A Diamond in the Rough

by Elisa Marie Hopkins

  “No, of course not, Cassie. Why would you—?”

  “It takes a lot for him to trust people, but once he does, he will put blind faith into you,” she says, then disappears into a crowd of girls.

  I am left alone, bewilderment washing over me, when a waitress comes up to me. Her expression is soft, yet rather unsettled. “Sophie Cavall?”

  My thoughts are still wrapped around evaporated Cassie and my undeclared feelings for Oliver. “Yes?”

  The waitress hands me a large envelope and as I feel it in my hands, cold and crumbly like it has come from a tree at a grave, I can only ask, “Who’s it from?”

  “I’m sorry.” She shakes her head, shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t know anything.”

  She bolts right away. The envelope bears my name in neat handwriting. With my hands trembling from the cold, or the mystery, or both, I turn it over and open it carefully. Inside are several photographs.

  What the hell is this?

  I scream inside. Fearful, unable to breathe, I realize these are pictures of me, pictures of me throughout many years, pictures of me that someone specifically took to serve a purpose. To threaten me. To haunt me. To warn me. To make me realize this person has been keeping tabs on me for a long, long time.

  I pretend like I didn’t just see these pictures and smile to someone who passes by me. I look around, searching the faces—people I talked to, people I greeted. Who took these pictures? Who is this person? All I know is he’s here, following me like the sick, demented person he is. And I can only wonder what is going to happen next.

  Luke approaches me, noticing my hyperventilation. “Sophie, are you all right? What’s going on? Do you want some water?”

  “Where’s Oliver?” I wheeze.

  “I don’t have a single clue. I haven’t seen him for a while. Do you want me to go look for him?”

  “No, thanks.”

  I dash through the party looking for Oliver in every face. I look desperately for him. I ask people if they know where he is, but I’m told no one has seen him around. I’m panting now. In those minutes of uncertainty and confusion, the fear I’ve been running away from my whole life is consuming me.

  I run down the upper deck stairway. My head twists around as I reach the vast galley. Past the dining room, I spot a glimpse of a man’s back. I know that back better than I do my own. When I come around closer and into view of Oliver’s face, he’s laughing and having a good time with a girl at the salon bar. Just the two of them.

  My heart races and its pounding fills my ears.

  “Sophie, there you are,” he says ever so casually. Neither of them gets up from sitting on the sofa’s back. “I looked for you out on the upper deck.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever had so many damaging emotions go through my body all at once. My eyes are set on the girl dwarfed in front of me as Oliver drapes my coat over my shoulders. What good does it do me now?

  “Let me introduce you to someone,” he says, standing up and touching the girl on the elbow. “This is Sarah. Cassie’s friend.”

  This Sarah person holds a certain disconcerting look on her face, like she was waiting for my arrival. I can only imagine the dismayed look upon my own face.

  There is something about her. Something I can’t decode. Cosmetics decorate her blue eyes and a vibrant red paints her lips. Effortless long blonde hair falls just below her chest like a veil. By definition a veil hides something.

  “Do I know you?” I say, thinking hard.

  Her shrewd laugh arouses suspicion. “No. We’ve never met.”

  “You’re face, it looks—”

  “Looks?”

  “Familiar.”

  “Like I said, we’ve never met. You must have me confused with someone else.” She kisses Oliver’s cheek, her hand lingering on his neck. “It was nice talking to you, Oliver. I’ll see you around.”

  I can feel veins pulsing in my neck and my cheeks growing hot as the girl walks away. I remind myself that I’m an adult—or at least should behave like one—and I have enough to worry about to let my head become my enemy, but inside I feel like a child about to pout and throw a tantrum.

  My head stays down as I play around with my fingernails. “So...what were you two doing in here?” I ask as peacefully as I can manage. It feels as if there’s nothing beyond what I’m feeling. I’m at the edge of the earth with angst.

