by Auden Dar
Former fiancé.
After lusting for a good few minutes, I fidget and ask him to turn around so I can get out of bed and put a robe on.
“I’ll let you get dress.” He excuses himself from my room and heads to the living area.
I take a sip of the delicious Italian Roast coffee and walk over to the window that faces the square. Along the way, I do a double take, staring at the mirror that is only a few inches away from the view. Shit, I look like crap. Drinking way too many gin and tonics on the flight yesterday has made my face puffy and blotchy. Add in the fact I just left my fiancé of over five years and in the next room is the man who I have been lusting over the past few weeks. I am at a crossroads. What am I going to do?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
In the next room, reggae music plays loud and clear. I begin to grin upon realizing it’s 311’s version of “Lovesong” in the background. The song always reminds me of my teenage years. The Caines’ housekeeper, Miss Pendleton, introduced us to 80s English music back then. The original version by The Cure was in constant rotation while she prepared our meals. I walk to my en-suite bathroom and brush my teeth before placing my hair in a messy bun. I wrap my white robe tightly and head out.
The living area is empty. The sound of pots and pans crashing come from the kitchen. But how? I don’t understand how my guest is able to prepare something since I know there was nothing in the fridge last night. Roger can’t cook to save his life and the only things he keeps in the fridge are beer and wine.
My houseguest glances up and that carefree grin of his greets me. “Lina, I am always reminded of you every time I hear this song.”
I listen to the lyrics, and it reminds me of him, too. Julian Caine makes me feel like I’m home again.
With his form-fitting jeans and a vintage Waterboys t-shirt he just put on a few minutes ago, my gorgeous friend looks delicious enough to eat. Mmm, did I just imagine licking him? Wait, I’m licking my lips. His sapphire eyes have enlarged. His luscious lips slightly part.
I don’t get it. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I left my fiancé, and instead of being distraught, I am craving the man before me. Lusting. Salivating. All I can think about is having him take me in my bedroom, on my kitchen counter, my bathroom shower … anywhere he wants to take me.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“You must be hungry, Lina, because you just licked your lips. By the way, that was quite sexy.” Did he just say sexy? He stops chopping the vegetables, raising the knife slightly, and stares at me. Breathe, Lina. Breathe. Good God, those beautiful eyes are going to be the death of me. Shaking his head as he smiles, he continues to chop, completely unaware of my salacious thoughts. “Frittatas okay with you?”
“Yes!” I am giddy with excitement. Calm down. He’s just making you breakfast. I am way too excited. Andrew used to make me breakfast when we first moved in together. I can’t even remember the last time he made me a cup of coffee. I pinch myself. Ouch. Yes, this is all real. Noticing I just pinched myself, he laughs. “Lina, this will be ready in a few minutes. Relax. You’re home now.”
I survey the apartment, and all I feel is ... at home. I am home. Everything is the way I left it. It’s been so long since I’ve felt at home. I visit the loft a few times a year, and it is always here that I am most comfortable. At this moment, watching Julian in the kitchen, singing along to “Lovesong” while he prepares our breakfast, I feel content.
The scent of prosciutto and vegetable frittata is incredible. “Lovesong” has me swaying from side to side as I sit at the kitchen island. “I love this reggae version.”
When the song ends, Julian presses repeat. “One more time.” I love his playfulness and his easygoing attitude. He continues to sing every word as he rounds about the kitchen island, setting the dish in front of me. Pressing a kiss on my cheek, he says, “Enjoy.”
“I can’t believe you cooked.” I stare at the frittata and it looks perfect along with the fresh-squeezed orange juice. “How did you manage to do this?”
Turning to face me, he then points at the clock hanging on the kitchen wall. It reads 10:48 a.m. “While you were passed out on your bed.” He winks. “I decided to go to the corner supermarket and grab some items.”
“Wow, I’m shocked. One, I can’t believe you can cook. Two, I can’t see you going to the grocery store.” I laugh before taking a bite of the frittata. It is even more delicious than I expected. “This is seriously awesome.”
