Your Song

by Gina Elle

  “Oh?”

  “The company I’ve worked for in the past four years looks like it might be selling and as per my contract, I’m entitled to fifteen percent of the sale . . . which will pretty much leave me . . . .”

  “Very wealthy? Like are we talking JFK, Jr. stinking rich here?” She bellows.

  “Um . . . I think . . . my-great-grandkids-could-want-for-nothing-rich,” I reply shyly. I hate talking about my salary and earnings with people but I feel fine sharing this news with her.

  “Okay, so let me get this straight. Since I saw you last, you have found the ‘woman-who-you-believe-you–fell-in-love-with-at-first-glance.’”

  “That’s what Victor Hugo would say,” I interrupt her.

  “True. So you’ve found the woman and have won the lottery. Sounds like hope has been restored. Weren’t we talking about the Fleetwood Mac song?”

  “’Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow,’ yes, we were,” I say glancing at the bookshelf brimming with books. I think of the tome of a book Les Miserables sitting on my bedside table at home. I am three chapters in and am in awe of the gift of words Hugo has assembled into his novel. Great books, like great songs, have a timeless appeal; a way of speaking to you regardless of the era in which you find yourself listening to the song or reading the book. A feeling is a feeling; a truth is a truth, regardless of when you were born.

  “Let’s get back to the women,” Leslie disrupts my thoughts.

  “The women. Yes,” I breathe. “Let’s just say what started off as a distraction, a thing to do when I was thousands of miles away from home and I was thinking about Danny . . . over time . . . became a habit. A secret habit.” I watch for Leslie’s reaction. I don’t get much of one. Nodding her head, she scribbles something down on her pad and looks up but says nothing. She senses I’m holding back. So I decide to tell her everything.

  “The women I ‘bedded,’” I say using air quotes, “weren’t . . . how do I say this . . . they were in committed relationships . . . .” I stop there and feel the relief of letting my demons loose begin to wash over me, understanding that the liberation I’m seeking will only come to me once I divulge everything.

  “In the weeks and months after Danny died I spent time with his fiancée . . . listening to her cry, feeling her pain, watching her demise. I witnessed a beautiful, young, vibrant woman in love absolutely shatter into pieces and become a shadow of herself. Love. Danny and Lara were crazy in love with each other and it freaked me out to watch what happens when . . . love dies. I guess that experience scared me, it rocked my world.” I’m flooded with memories of Lara comatose-like on her couch, pale and sickly. I continue, speaking softly.

  “And so, I decided that I wanted no part of a committed relationship. A forever with someone. The pain . . . just not worth it, I concluded. So . . . nestled far, far away from my life in Toronto, I created a new identity for myself, on my nights out prowling for women . . . married women.”

  “So you had affairs with married women?” Leslie clarifies.

  “Not affairs. Only stands. One night stands. Quickies where and when I could get them.”

  “Surely you could have had these quickies with unattached women. Why the married ones?” I think about her question.

  “For a guy who likes a challenge, who gets off on the thrill of taking something that isn’t his and getting away with it, there was a definite pleasure in doing the . . . illicit . . . with women who weren’t mine to have. Besides, I didn’t want a woman for myself so I figured if she were married to someone else, she wouldn’t be coming after me. No commitment . . . no forever.” Leslie scribbles away.

  “And this identity you created for yourself?”

  “Well, discretion is always of the utmost importance to me . . . so when asked my name, I told these women it was . . . Dan.” I did it . . . I told her the truth. Shame rapidly washes over my face and I look down on the floor. Silence.

  “I warned you I had a truckload of issues, Leslie,” I say looking up at her to break the thickening silence in the room. She nods quietly. She smiles weakly at me. After what feels like an hour, she speaks.

