by Brock, V. L.
“A toast,”––we raise our glasses––“To us and new beginnings.”
Beaming, she nods her head, before clinking as our glasses.
“And to, New York,” she quickly inserts, before raising the rim of the glass to her lips.
“And to, New York.”
Halfway through our meal, Samantha stiffens and lowers her forkful of food. She closes her eyes and her mouth curves into an enraptured grin. She inhales deeply through her nose, her cheekbones high, sculpted, with a dash of rouge.
“What is it, beautiful?”
Exhaling slowly, she hums in appreciation, her eyelids sealed lightly. “Piano Sonata, No. 14 in C-sharp minor,” she mutters in a honeyed voice.
What? She may have well just spoken Russian to me. Thrown, I furrow my brow and purse my lips.
She flutters her eyelids and giggles at my donning expression. Biting the side of her lower lip seemingly embarrassed, she gestures in the direction of the piano. “Moonlight Sonata, by Beethoven.”
I push myself back in the seat, my eyes widening. “I had no idea you knew classical. Do you play?”
With unswerving flared-eyes, she sniggers, “What, me? Oh, God no. I wish.” She caresses the rim of her wineglass with her lips before continuing. “My cousin, Aimee has been playing since we were both children. I would sit totally hypnotized at the notes she could make that instrument resonate. It’s magical, to have such a gift.” The depth of her thoughtfulness is revealed in the progressive smile that soon takes shape. And her eyes overflow with warmth, affection and pride; a sense of pride that would be exuded from that of an older sibling.
Splaying my arm over the table, I take possession of her silky hand. Her smile gradually becomes lost, her eyes become darker. In a blink of an eye––in one memory––she looks years older than what she is.
“I love you, Samantha, so much. I wish I could put into words, or show you the scale of what I feel for you––”
She shakes her head, and tightens her glossy lips, effectively shushing me. “I know how much you love me, Hayden. I am still baffled by why you fallen in-love with me, but I know the extent. So there really is no need to keep saying it.” She peeks around at the restaurant and then back to hold my intense regard. “Look at where we are, how romantic this is, the thought you put into this. Actions speak louder than words, and your actions––”
“I just…I know I’ve been difficult to be around recently, but…I’m going to try harder––I have to,” I heave a sigh and shake my head. “I never thought that it was possible to feel this way, Sam. Before you, I was…well, you know what I was. How I felt, what I contended with. We’re two peas in a pod––albeit, dealt with our obstacles differently––but neither of us imagined that we would be here, feeling the way we do.” I glance down at the linen serviette in my lap. “I just want you to know how grateful I am, that you brought me back. You made my heart beat again and now, it only does so, because of you.”
Taking my hand, she raises it to her mouth, and presses gentle kisses the back of my knuckles, then holds it to her chest. “I know; me, too.”
“Come on, eat up. We still got one more thing to see before we head back.”
Samantha releases my hand and with wide-eyes, she gasps and raises her two fingers to her temple in a playful salute, “Yes, sir.”
I stand at the bedroom window of the suite. Despite the fact we’re on the twentieth-floor, it seems so much lower compared to that of the view from the Observation Deck of the Empire State Building.
Samantha’s face was a picture as she gaped at the array of warm oranges, brilliant white and techno-blue lights glimmering from the world below; definitely a Kodak moment which I will replay a hundred times in my mind for the rest of my life.
Yet even as we stood alone, over three and a half thousand meters in the sky, with an unobstructed 360 degree view of the city, it hadn’t felt perfect enough. And something in my mind told me that I should wait––that right now isn’t the right time.
Yes, wait for a little longer, Hayden. You will fuck up before you even ask her…you may never get the chance to ask her, and what a lucky escape she will have; the snarky voice of my paranoia meddles with my mind. Not again, please. Not again. There is no reason for this; the past days have been amazing. Why now?
