by Brock, V. L.
“But…” I sigh heavily. My own eyes offer more pain at her past, than what she is displaying. “You never had a childhood.”
Samantha peeks down to her side, silence echoing around the bathroom for just a moment. I see the corners of her mouth curl as she exhales. For the first time, she looks me deep in the eyes; the biggest, saddest smile I have ever seen adorns the tranquillity of her features. And then the realization and severity of her deprivation, hit us like a bowling ball to the gut.
The pain and sorrow, the grief and regret finally becomes apparent, as the strength she had to muster with the responsibilities she had to yield, is finally penetrated. Shimmering, crystal blue eyes study me profoundly; the tell-tale signs of her emotions arise as the T-Zone of her face turns bright red. The whites of her eyes become bloodshot as streams of tears well up in their confinement, pushing the boundaries of their barracks, looking for an escape.
She sniffles once, and then with a husky, broken voice––but still maintaining that longing smile––says, “You can’t miss what you never had, right?”
I notice a tear about to spill over her lid, when she quickly tips her head back, rolls her eyes and pushes them away. Even after this, she still refuses to surrender to the sadness. I am in awe of her.
“Samantha––” my eyes are stinging, and I cannot show the strength that she has. I allow my tears to flow. I shimmy along the circumference of the tub to comfort her, but she stops me, and points her index finger at me scornfully.
“No, Hayden––you promised me,” she shakes her head, her jaw working vigorously under her flesh. “Please, you promised me.”
Yes, I did promise her, and it is not pity that I am feeling, but compassion and empathy. And awe, that she has been through so much, seen so much, and she just…carries on. I never in a million years expected to hear the extent of the hidden, sorrowful memories that she has shared with me. I want to make her better, to take away all of that unseen, suppressed, buried pain that she has, but won’t surrender to.
“Don’t you have, any contact with any of your family, Sam?”
“There’s my cousin, Aimee, and the lady who lived next door to us. She watched me grow up, and was always there for me. In the end I dubbed her my, honorary auntie,” she giggles. “There’s Jessie, her parents and her two brothers. And then there’s you.”
Me? She sees me as family? Do I think of her as my family…? I cannot possibly imagine my life without her, she is my all. She is my life. Yes, I suppose she is my family, too. I think I have fallen in love with her all over again.
She smiles, and places her hand on my cheek. “You lot, are all I need. I love you, Hayden.” She leans in and her mouth connects with mine.
“I love you, too, beautiful,” I breathe against her lips.
Wanting to eradicate the sorrowful and despondent, thick atmosphere and uplift our spirits after such a harrowing declaration, I push myself up from the bath, and wrap the robe around my body.
Watching me like a hawk, Samantha asks, “Where are you going?”
“One second.” I hold my index finger up to her, and quickly retrieve the hotel phone, and my gift that I found while we were on our shopping trip this afternoon. This has got to cheer her up.
I saunter back to the bathroom with the receiver to my ear. “Hello. Can I have a pint of Ben and Jerry’s sent up to the Grand Suite please?” Samantha stares at me, brow raised and a delightfully, amused grin on her face. “Yes, hold on one moment please.” I pull the handset from my ear, to my chest, effectively covering the mouthpiece, “What flavor?”
Indecisive, she shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know…” she squeals, and then briskly rasps, “Cookie dough?”
“We will have the cookie dough, if you have it. Thank you.” I hang up, and turn to Samantha. Resignedly, she shakes her head at me. “What?”
“You know we are going to pay for that with one hell of a stomach-ache tonight, don’t you.”
“It beats drowning in alcohol, and having to cope with the hangover in the morning.”
Acquiescing, she nods her head, and pouts playfully.
“I have a surprise for you,” I say buoyantly.
“Another one?”
“Yes, but I think you will appreciate this one, a little more.”
The water splashes and waves as Samantha shifts and props her forearms along the rim of the tub. She rests her chin upon them, as though she is about to have her portrait taken. Even with her hair piled, knotted and stray tendrils draping, her beauty is still breathtaking. Eyes flaring with enthusiasm and curiosity, she sinks her teeth into her lip and lets it roll free.
