by L. Maleki
Confused by why he might possibly say those things, I said, “My dad is my biggest supporter in all ways except this.” I spun in a slow circle, gesturing to the pictures hanging around the room. “He wants to make sure I can take care of myself and be totally independent, which he thinks means having a steady job in a secure industry. Art is not secure.”
“What does your mom think?”
“She died when I was a toddler. I don’t remember her. But I know she was a strong woman in a time when that was dangerous in Iran. My father fulfilled her last wish by getting me out, so I could be free to be whoever I wanted.” I grimaced. “Except for a photographer.”
Benji handed me a glass of wine, his face soft and sweet. “Here’s to the good mothers and fathers.” He raised the crystal goblet and stepped next to me.
I raised my glass and we clinked. “Yes. And here’s to Liam.”
We drank silently.
After an hour of drinking and processing, Benji finally rubbed his eyes and said, “Whelp, let’s call it a night.”
“Oh.” I put down a sheet of contact paper. I’d been having so much fun, caught up in our comfortable spurts of conversation and then silence as we worked side by side, that I’d forgotten how late it really was. I took a step back, fatigue suddenly washing over me, and managed to stumble over air. Benji caught me before I face-planted into a tray of chemicals.
“Hey! Remember what I said about protecting that beautiful face.” He had grasped my shoulders to steady me, his breath on my cheek.
He cocked his head to the side, uncertainty swimming through his hazel eyes, only inches from mine. “So, what do you want to do now?”
I came partially awake, cold air creating goose bumps on my skin. Without opening my eyes, I tugged the sheets up over my chest.
Why was I naked?
My eyelids flicked open. The ceiling above the bed was a clean white and devoid of cobwebs. Where was I?
Flashbacks of a wild night tumbled out of the darkness, waking up my body just as much as my mind.
Smooth, strong hands. Fingers. A tongue. Oh my God, that tongue.
Benji, a blissful smile on his sleeping face, was beside me, bundled into the bedding. His bedding.
Oh my God, again, that tongue. Our tan and cream skin sliding, pushing, pulling against each other. I almost groaned aloud when I remembered his hand gliding down, his fingers lightly brushing against the outside of my panties.
That was mere minutes after he’d told me I could sleep over, but “not to worry,” he’d “leave me alone.” In response, I’d taken off my pants and shirt, standing before him proudly in my underwear, with my hands on my hips. That image of myself, strong and in control, was amusing, especially considering I was currently scouring the same room, trying to decide my best exit strategy so as not to wake Benji.
But, oh … there was another snippet of a memory, him on his knees, the tip of his tongue moving over my inner thigh, pushing aside my panties with his nose … I shivered. “You smell like honey,” he’d murmured, and teased me until finally he’d slid his tongue in, deep, making me cry out.
“We should stop,” he’d said then, standing up to tuck my head against his shoulder, hugging me. “You should sleep. I don’t know if you’re sober enough to make this decision.”
I’d wrapped my arms around his midriff and squeezed. “I promise, I know what I’m doing.” And then I’d tugged down his pants and pushed him up against the wall.
With dawn now creeping into the room, I held my breath, wide-eyed, admiring him. I wanted him again. The things he’d done. We’d done. I started to reach out to him, my body reacting to the heat between my legs.
Oh hell no, my sober brain yelled out. I think you’ve forgotten one very important thing.
His girlfriend. I bit my lip. The bartender girlfriend who’d never shown up. I pinched my eyes shut with a sudden, excruciating wave of guilt.
How did I let it get this far? How could I have forgotten about her? At what point last night did my moral compass twist so far south?
I moved with the stealth of an embarrassed ninja, inching off the bed and gathering up the clothes I could find easily and tiptoeing—quick, quick—into the hall, where I dressed at the speed of light. My bra and T-shirt were missing but I’d rather swing free under my coat than risk confronting Benji. I had yet to decide if I was more disgusted with him or myself.
The walk of shame. It’d been a while.
