by Leslie Pike
“Come on. Let’s not pretend. Tell me what’s wrong and I’ll fix it.”
“It’s not something that can be fixed. I’m just trying to protect myself.”
“From what?” I stay silent because I’ve got to be careful what I say next.
“Tell me.”
“You’re leaving next week.”
“And?”
“And there’s no upside to continuing…well, I mean it would hurt too much to get any more involved.”
“Are you saying goodbye?”
“No. We still have a few days of therapy. But I will be after that.”
Now he’s silent, which embarrasses me.
“I want to thank you, Nikos, for one of the most beautiful days of my life. I’ll never forget how you made me feel,” I say.
“Why does it have to end? There’s these new inventions called phones and airplanes.”
“That wouldn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know I belong in St. Helena, and your “real world” is in Las Vegas.”
I hear the deep sigh that leaves his lips. But no denial.
“If it wasn’t that you’re so close to leaving I’d say maybe it’s better to say our goodbyes now. But you’re doing so good with your therapy and being that your injury was all my doing I want to see it through these first weeks.”
“I hate where this conversation has gone,” he says.
“It’s gone in the only direction it could.”
“I disagree. And I think it’s a mistake to be so rigid.”
“Well, that’s your prerogative. I’ve got to get some sleep, Nikos. I’ll see you tomorrow.” My voice breaks with emotion.
“Wait! What’re you doin’?”
But I disconnect, because I can’t hold the tears back one more second. We don’t have a ghost of a chance.
So when he calls back, I don’t answer.
Obviously I made an impression on him. Since that night last week he’s put up a wall. From that day he hasn’t given me one single look or made one comment that could be interpreted as a come on. When we’re together his focus has been on his exercises and listening to my instructions. Friendly and warm, but just a client and a therapist. Exactly as I hoped and precisely what I feared. Today has been more of the same.
“Okay Valentino, your turn.”
“Thanks. See you tomorrow,” Nikos says as he leaves the room. I watch him walk up the stairs and out of sight. A door closing punctuates the end of today’s appointment.
“Hello? You hoo, Jenny!”
I turn to see Valentino waving.
“I’m sorry! Were you talking to me?”
He tilts his head and smiles. “No. I was standing here showing you how strong my leg is getting. But you’re somewhere else I see.” He laughs.
Just what I want to avoid. Any impression of impropriety. If they knew what Nikos and I had been up to when the accident happened it would change the way they see me. I’ve barely known them a month and I care about their opinion. That’s how much respect I’ve come to have for this couple.
“No! I’m here with you. The leg’s really coming along beautifully. You’ve done well, Valentino.”
“Prego. But you’ve been overworked by the Santini family lately. I think you need to have a little fun. Sophia and I want to invite you to a party Saturday night.”
I hesitate with my answer, so he continues.
“It’s a thirtieth birthday celebration for Nikos. He’s leaving the next day to go back to Las Vegas, so we’re going to send him off with a celebration. Will you come?”
Every reasonable excuse I can think of in five seconds passes through my mind. They’re all rejected for my one-word answer. “Yes.”
Who is this woman living inside my brain, speaking for me? She ignored every firewall I put up.
“There’s a theme,” he says walking the path we’ve marked out around the room.
I watch intently, making sure he’s keeping the proper form and putting weight on both legs.
“What is it?”
“Sophia!” he calls her from the kitchen.
“What?” she says entering the room with her coffee.
“Jenny’s coming to the party. Tell her about the theme.”
She takes a seat with her legs tucked under her. The steaming mug gets placed on a coaster atop the end table.
“In the Santini family we celebrate the milestone birthdays in a unique way. Ten, twenty, thirty and so on. It started when Christos wanted a Mutant Ninja Turtle theme for his tenth. He loved it so much he told us he wanted it for every birthday for the rest of his life. Remember that, Valentino?”
He laughs and begins his second go around. “Of course. I think he regrets that now.”
“Why?” I say.
“Because we agreed! It started this tradition where every time one of our children turned ten they got to choose a theme that would follow them. But only on their landmark birthdays. And only with the family. Of course, what you love at ten isn’t what you necessarily want to do at forty. But we dress up and laugh and each decade it gets funnier.”
