by Stacy Travis
I sighed, resting my head against his hard chest. “I’m starting to hate that word, ‘leave,’ but I’ll try not to think about it.”
He pulled me in tighter. “I have a few ideas for how I can make you forget it, and all other vocabulary except maybe my name and the word ‘please.’”
“You and your ideas. I’m in favor. I applaud them.” I leaned away to face him, sliding my arms up his strong back and appreciating every lat pulldown he’d ever done at the gym. He’d definitely benefited from a good night of sleep. His eyes sparkled, and I let myself fall for his easy, seductive smile all over again.
“What should we do today? If I recall correctly, I owe you a dress,” he said, turning to open the fridge and return the oat milk to its shelf.
I looked up at the clock on my microwave. “Ah, the dress to go with my shoe frenzy. Did you see a pair in my closet that would benefit from a companion dress?”
Ordinarily, I’d balk at the idea of him buying me things, because I was employed and self-sufficient and capable of choosing my own clothes. But I knew he enjoyed shopping for me almost as much as he enjoyed ridding me of whatever he’d encouraged me to wear. His enthusiasm made it fun for me, so my independent inclinations bent with his need to shop.
“I didn’t check your closet, but we can always find shoes too when we’re out.”
I wasn’t about to turn down shoes, independence be damned. “If you insist. But stores don’t open until ten, so whatever will we do until then?” I was wearing a fluffy white bathrobe I’d bought from a spa after being so enchanted with their facilities that I’d wanted to try to create the experience at home. My attempts at turning my bathtub into an oasis of calm had pretty much failed, but the robe was still amazing. I undid the belt and let it drop to the floor, the robe falling open as I took another step closer to Chris.
“Woman, you will be the end of me. I’ll soon be unemployed and bent forever to your will.”
“I’ll take it.”
He lifted me, and I wrapped my legs around him and my hands around the back of his head while I bent to kiss him.
Chris carried me back to the bedroom, and just for dramatic effect, he kicked the door closed behind him. “Ah, finally, we’re alone,” he said, laying me on my yellow-striped duvet, which he’d neatly pulled over the mattress when he’d woken up.
“Yes, the others are all sleeping. They’ll never hear us,” I whispered, playing along with his game.
“I don’t think any of them suspected anything, do you?”
“I feel like we got away with it. We can relax now. It’s over.”
He flipped me over so quickly, I cried out in surprise. Then he straddled me and dug his fingers into my shoulders, massaging every muscle down my back and slowly working his way back up. The worry and tension transferred from my body to his hands and began to ebb away.
“Oh my god, you have no idea how good that feels,” I said. His hands conveyed his desire to make me feel taken care of and also wanted.
“Yeah? Tell me.”
“It’s amazing. You’re amazing,” I murmured, giving in to the sensual way he was gently working the tired muscles in my back, my hips. He lifted me up until I was on my hands and knees, continuing to stroke my back. Then he reached around and ran his hands up my thighs. I moaned into the pillow.
“It’s hard to throw you off your game. You’re always so steady,” he said, lightly massaging my inner thigh. He was just inches away from where I suddenly desperately wanted his hand. But he was drawing out each stroke up and down, taking his time. “Always in your head, always worrying about other people. For once, I want you to stop thinking. Just be here. Just… come away with me.”
I nodded but I couldn’t speak. I heard him though, and his words moved me. No man had ever seen me—really seen me—and wanted to work within the parameters of who I was. They always wanted to change something, make me more spontaneous or less stressed. Chris appreciated who I was, but he also wanted to help me get out of my own way so I could feel something more. The blossoming in my heart at that realization gave me hope that we were going to be okay, even if we couldn’t see each other every day.
Or for two whole months.
Chapter Nine
Chris
We might have packed an entire week into a day.
The morning was spent in Nikki’s bedroom, her kitchen, her living room couch, then bedroom again. I felt the need to make up for passing out prematurely the night before.
The rest of the day went as follows: we shopped for a dress, I found six I loved on her, she agreed to let me buy two. Then we spent an hour looking at shoes. Each dress demanded its own pair, and she somewhat-reluctantly agreed. Both pairs were tall stiletto heels, and she looked gorgeous in them. Truthfully, no dress was needed.
We had lunch at Shutters on the Beach. There were oysters. There was wine. There was time to walk on the beach and slowly make our way back to Nikki’s neighborhood, where we sat outside a tiny coffee place and I was asked for selfies with four different groups of fans. Nikki rolled with it.
Later, we painted. Or rather, she painted and I splattered colors on a canvas with no sense of space and no identifiable objects anywhere, but I loved the freedom of moving paint around with the brush. I felt like a kid who knows he’s not being graded, so I didn’t censor myself.
“That’s the whole point,” Nikki said. “It’s an outlet, not a stress.”
“It’s kind of nice to do something creative and know I’m not trying to make a living at it.”
“Exactly. That’s why I love it so much. The only person I need to satisfy is me, and honestly, even if I don’t like what I come up with, it still feels good to slap paint on a board.”
“Yes, but you’re not just slapping paint. You have talent. People would pay you to create art for them.”
