached to the bouquets he sent Mother. Why mess with tradition?
Someone was most certainly messing with me.
You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Everything is better when I’m with you.
Last week’s delivery came with the best one yet: I’m the man I am today because of you.
That shit is not even remotely true.
“Kimberly, come in here.”
My newest secretary was about to be fired. How dare she take it upon herself to write that romantic bullshit to my wife?
Friday night after everyone left, Cecilia asked me—dead serious—to make love to her. I blame the notes. Before the damn notes she referred to our physical relationship as what it was: fucking. I was never a fan of the phrase to begin with. Make love is what sappy soap opera actors crooned to one another back in the eighties. It was phony, fake and downright elderly in my opinion. Hell, I loved Kasia with everything I had, and never once did I use those absurd words on her.
“Mr. Cole?”
I reconsidered when she entered my office looking a little shy, a little nervous, and a lot fuckable. Maybe she could just rectify the situation and we could move on.
“You’ve been with Cole Industries nearly a month, Kimberly.”
“Yes, Mr. Cole,” she answered, smiling with confidence.
“I know this job is a lot to take on and you’ve been meeting my expectations so far.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“But you have to know, I’m particular about how things are done. I have to trust that you can anticipate what I need and that you don’t take it upon yourself to make changes I haven’t authorized.”
She was young, straight out of a top undergraduate program with a major in English Literature. Both of us knew she was lucky to land a job like this with that useless major. The job was demanding—I was demanding—but she was very well compensated. And aside from this issue, I did think she was adjusting well and doing a good job. And the fuckable thing was bullshit; I no longer dipped my pen in the company ink. But if she was looking to make her mark by screwing with my personal life, I’d be firing her sweet, round ass without a moment’s hesitation.
She furrowed her brow. “Did I do something wrong?”
Damn, I liked her pouty, scared look just a little too much for my own good.
“Depends…Did you make any changes to my weekly flower delivery?”
“No! White lilies on the reception desks throughout the office Monday mornings and
a varied seasonal arrangement delivered to your personal address every Thursday afternoon.” She shook her head, eyes wide. “No changes.”
“Good. I need you to check in with the florist. Tell them I want the standard message. And let them know that if they can’t get the order right then we’ll find another vendor starting next week.”
“I’ll do that right away, Mr. Cole.”
“Thank you.”
“Anything else?”
“Make a reservation for five at Delmonico’s…Thursday night, eight o’clock. Confirm it with Tom Farrell’s secretary.”
I was grateful Tom’s younger brother would be tagging along tonight. Brendan, someone I’d always referred to as “kid,” was twenty-seven now and currently killing it at a private equity firm. Just upgraded to a sweet loft apartment in Tribeca and he’s living the life. It’s not that Tom, Caleb and Ben bore the crap out of me nowadays—actually they do, but I love them like brothers—it’s just that with Brendan around, there’s less likelihood that the conversation will veer into Dad mode. Every once in a while I have to suffer through a few minutes of preschool acceptance drama, junior lacrosse league politics or some other bullshit, but for the most part I think it goes unsaid that kids and marriage are not acceptable topics of conversation at our monthly steak dinner.
“To the groom!”
So much for that.
We all clink glasses, toasting Brendan, who just pulled out a ring box to show off a big-ass square cut diamond. He’s set on proposing to his girlfriend next week. I paste a smile on my face but I’m not feeling it. Hearing Brendan talk about his girl and looking around the table at the other three, all of whom are absurdly happy, leaves me feeling hollow. I feel bad for myself but worse still for Cecilia. I’m a shitty husband. I know it, she knows it. But we pretend. She pretends I don’t fuck around behind her back, I pretend to be grateful to have her as my partner in life, she pretends that she’s not aching for a child, and I pretend that I’m on board with starting a family someday soon—just not this very minute.
Every day I pretend.
I pretend that I’m not miserable and really fucking lonely.
The night wasn’t a total wash.
I convinced my fellow thirty-somethings that it was beyond lame to go straight home after dinner. We had to go out and celebrate Brendan’s impending nuptials. It wasn’t difficult to lure them to Le Bain.
Shuffling into my apartment much, much later, I decide that I should take the spare room. I reek of booze and weed, even though I don’t partake in the latter anymore. Pot isn’t legalized in New York but you’d never know it. You could get a contact high in some of the confessional booths in this city—people light up everywhere. Cecilia would be irked if she thought I was toking without her, and she wasn’t a fan of whiskey breath, or worse, whiskey dick.
I laugh to myself as I slide off my already loosened tie and toss it onto the entryway table. If I was capable of feeling shame, I’d say I embarrassed myself flirting with the insanely hot coat-check girl tonight, but I’m thinking she was down with it. Usually I wouldn’t dream of putting myself out there like that—I’ve been on Page Six enough times to know better—but there was something about her. Making my way into the bathroom, I set about brushing my teeth, making three attempts before successfully landing the toothpaste onto my brush. Yep, she was hot, but so what? So is every other girl who works the trendy bars and clubs of lower Manhattan.