“Oh, come on, Hayden. You’re killing me here. What did you get?”
I wiggle my hips playfully and with a flourish, pull my arm around from its concealment.
Like a Meerkat, she is up straight and full of attention.
“Oh, my God, Hayden; when did you find time to search for that?” she shrieks, lifting her arm to seize the copy of her favorite movie.
“Well, it turns out, women take a lot longer to shop than men.” She gazes up at me, and then back down at the cover. “I had time to waste,” I smile.
“Oh, Hayden…” she pushes herself up from the depth of the tub and pounces on me, flinging her arms around my neck as I clutch her wet, naked body close to mine. “This means so much, and I love you, so much.”
I bury my face into the crook of her neck and inhale the vanilla scent that covers her body. “I love you too, beautiful. I love you, too.”
Samantha’s head rests peaceful upon my shoulder, as we lounge in the queen-sized bed watching Pretty Woman. I now know why she loves it so much. It shows that love can creep up on anyone, regardless of how different you are, and the attitude you uphold.
As the credits roll up the screen, I recover the remote that hides in the valley between our bodies and the thick, fluffy comforter. Pressing the button, the forty-two inch screen flickers then goes blank. In silence, I glimpse down at Samantha, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted. Her left hand rests high on my chest, near my collarbone. She looks so peaceful when she sleeps. Brushing my hand over her hairline, I wonder idly what her dreams comprise of.
Careful not to disturb Sleeping Beauty, I inch my way out of the bed to brush my teeth.
For some baffling reason––regardless of how much I want to––I find I’m unable to climb back into the soft, warm mattress after I have finished in the restroom. So I sit in the beige loveseat at the foot of the bed, beside the TV, and observe my beloved’s slumbering form, for minutes? Hours? I have no idea.
Without warning, my heart pounds along with a ferocious rhythm against my chest and I’m inundated with raw emotion. The kind that makes you wants to cry and squeeze onto that person like a life raft, because it physically hurts when you attempt to imagine your life without them in it, and you want nothing more than to bring them…everything.
She has been through so Goddamn much throughout her twenty-four years.
Could that be an additional underlining reason as to why her perception of life after, The Bastard, formed like it did? With the inability to experience the recklessness and free-spirited entitlement in her former years, maybe, her rashness and blithe lifestyle of coming and going when she pleased and with whoever she wanted, was a subconscious motive along with the need to clarify that she was indeed, desired and beautiful.
Reverence and ardor spills through my veins, swelling me internally like a slow-filling water balloon. I shake my head and peek down at my knitted fingers hanging between my legs as I sense Samantha’s long-term despair––regardless of how strong-minded and how much control she marshals––I know it’s in her, buried deeply, maybe. But it’s her foundation.
An irrefutable need––an impulsion––to treat her warms the inner chill that I have felt manifesting since our bath. She needs to remember that irrespective of how much time you put into caring about someone, you still need
to care for yourself and do so without any form of guilt.
I push myself up from the seat and silently meander into the living room to call down to reception.
“Reception,” the female voice reverberates down the handset.
“Hi, this is Mr. Wentworth in the Grand Suite. I am aware of how late it is. But I was hoping to surprise my partner, so, I was wondering if there’s any possibility she could be booked in for a spa session at about 1:00 p.m.”
The woman spans me a list half-a-mile long with offered treatments. I suddenly feel as though I am about to sit some sort of exam; is there any right answer for this? Only a woman could twist a gesture into something offensive. I play the scenario out in my mind.
“Hey, beautiful, I have booked you in with the hairstylist, and a seaweed body wrap.”
“Oh, thank you, Hayden. So you think my hair is drab and unappealing and that my skin is overtired and needs treating. Why not say I’m unattractive?”
I rub my hand over my brow. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Feeling as though I have just walked into the lingerie department and have no idea what bra size I am looking for, I ask. “Um…as a woman, what would you suggest?”
