by Shandi Boyes
“I’m sorry for blurting it out like that. That's the reason I didn’t want to say anything. I don’t want things to be awkward between us.”
Serenity's lips twitch like she is preparing to speak, but I continue talking, thwarting her chance to reply. "I also understand if you don't believe me. Marcus is your brother; you have every right to defend his honor."
Serenity’s brows tack as fresh tears form in her eyes. “I believe you, Cleo. I’m just stunned, that’s all. From the way Marcus talked about you the past few weeks, I knew you were more than a random acquaintance. I just never fathomed you’d upend his usually remarkable decorum.”
Pain grips my heart. “He says I make him reckless,” I stumble out, my words low.
Serenity’s head bobs up and down. “Clearly, that's the case. Trust me when I say this: Marcus isn’t usually like this, Cleo. I’ve never seen him the way he was with you on Saturday.”
Her confession warms my heart and somewhat subdues the weight on my chest.
Serenity regathers my hand in hers, squeezing it so hard, my knuckles crack. “If you can’t find it in your heart to forgive Marcus, take comfort in the fact you were special to him. So much so, you made him a little crazy.”
My eyes burn from a sudden influx of moisture. “I don’t know if I should take that as a compliment or not.”
“It was most definitely a compliment,” Serenity informs me, giggling softly.
After a beat, she squeezes my hand again before dropping her eyes to the overflowing plate of food sitting in front of her. “It smells so good,” she mumbles, her tone quickly changing from dread to its usual friendliness.
“It sure does,” I agree, happy to use our meals as a way to relieve the tension.
Smiling, Serenity tears a significant bite out of her taco before chewing eagerly. Following suit, I set to work on devouring my own. My hunger rampantly returns when the first delicious bite graces my taste buds.
Forty minutes later, we've eaten two plates of delicious food, sampled three fruity cocktails suggested by our waiter, and embarked on a less heart-strangling conversation. Although the first fifteen minutes of our gathering was plagued with awkwardness, it undoubtedly pushed aside the barrier that separates strangers from friends, leaving us free to have a fun-filled lunch date.
We talked about everything and anything you could imagine. Serenity’s desire to fund a charity similar to Links in her hometown, my overbearing protectiveness of my sister, and Serenity's love of her grandfather. Our conversation flowed as freely as water out of a tap, and anyone would swear I was lunching with a lifelong friend, not a lady I only met four days ago.
When the waiter arrives at our table with the bill, Serenity’s hand delves into her clutch. “No. I’m paying, remember?” I chide before handing the waiter my credit card—the only one not maxed out.
Smiling, he bows his head gracefully and retreats to ring up our bill. I wait until he is a reasonable distance away from us before saying, "He's cute . . . and he's been eyeing you with zeal our entire lunch break."
Serenity’s mouth gapes, “Has he?!” she asks, astonishment in her tone. She adjusts her position so she can drink in his fit body and dimple-blemished smile. “He is cute,” she agrees, her lips quirking. “He’s also gay.”
“No, he’s not!” I gasp out dramatically.
My brows shoot up when I spot the waiter’s flirty wink to a male patron sitting at the guacamole stand in the middle of the cramped space.
“Oh my god, he is!” I squeal, snapping my eyes back to Serenity. “One, how did you know that? And two, how come he was eyeing you with interest, then?”
Serenity gathers her clutch from the tabletop and stands from her seat. Before she gets the chance to answer my interrogation, the waiter arrives back at our table. I scribble my name on the bottom of the bill before placing my credit card back into my purse. My jaw slackens when the waiter twists the leather wallet to Serenity and requests for her to sign a blank slip of paper. A ghost of a smile cracks onto my lips when Serenity sneakily hands the waiter a bunch of crumpled notes before doing as requested.
“Thank you for your discretion,” she praises softly, ensuring only those closest to her will hear her compliment.