“Awesome, eh?” he asks while studying my appearance. “You look much better this morning than you did yesterday. How are you feeling?”
I place my fork down and gaze up at him. “I’m … I’m actually well. Really, I am better than I thought I would be. I think having you here has helped me.”
My phone that sits on the kitchen island pings, and I glance at the gadget, noticing a text from my former fiancé.
ANDREW: I hope you made it safely. Good luck.
Good luck?
Andrew and I spent almost sixteen years together, and he sends me a ‘Good Luck’ text as if I had just been fired from a job. I guess I had been fired as Andrew Nielsen’s fiancée.
Fucking good luck.
“What the fuck?” Julian asks as he peers over my shoulder, also stunned by my ex-fiancé’s parting text. “Is that really a ‘good luck’ in that text?”
I turn my head slightly, and if I wasn’t so exhausted, I might have laughed. Yes, laughed. All I can think of is Andrew’s parting words or rather lack of. Yeah, good fucking luck.
And that’s what I text the man I will no longer be spending the rest of my life with:
ME: Good. Fucking. Luck.
I turn my phone off and focus my attention on the man who cooked me breakfast. Offering him a slight smile, I say, “I’m fine, Julian. Really, I’m fine.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Are you really okay?”
“Yes, I am. I think Andrew’s text just confirmed I did the right thing.”
“I don’t want to leave you right now, but I have to get home to Mugpie. Cecelia called to tell me he hasn’t been feeling well. Why don’t you join me? Mugpie is quite fond of you.” He glances at the kitchen clock. “I also need to shower and change. I have a meeting in a couple of hours.” His eyes are now on mine. “But Lina, just say the word, and I’ll cancel it.”
“I’m more than fine. I’d like to stay in today and nurse this hangover.” I point at my right temple. “Do what you need to do and don’t forget to give Mugpie a sloppy kiss for me.”
Why didn’t I just ask him to shower here and if I could join him?
Because you’re just friends.
“Lucky him.” Julian retrieves a photo out of his dark brown leather wallet. The photograph is that of Mugpie, sitting up like an old man, cradling a bottle of Maker’s Mark. The photo is so amusing it makes me spit out some of my juice.
Even with a trickle of juice running down my chin, I ask, “Did you really let him?”
Leaning forward with a napkin, he wipes my chin. “You’re a beautiful mess; you know that?”
A beautiful mess.
That’s what he thinks of me.
The devilish smirk on his face widens when he asks, “What do you think?”
I honestly can’t answer his question. Instead, I thank him for sharing his hilarious photo of Mugpie with Maker’s Mark. As he steps away from the kitchen island, I reach out for his hand. “Julian, thank you. Thank you for being with me. Thank you for the delicious breakfast. And thank you in advance for trekking uptown.”
He kisses my hand. “You’re welcome. I’m actually not trekking too far. My place is only a few blocks south of here. Come over anytime.”
“Really?”
“Yes, of course, really,” he answers with a bit of exaggeration before tapping my nose with his forefinger. “By the way, I love what you’ve done with your loft … your home. This is definitely more your sty
le. And your piano is calling you.” He nods to the Steinway in my living room. “I’ll call you later. I want to spend as much time with you as humanly possible while you’re here. I also expect to hear some of your new music.” He gives me a chaste kiss on my blushing cheek before leaving the room. A kiss that immediately sets my heart racing.
The next few days go by without a word from Andrew. Julian has been busy with work. Roger is out of town on business, and Patti is with her man, holed up in some hotel, extending their vacation for another week.
New York has been able to help me get through this difficult time. At moments I would reach for my phone, my fingers hovering over Andrew’s name. Although I left him, a part of me still clings to him. Even with his stupid, parting text, I still miss him. I miss the guy who used to make me laugh. The guy who would spend hours listening to my babbling in the middle of the night.
The guy who wanted to be with me.
