by L. Duarte
Sadness ripples down my spine, at the mere thought of losing Niki. She has never been this serious with anyone before and the guy—besides hating me—gives me the creeps.
Switching gears, I think about Will, his addictive smile, and his indomitable spirit. As usual, I am led by my impulses. Spending the night with him is by far the shittiest idea I had, but I needed more of him. In my defense, I am willing to play his game, and wait for him to give in, and seduce me. Simple as that.
My mind reels and my emotions are a jumble of new feelings. I realize that a foreign sentiment flourishes in my heart. And, though I won’t dwell on it, it worries me.
I muse for an instant about the people I love. Wow, I do love people. Truth is the few people in my life I love are Tarry and Niki. Our friendship keeps us afloat, serving as a life preserver. In addition, I love Stefan and with him came Marina, who I love because Stefan loves her, does it make sense? Then, there is Chloe, the purest form of love I have ever experienced in my life. I remember when I visited her in the hospital. I held her for the first time and her tiny fingers wrapped around my pinkie, the entire world faded around me.
“So, do you accept?” Stefan had asked with an anxious tone.
“What?” I looked at them dumbstruck. “To be Chloe’s godmother?”
My attitude confused Stefan. I gazed at the little creature, and I mumbled teary, “How can I not?”
What I am trying to explain—and understand—is why my chest aches with a need for Will. Because I will not allow myself to get deep with anyone, despite how charming the person is.
Steam emerges from the bathroom, swirling around Will as he strolls toward me. From the bed, I see his rippled chest muscles under rivulets of water. He attaches his iPod to the dock, choosing the same playlist from the day he tattooed me.
“I like your bed,” I inhale deeply. He lies next to me, his sultry smell intoxicating me.
“No kidding, I thought you liked my floor better.” He chuckles softly.
“Well, I like whichever surface you’re on.” I snuggle with his chest, my body molds to his.
“Ditto.” He has one arm tucked under the pillow and the other over my hip. I feel warm and safe, a heady and dangerous combination.
I strategize quickly. Will does not go for flirtatious Portia. Maybe a tad of flirt, but Will likes the genuine me. So be it. I can lead with that.
“Thank you for today, Will.”
He kisses my hair. “I am relieved you didn’t hate it.”
I hear his heart beating and it is hypnotic. “How could I? Your family is wonderful. Though Mel wasn’t too thrilled to meet me.” I couldn’t care less about her disapproval.
“That was unlike her. She is worried about Tim,” he says with concern. “Mel is the most generous person I have met, even more so than Dan.” I notice the solemn tone he uses when he speaks of her.
“Wow, you really like her, huh?” I say, making a mental note not to mess with gorgeous foster sister.
“Mel was almost fifteen when Dan brought me to live with them. She was a freshman in high school.” He pauses for a while. “I was a dickhead and an outcast who didn’t give a shit about others,” he explains. “Because I was so behind, they placed me at her level. Mel had the choice to ignore me or even dislike me. Instead, she reached out and she tutored me. She taught me to play the guitar, sat with me at lunch, and graciously shared her family with me. To this day, she has never asked for anything in return.”
“How about her husband, is he coming back for the baby’s birth?” I inquire.
“Yeah, he will. You are going to love him. He is the funniest person you can meet.”
Sure, I would, if I was around for the family reunion.
“Will?” My voice falters.
“Yeah, baby.” He sounds sleepy.
“When did you start painting?” My eyes glance at the painting of a girl flying a red kite with swirling leaves.
“When I was sixteen.” Will is on his side. I reposition myself to face him, my hand seeks his, and we intertwine our fingers, lying inches from each other.
“Where are your parents?” I whisper, afraid to upset Will and break the intimacy.
“I never met them. My father died before I was born, and I haven’t got a clue of who or where my mother is.” His dark eyes are sad, distant.
I make a mental picture of him all alone in the world. I try to comprehend how it is possible for him to lack the resentment and bitterness that are collateral to abandonment. “How was it? Growing up without a family?”