Acting like she hasn’t spotted my stunned expression, Serenity curls her arm around the crook of my elbow and guides me out of the restaurant. Brisk early winter winds whip up the flare of my skirt when we merge into the dense flow of foot traffic on the cracked sidewalk. Just like every time I’m surrounded by the surreal world of New York, my love for the city grows. There is nothing as intoxicating as the smell of millions of people crammed into one space. Well, except one man.
Shutting down my absurd inner dialogue, I spin on my heels to face Serenity. “What was all that about?” I ask, nudging my head to the restaurant doors.
“Fame by association,” Serenity advises, her tone low. “In this day and age, just knowing someone famous makes you famous.”
“Jeez, if you had told me that earlier, I wouldn’t have tipped so high,” I jest, saying anything to lessen the worry creeping back into her exquisite hazel eyes. “Your signature alone should have wiped twenty dollars off the bill.”
Giggling, Serenity replies, “If you were smart, you should have taken pictures of me stuffing my face. I’ve heard rumors they sell for 200 bucks a pop.”
I pretend to drag her back to the restaurant. “I just realized we forgot to have dessert.”
Serenity’s hearty giggle awards us a few pairs of curious eyes. . . and a handful of cell phone lenses. Not wanting our exchange ruined by nosy onlookers, I curl my arms around Serenity's shoulders and draw her into a hug.
“Thank you for lunch; I really needed this,” I whisper into her ear. "I hope we get to do it again someday?"
Pulling back from our embrace, Serenity locks her eyes with me. “No matter what happens between you and Marcus, you will always be family to me, Cleo. Don’t ever doubt that.”
Her pledge leaves me breathless and causes tears to loom in my eyes.
“Thank you,” I mutter, my overworked brain unable to think of a more suitable reply.
After pressing a kiss to my temple, Serenity makes her way to the curb to flag down a taxi. With her dazzling smile and stellar good looks, not even a second passes before a bright yellow cab stops in front of her.
She curls into the backseat before rolling down the window. “I’ll see you Saturday,” she says to me, her tone forthright.
“Saturday?” I query, my one word coming out in a flurry since the taxi is pulling away from the curb.
Serenity’s lips tug high, exposing a smile that should grace the pages of fashion magazines across the globe. “The opening of Links, remember? You said you’d help.”
I follow her taxi as it melds into the clogged traffic of Manhattan. My heart is walloping my ribs, my pupils massively dilated.
“I can’t do Saturday. It would be too weird,” I shout, projecting my voice over the blasting of horns and noisy engines.
“Marcus won’t be there,” Serenity assures me, slicing her hand through the air like it’s no big deal.
Sidestepping a group of road construction crew members eyeing me with ardor, I race across the street. I look like an idiot jogging in a tight pleated pencil skirt and three-inch stilettos, but my speed remains unchecked. I can handle blisters on my feet, but spending hours in the presence of a man who sends my libido rocketing to the next galaxy by doing nothing but breathing would be biting off more than I can chew. A saint would have a hard time curbing their desires around a man with an alluring personality like Marcus's, much less a woman who is well aware of his sexual prowess.
“Why won’t Marcus be there?” I ask when I catch up to Serenity’s taxi, my high tone polluted with suspicion. “It’s his charity. Shouldn’t he be there?”
“He doesn’t want the paparazzi scaring away people relying on Links for shelter,” Serenity yells, startling an elderly lad
y walking her poodle so badly, she jumps. After issuing a silent apology to the affluently dressed lady, Serenity adds on, “Their comfort is more important to Marcus than getting brownie points from a bunch of strangers.”
My steps stop, closely followed by the beat of my heart. That does sound like something Marcus would do. He’d want the victims of domestic violence to feel comfortable at Links, not be steamrolled by paparazzi vying to get a money shot of him.
Snubbing the curious gawk of strangers surrounding me, I spread my hands across my waist and demand my lungs to breathe. If I were being honest, I'd admit not all my breathlessness is from chasing Serenity's taxi a quarter of a mile; it's from having the hope of seeing Marcus again stripped away in one brutal blow. Even harboring debilitating anger doesn't lessen the impact of that realization.
God—why does it have to hurt so much?