As the days progress, each day gets better. Being home has revived me, giving me a new chapter in my life. Leaving LA and drowning in the everyday humdrum of a passionless relationship has done something to me. Today, I experience everything like a child−walking around the Village, revisiting my favorite haunts−as if seeing things for the first time, and it is a wonderful gift.
Thirty-Four
It’s been sixteen days since I ended my relationship with my high school sweetheart. For the first four days, I remained holed up in my apartment, writing new compositions in my studio for a new video game. One of my tenants owns a gaming company and asked me a few weeks ago to consider writing a score for his new game, The Enforcer. Without a film score to work on, I accepted the work, and I’m grateful that it allows me to be creative.
I’ve only been going out for food with Julian. My uniform consisted of leggings and sweaters. And then tired of just going out to eat, he forced me to enjoy New York with him. We went to movies and saw several musicals, including Hamilton, walked up and down Broadway, Fifth Avenue, and the High Line, read aloud to one another as we sat on a bench in Washington Park, took a rowboat out in Central Park, played with Mugpie at several dog parks, and simply enjoyed one another’s company. Although he has been inundated with work, my childhood friend manages to always find time to be with me. Even playing Assassins Creed 2 with me late into the night so I can study Jesper Kyd’s brilliant work.
Moreover, he helped me realize that leaving Andrew and LA was a smart decision. Three days ago, Julian left the city for SXSW in Austin. I declined his invitation to join him, preferring to have some time to myself while continuing to learn all about my neighbor’s new game. A day didn’t go by that he didn’t call or send me a text. There were nights when we would talk until the wee hours about everything and nothing. Last night, we remained on the phone while watching back-to-back episodes of The Killing together. He indulges my fascination with crime shows.
Julian returned this morning and came over to my apartment directly from JFK. Surrounded by the Isle of White flower arrangements that he had delivered daily, he scans my living area, amused. “Overboard?” he asks before gently taking my hand. “As much as I love your home, I want you to come and be with me at my place.” It takes me less than a second to agree to go with him. I still haven’t seen his bachelor pad.
Strolling toward Tribeca, we finally turn the corner to a cobblestoned street. Unlike most of the streets in this lively city, there is no sidewalk landscaping. The block itself is completely quiet. There are no pedestrians. There isn’t a car traveling in sight. I study Julian’s residence. It is an eleven-story nondescript building. As I take it all in, a young doorman greets us. “Good afternoon, Mr. Caine.”
“Good morning, Michael, this is Lina James,” Julian says, without letting go of my hand.
The lobby itself is anything but ostentatious. It is quietly furnished with only a few seating arrangements. The private key lock elevator takes us to the top two floors where his penthouse apartment is located. The elevator doors open to a wide-open space. What welcomes us immediately is an enormous piece of art by Damien Hirst that occupies the entire wall. A few feet away, a vintage motorcycle.
“Wow.” I point at the Hirst artwork. And then I am completely puzzled by the vehicle in his home. “Motorcycle?” I ask.
“Not just a motorcycle. That, darling, is a 1939 Brough Superior SS1100.” He continues to gush over the English designed motorcycle that had been revered as the “Rolls Royce of Motorcycles.”
“This is … this is incredible,” I exclaim in such amazement. Without hesitation, I sit on the bike and pretend to drive it.
“Lina, you look good on that bike.” Instantly, I imagine myself riding Julian. I will my mind from having such a dirty thought. Take a deep breath, Lina. You did not think of riding Julian. I will my mind to think of anything else. Pizza. Musicals. Cupcakes. But nothing deters my lust. I jump off the bike and stand by my host’s side. From my stance, a grand piano in the corner of his living room beckons me. My fingers itch, desiring to play a tune.
“Darling, you’re composing in your head, aren’t you? Do you want to play?” Julian asks, nodding toward the grand piano.
My eyes widen. “You know me too well.”
“I’d like to think so. I haven’t heard you play in days. I would love to hear one of your new compositions. Maybe something you’ve written for that video game?”
“Later. I want you to show me your new home.”
