by L. Duarte
We go straight to our suite and call room service to order dinner. I invite Stefan and Tarry to join us, but Tarry is going out with the Norwegian he met last night, and Stefan is going on a date with Marina. Boy, they really are enjoying this Chloe-free deal. So, it is just the two of us. Do I like? No. I love it.
We eat dinner, and then watch a rerun of one of Portia’s favorite movies. After the movie ends, I shut off the TV, and we lay with our bodies intertwined. Portia is pensive for a while. I hold her between my legs, and my arms wrap around her shoulders. I inhale the heady smell of gardenia emanating from her hair. I hear her sighing deeply. Portia is not the crying type, but she sighs. A lot. My radar catches the vibe of sadness seeping out of her.
“What’s the matter, baby?” I ask nonchalantly.
“Huh?” she responds.
“The movie made you sad,” I observe, waiting for her response.
“It is a tragedy for the father to die the way he did.” She pauses. “But imagine, having someone love you enough to die for you?”
“Love is selfless, Portia.” I stare at her.
“Do you think we could love someone and not care about that person?” she asks, and I know the question has multiple layers to it.
“Love starts as a feeling.” I straighten my hold on her. “But it has to grow into an action, or it is not enough.” I kiss her glorious hair.
“Love is patient and kind. It is not selfish or easily angered. It always trusts, hopes, and perseveres,” I recite to her.
“It’s so complicated.” She glances up at me.
“It is not, because anything shorter than that, simply, is not love.”
“But the standard is too high,” she whispers.
“No, baby. Love never fails.”
Love is profound crap, difficult to understand, and impossible to carry out. Well, I may not have said that last night, but that’s what I used to think. Awful, I know, but here is the deal. My entire life I believed loving someone is the shittiest and fastest way to get hurt. Hypocrite? Not until a few months ago. I guarded my heart, and I was very good at it, I might add.
Then, Will invaded my life and, yep, I am deeply and madly in love with him. Because of him, the beliefs on which I have based my life are changing. And, though it makes me dizzy, I am enjoying every moment of this ride. Today, I have come to believe, that love is a seed dormant in our hearts until one day someone waters it and the seeds sprout to life.
It’s seven a.m. We fell asleep after a make-out session last night after watching the movie. God, I love having him back again. I pull back from Will’s embrace and gaze at his face. He sleeps deeply, but his hand firmly grips my hips. I wonder if the thrill of him holding me will ever fade.
Mmmm, I love this man. Let me say it again. I love Will. I do. And it feels: Superb. Scary. Surreal. Intense. Consuming. Wild. Yummy. Vulnerable. Potent. Peaceful. Unfathomed. Infinite. Eternal. Please don’t ask me to elaborate any further. I've just arrived at Lovingland View.
“Morning, beautiful.” Will pulls me to him and kisses me. His overgrown, tousled hair falls across his eyes. I reach up and brush it away.
“Morning.” I kiss him back, my hand possessively skimming his naked chest. Will’s body is perfect in every way. I wonder how it will look when we are old and gray.
“What?” Will asks noticing my studious eyes.
“Nothing, can’t a girl admire her man?” I nibble on his nipples.
“Whoa, you’re going to kill me, darling,” Will’s voice is a low rumble and it is dead sexy.
“Only if I die with you,” I whisper.
“Portia, I, uh—” Will’s cell phone rings interrupting our intimate moment. Will climbs out of bed, grabs his pants, and fishes his pockets for his phone. “Hello.” He answers the call.
Perched on the bed, I observe the length of him, standing by the bed. With his chest exposed and wearing drawstring pajamas that hang from his narrow hips, Will is beyond good-looking. I grin. Will has a hard-on.
His eyes glance at the cell and he says, “I wonder who it was, the battery died.” He leans on bed and pecks me on my lips. “Can I borrow you charger?”
“Sure, it’s on the computer desk.” I admire his rear end as he walks away.
