by Callie Hart
“Because…I’ve told people in the past and I’ve always regretted it. I’ve watched it their eyes, the moment when they stop being interested in me as a friend, and they transition to seeing me as a way to get close to Raphael. Over the years it became really frustrating. I just stopped telling people. I stopped telling people about all of it. My parents and their money. My ridiculous upbringing. The summer-long overseas trips, and the brand new SUVs. It made people uncomfortable, and it made me uncomfortable, too. That way, when I met someone and made friends with them, I knew they wanted to hang out and spend time with me because they liked me, not because of what I have, or what I could do for them.”
“Do you honestly think I would have done that?” I ask. I’m not angry that she would lump me in with such shallow people, but I guess I am a little hurt.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I knew I could tell you everything a couple of weeks after we first met, but by then…you have to understand, Beth. My life up until I joined this program was pure chaos. It was parties every night, way too much cocaine, way too much alcohol, way too many all-nighters and fake people fawning over me. When…when everything changed and I came to Columbia, I had this opportunity to become someone else. And I liked the person I became. I put party girl Thalia to rest, and I became regular, every day Thalia. It felt good to be her. I didn’t hide the truth from you because I didn’t trust you. I hid it for me . So I could carry on being regular, every day Thalia for just a little while longer.”
I snap the thread from my jeans, winding it around my finger. “Okay. I guess I can understand that. But three years, Thalia. We’ve been friends for three years, and you’ve been keeping secrets. I hate that.”
She hangs her head. This is what true guilt looks like. I’ve seen her pretend to feel bad about plenty of things, primarily not handing in work on time, being late for everything, ever , and failing to show up at all for group assignments altogether, but this is a new look on my friend. There are red spots on her cheeks, that fiery, quicksilver glint that’s always flashing in her eyes dulled just a little. “I’m sorry. I knew this was gonna come out the moment I asked you to go see Raphael. I was planning on it coming out. I just thought I’d have more time to figure out how to tell you, and when I was going to do it. I didn’t think Pax would show up at Raph’s any time soon. I thought he was going to be in China until July at least.”
“Are you still dating him?”
“No. Kind of. When he’s in town, we meet up and have sex. We broke up a long time ago, though. He’s…he’s still Party Boy Pax. He was never going to change.” A flicker of pain passes over her face, there one second, gone the next.
“Do you still love him?”
She purses her lips, a small line forming between her eyebrows. “Yes. I suppose I always will. I’m never going to be able to not love Paxton Ross.” A storm of emotion hangs over her, heavy and oppressive. Her shoulders are rounded, her back slumped, and my own hurt dissipates just a little. Whatever happened in the past between her and Paxton has left her bereft. He must have broken her heart to still be affecting her like this, years later. “He’s not a particularly good person, though. Deep down,” she says. “It’s hard to remember that sometimes, because most of the time, when I’m with him, he’s always so fun and easy going. He has the most amazing ability to make anyone laugh, no matter the circumstances. And he’s so fucking smart and engaging. He can charm the sun out of the sky on his worst day. But then, when it comes down to it, his core beliefs and core morals…they leave something to be desired.”
“I’m sorry, Thalia. Sounds like you’re better off without the guy.”
She gives me a sad smile. “You’re right. Still, sometimes, it’s hard to bear that in mind.”
We sit in silence for a long moment, and it feels like I’m meeting the real Thalia for the very first time. How sad. After a while, I say, “And Raphael? If you’re friends with him after all this, why didn’t you just go play chess with him?”
“Well, for one I can’t play,” she says, smiling. “And secondly, Raphael struggles to spend time with me. I remind him of the past, and the past isn’t easy for him. He prefers to look to the future as often as he can. That’s why he dedicates so much of his time and energy on his projects. He wants to make tomorrow better than today. He wants to solve everyone else’s problems, but he point-blank refuses to face his own.”
This, somehow, makes sense to me. Thalia speaks about him from years of experience spending time with him, no doubt traveling, exploring the world, taking advantage of the opportunities available to a group of kids with unlimited bank accounts at their disposal. I know the truth in her words, though. There’s something deeply troubled about Raphael. Something dark and tormented, something gnawing at him from the inside out.