Luckily, I’d gone to the bar last night dressed in my warm clothes from the baseball game. I didn’t look out of place on a Saturday morning, bundled up on the street outside Benji’s gallery. I had my coat buttoned to the top of my neck to hide my nude torso, so it wasn’t my clothes drawing attention—but I felt like my tangled hair and the mascara under my eyes made every dude under forty do a double take. The women were too busy avoiding eye contact, lest their own sexed-up selves be revealed.
What the hell had I been thinking? When did I start letting my vagina make the decisions? I was too old to play this game with my heart. I didn’t need half a boyfriend. I didn’t want to spend dates hidden away at tables tucked into a corner by the bathroom. Nor did I want to carry the guilt that comes with snagging a sister’s man. Guilt … too late.
I hailed a cab. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with the idiosyncrasies of subway riders and I needed to get to SoHo. I’d make my friends talk to me.
Gina answered the door, blinking hard, wrapped in a kimono bathrobe. “What are you doing, Paris?”
“I need reassurance that I’m a good person. So … I’m sorry?” I held out my arms, offering a hug.
She grumbled good-naturedly and gave me a bear hug. Or a bulldog hug. “Alright, tell me what’s going on.” Then she tugged me inside, stumbling into the kitchen to make coffee with her eyes half closed. “Let’s be quiet, not wake Lucia,” she whispered with a morning rasp.
There was a loud retching noise from the bathroom.
“Or,” she said at a normal volume, “be as loud as you want.” At the alarm on my face, Gina said uncertainly, “She’ll be okay,” but looked toward the bathroom with a frown.
Another long retch, followed by a groaned Italian curse.
“Does she have the flu?”
We heard the toilet flush and Lucia running water. A minute later, she stumbled into the kitchen, haggard, her short blonde hair askew. Gina jumped up and pulled out a chair for her.
The model dropped into the seat, loose, like a rag doll. Then, Lucia cleared her throat and moaned dramatically, a palm held flat to her chest. “Sono Incinta. Sono Incinta!”
Gina gasped and turned white. “No, Lucia. Non sei così stupida!”
“What? What is it? Did you just call her stupid?” I said. The drama seemed straight out of an Italian soap opera. Then it dawned on me.
The nausea. The club soda. No cigarettes.
“You’re pregnant?”
The thin, gorgeous model nodded miserably, while Gina stared off into a corner. Time in the kitchen froze.
Finally, to break the silence, I repeated, “You’re pregnant?”
Gina was the first to snap out of it. She leaned into Lucia, flipping a hand toward the model’s still flat stomach. “Seriously, how did this happen? This is the twentieth century—”
“The twenty-first century,” I whispered, trying to stop myself.
Lucia slowly bent forward over the table and rested her head on her arms. From the crook of her elbow came her lilting Italian accent, heavy with exhaustion. “The pill was making me fat. But I’d only been off for a couple of weeks …”
“What! No condom?” Gina slapped her palm on the table. “I don’t understand.” Confusion rolled off her short frame. “I’m trying not to judge, but, I mean … when? And how come you didn’t tell me?”
“Don’t be mean, Gina.” I laid a hand on her arm.
She shook me off, glaring. “I’m not being mean, I’m just trying to figure out what in the fuck is happeni
ng here.” She gripped the edge of the table. “What you don’t get, Paris, is that our families are Catholic. Lucia’s family practically bleeds Bible verses. We have to break out the wall cross and the statue of Mary every time they come over and drop to our knees and swear we are looking for husbands. An unwed pregnant Italian girl? Please. This might be the twenty-first century, but the people in our neighborhood live in the fifties. Their heads will explode.”
Lucia started quietly crying, her shoulders shaking. My heart cracked. She’d always been the stoic, unemotional one. A jagged voice came from under her arms. “It was at the sports show. At the Javits.”
Gina and I both leapt to the same conclusion, but Gina pushed back from the table sharply and shrieked, “You were raped?! Oh my God, I’m going to fucking kill—”
“No! Torto! You are wrong!” Lucia lifted her head, swiped at her eyes, squared her shoulders. “It was my choice.” She was composed now, her voice stern. “I told the show manager if he switched me to the lead stage and featured my name, I would sleep with him. He wasn’t cretino. I had to talk him into it. He was grateful!” She waved off our looks of surprise. “Dai! Stop with those faces. It means nothing to me.”