He takes a deep breath, pulling our entangled fingers to his chest. He is silent, and for a moment, I regret the probing.
“The way I see it, I survived, which is a plus.” He brings the back of my hand to his lips, planting a trail of kisses on my knuckles. “The bouncing around was hard. Before being placed with Dan, I was with over a dozen different families, and several group homes. I never learned the notion of a normal family.”
I consider what he is telling me for a moment and realize that my life story is a fairy tale compared to his. “I can understand. When I was little, I thought, most busy parents sent their kids to boarding school.” I smile.
“How long did you attend boarding school?” He pulls my hand back to his chest and the thumping of his heart vibrates under my fingers.
I chuckle. “Mom sent me away when I entered second grade. A while later I met Tarry. I told him how passionately I hated being there. He enlightened me on how to obtain my freedom. For the following six months, I made life impossible for the school administration, until they expelled me. Mom figured it would be less time-consuming hiring nannies than dealing with school principals.”
“Genius.” His lips curve up into a mischievous smile. His tousled hair is damp, making him look even more delectable.
I sense an easy and mutual understanding humming between us. My heart thumps with a harmonious rhythm. I want to close the small space separating us, but I restrain myself. The perfect synchrony of exchanging the most intimate and soul-deep details of our existence is rare.
Hypnotized by the cadence of his voice and mesmerized by the depth of his emotions, I watch every detail of Will’s face as he tells me his childhood tales. I note when he omits parts of the story, his eyes turn a shade of obscure and become impenetrable.
“Christ, Will, you could write a book, Three Steps to Ditching Your Dubious Foster Family.”
Slowly, sometime during his storytelling, sleep finds me and lures me into a serene rest.
“Details, please tell me everything.” Niki leans over the table with an attentive expression.
We decided to have breakfast at her hotel’s restaurant. To my delight, dickhead is in their room on a conference call. Did I mention he is the chief executive officer of a stuck-up company? Crap, the stiff jerk is a savvy executive. I feel insecure again about my friendship with Niki.
“We talked—”
“You already told me that, I want to know how he is as a lover. You know. Sex. Mating. Lovemaking, bodies entangling as consequence of perfect body chemistry. That part.” She wraps her slender fingers around her cup and leans closer, sipping from her coffee.
“We didn’t,” I say curtly.
“What?” She spits the coffee. “Oh-kay.” She draws a harsh breath of air. “Nothing as in nada.” She is almost hyperventilating. “You didn’t sleep together?” Her eyes widen as she frowns. Niki is the only person I know who can do that.
“Yeah, we did. You know, like when the mind is unconscious and the body is at rest?”
“What the hell? You are kidding me, right? Please, tell me you’re joking,” she utters.
“Oh, uh no.” I twist my hands under the table.
“Oh. My. God. I get it.” Her frown deepens and her eyes are wider. “Wow. You are falling for this guy.”
“Hell no.” I nibble on a croissant, chewing slowly.
“Oh, yes you are.” She smiles.
“Shut up
Nillie.” I bite inside my cheek. “Mmm, it is just different.”
“How does he feel about you?”
“Will is really cool, you know.” I look away, avoiding her scrutiny. She can see through me and I am unsure of my feelings. “He has some weird beliefs, though.” I sip from my coffee. “It doesn’t matter. He is just a good distraction, while I am in New York.” I shrug.
“Portia, is he aware of his role in this?” she asks.
“Um, I don’t think it is a secret for anybody, that I don’t do steady.” There is relief when I say it. For a brief moment, last night, I thought of the existence of an us. But there is not a chance of me ever surrendering to the falling in love crap. Only bad things come out from it. Love is debasing and elusive, and trying to hold onto someone is like attempting to retain smoke through our fingers.
“Just be careful not to get hurt. And don’t hurt Will. He seems a nice enough guy.”