Samantha shifts when I pull the comforter back and slip gingerly into the bed. The sheets warmed by her body heat. Privileged to have such a beauty in my life, I accede to a broad, adoring yet disbelieving grin as her brow gathers a fraction, followed by an adorable twitch of her nose and upper lip. The motion reminds me of an old show I used to watch, the blond witch would twitch her nose and something magical would happen. For us…something magical has happened.
With prolific delicacy, I work my fingers through her hairline, to her crown. “I love you so much, Samantha,” I whisper, my fingers massaging her scalp. “Whether you admit it or not, you are so brave and you are so strong.
“You never had anybody to take care of you, you were the caregiver, you looked after your mother, and you had to grow up so quick.” I glance down at the comforter that wraps our bodies. “No child should be burdened to that.”
Love, passion, devotion, and my need to protect her, are overpowering. It’s untainted, raw emotion. The sensations of what they are rendering me to, flows thick, hard and fast in comparison to the words I want to express––need to express.
“I am going to protect you for as long as I live, Samantha. I am going to give you things that you deserve. I will marry you one day, and together, we will see the world,” I whisper and caress the arch of her cheekbone with my thumb.
“We could live in a beautiful, white house with a white picket fence and a driveway. We’ll have a huge front lawn with sprinklers. And kids, I have always wanted two, but however many you want…I don’t care, just as long as you are the mother of my children.”
Through my distorted vision, I close my eyes and release the warm, salty volume that greets my eyes, allowing them to trickle down my cheeks and fall onto the pillow.
Resuming back at her hairline, I stroke softly while freeing a diminutive snicker.
“I have always had this image in my head, of the big white house, with a trellis at the porch and pink roses entwining it. My son and daughter running around the lawn, playing as the sprinklers spray the cooling water on the hot, summer’s day. The family dog chasing behind them, and playfully attacking the spewing water from the nozzles. And my wife…lying on the sun lounger, reading her favorite romance novel in her swimsuit, and then shouting to the children to be careful and play nicely.”
Even in sleep, her lips are inviting. I push back the urge to kiss her, and instead, I trace over their shape with my thumb pad. “My wife was featureless when I used to daydream about my future. And then I gave up believing that it was possible. But it’s you, Sam. It was always you,” my voice breaks as I push past the lump in my throat, and more salty tears flow.
I sniffle as Samantha begins to stir. I see her eyes moving under her lids. “Hmm,” she sounds, softly.
“You are my life, Sam. I will protect you, I swear it. And I mean it; I will marry you one day. I can’t imagine you not in my life the mere thought of it causes my heart to splinter. Earlier, you told me that I was your family. Well, you are mine, too. And one day, we will make that legally binding.” I snigger and smile. “Don’t think I say that just because I am a lawyer. I say it, because I love you.”
“Hayden?” she whispers sleepily as I continue to caress her scalp with my fingertips.
“Yes?” I whisper back, feeling shocked and a little embarrassed at my ramblings.
“Go to sleep.”
I smile and lick my lips. The mattress bounces as she twists to face away from me.
Inching towards her, I burrow my left arm under the crook of her neck and wrap my right arm over the curve of her waist. I embrace her with strong protective arms, like a painting of a Guardian Angel stood behind a woman, shielding them with their wings.
Tomorrow is our last, full day in New York. I want to create more memories for us. I will give her a day she will never forget.
I inhale her vanilla scent and pledge my final words for the night against her hair. “I will never let you go, Samantha. No matter what; I will travel to Hell and back, I will overcome anything that threatens us, I will fight for you, for us, with every breath I have. I will never let you go.”
A numbing sensation in my left arm wakes me from my light slumber. Wincing, I slip my arm from under Samantha’s neck and flex my fingers to carefully shake the pinching, prickling feeling that makes my blood run cold and my limb go limp. Flipping over to my back, I check the digital clock on the redwood, nightstand. 6:40 a.m.
Having failed to draw the heavy drapes last night, the darkness of New York lingers beyond the window to my right.