  “Do you recall the soup recipe I asked you about earlier? About the most important ingredient being the water? Some say grieving a loss is like making a pot of soup. You start with the tears as the base for your soup and all of the feelings that surface in your grief . . . the rage, the loneliness, the pain . . . the sense of unfairness . . . all of those things, they get added to the soup and are left there to simmer. You can’t rush the soup making process or else you will be left with a burned pot, right? Interesting concept, isn’t it?” I picture Lara lying lifeless on the floor. I remember Mr. and Mrs. Callahan’s numbed states. Where was I through all that? I was standing there watching them, trying to be strong for them, keeping all my feelings bottled up inside me.

  “Lara was making her pot of soup,” I whisper looking away. Leslie nods her head compassionately, watching me.

  “I wish I could take credit for the idea but I can’t. There’s a wonderful book called Tear Soup, which I am going to lend you. I really want you to read it and think about your own grieving process.” Leslie gets up from her chair and walks over to her bookshelf and pulls the picture book from it. She comes to sit on the leather couch beside me and hands me the book. It’s a children’s picture book with colorful illustrations.

  “Eric, I hope you will share your own recipe for tear soup with me. In the weeks and months ahead, I look forward to sharing many bowls of soup with you.” Leslie rises from the couch and reaches for the iPod remote. I sit back on the couch and start to feel . . . something . . . I wait and watch her fumble with the remote, breathing deeply. I thumb through the book resting on my lap keeping my head bowed. When Eric Clapton’s voice comes over the speakers singing about “Tears in Heaven,” I look out the window and allow the tears that have pooled in my eyes finally begin to fall. And so I begin my own tear soup recipe.

  I walk along University Avenue. If I had my bike, surely I’d be on it right now. I’ve no idea what time it is or where I’m heading. I walk the streets on this beautifully clear and sunny June afternoon wearing my light grey Canali suit and tan leather Italian shoes, with the Tear Soup book nuzzled under one arm, while resting both of my hands in my pockets.

  The tears are flowing like lava now. Like the faucets have been turned on and no one knows how to shut them off. I cry for my lost brother, Danny. Man, I miss him. Why did he have to go? Why, so suddenly and without warning, did he have to leave us? I take myself back to that night when I got home and listened to his message on my answering machine telling me about the tuxedo pick up. I remember listening to that message was the last thing I did before getting into bed. As I slipped in between the covers, I remember hearing the final beep from the machine indicating the message was complete. I recall thinking to myself; I’ll call Danny back tomorrow and falling fast asleep. I never got a chance to call Danny back the next day because by the time I thought about doing it, he would have already been dead. Gone. And, we were all left to go on without him. But I didn’t know how.

  What, in life, can prepare you for profound loss, I wonder as I walk the sidewalks of downtown Toronto? How does anyone learn how to carry on after his or her world has been blown apart? Where, in our complex brain, does the memory of a loved one’s face, the touch of their hand, the sweet sound of their voice get stored forever without the threat of fading from us?

  I cry as I struggle to recall Danny’s post-bike ride sweaty odor that I used to razz him about for years following our Sunday morning long bike rides. And what about the way he used to slurp his coffee . . . the sound used to drive me crazy . . . why can’t I hear it grating my nerves anymore? I chuckle to myself recalling the way he used to slurp even more loudly just to bother me. What I’d do right now to have an espresso with him . . . I used to love teasing him about how bad he had it for Lara just after they first met. We’ve been here, done that before, Danny . . .
you fall hard and fast and two months later the girl is history . . . I used to say. Not this time, he vowed, this time, she’s the one, I swear. And I used to laugh at him.

  As I reach closer to the doors of the University of Toronto campus, I speculate about what Danny would think of Caroline. Gorgeous, is the first thing he’d say. Danny was always the ladies’ man and one to appreciate the delectable female form. I can’t help but wish that from wherever he is, if anywhere, that he’s had a hand in bringing her to me. As I pull the heavy door open and make my way inside, I’m struck by the comfort I feel that Danny is with me, inside my heart. The more I think about him, the longer I keep him alive. Who would have thought, me and Danny together, strolling the halls of the University of Toronto, going to meet my girl?