“Oh, says Miss I’m-in-love-with-Mister-Perfectly-Stiff. C’mon, Nillie, can’t you do better? He is a freaking CEO,” I say.
“Oh, hey now! We are talking about you.” She raises her hands. “And since when is being a CEO a flaw in anyone’s character?”
“It just is,” I say.
And that concludes the therapy session during an overpriced breakfast in a stuck-up hotel chosen by Mr. CEO. God I hate the man.
I say good-bye to Niki.
Firmly refusing to dwell on any of the discussed things, I roam aimlessly through Manhattan until Saks Fifth Avenue invites me in with a silver dress on display. It has my attention. Inside the store, classical music flows and an attendant, a tall GQ Magazine model, greets me with a perfect smile and immediate recognition in his eyes. Oh my! I have goose bumps on my skin, and it is not from the blasting AC. I will take him. To go. Unwrapped please.
“Hello, how may I be of any assistance?” His lustful eyes travel along my body, stopping at my breasts for a beat.
I smile, my slow lazy smile, and flutter my lashes. An unabashed and obvious invitation. My body language sends him a clear message with not so hidden promises.
“Can I try on the dress in the display, please?” My voice is sultry.
“You certainly may.” His understanding eyes meet mine.
“I’ll wait for you in the dressing room.” My hooded eyes stare at him for just long enough.
I head to the back of the store, and yes, I search my mind and try to remember if I have a condom in my oversized Prada bag. Along the way to the dressing room, a miniature Armani sweater dress demands my attention. I stop for a moment at the children’s department. It occurs to me that Chloe’s birthday is coming up and she would look adorable wearing the dress. Smiling, I begin looking at the adorable mini-human clothes. The GQ model-attendant spots me and gives me a confused look.
“Sorry, I changed my mind. I will be shopping for my goddaughter.” I see disappointment crossing his face. But he regains control quickly.
“Well, let me assist you with that, then.” He flashes a regretful smile. “How old is she?” he inquires.
“She will be one in a week,” I tell him.
“We just received the fall/winter Burberry collection. Let me show you.”
“Wow, I’ve died and gone to baby heaven.” Who would have thought they had designer lines for babies. No wonder women learn early in life to slave ourselves for beauty and fashion. The process begins in the cradle.
I know it is going to sound weird, but when I see baby things, for a moment, maternity doesn’t seem like such a horrendous thought.
After purchasing the clothing for Chloe, I visit Tiffany’s to purchase a final gift. When I glance at my watch, I am disappointed that it is only noon and time is dragging. I add a little hatred to my arsenal of nasty feelings toward Ray. Because of him, I have to shop alone, which takes away half the fun.
Tonight I will film a skyscraper sunset scene, so I am not due at work until later.
Without my explicit consent, I catch myself wishing I could return to Will’s place. In sync with my reverie, my cell buzzes, and a text message from an unknown number awaits me. I know it is Will. I smile, remembering this morning when he asked me for my number. He seemed a little insecure, which I thought was cute, in a very teenager kind of way.
Will: Hey, baby. Now you have my # too.
Me: Thanks
I want to leave it at that. My conversation with Niki is still swirling in my mind. This is the defining moment where I should discard my flourishing desire to pursue his eyes’ secretive and unknown promises. But in spite of my better sense, my fingers type.
Me: Want to have a late lunch and go to film set with me?
Will: Sure. Have nothing for this p.m. anyway.
Me: Meet me @ 1?
I forward my dad’s address.
Will: ;0
Again, I swoon at the simple fact that in a little while, Will’s arms will surround me.
Oh well, distractions should not be dull, right?
My hand is midair and reaching for the door’s polished copper handle when, magically, a white-gloved concierge opens the tall iron-wrought doors. He politely inquires, “May I be of any assistance?” Pathetically, I give him my first and last name and then I mumble, “Will,” which brings awareness to his decorous face.
“Right this way, sir. Miss McGee is expecting you.”