“He knows I’m here right now,” Thalia tells me. “And he made me promise to ask you to continue going to play with him. I know it’s a little weird now that you know the truth, but honestly, you’re the first person he’s allowed into his apartment besides a few work colleagues and Pax for a very long time. You going to play with him is progress, Beth. Progress I never thought we’d make with him. I understand if you’re mad at me for keeping things from you. I know it might not seem like much to you, these few hours you’re spending with him every week, but it means a hell of a lot to me, and to Pax. So, please…don’t stop going over there to punish me.”
I close my eyes, groaning as I fall back against the sofa, tucking my legs up underneath me. “I’m not that angry, Thalia. I’m not going to punish anyone. That’s crazy. I guess I’m just confused. If Raphael’s that unwilling to spend time with people, even his friends from high school, then why the hell would he want to spend time with me ?”
Thalia takes her cell phone out of her purse, tapping quickly. She gets up and comes to sit down beside me on the couch. “I posted this photo on Instagram a while back,” she says, showing me her phone. It’s a shot of Thalia and me standing outside a bar back when there was still snow on the ground. We’re both wearing hats and scarves, grinning into the camera. This was the night Thalia tried to knee David in the junk for hitting on her. The band actually played well that night, and the two-for-one margaritas at the bar got the better of us. We were pretty wasted by the time we went outside and took that photo. There’s no caption, only the photo. It’s been months since I’ve checked social media accounts, so I didn’t even know she’d posted it.
“He saw this,” Thalia says. “He asked about you. Who you were. How long I’d known you. I told him, and then I didn’t think anything else of it. Last week he emailed me and asked for me to arrange for you to come to play chess with him. His idea, not mine. I was shocked, but I agreed. It’s been so long since he’s shown an interest in meeting someone he doesn’t know that I just agreed right away. I still don’t know why he asked me to do it. All I know is that he’s a good guy, Beth. He’s a solid, good person. He’d never do anything untoward to make you feel uncomfortable, and he’d never do anything to hurt you. Beyond that, it’s been eighteen months since I’ve seen him face-to-face, and even then that was through a glass door. I was being selfish, too. I wanted to hear how he’s doing from someone who’s seen him recently and in person.”
“Eighteen months? God, Thalia. Is he mad at you or something?”
Sadness pours off her in waves. “No. Maybe. We still speak on the phone. Email all the time. He’s…he’s just Raphael . There’s no other way to explain it. If you keep going to play with him, I’m sure you’ll figure that out for yourself,” she says quietly. She bites on her bottom lip. “Will you still go?”
“I don’t know,” I grumble. “It would make me feel better if we could meet somewhere on neutral ground. A coffee shop, or, I don’t know…somewhere other than his apartment. The place is pretty overwhelming.”
Thalia pulls a face. “That’s not going to happen,” she says. “Public places are impossible for Raph. He’s recognized everywhere h
e goes.”
“What about here, then? Surely he could make the effort to come here. I know it’s not exactly the Ritz Carlton, but it’s also not a dirty, rat infested hole in the ground.”
“I know, Bee. I love your apartment. You know I love hanging out here with you. I can guarantee Raphael doesn’t think he’s too good to come to your place. I can promise you that. It’s just…he doesn’t like to risk traveling through the city. I know he’s not going to go for it. Just…please. Please keep going over there. I know he’ll be less stuffy the more time you spend together.”
I should say no. This whole situation was weird to begin with, and it just got a whole lot weirder. Despite the secrets, Thalia’s been so good to me, though. She came and looked after me for weeks when my father died. She’s stayed up all night studying with me when I’ve needed the motivation and the support. She’s consistently been a good friend to me, even when she’s been inconsistent in every other area of her life. I grab the pillow beside me and hug it to my chest, resting my chin on top of it.
“Yes. Yes, I’ll keep going. But on two conditions.”
Her eyes shine brightly, filled with relief. “Of course. Name them.”
