“No,” I finally say.
“Good, because I’d like to take you out.”
I take another sip without saying anything.
“Will you go out with me, Everly?”
“Yes.”
Everly
When we go on a date…
The decision to go out with Jamie was a split second one. But sitting here across from him in a dimly lit French restaurant, I know that it was the right one.
Sometimes, you just have to throw away your rules and take a chance on someone.
As we talk, our conversation flows naturally. I ask him about his life growing up and he asks me about mine. We get each other’s references and we find out that we both love the same shows and movies.
“So, what do your parents think about you wanting to be a poet?” I ask, tapping the top of my crème brûlée. It makes a crackling sound as it bursts in two and the goodness inside oozes out.
I’ve decided to make this a no-guilt dinner.
There’s no way I could say no to any of the delicious food on the menu, let alone the desserts.
The only thing I can do is not feel guilty about it afterward.
“Eh, they aren’t pleased,” he says with a shrug. “As you can imagine. They don’t know anything about poetry and don’t really care. My mom’s a nurse and my dad’s an engineer. They are very science-oriented people. Results-oriented. If you know what I mean.”
“I do.” I nod. “Unfortunately, I do.”
I tell him that my parents were also somewhat perplexed by my decision to go to Middlebury. They didn’t care that it’s one of the top five liberal arts colleges in the United States. To them, Penn State was just fine.
“They just couldn’t understand why I would want to take out loans to pay for ‘some prissy little school’ and get a useless Bachelor of Arts degree.’”
“Isn’t it disappointing when your parents don’t support you?”
I nod. Actually, it is. I haven’t really thought of it that way before, but now that he just came out with it, that is the right word for it.
I used to write it off and rationalize their position as something that they simply didn’t understand, but now I think that it’s something that they just didn’t want to understand.
“I think to them, Middlebury and Oberlin and other liberal arts schools like that are just for debutantes and people from high social classes. Not something that someone like me should have bothered with,” I say.
“What do they do?” he asks.
“They are both insurance adjusters,” I say. “They used to lecture me about how I would never fit in with those girls no matter what I did. They have rich families and will marry rich men.”
One time, I made the mistake of asking them why they thought so little of me, maybe I would marry a rich man, too. The joke backfired. It resulted in a number of talks with my mother about the importance of marrying for love rather than money. But when I asked her why I couldn’t choose my career based on love rather than money, her only answer was that you need security. Love doesn’t pay the bills. Unless you marry a rich man, I joked, unable to resist. And a new loop in the conversation began.
“I think they just wanted me to know for sure that they would not be supporting me after I graduated,” I conclude.
“I’m sorry,” Jamie says, tilting his head.
“No, it’s fine. I don’t expect them to. Not at all. That’s why I’m working now. I just wish that they were a little bit more supportive of where I went to school and what I majored in because it was important to me.”
I take another bite of my dessert.
“So, you really want to get your PhD then?” he asks.
I shrug.
“Isn’t that what you said?”
“I don’t really know.”
Those words hang in the air between us. It’s the first time I’ve ever admitted that to myself, let alone to someone else. For two years, I have been telling everyone that all I wanted to do was save up some money, get some experience in the field, and start graduate school.
But now? Well, I’m not so sure anymore.
“The thing is, that I really don’t like my job,” I say.
“You’re just a receptionist. I’m sure that it would be totally different to be a licensed psychologist. Therapist.”
“Yeah, maybe.” I shrug. “Except that I know what it means now, and I’m not sure if I can handle it."
“Really?”
“Well, the thing is, I know exactly what Dr. Morris does. I have sat in on a few sessions to take notes. It’s hard. People come with all of their problems and issues. At first, it was interesting. You sort of get this inside glimpse into who people are behind the mask they wear in the outside world. But after a while, it’s…tedious. Tiring. Exhausting, really.”
“That sucks,” Jamie says.
I shrug again. “I have no idea why I'm telling you this. This is the first time that I’ve even really had the courage to say any of this out loud.”
“Well, that’s what I’m here for,” Jamie says, putting his hand on mine.
Shivers run through my body.
A jolt of electricity.
“So, if you don’t pursue your studies further, what is it that you do want to do?” he asks.
I think about this for a second. I want to say something sensible. Realistic. But he just makes me feel so at ease. So comfortable and unafraid.
“I want to be a writer.”
His eyes light up.
His excitement gives me a bit of a jolt. I’ve never said these words out loud, and I have no idea why I have this ache to tell him.
“At least, I want to write a story,” I say, trying to diminish the gravity of what I had just said.
“Don’t underestimate yourself, Everly. You should. If that is what you really want to do, don’t let anything or anybody stop you.”
I cower a little. How can he just believe in me like this?
“You really think I can do it? You don’t even know me.”
Jamie leans back in his seat a little.
Then he looks me up and down.