That’s exactly how it happened, and those were exactly his words, honest truth. I thought things like this only existed in movies from the turn of the century.
After crossing a luxurious reception, he ushers me into the elevator, and pushes a key on the panel. He offers a restrained nod and retreats, granting me solitude on the gilded elevator.
With a snobby ding, the doors part at the top floor and I step into a vast foyer leading to an open living room with a dramatically high ceiling space. The room is sophisticated with a modern design. A black grand piano faces the floor to ceiling window that offers a breathtaking view of Central Park.
Before I take another step, a woman in a formal black-and-white uniform materializes before me. Seriously? Servants to the wealthy must have some sort of mental powers.
“Please, make yourself comfortable. Miss Portia will be right with you,” she informs me through her thick accent. “Can I offer you something while you wait?”
“No, thank you.”
She disappears into the imposing apartment. I rub my hands against my jeans, and stride across the room, examining some of the sculptures. I recognize a few pieces—tasteful, expensive, and rare. I examine the paintings on display, in awe of the peculiar and extravagant collection. Wow. I am not in Kansas anymore.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” I turn in time for Portia to throw her arms around my neck.
“Hey, beautiful.” I kiss her full lips. “Some place you got here.” I enlace her waist with my arms.
“Do you like it? Priscilla just had it redecorated.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Unbelievable artwork, I can’t believe you have a Botticelli.” I point to the piece.
“My dad spent years in pursuit of an original. He acquired this piece for a bargain of 13 million at an auction.” She shrugs. “It was an anniversary gift. Priscilla is fascinated by Early Renaissance art. You two would have lots to talk about.”
Is Botticelli my favorite artist? No, not really. But it is unfathomable how, over five hundred years after someone splatters paint on a canvas, the work still holds people’s interest.
Portia gives me a brief tour of the astounding penthouse and we go to the kitchen where we will have lunch. Portia introduces me to Estela, who, after a while, speaks more casually to us. The food is delicious and, though I don’t care that we are eating in, Portia apologizes and explains the hazards of eating out. Paparazzi and all.
After lunch, we go to her room. From her bed, I see Central Park and it gives the illusion that if I reach out the window I can touch the green canopy of trees. I sit on her bed and
pull her to my lap.
“Are you close with your sisters?” I ask.
“No.” She pauses. “Priscilla takes them to The Hamptons whenever I come home.”
“You don’t get along?” I ask.
“I think we would, if we ever interacted. I don’t think Priscilla dislikes me, but since Caroline was born, she avoids me.” She shrugs. “She just doesn’t think I am a suitable companion for her daughters.”
“But they are your sisters.”
Portia slides from my lap to her bed, resting her head on my thighs.
“She is from a very traditional family in Manhattan.” She glances at me and her lips offer a sad smile.
“Why did your parents divorce?”
“No special reason. Incompatibility, I guess.”
“It must be hard to grow up bouncing around between divorced parents.”
“They were OK. Mom kept me year-round, and I spent my summer vacations here.” She closes her eyes. “That’s the only time they ever had a disagreement.”
My fingers run through her hair. “Over who kept you for the summer?” I ask idly.
“Yeah, neither one had the availability. My mom always won the argument and Dad was stuck with me.” She opens her big blue eyes. “But right after the boarding school experience, I put my foot down, and my time here became restricted to two weeks out of the year.”
My hand halts, I recognize in her voice, the familiar pain of rejection. I look down and notice her eyes are devoid of any trace of sadness, just a hollow stare. It’s difficult to describe.
At the filming location, I sit on a tall chair and watch Portia. The orange hue from the sunset tints her alabaster skin. She is in her element, surrounded by the incredible world of hers. I wonder how she took notice of me. Every detail of her life and of mine intensifies the abyss between us.
I think of her dating reputation, wonder why we are together for two consecutive days, and recognize that she is way out of my league. The thought is daunting, since I really have enjoyed being with her.