I don’t know if I’m delusional from a lack of oxygen in my lungs, but I swear the last thing I hear before Serenity’s taxi melds into a sea of yellow is, “Don’t think, Cleo; just breathe.”
6
My galloping feet freeze halfway down the porch stairs when I fail to notice the lace curtain in Mrs. Rachet’s living room ruffling. Agitated unease curls around my throat as I take the steps more cautiously. Mrs. Rachet is Montclair’s equivalent of the town gossip. Her nose is burrowed so deep in her neighbors’ lives; she knows their big-hitting news before they do. I swear, she announced my acceptance at Global Ten Media before the mailman delivered my letter of offer.
I’ve lived across from Mrs. and Mr. Rachet my entire life, so her snooping is as regular as a trip to the grocery store for me, but I’m still stunned her caliber of nosy-nuancing has failed to catch me sneaking out of my home a little before 5 AM. Although she’s always shown a keen interest in my private life, her efforts ramped up a gear after the silver Bentley whisked me away to Chains two months ago. Then it went into full-blown overdrive when Marcus’s Jaguar collected me last weekend.
Grinning at the disappointment her 10 AM bridge companions will express when she fails to update them on my every move, I trudge to my baby-poo Buick parked at the side of my house. With winter making an early appearance, the windshield is covered with a thin layer of sleet. I increase my pace, eager to discover if the dewy air will put a dampener on my early morning activities.
Cranking open my car door, I slide into the driver's seat and jab my keys into the ignition. “Please,” I pray, peering up at the sagging roof lining.
My shoulders sag in disappointment when my first turn of the key has my engine firing to life. I giggle lamentably while shaking my head, beyond baffled that the one time I want my car to kick up a stink about its old, worn-out engine, it starts on the very first try.
Pretending my unanswered prayer isn’t an omen on how the remainder of my day will pan out, I shift my gearstick into reverse and head to Montclair Heights train station. The roads are deserted, giving me a clear run. After pulling into my regular parking spot mere minutes later, I gather my belongings from the passenger seat and make my way to the platform to await the 5:15 direct train to Manhattan.
The station is nearly as desolate as the parking lot; only a handful of tourists and early morning commuters are mingling in the vast space. With Miquel’s ticket booth closed until 8 AM, I pace to the electronic terminal outside his booth to purchase a return pass. There is a sheet of paper covering the monitor, advising passengers that a disruption to the internet service the railway company uses means all passengers will ride for free.
Concern twists in my stomach, winding all the way up to the base of my throat. Swallowing down my unease, I pass a smiling police officer on my way to the bench I plan on slumping on to await my usually delayed train.
The gurgling of my stomach grows when a train pulls into the station not even two minutes later. The time is precisely 5:15 AM. I blink several times in a row, ensuring my nearsightedness doesn’t have me mistaking my train for another.
Happy the train is the one I am scheduled to catch, I step into the nearly empty car and make my way down the aisle. Acting like I can’t feel moisture beading on my nape, I settle into a seat a few rows down from a group of rowdy teens making kissy, gaga faces at me. I swipe at my forehead, removing a thin layer of sweat from my brow before snagging my Kindle out of my oversized purse. Although the teens’ lewd comments bristle my spine with annoyance, they are not saying anything I haven't heard before. If my stomach wasn’t a vulgar mess of confusion, I could take their snickered remarks as compliments. It’s not every day a woman gets told she has an ass so fine she could rival Beyoncé.
Before I can register that the teens’ comments are louder because they moved into the seats across from me, the smiling officer from earlier steps into my car. With one hand bracing his gun and a swagger many officers have, his eyes scan the car. His quick skim of the area is compelling enough to have the teen boys hot-footing it to the exit two spaces down from me.
The smell of cologne lingers into my nostrils when the officer pushes off his feet to chase after them, shouting into his police radio on the way past. I sit slack-jawed and muted when he races past the Plexiglas windows of the train so fast he is nothing but a blur.
I swallow rapidly, pushing down the bile surging into my throat when the train doors snap shut, leaving me the sole occupant in the entire car for my direct ride to Penn Station.