“Will, there is a script on the drawer. Would you get it, please? I want you to tell me what you think—” The look on Will’s face when he returns stops me. His face is pale. His eyes, cold and hard, shoot my way. Will’s face is contorted.
I know something is seriously wrong and fear drenches my body.
“What’s the matter?” I sprint up from bed.
“I’m such an idiot.” Will scowls at me, and a forced laughter echoes through the room. I flinch. He shakes his head in disbelief.
“Will, please, what’s going on?” I ask.
“Don’t, Portia.” He throws a tabloid newspaper on the empty bed. I glance at it and a gut-wrenching terror seizes me. With trembling fingers, I hold the tabloid with a picture of Damon and me on the cover. Damon is holding me in his arms, my hand cups his neck as we kiss. I recognize the place. They snapped the shot outside of Fabric. Bile rises in my throat. Damn.
“Listen, Will. Let me explain.”
“Just spare me.” Will rushes past me. He grabs his jeans, and swiftly changes.
“Will, please, let me explain.” My voice is so broken I don’t recognize it.
“The picture explains enough, Portia,” he snaps, crumpling his clothes inside the duffel bag.
“Will, nothing happened, I swear.” I swallow the metallic taste of horror.
His hand stills for a moment and he says with scorn, “You call that nothing?” The hurt in his eyes shatters me.
“Will, it is not like that. I texted you, you didn’t reply. I was upset,” I explain helplessly.
“So, this is how it is going to be. One day, you stop communicating and cut me from your life. On another day, you decide to grace me with a phone call. And when I don’t respond to your caprice, you get mad and jump into some asshole’s arms.” He shakes his head. “Goddamnit, Portia. That’s what it was all about yesterday, right?” He rakes his hair, “That douche bag just wanted to finish what you two started,” he spits out.
“No,” my voice falters. “Let’s talk.”
“Damn it, Portia, there is nothing to talk about,” he yells.
“Will, are you breaking up with me?” I ask. My skin itches, and my stomach roils.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” He laughs. “How can I be breaking up with you, Portia? I don’t even know what to call us.” He exhales.
God, I’ve never seen him so angry. “Please, Will. This is new and confusing for me,” I say, fisting his shirt. He grimaces under my touch and snatches my hand away. The gesture hurts more than all his words.
“Oh, really, so let me enlighten you.” He pulls the zipper on his duffel. “Call me crazy, outdated, or even an idiot, but I envisioned a monogamous relationship.” He pulls his bag over his shoulder. “In other words: I. Don’t. Share.”
“Will, there is no one else. Please,” I whisper.
Maybe, it is the brokenness in my voice, but Will stops and stares at me. “Something happened, no matter how insignificant you think it might be. And hell, maybe for you, that’s how it works. But is different for me, Portia. I can’t bear the thought of another man touching you.”
“I am sorry, Will. Please don’t go,” I beg.
“I have to go, Portia. I need to sort all this shit out. I can’t think near you.” Without looking back, he slams the door.
My heart is shattered.
Add pain to the shitty list of being in love crap.
I dump my bag in the corner of my studio. I am emotionally and physically exhausted. For fourteen hours, I wandered through Heathrow and waited for an available seat to fly back to New York. Instead, I landed in Miami and waited another three hours for a flight to JFK.
The tight and painful ache in my chest gets bigger, grip
ping my heart with its lethal grasp. I feel frustrated by what Portia did. But not only that, I am also mad as hell by my unstable temper in response to the thought of someone’s hands pawing her.
The image of her kissing the douchebag flashes in my memory whenever I close my eyes. And it hurts like hell. I could just kill the dude. The picture was simply my worst fear materialized.
I remember seeing her blouse on the floor when I arrived in the hotel room. My unrestricted imagination floods with images of him ripping her clothing off and then making love to her. I shudder at the thought of him kissing her luscious lips. The lips I just devoured that last night in London. I take a sharp gulp of air. The overwhelming pain slithering in my soul was worse than that of fear.
Feeling lost and confused, I stare at a blank canvas. My fingers tremble as I open tubes of paint and grab a brush. The familiar scent offers some comfort.