  “I came down looking for a bottle of Dom Pérignon. And she came in asking where the powder room was.”

  “Oh, I see. Did she find the powder room, being here with you?”

  “What is this about? You’re not mad at me, are you?”

  I want to lash out and let myself really feel my emotions. I close my eyes for a second, then taking a deep breath, I slowly open them. “No, Oliver. I’m not mad,” I say softly as I move closer toward him.

  He looks sort of relieved. “Really?”

  “Why are you so surprised? Should I be mad at you?”

  “No, of course not. You have no reason to be mad.”

  “Good.”

  “And you have no reason to be jealous either.”

  I scoff and turn my eyes away, but then Oliver slowly moves my chin to look at him. “None. Whatsoever,” he says. He pulls me into a tight embrace and I try to wriggle loose.

  “I wasn’t jealous.” He’s stronger than me so I refrain from twisting. “Anyway, something happened.” I slap the envelope on his chest with penetrating eyes. “Or will happen.”

  His body stiffens, his face crawls with sudden obscurity. “What is this?”

  “Open it and you’ll find out.”

  He quickly does and by the looks on his face, it takes him less than a second to understand. I scan the salon bar at the thought of someone observing. I’m becoming delusional.

  “You’re in a couple of them too,” I say.

  “Sophie, I asked you a question. What is this?” He grabs my arm, emphasizing the depth of his urgency for information.

  “What does it look like to you?”

  He holds the photographs in the air. “Who took these? Who gave this envelope to you?”

  Until this moment, I’d never heard him raise his voice before.

  “Quiet down, Oliver! You’re going to draw attention to us. I don’t know. Somebody gave it to me.”

  “I will ask you one last time. Who gave this to you?”

  “I don’t know!” I scream. “I don’t know! A waitress came up to me and gave me the envelope. That’s all I know. Look, I don’t want to do this here. This is your sister’s birthday party, so...let’s finish it well, okay? I’ll go home. I’ll call the police. I’ll work it out. I promise, just don’t make a big deal about it. Not here, in front of all these people.”

  “You think I care about all these people?” He grabs his phone from inside his jacket. “I’ll have this boat sent back to port without any hesitation whatsoever.”

  “What? No! Wait a minute. You should care!” I imagine Cassie dealing with her overbearing brother. “Let me remind you this is your sister and her friends we’re talking about. You can’t just ruin everyone’s night. You can’t do this to her!”

  His face is harsh with fury. “I beg to differ, Amelia Sophia. I have pictures in my hand that say there are more people on this boat than there should be. Do you know what I do with intruders?” If I wasn’t trembling before, I am now. “I deal with them.”

  “Oh. Thank goodness.” I sigh a breath of relief. “I thought you were going to say something like ‘take them out.’”

  “Yes, that is what happens when I deal with them.”

  I stand there completely still and mildly traumatized, blinking against the salon lights. Victoria decides to snoop as Oliver is on the phone, most likely with security. The woman selects the most inappropriate of times.

  I’m sure she notices the pale color on my face. “Is everything all right, Sophie? People are asking for you and Oliver. What are you doing down here?”

  “
Yes, of course.” I smile politely. “Everything is all right. We’ll just take a minute. Oliver is making a work-related call.”

  “On a Saturday night?”

  I chuckle nervously, trying to recapture my cool state of mind. “You know Oliver, always working.”

  Victoria walks away as she takes one last look at Oliver.

  “Don’t you think we should let this go for a moment?” I ask him, as he is walking back and forth tensely. “Let’s go out on the upper deck. You haven’t been with your sister or your friends.” I grab his shoulders as he continues pacing. “Listen to me! I don’t want to take you down this road with me. It’s bad enough your family probably thinks I am trouble for you.”

  “Clearly, you don’t understand.”

  “Yes. Clearly! Make me understand.”

  He gives me a commanding look. “I will not stand back. Can you understand that?”