“You have to get him to stop calling me Ms. Dreymon.”
“He’s gonna complain.”
“I don’t care. It makes me feel old, not to mention on edge.”
“Okay, I’ll make it happen. And the second condition?”
“No more money.”
“Beth!”
I hold up my hands. “I’m serious. He’s your friend. He’s one of your closest friends by the sounds of things, even with the whole refusing to meet with you in person thing. What kind of asshole would I be if I took money from him now?”
“You know he’s not paying me, right? That whole cut thing was just to make it seem more above board.”
“It doesn’t matter. I won’t take a cent from him. It’s too weird, Thalia. Just…no .”
She looks disappointed, but she nods. “Fine. I’ll tell him. He’s not going to like it, though. He’s not going to like it one bit.”
Seven
Beth
I text Raphael the next day at four, just before I go into class.
M e : Please don’t send Nate to pick me up today.
R aphael replies almost immediately .
R aphael : Why? What did he do?
M e : Nothing. He’s been great. I’d just prefer to ride the subway.
R aphael doesn’t answer . I turn my phone off when I enter my lecture, and I bury it at the bottom of my bag. If I don’t, I’ll be checking it every five seconds to see if I have any messages, and I’m already fighting to pay attention to my workload as it is. My contracts law lecture is so dull I have trouble staying awake. Once it’s finally over, I quickly head to the bathrooms and get changed into the light, fairly casual dress I neatly folded into my bag before I left my apartment this morning. I trade my Chucks for some pretty suede boots with a kitten heel, though the effort is wasted really, since I’ll be leaving them in the elevator. Still, they complete my outfit. I apply a tiny amount of makeup, some blusher and some mascara, some lip-gloss to add a bit of extra color to my face, and then I hurry to the subway. It’s packed, but I’m so used to traveling this way now, that the sea of people all crammed tightly together in the narrow space doesn’t bother me anymore. A busker is playing jazz on a trumpet somewhere, but sound travels so strangely underground here; it’s impossible to know which walkway he’s playing down. A guy with salt and pepper hair taps his foot along to the rhythm as we wait for the train. When it arrives, people pour out of the carriages, talking into their cell phones, heads down, lost in their own private worlds. I take a seat, and I allow myself to check out for a minute. My eyes skip over the countless ads displayed on the walls of the carriage, my mind wandering. The Lion King ; Wicked ; The new David Baldacci book; A pharmaceutical advertisement for depression; A fifty percent off sale at Kingston & Bradshaw Mattresses.
Twenty minutes later, I’m off the train and walking through packed streets toward the Osiris Building. It occurs to me once I get there that I’ve only ever accessed the penthouse through the private elevator in the parking lot. Damn. I dig out my phone, about to text Raphael to ask him if there’s another way up, but he’s already messaged me. Twice.
R aphael : The subway isn’t safe. It’s Nate’s job to collect people on my behalf.
I didn’t check my phone after class, so I didn’t get his message. He obviously expected me to acquiesce and let Nate pick me up. Does that mean Nate went and waited for me at my apartment? I really hope not. The second message reads:
R aphael : Go to the front desk. Tell Oliver I’m expecting you.
I don’t know if his tone is irritated or not. It’s so hard to tell on a text. Shit. Oh, well. What’s done is done. Can’t be helped. Now that I’m not getting paid for this, I feel a little less anxious about the whole thing. I head inside, straight to the front desk, and I’m about to ask for Oliver when I notice the guy standing in front of me is wearing a name badge bearing that very name. He smiles politely. “Can I help you, Madam?”
“I’m here to see Mr. North,” I tell him. And then, “I’m expected.” I’ve always wanted to say that. Feels very professional. Oliver’s smile amps up to a thousand watts.
“Oh, yes, of course. Beth, correct? Please. Follow me.” He leads me through the lobby of the building, skirting groups of people dressed in suits and ties, briefcases clutched tightly in their hands, until we reach a door marked “private” with a polished brass plaque. He opens the door with a key and ushers me through. I find myself in another small waiting area like the one down in the basement, with another private elevator.
