by Liana Key
"Where did you go diving?" Cassian asked, and Stefan eyed him with a quizzical look.
"Near Catalina," Stefan said, a little too briskly for my liking. "Do you dive?"
"Have a few times, but only at Laguna," he replied, unfazed. Another thing he did, was there anything he couldn't or didn't do?
"Yeah, it can be good down there," Stefan said, his tone kinder.
"Did you get many?" I asked, forcing myself into the conversation.
"Yeah," and Stefan described the conditions and who he went with. "How did your trip go to Monterey?" He'd had the story about Louise too, in fact he may have actually met Louise back in the day. She was actually a real person.
"Great," I said, leaning against the kitchen bench.
"Looks like you got a good tan," he said and as soon as he said it, he looked across at Cassian. Was he making a connection? "Where did you stay?"
"In Carmel."
"How's Louise?"
"Great. Really great." He was fishing now, I could feel it. Trying to catch me out. He leaned back in his chair, as if to signal he wasn't going anywhere.
"Did you drive up? Or fly?"
"I drove."
"Long road trip. On your own."
"It was fine. Traffic was good. I don't mind driving." It felt like I was being interrogated, I could feel my heart beating faster, my palms perspiring. I wondered if I should suggest to Cassian that he leave, that I fake some work related issue with him, but he looked quite comfortable in his chair and in fact reached out and took another brownie. Stefan seemed surprised too.
"Are you still working at the restaurant?" Stefan directed to Cassian.
"It was my first shift back today," Cassian said.
"You've been on holiday?"
"Yes, to Mexico and Hawaii," he replied. Good, that was good, that should throw Stefan off the scent, I thought.
Stefan laughed. "That explains your tan then. How long were you gone?"
"A month or so," Cassian said, and right then I wanted to scream, "No!" Stefan would work that one out. That Paola had been depressed, moody, stressed for the past month. He would realize, realize who my lover was, realize that my lover who was gone, was now back. That Paola was now happy, excited, in love.
Cassian's phone started vibrating on the table. He looked at it, picked it up and stood.
"Cash.” He started to walk into the lounge. He could be heard saying yes, yes, no. I turned and went to the sink, not wanting to catch Stefan's eye. But Stefan was standing behind me in a flash, whispering into my ear, "Is he your lover?" I ignored him, not liking the way he said the word lover, like it was some illicit affair. "Aunt Caroline's favorite waiter?" he taunted.
"Just go," I hissed, making a loud noise with the bowls in the sink.
"He's a little young isn't he?" Stefan mocked. "Isn't he still in high school?"
"Yes, I'm still in high school," Cassian said, and Stefan and I both jumped and turned, startled looks on our faces. Cassian was back in the kitchen.
"Is everything all right?" I asked, once again wiping my hands furiously on the tea towel, as if they wouldn't dry. Stefan stepped away from me.
"Dominique was stressing about one of her toys, thinking she'd left it at the beach, but it's still in the car," he said, then added, "Magdala's car." There was a confidence about him now, and I rather liked it. He stepped towards me, stood next to me, facing Stefan. He was a good two, maybe three inches taller than Stefan, and heavier too. Stefan was lean, like an endurance runner, which he was to some degree. As well as soccer he did a lot of running, ten k events, half marathons. Cassian slipped his arm around my waist. I reached up and wiped the smudge off his cheek with the tea towel. He smiled and bent down and kissed my cheek. Stefan looked bemused, Cassian's hand moved from my waist, to the curves of my ass. I suppressed a smile. Stefan looked resigned, like anything he said would be ineffective. Cassian had just marked me as his woman, and I couldn't have felt more proud, or unashamed.
Later that night I phoned Stefan. "You won't tell will you?" I tried not to sound desperate, needy.
Stefan sighed. "Do you know what you're doing?
"No," I admitted. "But I can't live without him."
"No, I won't tell," Stefan said. "But I can't say it will end well." Unfortunately, I agreed. But the future seemed too far away to worry about yet.