  SIXTEEN

  WE LEAVE THE party in a hurry, much faster than I can actually run in high heels. The limousine’s wheels start spinning out in our dash to leave the docks behind. Melted, rubber tire marks leave the only trace of our presence there. My body shakes from side to side while Oliver remains rooted in place like a hard rock of muscle; almost as if he is too stubborn to let himself be defeated by things like physics. He’s sitting next to me, texting on his cellphone, and on my other side is Reed, looking the usual grim.

  Oliver surprises me by breaking the silence that has prevailed since we left. “Do you want to be with me, Sophie?”

  It is so untypical of him, asking me something with so much need in his voice. “What kind of question is that? Of course I want to be with you.”

  “Then why do you look miserable?”

  “Well, why not? There’s some mad man on the loose who’s set out to hunt me. I think miserable is okay.”

  “What do you want?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you want me to sit here and listen, or do you want to me do something about it?”

  “Please, do something about it,” I reply, not even trying to disguise the urgency I feel, the urgency that is quickening in me, building.

  “Good answer,” he says. “I will deal with who’s been threatening you. I don’t care who he is. I’m going to find him. Anything else is simply taking up space and weighing you down. So let it go already.”

  Streams of sentimental thoughts flow from multiple, perhaps hidden, directions. I am so far gone I can’t really say much. “Okay. Yeah...”

  “Does that make you feel better?”

  “Yeah...”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Yeah,” I say again in the same indisposed manner. I pull out the rubber band that holds my ponytail and rake my hands through the layers, all the way down my neck. Oliver reaches over my feet, unstraps my heels, and drops them on the seat in front of us.

  “What are you in the mood for?”

  I look up, thinking. “Beef.”

  “I know just the place.”

  “What place?”

  “Keens. The prime rib is flawless. Do you have something else in mind?”

  “Well...I’m tired. My feet hurt. I don’t really want to go to a fancy restaurant. I’m craving some fast food.”

  “Are you serious? I can never tell when you’re serious.”

  “Yeah. I want to get a cheeseburger and fries and a large coke.”

  “Well, all right. Fast food it is.”

  “And can we go back to my place? Jess is really creeped out after what happened and Eric is working till late. I don’t want to leave her alone.”

  “Anything you wish,” he says, putting his hand around me.

  ***

  “I HAVEN’T EATEN this in years.” I dip a French fry into a puddle of ketchup and put it in my mouth.

  “I find that hard to believe,” says Oliver, in the midst of dipping a chicken nugget in ranch. We are sitting on the living room floor with our backs slumped against the sofa, using the coffee table as a dining table. “You’re not the healthiest eater.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Mr. I’m-too-good-to-eat-at-the-Chili’s.”

  “What’s a Chili’s?”

  I look at him with an expression of puzzlement. “It’s a chain restaurant. Are you serious?”

  His response is taking a bite of the nugget.

  “Okay, so when I was a little girl, I found a Band-Aid in my McDonald’s French Fries.”

  He puts his fork and knife down. “What?”

  “Used.”

  His hand goes up as to say there is no need to ruin a dinner with disgusting reminiscences.

  “And I had been eating the fries.”

  “Stop.” His voice is fierce with annoyance.

  “You know I should’ve just cooked something for the both of us. It’s probably one of the few things I know how to do.”

  “The things you know how to do are more than a few, Sophie. Trust me. I’ve never seen you cook anything. What do you usually prepare?”

  “My repertoire is limited to about five different dishes,” I say, feeling no shame. “But I can assure you, all five are delicious.”

  “I’ll have to be the judge of that.”

  “What’s your favorite food?”

  “Chocolate.”

  “Your actual favorite food is...chocolate?”

  “Yes. Dark, strong, cacao flavored. There’s a restaurant in New York that features a sundae made with Porcelana chocolate imported from a small village in Italy. It is the absolute zenith of taste. At one thousand dollars, it comes with caviar and gold leafs.”