My hand starts to move, aimless. I stare at the chosen palette of gray, navy blue, black, and burgundy. Vacuum, that is all I can sense about the emptiness of my hollowed chest. Life and color have been sucked out of me, leaving a tormenting hole.
Her laughter resonates in my mind. The way her hips sway when she wears my boxers invades my thoughts. Her presence lingers, suffocating me. My body feels trapped inside a crypt. I feel as if I am spinning uncontrollably under a swirl of images of Portia and her costar. My stomach is raw and my soul is perishing in the arid land of sorrow.
Engrossed with my painting, I lose track of time. Glancing at a clock, I realize I have spent the last ten hours painting this canvas. I have canvases that I have worked on for the past five years that I am still unsatisfied with it. But this painting is whole; it is complete. I roll my head trying to release the tension in my shoulders. Stepping back, I study the canvas. I don’t usually get surprised with my artwork, honest truth. But this painting’s outcome shocks me.
The painting depicts a violent storm beating angry red waves that swallow a crypt. Above the raged sea, shafts of a dim light filter through darkened clouds. A ghost of a smile flickers on my lips. In all honesty, it is somewhat of a cliché given my current stormy situation, but this is a damn good canvas. Even Joseph Turner would have stopped to examine the quality of the light.
I instantly remember a comment Portia made. Portia and I were strolling at the Tate Museum admiring the work of Turner when she asked, “I read that before dying Joseph Turner said, ‘The sun is God.’ Do you think that is what God is?”
“I think we are the light of the world and are created in His image. So, yeah, God is light, but he is so much more than that,” I responded.
Somehow, along the way, hope slid into this canvas. Now it oozes from the illustration and I know that, in spite of me never being with Portia again, I can feel hopeful that something good will come out of this journey of ours.
Now, why does the concept not diminish the aching pain grinding away in my heart? People come and go, leaving a trail of sorrow behind. As wounds heal, they leave scars. The scars become a banner of the strength within us, and a shield against future grief.
With resolve, I make a decision. I will erase Portia out of my mind, out of my life, and out of my heart. As Sun Tzu says, “Victorious warriors win first and then go to war.” I declare war against the most devastating and powerful feelings I have ever felt for someone. Reaching within I search for the strength I have acquired through a life of loss. Even though I have never hurt this deep and wide, I will not succumb to the devastation of losing Portia.
A feeble dawn light filters through the window, a new beginning.
I clean my brushes and display the canvas at the center of the studio. After taking a shower, I climb into bed. The cover carries a faint smell of Portia. I ignore it. I close my eyes, and sleep finds me.
With a weary pain pressing against my chest, I sigh. Two days in LA and it seems time is a century old person crippling slowly and painfully. Sitting on a lounge chair in my bedroom, my hands cling to two of my addictions, coffee, and a copy of the New York Times, which enables me to spy on my father. As I scan the newspaper for any news of my dad, I come across an article dedicated to the upcoming solo exhibition of James Williams Miller’s paintings.
My heart quickens and my mouth dries as my eyes eagerly read, “Miller has acquired the admiration and respect not only of his colleagues, but the public and critics alike.” I pause and inhale, before continuing, “Miller is critically acclaimed for being an unconventional visionary, but beyond that, his signature ability to create portraits that present a small dose of hope in the midst of disturbing devastation.”
Then I read a quote from Pamela Lee, “Despite our relationship and the biased lens through which I have seen Will’s marvelous work, there is undoubtedly excellence and sophistication in his artwork that is often absent in the contemporary artistic world. Will is a genius.”
Who is this woman? My stomach clenches as I continue to read. The realization hits me. Mel mentioned something about a Pam. Why didn’t I pay more attention? Yeah, because she had just devastated me with Will’s sad story. “Lee, the daughter of the owner of the Timeless Art Gallery, mentioned that she dated Miller while both were students at Columbia University.” That’s disturbing.