Gina hunched over, bewildered. “You’ve done this before? I don’t believe you. I know you. I know how proud you are.”
I had to listen close to hear Lucia’s response. “You know I have a hard time connecting with people, Gina. I decided, better this way, where it means nothing and yet could finally break my career out of the trenches. No one gets hurt.”
Gina shouted, “No one got hurt? You’re pregnant!” She paused, breathing heavily, standing in the middle of the kitchen now.
Lucia lashed out bitterly. “It is my career that is hurt! My mamma will survive the shame, but my modeling days will be over. I am so close! What do I save, a baby or my chance at being a Victoria’s Secret Angel?” She was crying again, snot marring her perfect face.
Gina’s voice dropped. Calmly, she said, “You did this to yourself. I mean, for fuck’s sake, you didn’t even use a condom. Smart. Real smart.”
“This is what you have to say to me?”
I scooted my chair back so quickly there was a screech. I knew I wasn’t yet someone who should have any say in this discussion. “Okay, I’m gonna go. You guys have a lot to talk about.” I wrapped my arms first around Gina, who was unresponsive, and then Lucia, seated at the table. She actually hugged me back. I kissed the top of her head, aching for both of my friends.
“But I’m here if you need me, Lucia. If you need to talk or … whatever.”
I don’t know if either of them heard me. I snuck out the front door and latched it quietly behind me. A wave of sadness, and then loneliness, swept through my body, almost bowling me over.
Adjusting my coat, making sure no one could see bare flesh through the buttons, I thought, May we live in interesting times … Whoever said that was one cold bastard.
Chapter 13
It was the last week of March. I’d been there for two months, but the past weekend had dragged by for so long, it felt like I’d been in New York for a lifetime. Worrying about Lucia and avoiding Benji’s texts, I sat in my apartment and berated myself.
Finally, it was time for the Monday morning pep talk with the PRCM crew.
I dragged myself into conference room three, where the light tumbled in from the window overlooking the city and landed on Frank. He was lit from behind in what would normally be described as a halo, but for some reason the light seemed to darken around his head. Even in the sun, he had horns.
“Every one of you is out on your ass by the end of this week if you don’t get your shit together. This slide continues, and I swear to God I’m going to make sure even the post office won’t hire you.”
Frank’s squint didn’t hide the red sparks shooting out of his pupils as he yelled and hammered the table.
“You,” he shouted at our newest analyst, a twenty-three-year-old straight out of school. “Why the fuck are you crying? There’s no crying in here!”
Fresh tears spurted from her eyes. “My-my dog die-died this morning,” the girl said, her breath hitching.
Our boss opened his pursed lips to say something but I cut him off. “So, Frank, the staff’s been talking, and we’re trying to decide what kind of cake to bring in for your birthday. I’m thinking we get a lemon poppy seed and a chocolate, really live it up. Are you good with that?”
He leaned back, his hands behind his head. “Huh, well, that’s nice of you guys,” he said, his features blank.
The young analyst shot me a grateful look, trying to gather herself, but I ignored her. I had to keep Frank focused on himself or he was going to freak out again.
“You know what?” Frank muttered. “I hear that Cirque du Soleil has started doing private parties. We should totally do that.” He grinned, gaining steam. “Yeah. Women on a swing. Climbing ropes.”
Everyone in the room was suddenly taking notes or buffing their fingernails, making no eye contact with Frank. “Let me see what Todd says but … that … would be fun.” Soothe and accommodate, that was my job. Todd got paid the big bucks, he could be the one to say no.
We’d just laid off a host of employees and our portfolio continued to tank, but Frank wanted to make a show of throwing around money. Business Weekly and Forbes would have a field day if they caught wind of his bacchanalia birthday plans.
After the meeting, I took the elevator down to Todd’s office.