“It’s not a home yet,” he says, leaving me bewildered.
“Uh, you live here, right?” I ask, hoping he will clarify why it’s not a home yet.
“Yes, I just moved in not too long ago. Anyway, if you have this urge to run your fingers across those keys, we’ll stop.” Julian laces his fingers between mine. With pride in his voice, he reveals the history of the building. “It was originally built in 1887 as a warehouse and was converted into a condo a few years ago. I own several properties in the city but basically lived in and out of suitcases for years. I purchased the duplex several months ago.” He doesn’t mention his Upper East Side childhood home that remains in the family.
Although grand, the duplex penthouse apartment is modern and warm. We make our way out to the private wraparound terrace with its 360-degree view of the city and of the Hudson River. Comfortable lounge chairs, several heating lamps, and different types of plants surround us. A beautiful large rectangular dining table greets us. In the center of it all is a brick pizza oven.
“We’ll have to make Margarita pizza soon,” Julian says casually. We round the terrace, and a stunning rooftop pool surprises me.
I can count the number of residential New York City rooftop pools I have seen in my life on one hand. And that is one; it’s staring at me as it glistens.
I glance at Julian’s expression when his smile meets his eyes. “It’s heated, so we can swim later if you’d like.”
Shaking my head, I try to fight the image of my handsome host wet in the pool.
Breaking me out of my quick, sexy reverie, he squeezes my hand as we continue the tour. “God, I’ve missed you,” he breathes.
I’ve missed you too.
There are five large bedrooms all with en-suite bathrooms. Sauntering around the vast apartment, I am in awe of the walls, all with floor-to-ceiling windows, some of which are arched. I lost count at forty. High barrel vault ceilings make me feel small. All the rooms are airy, light, and spacious. And although he is a bachelor, I can’t help but feel the warmth in his place. We amble down the stairs to the living area that encloses an impressive library. The long bookcases are filled with leather bound first editions. Marveling at his collection, I can’t help but smile. On one end of the library are works by Dostoevsky, Moliére, St. Thomas Aquinas, and Graham Greene. On the other end are books on Isay Weinfeld, Zaha Hadid, Le Corbusier, and other famous architects. I am reminded of a young Julian, sitting on his bed, immersed in a book for hours at a time. I peek at him and wonder if he is still borderline obsessive with his
books. He could have easily written CliffsNotes on every book he has read.
“Did you do this all by yourself?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No, the Emersons did everything. Roan and Allegra made some structural changes but nothing major. Helena picked out all the furnishings and designed a good portion of them herself.”
We sit on a u-shaped couch across from one another. From my vantage point, I admire views of the river.
It must be beautiful at night.
As if he had just read my mind, Julian utters, “It is beautiful at night.”
I remain on the couch while Julian rises from his seated position to turn on the fireplace. Someone is walking around, singing a familiar song.
“She’s home,” he confirms.
“Who’s home?” I ask, surprised and unaware that someone else lives with him.
“You’ll see.” His grin is wide as he reaches for my hand without a thought and leads me to the kitchen.
Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” is sung out of tune by the woman a few feet away as she busies herself with the largest fridge I have ever seen. It takes her a few minutes to realize she has company. Dressed in Victoria’s Secret PINK navy blue sweatpants and white t-shirt, the woman reaching for a snack looks young from behind. She is around five-foot-six with a slim frame.
Julian clears his throat, prompting her to turn around with a glass pitcher in hand.
“Julian, dear, you scared me!” she exclaims before her eyes meet mine. Taking off her NY Mets baseball cap allows her salt and pepper hair to fall. Her natural curls are tangled at the ends as if she had been too lazy to brush them.
A wave of relief comes over me when I recognize the woman. It’s been years since I’ve seen her. Years since I’ve heard her soft English accent. She’s always been a part of his life. Everything about her seems the same with the exception she now wears glasses, and her once dark brown hair has a touch of gray highlights. She’s maintained her figure after all these years and could easily give a woman in her twenties a run for her money.