"Thank you," I whispered. One day at a time, that's how I'd get through it, the promise of seeing him enough to get me through to the next day.
Chapter 6
CASSIAN
I saw the look on Magdala's face when Dad told her I wouldn't be changing high school. For a split second there was devastation, but Dad continued his explanation and her expression softened, and then her eyes went wide with amazement when Dad said I wanted to study pre-med. And that became the focus, rather than the fact that she would be starting at a new school alone.
"But I thought you want to be a pilot?" I'd been saying that for years.
I shrugged. "Not anymore."
"Wow," she said, "a doctor? Dr Cash?" Like she thought it would be impossible. I didn't say why the change in career choice.
"I think you'll make a fantastic doctor," Antonia said. "You really will."
"That's a lot of study," Magdala said, "like five or six years isn't it?"
"Seven or eight ," Dad said.
"Seven?" she exclaimed, "another seven years in school? That's insane. I can't wait to get through two years of high school."
"Don't think you won't be going to college," Dad grumbled at her, and she pouted. Magdala is smart, but she never applied herself much to study. Her ambitions had always been fleeting, things like horse rider, surfer, piano player, occupations where she didn't think she needed a college degree. And since It had happened, study held even less appeal.
After Dad had told her about my school plans, I went and checked up on her. She'd come back from Hawaii only the weekend before school resumed, so she was doing a last minute sort through of clothes.
"Are you okay with it?" I asked, guilt washing over me, because the whole move thing was supposed to be about getting a fresh start.
"Yeah, it's fine," she said nonchalantly. "How's your girlfriend?"
"What girlfriend?" I said.
"The one you went AWOL for. How many do you have?" Her tone was snarky.
"It turned out to be nothing," I lied.
"What? You expect me to believe that? You come back early, hang out with some girl, and now it's nothing?" she said bitterly. "You must think I'm stupid."
I didn't say anything. I figured she was upset about me going back to Beverly, about having to start a new school on her own, not really about whether I had a girlfriend or not. I thought then that I really had made a wrong decision, that I was continually letting her down. My own interests, my own agenda more important. She examined a top, then tossed it onto a pile on the floor, then another went the same way. She sniffed, several times, and I could see tears in her eyes.
"Do you want something?" she snapped, indicating that I was now in her way, as she walked past me and opened a drawer, throwing a bunch of clothes on her bed.
"Magdala?"
She ignored me, faced away from me as she folded and refolded clothes. I wondered if I should just go. No matter what I said, I wouldn't make anything better, if anything it would be worse.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I really am.”
"Words, Cash, just words."
I left, scooting down the stairs. How did I make this right? Could I make this right? I went and found Dad. He was in the lounge on the phone. I hung around.
"She's mad," I said, when his conversation ended.
"Give her time to get use to it," Dad said.
"What if I made the wrong choice?"
"You haven't," Dad said emphatically, "I think it's the best thing for you. Magdala will be okay, she'll get over it, and it's not even like you'd see her around school."
"Why doesn't she come to Beverly?" I a
sked, having a sudden moment of clarity.
Dad shook his head, "She'll be fine, I promise you. You don't need to stress about her all the time, Cash."
"I don't know," I said. "She hasn't heard from Flynn, she feels rejected."
"Flynn was just a rebound," Dad said, with conviction, "she'll get over him." But I wasn't so sure. Magdala knew how to put on a brave face, she'd done that after her first boyfriend cheated on her. She knew how to put up a tough exterior, that's what you get from hanging round with three boys your whole life. But she was still vulnerable, still brittle, even though she'd declared she had moved on.
I offered to go surfing with her. And I felt I owed her the truth, about me and Paola.
But I couldn't do it.
I was there, on the brink of telling her, when something inside me said, No, don't do it. Don't tell her you're in love, when she's miserable, when she's hurting. Pain and truth. She had pain; truth wouldn't help her, not now, at this moment. I kept my mouth shut. And kept surfing till my legs burned.