“I know, Paris, I already heard.” The gray-haired COO rose from his desk, surrounded by intimidating, wall-to-wall shelves overstuffed with books that looked like they’d actually been read. As usual, he wore an impeccable pinstripe suit. He pointed to one of his armchairs. “Have a seat. And don’t worry, I’ll talk to him.”
Todd had the gravitas and sophistication befitting the leader of a large hedge fund. He was the face of our operation, and, really, the heart and spine. Andrew was vital to the company in some way, I assumed, though I barely knew what the CEO’s face looked like. And Frank might have been the reason the company stayed in the gold, but no one wanted to see his face.
Todd settled back into his desk chair, a high-backed, tufted leather executive throne with lumbar support out the yin-yang. It was a chair I planned to purloin if he walked out on this gig before I did.
“It’s probably a good idea for you to create a short list of alternative birthday celebrations that I can present to Frank. Something … low-key.” He rested his hands on the desk, his fingernails manicured and buffed. “It appears you’ve settled in. Any other fires I should know about upstairs?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” I wriggled around. “You know, I was wondering, though, if maybe I should sit down with Frank and work out some kind of schedule. See if he’s ready to bring me in on some of his portfolio deals. I really thought I’d be doing more with the funds by now.”
The older man rubbed his fingertips over his chin, quiet for a minute. “Well. I’m not sure that’s technically part of your job description. I suppose it can’t hurt to ask Frank. Just don’t get your hopes up.”
On the short ride back up the elevator, I tried not to let depression drag me down. But it was too late.
I averted my gaze from the mirrors, tugging on one of my hoops until it hurt. I was comfortable with my looks, usually believing myself to be attractive enough. I’d always had boyfriends in school. Sometimes, when I happened to catch a glimpse of myself in a joyful moment, I’d even see what my dad saw when he’d tell me I was beautiful. He’d twirl me around and tell me I looked like Princess Jasmine from Aladdin, just like my mother.
I knew Frank wouldn’t have hired me if he thought I was ugly. Safe to say, PRCM was an ad for attractive, smart people. But on bad days, the mirror told me the truth, highlighted what I was afraid was the real me. My features large and absurd. Or plain. Boring. Or downright ugly, my insides exposed on the outside.
On these dark days, I thoug
ht my special power must be that I could project whatever it was someone else needed me to be, what they needed to see, my true self aptly hidden. Accommodating their wants and desires. My calm threw a spell over people I interacted with, so they saw me as capable and witty and attractive. But on days like this, the mirrors reflected the truth of it, the peasant rather than the kick-ass princess. The selfish, cowardly boyfriend stealer.
And every time my phone lit up with a call or text from Benji, my insides felt that much uglier. I was going to have to get it over with soon, tell him I’d made a mistake, that I couldn’t hurt someone else or be a second choice, waiting in the wings. My insides were going to turn to coal if I didn’t make this right.
Wow. Time to pick up that Wellbutrin prescription. Why don’t we have a therapist on staff? God knows, these people could use it.
Heavy with self-loathing, my head hung low, I stepped off the elevator on my floor and almost ran into a man wearing size twelve loafers. I recognized the designer. I lifted my head slowly. Darien.
“I’ve been looking for you!”
“What are you doing here? At my office?” Why couldn’t he look like the ugly devil that resided in his soul? But no, unbearably handsome. The devil in a blue suit.
He handed me a paper cup. “A chai. Persian blend. A peace offering.”
I took it tentatively, unsure of the content or the intent. The smell of ginger and thick cream and chai spices made my mouth water, but no way was I going to let him see me inhale.
“I know I came on strong the other night. You’re ignoring my calls …” He paused, but I didn’t say anything so he kept going. “That’s okay, I understand. I shouldn’t have ambushed you like that.”
At my raised eyebrow and glance at the unexpected drink, he half-laughed. “Yeah, okay, maybe I’m doing it again.” He rushed on. “But I really, really want you to know I’m here if you want a friend. I’m not asking for anything more, Paris.”
“So. That kiss at my apartment. I should have known you were passing that out to all your friends—”