by Rowena
Everyone knows I'm still a virgin, and since I’m so inexperienced in the ways of love, there's a good chance I'm giving myself away in some capacity.
Do you smell different after being intimate with a man? How strong is it?
"You look happier than I've seen you in a while.”
I let out a breath of relief.
“I'm always happy when I come to see you, Mom.”
“Nice try. What's going on with you?”
“Mom, I...I'm excited about your gift. It's pretty unique and I'm proud of myself for finding it. Plus, I'm getting married in a few weeks. To a billionaire! We'll never have to worry about money again. I can help you with your treatments, Aaron can get that bionic upgrade—the one he can't stop talking about..."
"Eh eh. That's not it. Don’t try that.”
Damn, I really thought that was convincing.
“What an old man sees while lying down, a young man can never see even when he climbs up in a tree,” she says with too-wise eyes. "You met someone.”
My heart speeds up a little more.
"I..." Would it really do me any good to deny right now? Clearly, my mom can see right through me.
"I ran into an old friend, that's all."
She narrows her eyes at me while smiling knowingly.
"An old friend," she repeats dryly, skeptically.
I lower my voice, not wanting Aaron to hear.
"You remember Aaron's old friend, Derek?"
"Ah!"
Her dark face breaks into a wide, satisfied smile.
"I get it now," she says. "You still have a crush on him, eh?"
"It was good to see him, Mom, that's all. Especially with what's about to happen. Sort of closure I didn't know I needed, you know?"
"You're only fooling yourself. How is he?"
"He's doing great! He's got his own business, he looks healthy and happy..."
"Watch yourself,” she says. “He that doesn’t want to be splashed with water should not come near the stream.”
Sometimes I think I know what my mom’s saying, and sometimes, I’m pretty sure she’s screwing with me for kicks and pulling things out of her ass.
I’m never sure because of the slight culture gap—she grew up in a different country than me and now she’s sort of a weird hodgepodge of both.
Needless to say, I really don't know how to read her right now; I don’t know how she’s taking this.
She's amused by the news, obviously, but I also know she wants what's best for me, and what's best for me is stability. Right?
I want to ask her what she's getting at—what she really thinks—but Celeste comes into the room looking cheerful as ever, her eyes practically sparkling.
Now I feel like I can see exactly what it was my mom saw on me.
It's a different sort of high—the invigoration you get from the presence of someone who excites everything in you.
A rare occurrence, it seems, but when it happens, man is it obvious.
I can't believe I thought I could hide from the people closest to me.
My mom has that sly look on her face again but says nothing to Celeste.
"Mama Olu," Celeste begins.
I crack up on the inside when I hear that address. After all these years, it's still hilarious coming from my best friend.
"Will you teach me the recipes sometime?"
"All this time you've been coming here you haven't learned yet?" my mom says lightly, but I know she's pleased by the request. Then she says, “Maybe,” with a slight shrug. "Secret recipe, you know. In the family for generations."
I have to bite back laughter.
My brother goes off to take a call and my mom turns her attention back to the food prep, so I drag Celeste to a corner of the living room.
"How long?" I ask her.
"How long what?"
"Don't play dumb—have you and my brother been secretly seeing each other or something?”
"No," she says immediately, and there's almost a sadness to the way she says it.
I realize what it is—she sure wishes that were the case.
"How long have you had the hots for him then?"
"I wouldn't call it ‘the hots,’" she says, with air quotes, “but I've always admired him. He was so cool in school, remember?”
Of course, I do. He was probably the main reason I got spared from bullying—I was Aaron's little sister, academic and athletic superstar.
Come to think of it, most girls sort of crushed on him—it just never occurred to me that my best friend could have been one of them.
Especially after high school when everything changed for Aaron.
To everyone's surprise, since he had scholarship offers and so many other opportunities available to him, instead of immediately capitalizing off of his academic and sports possibilities, he enlisted in the military.
I still don't get that one.
Then he dropped out and it was all downhill from there.
So fine—I get it if she had a crush on him at some point back then, but now?
Not that my brother isn't worthy, but all the things he used to be popular for are no longer happening.
"Is it really that hard to get why I like him?" Celeste says as she stares at me with a weird, almost judgmental expression.
Damn! Are actual words forming on my face today?
How is it everyone's reading me like a book?
"No, I'm just...surprised."
"You mean because of his leg? Do you think I’m so shallow I’d have trouble finding someone missing a limb attractive?"
"No, of course not!" I say. “You think I, of all people, feel that way?”
But did I? A lot of people kind of treat him like a leper, so yeah—I guess I got used to him no longer being a hot ticket and people overlooking him.
"He's still handsome, he's still smart, and I've known him more than half my life. He might be missing a leg now, but most of the important parts are still there, if you get my drift."
And just like that, we’re in the gutter.