PAOLA
I tried to keep a low profile, just keeping myself busy with work, joining a new stretch class, trying to maintain an air of normality. I was invited to a hen party for a fellow business major, Helene, even though we hadn't seen each other for almost a year, and that reacquainted me with several girls, all single, who I then met for later dates. It was good that people saw me socializing, good that I had these stories to share about drinks with the girls, coffee dates, movie nights.
And in the meantime I had him over two or three times a week. Never enough, but it was the sacrifice we needed to make to ensure the secret remained. He had settled back into his school routine, he had a full on academic schedule, his subjects mainly science based. And he'd joined some clubs, trying to get extra curricular activities for his college application. With tongue-in-cheek I'd asked did making out with me not qualify? He hadn't said what he planned to study but had indicated he would stay in LA, so that was enough for me, to know he wasn't leaving town. He cut back on his shifts, just working the Wednesday night and Sunday lunch. Sundays, Mondays and sometimes Tuesdays became our days, I made that work for us.
The holiday season approached, Halloween, Thanksgiving, his birthday, his 18th birthday. He made no mention of it, but I knew when it was. Of course I knew when it was, the date when he would become 'legal' in the eyes of the state. I waited for him to bring it up, but he said nothing, and my inquisitive nature got the best of me, his silence on the subject killing me, and my big mouth carelessly blurted out, "Doing anything special on Friday?
We were lying in the afterglow of an Olympic performance, our scores now being rated to a third point decimal, when he turned and said lazily, "Friday?"
"Yes, Friday," I said, thinking he was toying with me.
"Just going out for dinner," he murmured, and I realized he wasn't playing with me, that there was probably a reason he didn't want me to know his plans. Like not being invited.
But I was curious, nosy. "Oh, and where would that be?"
He shrugged, "Antonia's made the booking."
"And you don't know where?" I sounded astounded, as if it was impossible to not know where one was going for one's birthday, as if I was offended by his lack of disclosure. Then, "Don't you want me to know? Think I'll gate crash?"
He looked at me, his mouth drooped slightly, his eyes hurt, like he was the offended one. "I think she said the Wilshire," he muttered. One of the most exclusive restaurants in the city. My eyes popped. My Jimmy Choos would be appreciated there, but I'd be saving for a month to be able to afford a three course meal.
"How many are going?" I tried to sound unaffected.
"The usual."
"Who's the usual?" Hell I was persistent. At this rate he'd be nineteen before I got all the information from him.
"Just Grandad, aunts, uncles, cousins, the usual clan."
"You don't sound excited," I commented, and secretly wondered if it was because I wouldn't be there, if the celebration would be nothing without me.
He shrugged and shifted himself up to sitting, threw his legs off the bed and looked around for his underwear. "It's just another day," he said. He found them and pulled them up.
"You're eighteen," I said trying to encourage enthusiasm and an admission that without me sharing in his day, it was hardly worthwhile, "it's a milestone."
But he stood up, put his t-shirt on and heading to the bathroom, said, "Eighteen, yeah. But it means eighteen years since my mother died."
I was stunned. What a selfish bitch I was. I sat myself up, quickly covering myself in my robe. Oh my God, how could I be so thoughtless. His birthday was also the day his mother died. Stupid, Paola, stupid. Unthinking, uncaring. Making everything about me. I heard the toilet flush, heard the water turn on. I came around the bed to meet him, and when he came out, I fell into his arms. "I'm sorry," I whispered, "I wasn't thinking. My poor boy."
He stroked the back of my head, his other arm curled around my waist. He kissed the top of my head and said, "And you won't be there." My heart should have surged at that, it's what I'd wanted to hear, but my own insecurity had clouded the moment.
"Cassian," I said, truly feeling his pain, "I'm sorry. Your mother." My voice was stilted. "She would be so proud of you. Of the person you are. You are the most amazing, the most amazing person." And I held him closer, tighter.