“You’ll see yourself up, Beth?” Oliver asks. “Mr. North prefers us to remain down here in the lobby.”
“Oh, yes. No problem.”
Oliver hits the call button, bows ever so slightly, then leaves me alone to wait for the elevator car to arrive. When it does, I get on and remove my shoes, secreting them away in yet another hidden closest. I check my watch: 6:47. Nearly fifteen minutes early again. Instead of ringing the bell, I walk over to the window opposite, and I stand there, taking it all in. Raphael was obviously upset that I was early last time, so I figure I’ll just wait here until seven rolls around.
The view really is phenomenal. The Osiris Building is so tall that the other buildings on the horizon all seem dwarfed by it. I never realized how many helicopter pads there were on the roofs of the buildings in Manhattan. To the east, I can see the water in the distance, a flat mirror that stretches on into nothingness. The Hudson River winds its way toward the sea like a shining ribbon of grey silk. I can’t hear a thing. This high up, the sounds of the sirens, the traffic, the chatter—they have all disappeared. A solid, tangible, weighty silence fills my ears instead.
It’s almost feels like I’m observing the city from space. Everything feels so far away, like I’m untouchable here in this penthouse.
“Surreal, isn’t?”
The voice at my back startles me. I didn’t hear the glass door open. I didn’t hear Raphael step out into the anteroom, or approach me from behind. He’s wearing a black button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of black pants. His shoes are a burnt brown color—incredibly expensive looking leather. His dark clothes, coupled with his almost black hair, make the green in his eyes all the more vivid. He slides his hands into his pockets, taking a step toward me.
“Does it make you feel small and insignificant? Or does being so high up, being able to see so far, make you feel powerful, like you own it all somehow?” he asks quietly. The Raphael North Intensity Spectrum seems to be hitting an all-time high this evening. He stalks towards me, head slightly tilted down, looking up at me from under his perfect, dark brows, and it feels like a hand strokes down my spine, directly between my shoulder blades.
“Small,” I tell him. “It makes me feel small. How does
it make you feel?”
He looks past me, his gaze briefly flickering over my shoulder, out of the window, before returning to me. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On my mood. On the day.” He takes another step forward. There’s something animalistic about the way he moves. Leonine. Predatory. His eyes rove out of the window again, but I still know he’s really watching me and nothing else.
“What about today?” I ask.
He smiles softly. Stops in front of me, barely two feet away. “Today? Today, the view is making me feel powerful.”
His eyes never leave me. I get the feeling he’s not talking about the bustling city through the glass anymore. I feel like he’s talking about me. I am the view. “I didn’t want to ring the bell until it was time,” I say, shifting from one foot to the other.
“Oliver called up to let me know you’d arrived,” he says. “And I didn’t want to keep you out here waiting. Shall we go inside? The food isn’t quite ready yet, but I have some wine breathing. Do you like red?”
“Yes. I love red.”
He nods a little, fiddling with his shirtsleeve. “Perfect. Follow me.”
I think he’s going to take me back to the lounge, but he doesn’t. Instead, he opens a door along the hallway, the third on the right, which leads to yet another hallway. A single door stands at the end of it, and it’s open. The room beyond is magnificent. Another glass ceiling, and another impressive panorama of the city. The room faces west, and the sun is finally going down over the skyline, oranges, yellows, and blazing reds. In the center of the room, a long, banquet style dining table sits, almost fifteen feet long. At one end, two places have been set, and a vase full of pure white calla lilies sits before them. A simple glass decanter of wine is also waiting by the place settings. Raphael makes his way over and pours two glasses, then returns to hand one to me. “Your dress is…” His eyes travel down my body, and I can’t deny how his attention makes me feel: flustered, a little anxious, vulnerable and on show. I should have worn something fancier. The shirt he’s wearing is a thing of beauty. It looks like it probably cost more than my monthly rent. I have an overwhelming urge to place my hand against his chest and feel the fabric. To feel the solid, sculpted flesh underneath. God, what the hell is wrong with me? I look up, blinking furiously.