I punch her in the arm for that one—a bit too hard, actually; I didn’t mean to.
“Ow,” she says, rubbing her arm. “So when was the last time he had a girlfriend?"
I think about it for a moment.
"Guess it's been a few months now," I say.
She breaks into a grin, still rubbing her arm where I punched it.
Aaron and his last girlfriend were together for about two years, and before that, he was in a year-long relationship.
"I don't get in his business like that, so I don't know why they broke up, but there you have it," I say, knowing she probably sees it as finally getting a chance.
I guess that might be part of the reason I missed her crush on him—she hid it well while he was taken. That’s a pretty good sign.
"Is he talking to someone now?"
I shrug.
At any given point he could be following up on a number slipped to him.
"As far as I know, he's single and free. But I have to ask—this isn't because of all the weddings, right?”
This time, she punches me in the arm.
“No,” she says firmly, and I believe her.
But I had to ask—I don't want her using my brother because she feels desperately alone and wants a warm body next to hers just to get through the wedding season.
Then again, would my brother even mind?
He has only been in longterm relationships since the accident, but maybe a casual thing would help him feel normal.
"Come eat!" my mom shouts from the kitchen, and the two of us make a run for it.
This is definitely the one place we are all at our least elegant; my mom’s food is just too delicious to play cool.
I know my brother's not far behind us, even with the prosthetic.
5
Stella
Sometimes I wish I had never moved away from home—there’s truly no place like it—but commuting to and from college i
sn't exactly practical so coming home every now and then will have to do.
I'm feeling extra full and satisfied when my phone buzzes, and I stupidly think it's Derek for a moment, and my heart races in happy anticipation.
But it's just my fiancé, and he wants me to come over.
I make a sound that makes my mom go, "What is it?"
"Harold wants me to see what he's doing with the interior of our future abode," I say.
"How exciting!" Celeste says, clapping her hands a little. "Man, I can't wait to see it. Wait—I'll be allowed to come over and see you at your mansion, right?"
She looks so serious it's almost comical.
"I don't see why not!" I say. "Unless he plans to keep me holed up in there like Rapunzel!"
I expected a little bit of fake chuckling or something since I was just kidding, but no one humors me.
Tough crowd.
A brief silence fills the room and everyone suddenly looks way too serious.
"Anyway, I need to grab something from the attic before I go. My stuff's still there, right?"
I say it casually, but my heart is thumping wildly.
My mom has joked about getting rid of my stuff before, and I know she's not serious, but I'm still worried that what I'm about to look for won't be there.
"Of course, my girl,” she says. “All neat and tidy, patiently awaiting their new mansion home.”
Relief floods me.
I thank her for dinner, kiss my brother on the cheek, hug Celeste, then dash up the stairs.
I open the door, and it's still dusty, but it looks like my containers are all there—my entire childhood boxed up neatly.
My mom turned my old bedroom into some sort of meditation room after I left, but my brother's room is untouched—the same as he left it.
I guess it’s because he still pops by more often than I do and because I'm about to be married off.
I had a meticulous system when I boxed my stuff up, so I head for the container I know has what I'm looking for—the one with gifts to me from those closest to me.
A teddy bear from Celeste, a doll from an auntie, an old friendship bracelet from someone I’m no longer in touch with, and even stuff from my brother—an incomplete stack of playing cards, a puzzle missing some pieces.
And then, like a nesting doll, a small container within the larger one—a box of stationary. It is filled with birthday cards and holiday cards, and it has my dad's letter he meant to give me on my eighteenth birthday he didn't live to see.
And finally, the objects I came for—one crumpled, as it was when I first found it, the other, laminated.
Derek used to draw, and every now and then I'd catch him sketching something, sometimes at the kitchen table or in my brother's room.
I kept my distance from him for the most part, but I strained my eyes to see what he was working on one day as he sat in my brother's desk chair, desktop keyboard pushed aside while my brother was in the bathroom.
I watched Derek quickly sketch something, and then he did the most baffling thing—he crumpled it and flung it.
"What's the use," he muttered before dropping his head on his arm.
I didn't stay away that time—I ran to the discarded object, appalled he could be so careless with the work of art.
I guess it’s easy to take something for granted when it comes so easy to you.
I hadn't seen what he had sketched, but I'd gotten a glimpse of his art before—I knew whatever he had drawn had to be wonderful.
I gripped the crumpled paper as I approached him, and he looked up at me.
"I was going to put it in the garbage," he said as if that was why I was upset.
"Why did you throw it away?" I asked.
"There's no point!" he said simply.
"But if you like doing it, you should keep doing it."
He gave me a smile that might as well have been a condescending pat on the head.
"You'll see when you get older," he said. "Adults can't have pipe dreams."
I got the gist of what he was saying, but it didn’t quite sound like him, so I figured someone else must have said those words to him.