She shrugged. “Then they’d have expectations. I don’t need that.”
I didn’t argue with her. She didn’t need me to force her in a direction when she seemed to have her time pretty well allocated. “You have a good balance. You work, you make art, you exercise because you like it, not because you’re trying to burn calories.”
“Well, the calories are a bonus. Then I can eat more pizza and bake pies.”
“You bake pies?” This was important information I felt I should have been provided with earlier.
She smiled, keeping her eyes on her canvas. She was painting the sunset we’d seen the night before, complete with the Ferris wheel on the pier in the background and the sandpipers on the beach. “Yes. Only two kinds. Apple and pumpkin.”
“Why only those two?”
She shrugged. “Apple because I love it and pumpkin because it’s often in demand at thanksgiving. But I’m open to requests.”
I thought about it for a moment. I liked fruit pies, but I was more partial to anything involving chocolate. “How about mud pie?”
“I’m not sure that even qualifies as a pie. That’s a no-bake crust, and there’s no fruit.”
“It’s called a mud pie. It’s a pie.”
Shaking her head, she put down her brush and came over to inspect my canvas. I’d been splatter painting in the style of Jackson Pollack for want of a better idea. “We can make a mud pie later. After we hike.”
“We’re hiking?”
“Yup. An urban hike, in the canyon.” Her grin was wide, like she had a trick up her sleeve, and I didn’t question it. “Then pie, I promise.”
I’d follow her anywhere she wanted to go.
I hadn’t spent much time in LA over the years, so I’d never had time to do much sightseeing. On this trip, the only sight I wanted to see was Nikki, so as long as we were together, I let her lead the way. In the afternoon, we walked in Santa Monica Canyon, which was a winding series of streets just east of Pacific Coast Highway that took us into a tree-shaded neighborhood no one would ever find if they didn’t know about it.
It felt like a hidden gem in a city of more ob
vious jewels.
“It kind of seems magical here,” Nikki said as we walked down a shady lane marked by a sign hanging over the road saying “Uplifters Ranch.” Farther down the block was a park with tennis courts and more tree-shrouded homes that looked like they belonged in the woods. One home was busy with real estate brokers hosting an open house, so we walked through to check it out.
We walked up a staircase to reach the front door, but once inside, we looked out through floor-to-ceiling windows to the tops of trees. Nikki was enthralled. “Oh my God, it’s like a treehouse,” Nikki said, spinning in a circle in the living room and taking in the cozy couches and fireplace. “Couldn’t you imagine sitting here on a rainy day?”
“Does it rain in LA?” I asked.
“Okay, smart-ass, time to go back to New York, where they have ‘real weather.’” She air quoted her sarcasm.
“It’s a great house.”
“Whatever. Who needs this place with its handmade tile and treetop views? I prefer my one-room condo with garbage trucks in the alley,” she said, running her hand over the tile. I had no idea how she surmised it was handmade, but she was the artist. I wasn’t about to contradict her. We left the house and walked back toward her place. I was antsy, starting to anticipate my meetings the next day. Damn, I hated that we didn’t have more time together.
“I’m tempted to say no to this movie,” I said, a little surprised at the words as I said them. I’d fought to get the role because I’d been wanting to break out of the superhero mold for a while.
“You can’t do that. You told me you really wanted to do a historical drama.”
“There will be others.”
“No, do this one. You’ll regret it if you didn’t. And on your next visit, we’ll go downtown. Not enough people go downtown, and it’s awesome.” My next trip was supposed to be a five-day press junket for White Serpent after I finished shooting in Ireland.
“I’m game.”
“It’s no New York City, but there’s an incredible bookstore, museums, library. We’ll go for sure,” she said.
I liked that her neighborhood was walkable. I already knew that if I bought a place in LA, it would have to be in an area where I could get around on foot. If I wasn’t working, I didn’t want to spend my free time driving through canyons to get a cup of coffee.
The one-day trip ended too soon. How could it not? It wasn’t nearly enough time to spend together. No amount of days ever would be, if I knew I had to leave at the end of them. That was the problem with this whole arrangement.
So far, Nikki had been patient with my schedule. She had her job and her life in LA, so maybe she didn’t mind it too much that I was consumed with work. We’d talked about it in France. She knew work was my Achilles heel, and I loved my job.
There was also another possibility, one I didn’t want to mention for fear that it was true. Also, I didn’t want to ruin the little time we had with a nagging worry that would probably be resolved in time. But I couldn’t help but feel like she wasn’t as invested in some kind of future together as I was.
When we were together, I felt her full commitment to being with me. But she didn’t love me the way I loved her. Hell, maybe she didn’t love me at all.
I thought you weren’t going to consider that possibility.
Yeah, well, I needed to accept that it wasn’t completely up to me.
I just knew that after spending barely a day together, I wanted more with her. And more was something I just couldn’t have when I was about to go off for two months of work. It was the price I had to pay for getting the roles I wanted. I couldn’t turn down the work or—as my agent always reminded me—people would stop offering it to me. I’d always believed him.