  “A thousand dollars for ice cream?” I scoff, about to burst out laughing. “Does Sofia Vergara come along with it?”

  “It’s a masterpiece. Served in a crystal goblet, the same that is used in the Vatican.”

  “Oh my God. Stop talking or I will smear this one-dollar ketchup bottle all over you. ”

  He smiles heartily. “You asked.”

  I pass judgment on him, but inside I wonder what gold tastes like. I then look over to my cheap bacon-cheddar hamburger idling in its box. I grab it with both my hands and take a big bite. When I look at Oliver, he is staring at me and laughing about something.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask with my mouth full of food.

  “The ketchup on your face.”

  He faces away from his plate of protein and carbohydrates and reaches over me. “Don’t move,” he says quietly. He cups my face with his hand. Slowly, the tip of his tongue brushes up from where the ketchup is, all the way up to my mouth. “There. All gone.”

  I take a swig of my soda, looking at him. “My hero.”

  “Let me have some of yours.” He plucks a handful of French fries from my plate and deposits them into his mouth.

  “Oh sure, considering you are already having some of mine...”

  “Look at you, rapidly becoming the carrier of sexual undertones.” He smiles, licking the aftertaste off his lips.

  “What are you having?” I reach to his side of the coffee table and help myself to his curly fries. “These are really good. They’re so good I shouldn’t even be eating them. This could ruin my career.”

  “I’m sure we can find a way to burn all those calories.”

  I crimp a smile, but when he stands to throw away his trash, I catch sight of that envelope—the one from the yacht party—sort of sticking out from his suit pants waistband. It serves as a remembrance that I am a woman with a death sentence. Somebody wants me dead or something, and I just can’t sit here, eat a hamburger with fries, and pretend like I have real bravado in me...like this doesn’t sabotage my mental stability...like the sheer idea of it all doesn’t scare me.

  Trying to shift my focus away from my upsetting thoughts, I snatch the remote off the table and turn on the television. I flip through the channels disinterestedly. Oliver drops himself on the couch and lures me to him.

  “I’m kind of embarrassed,” I say.

  He looks a
t me and smiles. “Why?”

  “You cook risotto for me and we eat at the dining table that looks like a conference table. And I offer fast food on the floor.”

  “Sophie, shut up. I like your apartment.”

  He steals the remote—not without first giving me a kiss as a consolation prize—and switches the channel. An appealing tune jingles, the television swirls with all sorts of colors, and the game show host announces, “It’s Jeopardy!”

  “Oh, please not that.” I fuss, but he’s already hooked to the TV.

  The host reveals the trivia clue in answer form: “It was the last year that was evenly divisible by four, but wasn’t a leap year.” Oliver goes on to answer: “What is 1900?” And, so does a contestant on the screen.

  “Yes, you got it!” the host compliments.

  Great, he’s going to answer all of them. I sit back, watching him interact with the TV.

  “What is Celsius?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is Armagnac?”

  “Correct!”

  “What is the lend-lease act?”

  “That is right.”

  Oliver squabbles with the TV after the contestant answers incorrectly and I stare at him, pop-eyed. “Okay, I get it, you can win the whole Jeopardy. You are such a trivia hound.”

  “Come on, that was for three hundred dollars. That was an easy one.”

  The next clue comes up.

  “I know that one!” I yell, unexpectedly thrilled. “What are bananas?”

  After the host praises with an energetic “you got it” and I am conceptually rewarded with eight hundred dollars on my scoreboard, I look at Oliver. He has a big, wide smile on his face.

  “What? It’s not a big deal. Bananas are classified as berries.”

  He throws his hands up in the air like I just pointed a gun to his head. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Well, you didn’t have to. The Oliver Black mocking smile was all over your face.”

  “How would you know what the Oliver Black mocking smile looks like?”

  “Oh, I happen to know a thing or two about you.”

  “Do you now? Please, indulge me.”