“Come on. Tell us about this handsome guy over here.” She gestures to her screen where an image of Oliver and me outside my apartment building has just magically appeared. His face is not entirely visible—I’m thankful—but mine is. Where did they get that picture?
My heart races like a galloping stallion. The audience goes wild at the sight of him, me, us, or the kiss that is revealed by the togetherness of our lips.
“Who’s the mystery man, Sophie? Is he your boyfriend? Are you dating?”
The sound from the audience dies. What I can hear is Kim telling me to stick to the briefing. What I can hear is my mother telling me to keep my thoughts to myself. It’s eating me alive.
“No, he’s not.”
“The kiss says otherwise, my dear. Is he going to be upset you lied on my show?”
The audience laughs while I bite my lip, trying to hold back the thunder of words that are mixing up inside my mouth. “I don’t see how this is relevant.”
“You don’t see it? Sophie, people are interested in what’s going on in your life. Not just the bad. But the good, too. This is good. Love is good! We want to put a name to the man’s face. We just want to know the truth from your own lips, of course.”
Kim hangs backstage and I just eye her over my shoulder, trusting that she will intervene, make it rain, do something. I want the curtains cued immediately.
“Sophie?”
I get up from my chair.
***
AFTER THE HORRIBLE TV appearance, I go to lunch with Stacey at the Mermaid Inn, a seafood restaurant in the East Village, and delight in a wedge salad while she grabs a shrimp cocktail and a beer. Stacey goes on about her latest rocky days with Jonathan, but I don’t listen. I keep beating myself up after what happened on the talk show.
I’m in a state of uncontrolled emotions as I tell her about the interview.
“You walked out?” she asks after swallowing a shrimp. “Damn! You’re such a badass! Good for you! I bet it’s all over the news!”
“Yes! And it’s all over Twitter, too! Apparently, I’m such a rude person and it was a horrible interview. Do you want to know what else is on Twitter? Take a look.” I toss her my phone so that she can see. I run my hands through my hair, almost feeling strands come out.
Stacey snorts, looking down on my phone. “Why are they calling you a homophobic bitch?”
“It was a stupid joke!” I shout, not even caring that we’re in public. “Donna was asking me if Reed comes with me while I shop or go to the hair salon or stuff like that, and I said ‘yes. I’m amazed he’s still straight.’ Now how does that make me a homophobic bitch? I don’t have a phobia against homosexuals. What the hell is wrong with these people?”
“Oh, calm down. You’re not the first person to be called a homophobe. Screw them.”
“Damn it! I’m fucking angry! This is insane! I need a cigarette!”
“Wow.” She hands me back my phone. “I gotta tell you Soph, it’s the most alive I’ve seen you in awhile.”
I frantically light up a cigarette. “So I said something stupid and I walked out off the talk show set. That’s that.”
“Well, yeah, you walked out of there because you didn’t want to be there anymore. You literally stood up to Donna’s ass and let those other lamebrain dimwits know that you’re not going to keep putting up with their shit! Goddamn it, we should be throwing a party right now!”
Night falls. I’m in yet another tight spot, only this time it’s an elevator—the one that serves as an entrance to Oliver’s penthouse—and it occurs to me that my hormones are unnaturally deranged. They come, they go, they do as they please. They want to run, I want to walk; I want to run and they want to walk. And here I am, horrified of what Oliver will say after my utter failure on national television.
The private elevator halts and its doors open like some cutting-edge theater curtain, slowly revealing a beautiful water corridor...but no Oliver. I take one tiny step forward. “Anybody home?”
I hesitate when I can’t hear anything, not the chirping of a cricket or any other kind of insect. This can’t be a good thing. I wander inside with caution, my eyes adapting to the faintly glowing lights.
“Sophie.”
“Oliver!” I shout, a shuddering hand flying to my chest. “Jesus! You scared me!”
“Why?” He comes around the staircase. “Were you not expecting me in my own house?”