With every strength I have, I replay all of the events of our mini-getaway, filling my mind with contentment, amusement, hope and satisfaction. My heart and throat constricts as the derisive, small voice weaves its way through my happy memories.
Those thoughts can only keep your heart warm for so long, Hayden. It’s only a matter of precious time before you witness her screwing with another man––whether it is literally or in that fucked-up, worthless head of yours.
I become increasingly aware of the sweat building and seeping through every pore of my body; from my back, to my neck, down to the soles of my feet. My paranoia watches on, enjoying my restlessness as his words of self-doubt sets a chain reaction, which soon has me imprisoned by my anxiety. Gasping, I attempt to reduce the asphyxiation caused by my fretfulness and stow the unsettled, jittery sensations of my organs.
I welcome the startling distraction as a pair of silky, smooth arms snake around my naked waist. As she locks her fingers and rests them on my abdominals, I push past the doubts and adverse images strewn together in my mind, and cover Samantha’s hands with my own.
Planting a kiss on my shoulder blade, she then rests her chin on my back.
“I’m not entirely sure how to observe things now.”
“What do you mean, beautiful?”
“Well, I know we’re high-up, and everything down there should seem smaller, but everything seems so much…bigger, than what they were from The Observation Deck. Does that make me greedy?” I can feel her playful pout against my clammy flesh.
Twisting in her arms, I place her under my scrutiny. Even with her makeup removed she possesses a natural beauty, her hair swept across her left shoulder, trailing down to her ribs in a loose braid. I stroke the arch of her cheekbone, and across the tiny amount of tan freckles, which are usually disguised by her makeup. She draws in her lower lip, clamping her teeth down on its plumpness. Her eyes teeming with unspoken questions, I feel her trying to read my mind; I am grateful that she can’t.
You are not worthy of this woman, Hayden. She deserves a real man; a man that has no underlining, psychological flaws, a man that she can wake up to in the mornings, and not feel anxious about what attitude he’s going to have towards her. She will be unfaithful; she will betray you, because you will push her away.
“Are you okay, honey?” she frowns, leans back slightly and gauges my expression.
Between shopping, sightseeing and reigniting our passion, we haven’t had time to think about anything else. We have been living in the moment, enjoying what time we have. But know things are slowing down, and the bubble that we have lived in for the last few days is going to get pierced by the huge knitting-needle that is reality. And I am terrified. I’m terrified that things are going to go back to how they were before we came here, my dreams, my bearing towards her.
That scathing little voice that I want to suppress has just made me realize…this is going to be something that could possibly become an enormous barrier for us both. She doesn’t deserve that possibility. I recall the pain lined through her voice and as I recoiled from her touch, and undeniable guilt spears through my heart.
“Can we talk?”
She nods gingerly, “Of course.”
Steering us away from the view of Central Park, we sit on the edge of the bed. Sam props her right leg beneath her and regards me with bated breath.
I focus down on my hands as I pick at the edge of my thumbnail. “I’m sorry––”
She grasps my forearm, and offers a reassuring squeeze. “Sorry, for what? You have nothing to be sorry for, Hayden.”
I peek back at her. The high slit of the lilac, satin negligée exposes her left leg, he
r breasts sit perfectly in the lilac lacing of the cups, and the spaghetti straps crosses her back. The dark pink hues of her areolas are visible through the netting as the bedside lamp emits a dim glow. She looks stunning and alluring, but the trepidation I am facing overpowers my want to feel her body through the thin material…to make love to her, while she wears it.
“I am sorry, for the way I treated you, the way I withdrew from you when you were only trying to help me…with my dreams.”
“Honey, it’s okay. You haven’t had them in a few days. I’m sure it was just stress.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t want to tell you. I thought that I would be digging my own grave if I had. But now, things are slowing down and I’m scared I’ll have them again. I’m scared I’ll treat you the way you don’t deserve…again.”
Her bewildered look and the slight shrug of her shoulders indicate her confusion.