  As I approach her office, I notice the door is slightly ajar. I’m here hoping to surprise Caroline with a quick visit, maybe take her for lunch on a patio nearby or just to share a middle of the day kiss. After I dropped off the Tear Soup book Leslie lent me at home, I stopped by the florist in Yorkville and picked up some flowers to surprise Caroline with, bright yellow and pink tulips that caught my eye. As I approach her door I’m reminded of the connection between Hugo’s Marius, stalker- extraordinaire-turned-Prince-Charming and me. Look how far I’ve come! As I draw nearer to her office door, with the bouquet nestled comfortably in my hands, I hear Caroline talking on the phone. I’m stopped in my tracks by the delightful sound of her sweet voice.

  “My flight leaves on Tuesday night . . . yes, I know . . . I will . . . well, I’ll just have to sit him down and tell him that . . . it’s over . . . for real this time . . . I know. . . we both know that Marc doesn’t take ‘no’ easily. I’ll have to be strong . . . really strong this time…yeah; he says he’s picking me up from the airport when I arrive. I will . . . okay . . . I’ll let you know how it goes . . . wish me luck, Jenn, I have to go. Bye.” Caroline hangs up the phone.

  Holy fuck. I twirl my body around like a cat trying to catch its tail. I am spinning, literally and figuratively. Amy was right. There is someone else. This Marc guy, a Frenchman, no doubt. I wipe the sweat burrowing on my upper lid with my left hand, squeezing the bouquet a little too tightly with my right hand. What am I going to do? Always the strategist, I lay out my options: Confront Caroline straight up about this guy or wait until she tells me? Pondering the latter, I recall her telling me on Saturday night that she is unattached. So, why didn’t she say? Hmmm. . . .

  I pace quietly in the hallway reeling from what I just overheard, making sure I don’t walk in front of her half opened door so she could see me. I summon Danny, wherever he is. Dan, what would you do right now? What clever comment would you make to Caroline to get her to fess up? I take a deep breath and slowly make my way to her door. Stay with me, Dan. Don’t leave me now. And, just as I step into the threshold, there she is, my vision of absolute loveliness, standing in front of me.

  “Eric! What a surprise!” she reaches up, puts her hand on my shoulder and tiptoes up to meet my face. A kiss. She plants the softest, the lightest of kisses on my lips. I am gone. How does she do this to me? She has got me, hook, line, and sinker. Suddenly, all the anger and frustration I was feeling moments ago have evaporated. I hold her close to me cherishing her like a precious child. I inhale her captivating scent: A mixture of a sweet smelling French perfume, and sexiness all over again. Unable to let her go now, I kiss her back with fervor and longing, my lips lingering on hers even after the kiss is over. I could stay here, my face touching hers, forever.

  “Well, a midday visit by the handsome Enrique Iglesias . . . to what do I owe this pleasure?” Caroline asks as she pulls away from me.

  “These are for you,” as I hand her the flowers. She takes them gracefully, leaning in to sniff them and touches the soft petals between her fingertips.

  “Tulips are my absolute favorite. They remind me of when I was in Holland a few years ago,” her voice trails off and her eyes glaze over just slightly.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?” I ask looking around her small office crammed with overfilled bookshelves, piles of papers on her desk and her MacBook lighting up the entire surface of her desk.

  “No, not at all. I was just doing some tidying up in here . . . before I leave for France,” she says looking around embarrassingly at the mounds of paper strewn all over the place.

  “So, you’re leaving when?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can. I take a seat in the chair across from her desk and watch Caroline as she makes her way around to the chair behind her desk. She looks delectable, as always. Wearing white denim Capri pants, a plain white tank top and those ballet flat shoes she was wearing on the plane when I first saw her. Her long, straight hair is hanging down with the front piece of hair covering her face pinned back by a single clip. Her makeup is light and fresh looking as ever. Donning a gold watch and diamond stud earrings, she is the epitome of class and sexiness all rolled into one. My eyes roll down to her chest area and I am turned on by what I see; perfect shaped boobs and just the right size. Oh, what I’d like to. . . .

  “I’m leaving tonight,” she says looking straight at me. Her fingers are propped in the shape of a triangle, in front of her face.