“I wasn’t expecting you to pop out of the darkness looking like some sort of predator. What’s the deal with you? Always giving me the creeps. Why were you just standing there?”
“I was watching you,” he says softly.
“Oh, great,” I say with fake enthusiasm. “So you are some sort of predator.”
He puts his arms around my waist and says, “I’ve wanted to hold you all day.” Then, he presses his lips to my forehead. Immediately, my whole attitude changes.
Beautiful, vibrating octaves suddenly flood the room. I don’t know how the music comes on, but I feel I’m about to break into quiet sobs. The piano music issuing from the speakers is so mesmerizing.
Naturally, I thank him for the roses, tell him they were absolutely beautiful, but I don’t say anything about the invitation that came with the roses. He starts telling me how the roses were grown organically and how farms are being benefited by this practice. I’m overjoyed. I ask him about dinner and he lures me into the kitchen, or something that resembles one. It’s an industrialized culinary landmass. Gratefully no usage of long, dreadful stairways tangles our way to the kitchen.
“How are you?” he asks as he uncorks a bottle of wine. “How was your day?”
“I’m fine. It went fine. The day was fine.”
“There’s that word again. ‘Fine.’ You should really expand your vocabulary.”
“I am very fine. It went very fine.” I reach out for a glass of wine. “How was yours? Did you save the world today?”
“My day? Well...busy.”
“That’s it?”
“It was good, Sophie. It’s nice to have someone ask how my day was.”
We have risotto with scallops at the table with too many chairs and afterward, I slowly start wondering if Oliver even saw my interview. Seated at the head, he flirts with his glass of wine, appreciating the music in the background. This isn’t the attitude of a man who is upset after my interview debacle.
He refills my wine glass. “I saw you today on TV.” Ah, and there it is! “I almost didn’t recognize you. You seemed like a different person. You were chirpy and extremely easy to chat with.”
I fold my hands on the table. “Most of it wasn’t real.”
There is a moment of silence while Oliver stares at me and I stare back doubtful of this man’s intentions.
“What?” I shrug like I am clueless. “Are you just going to look at me like that?”
“I’m waiting for a real answer.”
“That was a real answer.”
“Was it?”
An exaggerated grunt escapes from my lips. “You saw the show...I was protecting myself from that drag of a host trying to drive me crazy. I had to say all the right things at all the right moments.”
“That shouldn’t prevent you from forming a real opinion.”
“What is this about?” I look into his half illuminated irises. “Is this because I said we weren’t dating or is this because I said I was amazed Reed is still straight?”
“Oh, not at all,” he replies, then casually takes a sip of his wine. “Things are inconsistent, and I don’t like it when things are inconsistent. Usually it means that something else isn’t surfacing.”
“Something else? Like what?”
“I think you’re the one who knows, Sophie.” His gaze never wavers, never clues me in to his real thoughts.
I stand from my chair and move into the living room with my arms crossed over my chest. I hear him stand from the table and follow me.
“How long is it supposed to take fo
r you to tell me what really goes on inside your head?”
“What do you want from me, Oliver? Do you want me to whine about my interview, explain how difficult that was for me? Do you want me to scream at you, to complain about my life? Tell you how I regret not telling Donna we were dating because I’m not even sure what is happening between us?”
“Yes, I want you to tell me things. I can’t read your mind.”
He swallows his wine and sets the glass on a side table. He moves in so close I can smell the wine on his breath.
“What are you doing?” My breathing skyrockets and my body awakens to his provoking, near approach. He picks me up by the hips with one hand, throws me over his shoulder, and takes off. My arms flop like some puppet against his back, my legs dangle worthlessly at his chest, and my backside sits parallel to the ceiling.
“Put me down this instant!” I hit his back lightly. “I mean it! I swear to God, Oliver, put...me...down!” I don’t even seem to faze him as he whistles while carrying me down the stairs.