“They were about you, Sam.”
“Me? But you were so coldhearted with me. Now I am totally lost.”
Shifting to mirror her posture, I grasp both her hands in mine, and rest them on my crooked knee. I begin explaining the depth of the nightmares, what they entailed, how I felt, who she reminded me of.
“Hayden…” she trails off, her eyes shimmering.
“When I would wake up, all of the hurt and the heartbreak that I felt in those dreams would be gone.” I shake my head pensively. “And I hated you…” I blink, and a salty stream trickles down my cheeks, before drop onto my black satin, pyjama bottoms.
She gasps, and inches back, feeling disgusted? Wounded? She sheaths her teeth with her lips before forcing them to roll free. Slipping her hand from my encasement, she presses it against her chest.
“You would hate me?” she sniffles, and I have never felt so much guilt as I feel right now. Oh, my God, why did I do this? Why didn’t I just leave it be, and hope for the best?
“I hated the fact that I witnessed that part of you the night I found you outside the club. It’s a part of your life that I never wanted to see because I saw it continually with Addison and I fear it. And I got a private, advanced screening of the love of my life––the one person that I would walk through Hell for––acting exactly like the one person who I loathe.” I hang my head, embarrassed at my petulance.
“Hayden, I can’t change how I was and what I have done. But I have changed who I am now and what I can become.”
Removing her hand from the warmth of her pale flesh of her chest, she reaches over and cradles the side of my face, coaxing my head up to look at her sympathetic, yet saddened features. The residue of her drying tearstains mars her complexion, while mine continue to fall.
“I never wanted you to see that side of me. My life was one huge mess of self-sabotage.”
“Victor thinks I’m pattern matching,” I whisper, rolling my eyes.
“Pattern matching? What’s that?”
“Have you ever smelled something or listened to a song and instantly remembered something that holds a purpose to that specific matter?” I ask.
“Yes,” she offers a weak nod.
“Well, with having witnessed what I did with you, it subconsciously reminded me of aspects of…” I trail off and free a weighted sigh.
Furrowing her brow, she takes a moment and aims her focus on the flooring, before lifting her gaze to me. “I think I understand that. That does make sense. It means that the guilt that I was feeling really was down to me.”
“No, no, no. What I saw that night, is a trigger. It triggers a connection that prompted my current damage––those fears. Please, beautiful––”
The mattress shifts as she pushes herself from me and walks listless towards the window.
“I am so sorry,” I apologize.
With her arms crossed against her chest, she stares vacantly into the distance and the room is drowned in a deafening, eerie silence.
After a few minutes, she begins to speak.
“I don’t know how, I am going to be able to tolerate mornings where you wake up…and hate me.” I fall under her pained, wounded gaze as she pivots on her heel. I remain perched on the edge of the mattress, my elbows resting on my knees. “It’s going to be Russian roulette.”
“Sam…” I shake my head, my lips trembling. I’ve lost her, she’s gone. There is no way passed this, and I don’t blame her. She’s right; it will be Russian fucking roulette. Will I wake up and feel that love, passion and see a future for us––have that strength in me to fight for that future? Or will I wake up hating and resenting her for something that neither of us can control? Will she begin to resent me? If she can find the strength and audacity for resuming with her life, not dwelling on all that she has seen, all that she has experienced, then why can’t I?
Stepping lightly over the wooden flooring in deep contemplation, her arms lay folded under her breasts. Her once sparkling eyes now hazed and darkened by the veil of truth and reality as she peruses the contents of the room. Her brow gathers, betraying the despondency we both feel.
She shakes her head. “I don’t want to keep feeling the guilt that I felt that day. I have enough guilt on my conscience to last me a lifetime.”
And as the words fall from her lips, my heart plummets to the iciest depths.
“I can understand that,” I concede on a dejected sigh, finally comprehending my inability to walk away from her––I’m physically unable to leave her. Allowing her to leave me––freeing her of the hindrances––is the kindest thing I can do. It’s what she needs.