But damn, I wish he was wrong.
My head was in a tailspin when I boarded the Virgin America flight back to New York at almost midnight. It felt like déjà vu. I’d just been at the airport the day before, landing and anticipating our time together, and it was over already. From my seat at the front of business class, I could see planes taking off and landing, coming and going. Hellos and goodbyes.
It was worth it. Seeing Nikki even for an hour would have been worth it. But I was going to pay miserably for it next week. Even if I slept for the whole flight, it would only be five hours, mercilessly one hour shorter than the westbound flight due to the jet stream. I hoped I would have a chance to catch a nap before the talk show I had to do in the morning… Or maybe I would just be a goddamn basket case all week. It was still worth it.
That was my last thought before I conked out, leaning against the window. The next thing I knew, the plane was taxiing to the gate, and I was back in New York.
Leaving 30 Rock, I felt good about the talk show interview, or at least I thought I did. I was still so damned jet lagged that I couldn’t recall a single question that was asked or answer I gave. It didn’t matter. It was done.
Traffic was light, and the town car dropped me off twenty minutes later in front of my building. The sun was glinting off the glass lobby door, so I didn’t immediately notice the two figures standing by the desk. But as soon as I pulled the door open, the slumped bodies of my parents were unmistakable as they stood talking to James at the front desk.
It had always seemed odd to me that a modern loft-style collection of apartments like mine needed a front desk. We all had keys, and there were only six units in the building. But when I saw my parents standing there, it made me want to pay James’s entire annual salary, personally.
“I’m sorry. There’s no one by that name who lives here,” I heard him say when I swung the door open to the lobby. My parents had their backs to me, and I could easily have walked back out and let James do what I’d instructed him to if the day ever arose: tell my parents he knew nothing about me.
But I caught his eye, which made them turn to see where he was looking, and they saw me.
“Chris, tell this man what’s what. I said to him that we were just here to visit and couldn’t we wait inside,” my mother said, coming toward me. She wasn’t coming to hug me. She was coming to scold me.
My father said nothing. He stood with his arms crossed.
“Hi, guys. I didn’t know you were in town.”
“Well, we are.”
It was typical. They generally used the ambush approach because they knew if they called, I would tell them I was busy. God only knew how long they’d been stalking my building, waiting for me. I would have to apologize to James later.
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” I asked, holding the door open. My mom cast a longing look toward the elevator, but common sense told her I wasn’t inviting her up, and she would have just as good of an opportunity to ask for what she wanted at a coffee shop. Plus, there was the free coffee.
They walked outside into the bright sun, my dad holding a hand in front of his eyes and my mom squinting. Neither one of them would ever spring for a pair of sunglasses. “Not when it’s only sunny a few months out of the year in Boston,” my mom would say.
They were simple people. Some of what people thought they knew about my family was true. My mom was from Spain, and my dad was an accountant. Was, as in, he hadn’t worked in twenty years, right around the time I got my first big movie role at age sixteen. And my mom… she did have a degree in art history, and she worked from time to time as a substitute art teacher, but her income was not enough to support them. And it shouldn’t have been, not when I could afford to support them.
The fit-for-print version of my family life had been embellished by my first publicist. She created a sweet, loving family dynamic, and it became my story, so I continued to tell it. I’d told it to Nikki. The lie had become so much easier than the truth.
Every month, I sent them a generous check, which I knew more than covered their mortgage and everything they needed to have a nice life. But they didn’t manage it well, and they wouldn’t let me put my business manager on it. “Frivolous,” my mom had said with disdain when I told h
er he could pay their bills and give them a stipend. “Why would you pay someone for that when your father’s an accountant?”
The problem with my father the accountant was that he was wasteful. He bought into scams. He tried to invest in quick money-making schemes that always lost. Then they would come to me to bail them out. That was clearly the purpose of their visit. They didn’t spend money on things like train rides to New York unless it was a “worthy investment.” In other words, what they hoped to gain from me was greater than the time spent on the train and the cost of the tickets. He’d dragged my mom into his way of thinking. She was loyal to him, and he loved her.
I didn’t take them to the coffee place I liked. We went to the corner bodega, and I bought us each paper cups of coffee. They both liked theirs regular, with milk and sugar. I knew that. And they always acted surprised when I asked for mine black.
Then I wrote them a check. My dad nodded at me, raising his eyebrows when he read the figure on the check. He showed it to my mom before folding it and putting it in his wallet, which I’d bought for him six Christmases before.
I knew better than to expect them to take interest in my life or even to attempt small talk. I was a means to an end for them. They’d raised me, so I owed them. My father had said as much as soon as I started making money of my own.
“Good to see you guys,” I said, taking a step closer to my mom. She allowed me to hug her, but her shame and embarrassment prevented her from hugging me back. My dad looked at me and nodded.
It was a business transaction. They’d gotten what they came for. There was nothing else to say.
“Well, good to see you,” my dad finally said, taking my mom’s hand. They’d been through so much together, and despite their differences, they always found their way back. There was something sweet and loving about them. It just didn’t extend toward me anymore.
Chapter Ten