“Sixty-year-old Ninja Turtles are something to see,” Sophia says.
I start laughing and so do they.
“I love it. What’re some of the themes? And did you two get yours?”
Valentino takes a break, sitting on the couch next to his wife.
“Nikos is Dance Party. He was already taking lessons by ten and he could copy every dance on film or in music videos. He used to watch the Mickey Mouse Club and dance every day,” Valentino says.
Sophia jumps in. “Let’s see. Lana’s is the film Moonstruck, she was obsessed with that movie. Some years she’s Cher and others she’s one of the other characters. Nash came as the grandfather last year with six dogs! We laughed until a few of us peed our pants.”
“Nash’s is Michael Jackson, Alexanders’ Jurassic Park, Dion is Jumanji,” Valentino says.
“I’ve never been around a family that had so much fun with each other. It’s inspiring.”
“Thank you, dear.”
“And to your question about Sophia and my themes, we picked them for the year we had turned ten. I picked U.S.A., because my family immigrated in 1960 when I was that age.”
“And I chose the Beatles,” says Sophia.
“I’m glad you’re coming, Jenny. And Nikos will be too,” Valentino says.
“I have to say a proper goodbye,” I say.
“Do you?” Sophia says pointedly. “I mean, is it absolutely necessary for you two to say goodbye at all?”
I’m taken aback by her surprising comment and have no clue what my response should be. Thankfully Valentino takes the attention off me and onto his wife.
“Mi amore, you’re always telling me to not be so nosy. Now I’m telling you to keep that pretty little nose of yours to yourself. Let the children figure things out for themselves.”
Why did she say that?
What did he mean?
And how much do they know?
The questions swim in my mind as I get dressed for the party. In twelve hours it’ll all be a moot point. Nikos will be on his way home. My job as Valentino’s therapist winds down to twice a week visits, and I’m fairly certain the family and I go back to being friendly acquaintances.
But for tonight, for one last time with them, I’m going to have fun. I can’t second-guess myself because if I do, I’ll never make it out of the house. I’m weak. I know I am, but I don’t want to give up these last few hours.
I check myself out in the mirror, give myself a passing grade and head for the door. The ringtone of my cell stops me before I make it out. Peter.
“Hello, Peter.”
“Hello. I was just thinking of you and decided to call. How have you been?”
“Good. Nothing earth-shattering is happening. How about you?”
“Same ole, same ole. Question. Could I take you to breakfast tomorrow? I feel badly about
how I walked out a few weeks ago without letting you talk. Let’s have a nice breakfast and this time I’ll listen.”
Shit.
I do not want to encourage him at all. But he’s a good man and deserves a better explanation of why we would never work. I like him as a friend and I hope I can keep him in my life. It’ll work if he really hears what I have to say.
“Alright. That sounds good. How about you pick me up at ten?”
“Great! I’ll be there at nine fifty-nine. Bye.”
Crap. I know that voice. It’s his idea of sexy. It never sounded so false as it did right then. It’s me though. I know it. I have a new definition of sexy. It’s not forced or false in any way. It flows from Nikos naturally and nothing I can do will erase it from my mind.
I left before I could be delayed by another phone call. Tonight’s for us, one last time. The Santini house is lit so perfectly. Up lights illuminate the two-story structure and cast a soft glow on the trees and plants. I’ve been standing at the door for a full minute just trying to get the courage to ring the bell. I straighten my dress for the third time and fluff my hair. The door swings open and he’s standing there.
“I tried to wait. I was looking out the peephole. Were you just hoping we’d sense your presence?”
He says it seriously but then that smile tells me he’s joking.
“I was just…I don’t know what I was doing.”
“Well, come in. The dance party’s started.”
9
Nikos
It’s taking everything I have not to touch her. The black dress is modest enough, but it can’t hide the curve of her waist or the shape of that ass. She could wear a gunny sack and they’d suddenly be the rage. And heels. She’s wearing high ankle strap sexy heels that command me to look at her legs.