  “Are you looking forward to your trip?” And seeing Marc at the airport. I want to add, but refrain.

  “Umm . . . yes and no,” she answers looking away, tilting her head side to side.

  “And why’s that?”

  “Umm, I look forward to seeing my parents . . . we’ll be celebrating my father’s 70th birthday while I’m there. I can’t wait to catch up with some friends who live there. I haven’t been back since Christmas so it will be great to see everyone again.”

  “And what part aren’t you looking forward to?”

  She pauses but only slightly.

  “Umm . . . I’m not looking forward to . . . being away from you . . . for two whole weeks. It’s going to feel like a lifetime, I just know it.” Really? As touched as I am and would love to revel in this awesome moment, I seize the day. My nerves can’t take it anymore.

  “Caroline, look, I overheard you talking on the phone . . . are you going there to see someone?” I snap. Her face whitens and she looks away. She fidgets with a pen that she picks up from her desk, flicking the cap off and on nervously. Finally, she looks at me.

  “Am I going there to see him . . . no . . . will he be there . . . yes.”

  “Who is he?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Believe me, I do.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Believe me, I get complicated.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Believe me, I have all the time in the world.”

  “You really want me to believe you?”

  “Believe me, I do.” I smirk. She giggles. Nervously, I wait. My left ankle, crossed over my right knee, shakes to and fro. Intentionally, I pick at a piece of lint on my pant leg, waiting for Caroline to speak.

  “It’s over between Marc and me. Has been since that weekend in Chicago.” That’s when I saw her at the airport . . . her name was called to the desk.

  “Is he the one who gave you that gift?” I ask icily.

  “Wow. You really were stalking me,” Caroline smirks. I’m not biting. Her ability to expertly deflect is not going to work on me this time.

  “So, was it Marc?” She bites her thumb and shyly, nods her head.

  “Tell me about him. If you say it was over then, why did he send you a piece of jewelry, I take it that was what was in the box?”

  “Why do I feel like I am being interrogated?”

  “I’m just trying to understand, Caroline. When a relationship is over, in my books, anyway, romantic gifts and pickups at the airport usually aren’t very common.”

  “But attending thesis defenses and preparing questions to participate in ex-girlfriends’ educational degree requirements is in your books, then?” She snaps back. I smirk.

  “Are you
jealous of Amy?”

  “Just trying to understand, Eric.” She copies my line.

  “So, he lives in France?”

  “Yes, he does. But he travels a lot, on business. Like you do.”

  “How long were you two together?”

  “Off and on . . . about four years.”

  “So, you’ve ended it before and got back together, I take it?” Slowly, she nods her head.

  “Look, it’s over…for real this time. Believe me.” She gets up and makes her way around the desk and comes to sit in the chair next to me. She pulls the chair close enough so our knees are touching. Slowly, Caroline reaches in and places one hand on my cheek. Then, boldly, she pulls down on my neck so our faces meet, nose-to-nose, lips grazing lips. We stay there for a few warm moments. As I close my eyes, taking in her exquisite scent, she kisses me longingly and devouringly. When the kiss is over, I realize in that moment, that I have never been as intimate with anyone as I was with Caroline in that embrace. That kiss.

  “Believe me,” she says as I’m getting up to leave, “it is over with Marc.”

  As I walk out of the building and make my way back to work, I realize that something is amiss. I have this nagging feeling that something is just not right. Believe me, I know when someone is trying to hide something. Like a secret.

  16 “It’s My Life”

  The alluring hostess eyes me and I can’t help but stare back at her. I give her the head to toe, gawking at her perfect body and pretty face. I can’t resist a beautiful-looking woman and this one standing four feet away from me definitely falls into that category. I’m jolted out of this trance by the sound of my iPhone pinging in my breast pocket. An email from Caroline, thousands of miles away.

  From: Caroline Durand

  Date: Sunday, June 24, 2012 2:07 AM

  Subject: Hey Stranger

  To: Eric Martin

  Hi Eric,

  Haven’t heard from you in 5 days. Hope you are well. Caroline