“If you don’t put me down now, I will—!”
He walks into a dimly lit room with a huge bed, then drops me on it. I stare up at him, irritation circulating in my bloodstream.
“You’ll what?”
I try fighting down a wave of nausea and dare myself to look him straight in the eye. “What the hell was that for?”
“One thing you should know about me, Sophie.” His tone has just raised three levels on the scary factor; a hint of distress crosses my eyes. “You see, I’m used to knowing instinctively how people are, how to get what I want, how everything should be. Not often have I found myself thinking I lack the knowledge to understand a subject and yet here we are...”
“And what does that have to do with me?”
“Sophie.”
“What? What? For God’s sake, what? Don’t treat me like I’m just business. I’m not one of your business projects that suddenly goes wrong and you don’t know how to approach it anymore.”
Something changes in his eyes as he looks at me. “I’ve never thought of you as a business project. I apologize if that’s what you felt.”
“Well, that’s what you’ve made me think. You can’t know everything there is to know about everything. Especially not about a person, especially not about me.”
“Why not?” He crosses his arms as if he’s truly puzzled by this.
“Because for one thing, I’m a woman. I have unpredictable and irrational behaviors, and you’ll never get to the bottom of me. So stop trying to understand me.”
“You don’t trust me?”
I struggle to find the right words. “It’s not that. I don’t know...I guess it’s...complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be complicated. Explain it to me, Sophie. If you talk rationally enough, I’m bound to understand anything.”
I want to talk to him. I want to tell him everything, but I don’t know how to explain myself to him. I’m not even sure I should reach out to this man—this man who is already more a part of my life than anyone else.
He stands tall and stares into space over my head as I can feel my own body twitching under my cotton crochet dress. The light in the room is almost extinct. Oliver’s face is cast in a partial outline. Every now and again, the ghost of a light sweeps from the enormous windows and his handsome face brightens.
“Just...please don’t pressure me to tell you things,” I say. “If you let me come around on my own, it will all probably turn out best in the end.”
“This is about you not being real with me. This is about me knowing you’ve lied. I cannot and will not tolerate lies.”
“What have I lied to you about?”
He stares at me accusingly. “The smoking.”
“Okay,” I reply, beaten. “About that...I do smoke once in a while. But I can go off them if and when I want to. I actually want to quit soon.”
“Really?”
“Okay, that’s a lie too. I’m sorry. You said you don’t date smokers and I panicked, you know? It wasn’t good news—I couldn’t just say I smoke, you know?”
“Stop babbling, Sophie. What else have you lied to me about?”
“Nothing!”
I slide off the bed wearily. Like some sad puppy, he sits on the corner of the bed with his elbows on his knees and looks up at me in a way that is making my heart constrict.
“Sophie, I am truly fascinated by you, I am. But you are the most complex woman I know. Women usually tell me what they want, or they throw themselves at—”
“Make your point already.”
“I can openly admit I don’t know what you want. Your body seems to react to me.” Oh, he notices. “Unfortunately, your body can’t tell me everything I need to know.”
“I’m sorry, Oliver.” I let out a very dense sigh. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
He gets up and faces me. “What I want is to know you as you are, not as you believe I want you to be.” I’m floored by the comment. “Anything less won’t cut it. Simply say what you want to say. What you really want to say. Stop going over the script in your head.”
“Yeah, like that’s worked favorably in the past. I don’t usually believe other people’s reasons. Look at what’s happening. I’ve been getting messages, death threats, and hateful comments. Someone tried to kidnap me. Someone clearly wants to see me rotting in the gutter. I don’t know who that is. I don’t know why that happened or if it’s going to happen again. I’m sorry I respond to everyone and everything with a level of suspicion.”