“I think you can because you want to. If it’s something that you have thought about even a little bit, if it’s something that you are passionate enough about, if you love words and language and reading, then I know you can write. It may take you a bit to find your voice. To find out exactly what kind of stories you want to write, but I know you can do it. And more importantly, you should.”
I smile and take his hand. I didn’t realize it until this very moment how much I needed to hear that.
At the end of our date, Jamie walks me home. We talk and laugh all ten blocks back, with our hands intertwined.
Right when we turn onto my block, he swings me around and gives me a big kiss. His lips are soft and delicious and I can’t help but kiss him back.
“Are you for real, Ms. Everly March?” he whispers in my ear, wrapping his strong arm around my shoulder. “Because I’m not sure you are.”
Those words send shivers down my spine. I smile and press my lips onto his again.
When we get to my door, I ask him inside.
I love the way he looks at me and I love the way he wants me.
I want him.
And not just because I haven’t had sex in a long time.
“I’d love to,” he says, giving me another kiss. “But I can’t.”
“Oh…why?” I ask, caught a little off guard.
“I have to get back home to my grandma. I couldn’t stay for longer than twenty minutes and I want this to take a lot longer than twenty minutes.”
Another shock of electricity rushes through me.
“Really?” I ask, nearly melting in his arms.
“Yes, really,” he whispers. “So, how about tomorrow?”
“You want to come over tomorrow?”
“Yes, I’d love to. But first, I’d like to take you as my date to this party at the Oakmont.”
The Oakmont Hotel is one of the oldest and most expensive hotels in the city. The cheapest room there goes for about a grand a night.
“Who do you know that is throwing a party there?” I ask.
“Hey, I may be a poor poet, but I know a lot of fancy people,” Jamie says, giving me another peck on the lips. “So, will you come?”
I shrug.
“Yes, of course.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear something nice,” he says, pulling away from me and giving me a kiss on my hand.
A true gentleman.
Everly
When he takes me to the Oakmont…
A party at the Oakmont. With a man who is quickly sweeping me off my feet. This isn’t real, is it?
Tomorrow, the day of the party, can’t come soon enough. I spend the morning shopping, but end up settling on a black cocktail dress I have hanging in my closet. It hides all of my imperfections and actually makes me feel pretty. I bought it only a few months ago, and I’d worn it about ten times already.
When Jamie picks me up, he looks even more dashing than I remember. Big kind eyes. Shiny hair. He wraps his arms around me and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
Shivers run down my spine.
There are people out there who can tell you every detail about their date with their spouse. Those people used to make me sick to my stomach. But now…now, I’m wondering if this is the moment that we will be telling our grandchildren about in forty years.
“You are breathtaking,” Jamie says. I smile. It’s nice to date a poet. That’s not a sentence that’s likely to escape the lips of any regular guy out there.
“You look great, too,” I mumble. So much less eloquent. I know.
But I’m the girl. I’m not supposed to be the one making the compliments.
We arrive at the Oakmont ten minutes later. Jamie valets the car and escorts me inside.
I’ve heard of this hotel, but I’ve never been inside. It’s old and historic, but it has been modernized with plenty of glass and elegant contemporary fixtures. Glass tables. Marble floors. A small waterfall bursts into a river, which snakes its way through the lobby.
“Wow, this place is beautiful,” I whisper as we head toward the reception rooms.
As Jamie holds the door for me, I suddenly feel out of sorts. Every woman I see is dressed in a long flowing gown. My above-the-knee cocktail dress is suddenly in desperate need of pizzazz.
“Why didn’t you tell me that this was a formal event?” I ask.
“I didn’t know. I thought it was a cocktail party.”
I glare at him.
It’s not a big deal for him because men’s attire is a bit of a mixed bag. Some are wearing tuxedos while others are wearing just nice pairs of pants and matching jackets.
“So, what kind of party is this?” I ask as we get in line for drinks at the bar.
“A charity event to raise money for clean water in Africa,” he says, putting his hand around my waist. “I’m sorry again about the dress code. I had no idea that people were going to be this formal.”
I shrug, unwilling to let him off that easy. He wraps his arm around me tighter and gives me a kiss on my neck.
“Will you forgive me?” he whispers.
I smile, unable to resist him any longer.
“I guess so,” I finally cave.
After we get our drinks, Jamie excuses himself to use the bathroom and I make my way around the room. I have never been one to be good at starting conversations with strangers, but I guess this is as good a time as any to give it a try. My martini gives me just enough liquid courage to turn to the drop dead gorgeous girl next to me.
“I love your dress,” I say before I even give it a good look.
What else is there to say to a complete stranger besides offering her a compliment?
“Thank you. I love your dress, too,” she says methodically.
“So…it’s terrible about the lack of access to clean water in some parts of the world,” I say.
I feel the awkwardness in my voice, but I keep going. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Yes, it is.” She nods and sways her hips.