In my drunken state I’m gonna call her Gia, because she looked like a Gia. Gia had dark brown hair that draped half-way down her back. It was shiny, and I remember that I wanted to nuzzle into it just like I used to bury my face into the pelts of my mother’s soft sable coat when I was a kid. And while Gia’s hair looked soft, her eyes didn’t. No, those bourbon brown eyes rimmed in gold looked like they belonged to a street cat. And when I first approached her without a coat to check, she’d pretty much bared her claws at me. I think she actually told me to “beat it,” like I was some annoying loser wasting her time. A manager who was nearby overheard and came over, practically tripping over his words to make sure I wasn’t offended. He shot Gia a stern look and was about to lay into her before I stopped him cold, assuring him that Gia was doing an excellent job. He walked away but turned back to glare at her twice.
She turned back to me. “Guess you’re a VIP, as in: very irritating patron. My boss looked like he was about to drop down to his knees for a second there.” When I went to speak, she raised her palm, cutting me off. “And don’t expect me to say thank you for saving my ass. It’s been one day and so far I hate this job.”
“The tips must be good.”
She rolled her eyes. “Right, when guys like you come up to ogle and flirt without a coat on.”
I didn’t even know where my suit jacket was at that point, or else I would have checked it. I loosened my necktie, pulled it over my head and handed it to Gia. “Here, I’m trusting you with one of my most valuable possessions.”
She shrugged as she took it from my hand and then turned it over to check the label. “It’s ugly, but you’re right, it probably cost more than my entire outfit.”
“My personal shopper would be insulted.”
“Oh Gawd, please tell me you don’t have a stylist. I was starting to think you were cute.”
Cute? Nope, don’t think that word has even been used to describe me.
“What’s the matter with hiring someone to shop for me? Real men don’t waste time shopping for clothes.”
“Agreed,” she said, nodding, assessing me. “But it makes you seem like you’re way too into your appearance. If you have a personal shopper then you probably have a manicurist and some chick who waxes your eyebrows.”
“Hah, you don’t know diddley when it comes to me. I bite my nails, thank you very much, and I have no need to wax my eyebrows.” She had her lips wrapped around a straw as she sipped her drink, trying her best to rein in a smile. I was focused on her lips, which is the only way I can explain the line that followed. “I do wax my balls, but that’s just common courtesy.”
I think she actually snorted some of her club soda when she laughed, and she couldn’t stop giggling as she dabbed at her top with a napkin. I wanted to dry her off, trap those few stray droplets that landed on her collarbone. I wanted to wrap that long hair around my fist and coax her head backward. I wanted to trace my lips over her neck and inhale her scent.
I was drunk, but not drunk enough to overlook the fact that this girl was not for me.
The tough girl act was pretense, nothing more. When she laughed, you saw all that was vulnerable underneath. Yes, Gia was sexy, but moreover, she was young and innocent.
Not for me.
I drop my belt onto the bathroom floor, the buckle making a loud clatter, and then make my way back out to the foyer to see if I left my phone where I dropped my tie. The tie she left an imprint of her lipstick on before sticking her tongue out at me and tossing it back in my face. Hot little brat. My phone, my phone—I want to see if I got Gia’s number. I think I might have. No, I remember now, she made some comment about being young enough to be my kid’s babysitter before snapping a selfie and telling me she was giving me something for my spank bank as an act of charity. Good sense of humor too.
I have to blink and focus hard to open the photo app on my phone. There she is, wearing one of those tight black dresses they make all the girls wear. Supposed to make the help blend into the background, but that backfired with Gia. She’s a true beauty. Taking in the smile she’s flashing, I suddenly feel guilty because there was something else about her—she was nice. She admitted to being out of her element when she confessed this was her first night working the club. And she pulled at the hem of her skirt every few minutes, trying in vain to stretch the scant few inches of fabric lower to cover more of her legs. The simple gesture telling me that while she was no doubt aware of the fact that she was sexy, she wasn’t all too comfortable being noticed in that way.
I d
ropped a hundred in her cup when she turned away from me to get someone else’s coat, and then left her without saying goodbye.
I toss my phone back onto the table, feeling dejected, and it lands with a thud, hitting the vase that sits in the middle. “Fuck,” I mutter as it teeters. As I reach out to steady it, I bang into the table and the vase goes toppling. There are purple flowers everywhere, the floor is soaked and the vase is done for. Nothing worse than glass in your foot, so I scoot back on my ass, away from the mess I’ve made. I’m so tired. I contemplate just curling up right here on the floor, but press the heels of my hands into my forehead to try and shake myself out of this. When I open my eyes, they fix on a small card sitting amid the broken glass. The writing is smudged now but I can still make it out.
My heart beats for you.
Oh, hell no.
I might have been shitfaced when I got home last night, but that card is the first thing I think of when I pop out of bed running on three hours sleep. I regret my standing seven o’clock appointment with my sparring partner for a split second before jumping in the shower to start my day. I feel like hitting someone this morning and I need to sweat the booze out of my system. After my workout I plan to head into my office and lay into Kimberly. What the fuck? That was a pretty simple task. The access to eye candy isn’t worth it; I need a plump, middle-aged, competent den mother-type to run my office. I’ll get on that right after I send Kimberly on her merry way.
Apparently I’m getting soft in my old age.
Two sniffles from Kimberly and I’m reassuring her that she’ll be happy working in the marketing department and that her year-end bonus will stay the same, even though she doesn’t deserve a penny of it. And me, I’m the one marching down Madison Avenue on the warpath looking for H&A Florists.