“Do yourself a favor. Stop being so afraid of what might be. I know you feel exposed and you’re terrified because of it. But you can’t control everything. You definitely can’t control what people think. If I happen to be anything less of what you want and deserve, then kick me to the curb immediately. Don’t hesitate. But at least give yourself the opportunity to know why you might not want to be with me. Otherwise, you’ll never know if you do. You’ll just assume...as you always do.”
“You know who else I don’t trust? People who tell me exactly what I need to hear.”
“Sophie.
“Oliver.”
“Look, I’m a very simple man.”
I feel his words blurring and melting until they are stored inside me. “Take a look around,” I whisper. “You live in a six-floor building. You eat rabbit Pâtés, hors d’oeuvres, and pop a bottle of Château Margaux for lunch like there’s a cause for celebration, but there really is none.”
“I don’t need there to be a celebration to enjoy a fine wine, and now is not the time to bring out a list of my interests. I have a low bullshit tolerance and prefer to be consistent and straightforward as opposed to playing games.”
“That is so...so...,” I fish for the right words, “not true.”
“Yes, yes it is. What do you want to know? Ask me anything.”
I shrug and voice the first thing that comes to my mind. “I don’t know. Your love life is a pretty big mystery to me. When was the last time you were in a relationship?”
“Two months ago.”
My eyes go wide. Blood drains from my face, and my heart beats against my chest like a washing machine filled with bricks. Can’t say I’m at all surprised to hear that. Then, as if his answer wasn’t enough, what he says next makes me move back to the bed and flop down on it. “It’s the longest I’ve gone without a girlfriend.”
I lean forward with my elbows on my knees and my chin in my trembling hands. I just sit and breathe, resisting the urge to whine or complain or say anything that might reveal how insecure I feel right now. I swallow and find my voice, a cynical one. “I see. Well, that’s good to know. I’ll write that down on ‘my list of things I should’ve asked sooner.’ What happened?”
He sighs, as if it’s a long story. “What always happens. It wasn’t working. I didn’t feel the same way she did. She’s great, just not for me.”
“Oh,” I say, emotionless. Of course...he broke up with he
r. “How long were you together?”
“About seven, eight months. I know what you’re thinking, so before you ask, Sophie, let me put your mind at rest. It’s over. I’m not going back.”
“Why not?” I defy.
“When something is done it’s done. I don’t second-guess my decisions.”
“So, you’re convinced?”
He nods, once, serious. “Absolutely.”
“How many girlfriends have you had anyway?”
“Twelve.”
I push from the bed quickly. “Twelve?”
“Yes.”
“Wow...that’s...that’s...just wow. Good for you. Right on. You should be proud of this. You know, I bet it could even pass as a world record.”
“You don’t go easy on the sarcasm, do you? I’ve been dating since I was eighteen, Sophie. Difference is, I now know exactly the type of man I am and what I’m looking for.”
“Yeah, I bet. You’ve had a lot of girlfriends, Oliver. I wasn’t expecting to hear that.”
“What do you mean?” He asks with a concerned look on his face, like he’s afraid of my answer.
“Just what I said.”
“I haven’t been in love twelve times, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“How many times, then?”
“I’m not sure.”
“It’s okay. You’re not going to hurt my feelings.”
“I simply don’t know the answer, Sophie. I’ve cared for women before. But love, I don’t know.”
A heavy silence settles over us.
I pace around for a moment, bracing myself. I gaze out the window. A few seconds later, at the feel of him behind me, I turn around and say with sadness in my voice, “What am I to you, Oliver? Am I lucky thirteen? Am I a fling? Has this just been a really long one-night stand? If you were as straightforward as you say you are, I’d know this right off the bat. I’d know where I stand. No girl wants to ask. No girl wants to have this talk. It’s awkward. But, tell me, are we exclusive, because once again, who knows? Not to mention, I don’t find this whole I’ve-had-a-million-girlfriends confession very encouraging. To say that you’ve been playing the field is the understatement of the year. And just to be clear, I’m not fishing for a title or anything, I just want to know what goes on in your head about us.”
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