Her black floor-length gown shimmers with each breath. For a moment, I’m mesmerized by how all the beads move in waves around her body.
“I’m glad that the Bay Foundation is hosting this gala. They do so much good in the world. Oh, I’m Cassandra by the way.”
“Everly,” I say, shaking her hand.
“So….is there going to be some sort of auction or something at the end?” I ask. “I’m sorry, but this is my first time at an event like this.”
“Well, it’s actually a silent auction,” Cassandra says. “You see those tables all around the walls. If you want any of those things, you just write down the amount you’re willing to give and it will go to the highest bidder.”
“Oh, wow, that’s great,” I say.
One of Cassandra’s friends pulls her away for some dress-related emergency and I make my way to one of the closest tables.
The first item I spot is titled “Your own Learjet to use for a weekend.” In the photo on the table, I find a dapper looking gentleman in his late sixties, presumably the owner, standing proudly in front of the sparkling private plane.
My mouth falls open. This auction is no joke. Right next to the jet, there’s a brochure of a two-night stay at a five-star hotel in Dubai. Estimated value: $20,000. One table over, there’s a seven-day cruise around Indonesia.
I stare at the offerings, dumbfounded.
This is the kind of world that I only read about in books. Are the owners of these things even real?
My thoughts go back to Jamie. How the hell did he get an invitation to this party? Is he wealthier than he is letting on? My eyes search the room for him, but in the sea of black, I don’t see him.
“Hello, there,” someone says with a voice as smooth as molten chocolate. “Considering bidding on that yachting weekend in Newport?”
I turn around. The man standing before me is flawless.
Dark hair.
Strong jaw.
The nose of a Roman emperor.
Luscious lips.
Almond-shaped green eyes and long eyelashes.
“Yes, that’s right,” I say with a coy smile. In moments of intense pressure, my sarcasm button becomes activated.
“The highest bid is probably around $100,000,” I say. “So, I’d have to work two and a half years at my current job and save every penny just to match it.”
I don’t know why I feel the need to tell him how much I make, but sometimes the words just come out of my mouth without my control. He winks at me, clearly amused.
“I’m Easton,” he says, extending his hand.
Everly
When I meet someone else…
As I shake Easton’s hand, Jamie re-appears. He wraps his arm firmly around my waist.
When I glance at him, I see the possessive expression on his face. His nostrils flare out. His eyebrows furrow.
He’s jealous.
I hate that this makes me excited. But the thing is, I like Jamie. And I sort of like the fact that he doesn’t want another hot guy coming around his girl. If I am, in fact, his girl. The jury is still out on that.
“Easton, this is my…friend…Jamie.” I make an introduction. The word, friend, gives me a moment of pause, but no better synonym springs to mind to describe our relationship.
“Actually, I’m her date,” Jamie corrects me. Well, except that one.
“I was just talking to Everly about the silent auctions here. What will you be bidding on?” Easton asks.
Jamie inhales deeply. He doesn’t have the money to bid on anything. Or does he?
“I think I’m going to go for this weekend trip to Paris,” Easton says, filling out the form next to the package.
“It’s supposed to be a silent auction,” Jamie says, pulling me closer to him. He’s holding me so tightly, my ribs start to throb. I
wince in pain.
“Yes, of course. But I doubt that the foundation will be against a little competition. Especially, if that makes the bid go higher.”
Easton hands Jamie his pen.
“Go ahead, kid,” he says, crossing his arms across his chest.
“Don’t call me kid,” Jamie says, grabbing Easton’s pen.
“Jamie, you don’t have to do this,” I whisper in his ear.
“I know,” he says loudly.
I watch as he makes his way around the tables, evaluating each package.
I walk up to him again, taking his arm.
“Let’s just go,” I whisper.
“No.” Jamie pushes me away.
“You don't have the money to bid on any of this.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” Jamie snaps.
I take a step back.
He’s right. Of course, he’s right. We have been on one date together. What the hell do I know? Except that the only reason he’s doing any of this is to impress some guy he has known for exactly one minute. Or is it that he’s trying to impress me?
I have no idea. All I know is that I don’t want to stay for any of this.
“Where are you going?” Jamie grabs me just as I’m about to walk out of the ballroom. He startles me, and I almost drop my drink.
The martini sloshes out onto my hands.
“What the hell?”
“Why are you leaving?” Jamie asks. There’s a strange desperation in his voice. It makes me pause.
“I didn’t want to watch you bid on something you couldn’t afford just to impress some rich asshole,” I say.
“I wasn’t.”
I shrug. That’s a lie. I know that’s a lie.
“Listen, I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m going home.”
“You can’t,” Jamie says with a pang of desperation. Should I take that as a compliment? The martini seems to have gone to my head.
“I mean…I’m sorry,” Jamie says. His voice softens quite a lot. Kindness emerges. He takes my hand in his. Gently.
House of York, #1 Page 3