Inching off the bed, I reach out and grasp her wrists, pulling her in between my legs.
She lowers herself onto my thigh, and I trace the outline of her face with profound tenderness, savoring the softness and each curve.
“You were the best thing to happen to me. And the worst thing…you opened me up to hope, love, passion, desires, and now…I’m going to remember all of what I’m forfeiting. You don’t deserve this bullshit that comes with me, Samantha. You deserve something better. You deserve a life.”
I dry the tears that spill from her eyelids.
“And the only way I am going to be able to give you that…” I press my forehead against hers, and inhale the sweet scent of home. I flex my fingers that rest on the satin-soft flesh of her back. “Is if I let you go. I have to let you go.”
She unfolds her arms, wipes away the remaining residue, and sets them on my shoulders. She shakes her head. “That bitch has had you suffering enough. We are not going to allow our pasts to dictate the rest of our lives, Hayden.” Determination dominates her features. Her warm, loving expression is now replaced with brutal honestly and fortitude. Like a mother protecting her young.
“I don’t understand…”
“It means,”––she coils her right arm around my neck while pressing the left against my chest––“that our love for each other is worth any obstacle that is placed in front of us. There are ways that we can get around this…there is always couples therapy if we need it. But God be damned if you think I am going to give up on the best thing that has happened to me, because of a few dreams.” The inner-strength that she has carried through her life is unmistakable.
“I can’t allow you to––”
“It’s not your choice, Hayden,” she grins. “If you don’t want me because of this, then you be the one to walk away…because I’m not.”
“You never fail to amaze me, beautiful.” I lean in to kiss her, but she presses her finger to my lips, halting my intention.
“We will get through this. But, Hayden, please, you have to have the strength to get passed it, too. Talk to me; let me know how you feel. A battle isn’t won single-handed. We are a couple; we go through things together, no matter how painful. Deal?” Removing the finger from my lips she swaps it for her little finger, and holds it in front of my face.
Grinning, I wrap my little finger around hers, “Deal.”
“Now, where were we?”
Her lips connect with mine and
she pushes me back into the mattress. Shielding my body with hers, our mouths continue at their languid pace, my hands roam over the fine, shimmering material and I feel the warmth of her flesh as we lose ourselves in each other. Every movement, every sensation, every sound and heavy breath even more intense, more treasured, because if it wasn’t for Samantha’s tenacity towards the relationship, and her strength…this level of intimacy, would have become nothing but a long lost memory.
FIFTEEN
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SAMANTHA
As much as I loved New York, there is nothing like coming back home. Stepping out into the early San Francisco fog that lingers until noon, and inhaling that cleansing air that isn’t completely polluted by exhaust-fumes; New York may have Gucci, Louis Vuitton and Tiffany’s in walking distance, but nothing compares to a roommate who is always ready with a fresh pot of coffee every morning, nothing compares to home…although, I think Hayden may have a differing opinion, especially after today…the first anniversary of his father’s passing.
Snuggling into the crook of Hayden’s arm, my head rests on his shoulder as only the flickering glow of the television pierces through the darkness that veils our presence. With our legs tangled and weaving through each other like vines, we lie on the couch and watch a movie of Hayden’s choosing, in a vain attempt to free ourselves from a day of sorrow and despondency. Allow our minds to focus on something other than grief.
Seeing Hayden crouched at the graveside talking to the lawn, his tears of guilt and remorse, his apologies for the grim, final words he had shared with his father before the accident, traveled along the breeze and made even the heavens weep. It was a poignant moment that I wish I could forget, but Hayden needed me there, he wanted me to meet his father and vice-versa. I should be honored.
I breathe in his intoxicating, manly scent as I tickle and smooth over his bare chest with delicate flexes of my fingertips. I trail down the valley separating his abdomen muscles, circle his navel, then along the waistband of his black, satin pyjama pants.