Aware that she’ll probably have my head on a pike for waking her up so early, I whisper attentive, “Sam,” but she doesn’t respond. “Beautiful,” I attempt again, my voice infinitesimally louder. She kicks her legs out straight, and rolls onto her back. “Hey, beautiful,” I whisper again, and she responds with a low, cranky moan which warns me that I’m placing my head into the lion’s den in waking her up this early.
After opening and closing her mouth several times to get the saliva flowing, she dashes her tongue across her lips, and rubs her nose with the back of her hand. I don’t think I could ever bore with watching her awaken in such an adorable way.
Her eyelids flutter open. Squinting, she glances around the room and then frowns. “I’m never coming on vacation with you, ever again, Hayden. You always wake me up, too, damn early,” she reproaches me groggily before reclosing her eyes.
“I know, beautiful,” I peel and stroke the matted locks away from her face. “But I want to show you something.”
“I already know what the moon and stars look like, Hayden.”
First thing in the morning, and only her third sentence, yet she still manages to make me chuckle. She’s perfect.
“I know it is early, beautiful. But I really want to do something with you, and––”
“And it can’t wait until a decent hour?” grudgingly, she opens her eyes, and studies me wearily, unfocused, and questioning.
I trace the seam of her lower lip, and roll my head against the pillow, “No, not for me.”
Inhaling deeply, and then exhaling just as loud, she rubs her eyes with the heel of her hands, stretches, and yawns. “You and your early morning, none pleasurable exertions is my nemesis, Mr. Wentworth.” She kicks the covers back, readying herself to haul her delectable ass out of the comfort of the bed.
But I seize her arm and pull her back. She falls on top of me, her lips a hair’s breadth away from mine. “A morning kiss would be nice.”
Sniggering with tired, feigned disapproval, she shakes her head, and lowers her mouth to me. As the movement of our mouths ceases, she rests her brow against me.
“You don’t want much, do you, honey?”
I caress her cheek. “Only you and I don’t think that asking
my woman for a morning kiss is a lot to ask for at all.”
Pulling her brow away, she shakes her head and pouts her lips petulantly, as she mutters, “Hmm, and waking me up before dawn...that’s not a lot either?” her brow raised, her eyes quizzical and even though she won’t admit it, a tinge of amusement shines in their depths.
It is 7:30 a.m. when we finally expose ourselves to the early morning, bitter breeze as it brushes against our cheeks in an instant wake up call, and kick starts our alert responses.
Lacing my fingers with Samantha’s, we begin to walk south from the hotel.
“I know this is a city that never sleeps, but where exactly are you taking me, Hayden?”
I look down on her. Her high piled, ponytail swishing with every step she takes. She wears her new slim-fit, black jeans and white turtleneck sweater with a thick, black strip across her breasts and her studded, Manolo Blahnik stiletto ankle boots. And a black, faux fur jacket that shimmers as the streaming rays fall upon us as we amble down the avenue.
“It is nice to have an early morning walk, don’t you think?” She gazes at me with a dubious expression, batting her mascara-coated lashes. My shoulders quiver, betraying my silent chuckle. “You’ll see,” I mutter shrewdly, my grin widening. “You’ll see.”
A few minutes pass before I halt her on the sidewalk as we near my undisclosed location.
“Do you trust me?”
“You know I do,” she retorts without hesitation.
“You need to close your eyes, and I will guide you.” Seeing her showcase a tiny, deceptive smile, I fist my hand through my hair and conclude, “And don’t even think about peeking.”
Samantha gasps. “I would not do any such thing,” her enunciation heavily shrouded by her feigned affronted tone.
Arching an eyebrow, I nod overstated and stress my point. “Yes, you would. And that is why, I have this,”––I delve my hand into my leather coat pocket and pull out a black eye mask.
Samantha stands mouth agape as she shakes her head unwavering. “There is no way, Hayden Wentworth, that I am embarrassing myself in the middle of New York by wearing that thing.” She points her long, index finger towards the flight mask.