With how smoothly my run into New York is going, I expect the butterflies in my stomach to soon be pacified. They aren't. Have you ever heard the saying "the calm before the storm?” That's precisely what this morning feels like. When everything seems too good to be true, it generally is. And although I could rationalize that the early morning hour is aiding in my carefree commute, my intuition is telling me that isn't the case. I don't just feel a storm brewing; I'm sensing a catastrophic tornado.
Approximately one hour later, and multiple chapters of flawless words read through clattering teeth, I place my Kindle into my purse and exit the train at Penn station. On my walk to the 34th Street Subway Station, my eyes study the scenery. Although it's still early, the city is a hive of activity. Taxi fumes mingle in the air right alongside people hustling around like there aren't enough hours in the day. As I continue on my way, I drink it all in, allowing my love of New York to ease the contempt blackening my heart.
My appreciation of my sister city is so boundless, I am soon walking down the street Links is located on without a single qualm. As I pass the alley Marcus and I stood in last week when he prepared me for the paparazzi onslaught, my eyes scan the street. I don’t want it to, but disappointment rears its ugly head when I fail to find a single car worth over $2000 in a half-block radius.
Although my shrewd brain is grateful for Serenity's assurance Marcus wouldn’t be here, my heart is disenchanted. Its hope of seeing Marcus again saw me stumbling out of bed at 3 AM this morning so I could put together the perfect "you'll regret the day you ever made a fool out of me" persona. I wasn't aspiring to impress Marcus; I just wanted him to see what he lost by playing me for a fool. I guess the only fool here is me.
Shrugging off my stupidity before it dampens my mood, I continue my trek, stopping only once I reach the frosted doors of Links. Since it's still early, the area is void of the paparazzi I handled the last time I stood in this very spot. After pushing through the sandblasted double doors, I sling off my newly purchased winter jacket and place it onto the coatrack at the side. A vibrant hum of activity jingles through my ears when I enter the main rec room. My eyes go crazy, fascinated by the practical furnishings now filling the ample space. All a change from last week, sofas, dining tables, and extensive reading chairs now soften the harsh lines of the converted warehouse, giving it a warm and homey feeling.
I clutch my stomach when the smell of freshly baked goodies lingers in the air. It reminds me of my mom’s Sunday afternoon routine when I was in middle school. She would bake for hours on end, ensuring the pantry was stocked with goodies
our family consumed throughout the week. I blame her scrumptious cooking for the extra cushioning in my backside.
Remembering Serenity’s plea for assistance in the kitchen, I follow the delicious smell floating in the air, pretending I can't feel my thighs shaking with every step I take. I smile a greeting at a group of tradesmen making some last-minute adjustments to a row of tables that will feed thousands before entering a state-of-the-art industrial-sized kitchen at the side of the rec room.
“Wow,” I mumble, my mouth gaping. “Even Lexi could cook in a kitchen like this.”
Lexi’s culinary skills are best described as atrocious. Something as simple as peanut butter on toast is an effort for Lexi. I don’t know how many times I’ve saved our kitchen from a raging inferno the past four years.
As I pace deeper into the bustling hive of activity, my eyes absorb the scene. Large pots of porridge are bubbling on the cooktops, and boxes of fresh fruit and loaves of bread fill every surface. At least two dozen people are preparing the first meal of many to be served by this kitchen.
The sick gloom making my skin a sticky mess eases when I see the vast range of volunteers busily preparing Links’ very first meal. The age of the people in attendance varies greatly. There is a man with silver hair and a thick beard who would be easily in his seventies flipping pancakes like he was born to. He is standing next to a young girl just shy of her teen years slicing containers of strawberries to be served with the pancakes. The volunteers' wealth is also on opposing ends of the spectrum. One lady manning the pots of porridge is dripping with diamonds, whereas another lady with ripped jeans and flip-flops is buttering bread rolls by the dozen. Although it's staggering to see people from diverse social strata in the one place, it's endearing to see them set their differences aside so they can come together for a worthy cause. Especially at such a busy time of the year.