The photo spread shows Will in his loft surrounded by his artwork. His focus is lost on a painting process. His deep green eyes are intense and unreachable as the depth of the ocean. It shatters me to see a picture of him with his pursed lips and serious face. I have witnessed that intimate sight repeatedly and that memory sends an incredible ache to my heart.
In the article, Garry Lee mentions, “Will has attained, in a few years, the reputation it takes most artists decades to acquire. We believe this young artist is the grand revelation of our generation. His work is inspiring and superior to all the artwork we have seen for many decades. It presents a grit that outlasts the test of time. Such an artistic genius like Will does not come around often. I am privileged to have seen in my lifetime, someone this gifted emerges. Certainly, Will’s art will remain long after we are gone.”
With my body quivering, I ignore the picture of Will and Pamela, and continue reading, “When asked about his alleged relationship with the actress Portia McGee, Will declined to comment.” Again, disturbing.
To hell with the article and artistic genius. I crumple the paper and throw it toward a wastebasket, but I miss. With a crazy urge to call Will, my hand tightens the grip on my cell, but I clench my teeth and shove the device away. “I will not call him,” I murmur, remembering the several answered and unreturned calls.
Yeah, yeah, I don’t care for any news about him. In fact, I dislike the whole newspaper article. I stride to the window, a steady drizzle saturates the hills outside my LA home. I try to ignore the pain gripping my heart from seeing the picture of Will standing beside Pamela. His long, capable fingers on her shoulder. Screw that. I need to search my heart for the button allocated to turn off the endless flow of all things Will. It was just a fling. I repeat to myself, almost like a mantra.
Recalling our break up, I realize I had never seen Will so upset. It is understandable. Those damn pictures of Damon and me were crudely explicit. But I can’t comprehend why he hasn’t called me yet or why he refuses to answer my calls. Surely if we talk, we can fix this.
How can I get Will to forgive me? I am giving him time to calm down. Stefan thinks it will help. But I am dying to see him and to feel his arms around me. This love business is harder than I thought.
Ever since the day Will walked away from me, my will to carry on with life has been fading with the tick of every second. The thrill of being inside Will’s embrace is slowly turning into a distant memory. I fear there is not a turning point for us. The undiluted pain of his absence hammers my heart and crushes my soul. The sorrow crawling inside me is so potent that it drains any remaining strength from my body.
I take one long and scrutinizing look at myself, not the outer appearance, but the inside. It’s the real
me hidden under a shell I carefully constructed around my heart. Hope sprouts from the recognition that the person with real flaws and qualities dormant inside me is capable of love. In reality, I am not worthy of Will, but the love I have for him is far too rooted and I can’t weed it out. I am unsure if it is the nicer side of me, which is capable of love or my selfish nature flaring up. I rather think it is the first, but either way, I have to get my brooding man back. Because, in spite of the reason motivating me, I simply can’t thrive without him.
I curl on my bed and weep, each sob reflects the pain of losing a chance at love. I held on to the vanity of a shallow existence, and it cost me dearly.
I crawl out of bed and scramble on the floor in search of the newspaper. Once I find it and I smooth it out. Through a curtain of tears, I resume reading. I make a mental note of the date and time of the exhibition.
I will find a way back into Will’s life.
The oppressive air is thick, making it hard to breath. The forest, dark and claustrophobic, seems like barbed fingers attempting to throttle me. My breath comes in shallow gulps of air. Disoriented, I search for her. The closer I get to her voice, the darker the woods become. Sweat beads on my skin and my weakened legs falter. To compensate, my heart pumps adrenaline through my veins. It spreads through my nervous system, providing the strength to continue my desperate quest.
Suddenly, I am a little boy. My back twists at the realization I am lying over a hard and sheet-less mattress in a gloomy bedroom. Too terrified to sleep, I stare at the cracks in the ceiling. My body shudders when I hear the squeak of the door opening and closing. Calloused hands abrade my skin and yank me out of bed. My stomach is queasy with the stench of tobacco and sour liquor. I gag. However, there is nothing in my belly to vomit; my last meal was the lunch provided in the school where I am a fourth grader.