"But you're really good at it!” I insisted.
"Thanks, kid," he said, then pulled the computer keyboard in front of him and turned his attention to the screen.
I knew I had been dismissed, but I kept my crumpled prize.
When my birthday came around, I got the biggest surprise—he had sketched a caricature of me as a birthday present.
That was pretty much the happiest day of my life.
I stare at it now, laminated and safe from moisture and all sorts of other damage I imagined back then: a likeness of ten-year-old me with glasses and afro puffs, looking happy as hell.
Derek apparently saw more joy in me than I felt.
I run my finger down the cartoonish image then hold the laminated paper to my chest.
I’m not sure if I'm hugging the artist or me.
Then I put the drawing away again, trying to push back the sadness threatening to take over me over so much potential lost.
With a sick mom and a disabled brother, I can't afford to get sentimental and entangled with Derek Carter.
I had to do this as a sort of goodbye, but there's no time for second thoughts.
I have a duty; I must stay strong.
I get ready to head back down the stairs then over to my future husband.
"Stella, my love," Harold says as I enter the mansion he plans to make our marital home.
Bile immediately rises in me.
It was easier to produce a stiff smile and pretend before, but going along with this whole thing suddenly feels like trudging through mud.
"Hello, Harold," I say coolly, easily sliding into ice queen mode.
So far, it seems men like him love two particular extremes of women—the cool, every-hair-in-place type, and the unrefined firecrackers. One type for public, the other for private. Guess which is which!
He kisses one cheek then the other, then back again.
He's not the worst-looking billionaire—he's in his fifties, and he's not fit but he's not sloppy.
He doesn't have all the hair he might have had at one time, even with the hair plugs, but his hair isn’t totally white, so he doesn't look too grandpa-like. It's some weird color, though—like he was going for blond or red lowlights or something, but it ultimately looks unnatural.
I want to puke thinking about him leaning over me, naked, about to consummate our marriage.
Is being with a billionaire really worth it?
I remember my mother and brother.
For good measure, I look around the mansion, reminding myself of the huge space I'll get to play in.
I start cheering up at the thought that I can probably move my mom in here—having others do all the cooking and cleaning while she finally gets to relax and catch up on the books she was sure she'd never get to read in her lifetime will be heaven for her.
Imagining her lounging by a pool, reading while someone makes sure she has all the snacks and refreshments she needs makes me calm down.
I can do this.
"So you tracked down Dagor, did you?” Harold suddenly says.
I actually jump a little.
How much does he know?
Then I realize I'm being paranoid and let out a breath—he was there when I found myself awestruck over the Dagor sculpture right in the next room, after all.
"You must tell me how to find him," I had implored him. "I want him to make something for my mother."
He said he could arrange it, but he was going away on business and would see to it when he got back.
That was a week ago.
Now he has returned, and I guess because I haven't been hounding him about it, he figured I took care of it myself.
"I did,” I said, forming a sheepish look. “Sometimes, I'm too impatient for my own good. I just wanted to make sure I caught him before it was too late.”
&nbs
p; "Hm," he says. "And he'll definitely have it done in time?"
"That's what he told me," I say with a slight smile.
"Hm. His plate is rather full, then. Anyway, my sweet," he says as his hand cups my face, "I've missed you."
I really don't know what he's talking about—it's not like we've been dating each other.
We did go on a few dates at first—a dinner here, a lunch there—and he has tried to get me to go on trips with him, but my gut protests.
I barely know him, so it feels weird to fly with him, as crazy as that sounds, considering we'll be married soon.
But like my virginity, I'm saving romantic travel getaways for marriage, so he agreed to wait till our honeymoon.
At that time, he’s taking me to several countries with him, and if anything gets you more familiar with someone fast, it sure as hell is rooming and traveling together.
This must be where the mansion comes in handy—so you can take a damned break from each other, technically still under one roof but possibly avoiding each other for days.
"I've been thinking," he says, pulling me close to him.
My heart speeds up, but not like it does when I'm with Derek; I'm actually scared.
"How about we go upstairs, hm?"
"What do you mean?" I ask, my voice wavering and giving away my fear.
He seems to like it.
"You're not that naive, are you?"
I can barely look in his beady eyes.
"But we've talked about this. It's my promise to myself and being engaged is not the same as being married; I must stay pure until then.“
"Darling, you know I think that's adorable, but we've been mingling in other ways. Your allowance is already set up, you've made an early withdrawal...how about I make an early deposit?"
It's amazing I don't barf on him right then.
I start trying to pull away from him, but although he's old and out-of-shape, he's strong and much bigger than me.
This is the kind of thing at the back of my mind about taking trips with him—being at his mercy.
At least here, someone can hear me scream—although as his employees, what good would that do? They’re loyal to him.
"It's just a few more weeks," I say weakly.
How embarrassing to hear myself sound like that.