"Thank you," he said, but I sensed his reply was mechanical. His pain was innate, my words wouldn't touch him at all. He dressed, and I felt guilt that I had sullied the mood. Previous to my questions we had made love and I'd scored us a 9.855 on performance, marking us down only because we had got ourselves tangled in my wrap around skirt as he had tried to untie its belt. It had been clumsy and we'd giggled as he had eventually used his teeth to release the knot. Now he picked up his keys and phone, poured himself a glass of water and drank it, without a word. I felt my heart breaking for him, felt a pang of emptiness that I could do nothing to ease his loss, his desolation. Could anyone understand how he felt, for him to know his birth signaled his mother's death. It was such an incomprehensible notion, that I felt inadequate in my ability to console him, to even try. But I felt I needed to and I tried to reach out again.
"Cassian?" He finished his water, rinsed the glass, looked at me expectantly. "Cassian?"
I took a step closer. He picked up the tea towel and dried the glass, put it back in the cupboard. He always tidied up after himself, even straightening the bed covers after he had gotten dressed. "You mean the world to me," I said, "you know that, don't you?"
"Yes," he said crisply, and again he kissed the top of my head. "Hey, don't feel sorry for me," he said, as if he'd read my mind, holding me by the shoulders, kissing my lips, "I'm fine. And I love you." But his eyes told another story, they couldn't conceal the pain he was feeling at that moment, as he flashed me a smile and left.
My birthday gift to him was a silver bracelet. I had noticed that occasionally he wore bracelets, usually leather, beaded ones, so I knew this silver, beaded one was his style, but it wasn't so expensive that anyone would query who had bought it for him and I hoped he would wear it regularly and be reminded of me. There I was again, totally selfish. I also bought him a new perfume, one by Tom Ford, which I personally loved. I would have loved to be more extravagant, I'd been looking in stores, admiring clothes that I knew he would look good in and he'd love to wear, but he was embarrassed to be given anything. Early on in our relationship I had bought him a new phone cover and he had accepted it humbly, but I could see him inwardly cringe, and when we'd been in Carmel he hated it when I had paid for meals, always offering, but I had insisted he was my guest on that trip. And telling him he only had a part time job in contrast to my full time managerial position was exactly the wrong thing to say. Unintentionally I had belittled him, and I didn't mean to make that same mistake again.
I knew his family obviously had some money, but his parents’ jobs didn't overly scream of being millio
naires. His father worked in graphic design and advertising he had once told me, and his stepmother was high up in a cosmetics company, probably my dream job I thought enviously. Not really incomes that I thought warranted an eighteenth birthday party at the Wilshire, a Michelin star restaurant, especially when he had indicated a crowd of twenty people.
I was determined not to ask him for details about the party, again a selfish motive. I didn't want to hear about what I'd missed, what I wasn't a part of, what I would never be a part of. Still, you know me by now, and my interrogation skills started to gently probe.
"Uh, so is your new BMW parked in the lot?" I asked lightly when he arrived for work on Sunday, bringing me his vest. His cousin Jakey had gotten a new BMW for his eighteenth birthday a month ago.
He frowned, momentarily confused, then smiled and said, "No, but my Mercedes is."
I gasped, he laughed, then I laughed, understanding that he was having me on. I punched his chest.
"No Mercedes then?" I lamented.
He shook his head. "Sorry. Unfortunately the Nissan still drives like a dream."
I laughed. "Anything special then?"
"Just the usual gifts," he said, "clothes, underwear, socks."
I laughed again, "You're so funny." And that's when I had handed him my gift. "Don't freak out. It's only something small." He kissed me, whispered "Thank you." He'd unwrapped it, fingering the bracelet, saying, "That's cool." I sprayed the perfume on his neck, then leant in to smell it, moaning, "Mmmm, that's perfect on you."
He grinned and thanked me again.
"You had a nice meal?" I couldn't help myself.
"The steak was unbelievable."
"Was it a late night?"
"Not really."
"Did you have cake?"
"Yes."
"You really only got socks and underwear?"
He laughed out loud. "A new tennis bag. I got a new tennis bag."
I looked at the time. "Heck, you better get out to work," I joked, "or I'll be docking your pay."