But the pull is more than the sum of her body parts. Damn. Why can’t we stick with the awesome sexual thing we have? That should be enough. We barely know each other and I already know there’s an undefinable something that calls me to her. And surprisingly, it’s not about what I can see.
“Jenny’s here!” Kate calls over the music.
Voices rise in greetings, welcoming the newcomer to our party. She takes in all the costumes. The great room has its furniture pushed to the walls so we have the dance floor and everyone is getting their groove on. Even Max and Boo and Gregory. All three are dressed like Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. It was Boo’s idea that she wear a tiny white suit fit for a five-year-old. Now that the boys are teenagers they’ve honed their skills on the floor. Max more than Gregory. Boo tries to mimic her brother’s movements but what she comes up with bears little resemblance. It’s more adorable than accurate.
“Let me see what everyone’s wearing,” Jenny says.
I anticipated she wouldn’t be in costume, so I wore my black pants and a white shirt. But the rest of my family came as dancers from different eras.
“I hope I’m dressed properly,” she says.
“We’re both 2018 dancers,” I say.
The revelers pass in front of us in a conga line, parading their costumes. Mom and Dad move by as a nineteen twenties flapper and her one spat-wearing gangster with a limp. He’s saying it was a bullet hit. She congas as he walks next to the line snapping his fingers. Nash and Farrah are summer of love wearing hippies, Christos and Kate Romeo and Juliet at the ball, Alexander and Joseph 60’s twisters and Dion and his date jitterbug dancers from the forties.
“You all look fantastic!” she says.
I spin her around and have her take the hips of a passing Dion. We conga. For about three more seconds. Then the song changes. The first notes to “Hey Baby” rise in the air and I take Jenny’s hand.
“Let’s dance.”
I keep ahold and start moving. This is the perfect beat for slow fast dancing, the name Max gave it. That’s my favorite. You can move elegantly and sensually at the same time. She’s following me perfectly. Good thing it was my left elbow that broke. When I move her out she slides, when I bring her back to me, she comes matching her step to mine. Heyyyyy, hey baby.
One song moves to the next till we’re all in need of a drink. My shirt is sticking to my back, and even the trio of John Travolta’s have their jackets off. I was in charge of the playlist and made sure to include songs for every person here. I even asked Dion for a favorite tune for his date.
“Save me, Jesus!” my mother says. Her feathered headband is slipping sideways.
“Alexander! Bring your mother and I a martini.” They crash on the couch and my mother motions for Dad to put his leg up.
“There’s food in the dining room. Everyone help themselves,” Farrah says.
“We’ll get you and Dad a plate. Mom,” says Christos.
It’s a stampede to the table, where we find many of the favorites my family’s noted for. Decorations declare it’s my birthday, and a big Dirty 30 balloon floats over it all.
“I bet I could guess whose idea this was,” I say.
“Mine and Max’s,” Gregory says smiling.
“I asked them to go buy a balloon and that’s what they came back with,” Nash says shaking his head.
The boys are both laughing at their inspired idea.
“Can you blame them?” Alexander says.
I glance at Jenny and she shoots me a grin. I think she agrees with the boys.
After we all get our fill of pasta fusilli, cheeses, manicotti and tiramisu, the dance party resumes.
“I’ve noticed you haven’t had a drink. That’s good you’re not mixing pain medication and alcohol,” Jenny says as we stand to join the guests.
“I’m not on pain meds. Haven’t been for a few days.”
The shocked look on her face kinda pisses me off.
“You think I’m a drug addict or something?”
“No! God, no! I’m just a little surprised. Come on, let’s twist.”
So I pretend to move right past that bump in the road, mindful that the reason I’m feeling mad is because she’s right. She doesn’t know it, and I’ll fight against it, but I may have a small problem in that area. It’s been so easy to pop a pill, take a drink, float away on a manufactured high. And when you’re surrounded with people who like to do the same, it becomes normal. I’m never required to hide it in Vegas.
Here in St. Helena I feel like a skid row junky because I do take a few too many pills. I guess it’s true I never consider the effect of mixing alcohol with the narcotic, or the fact that sometimes I drive when I do. Once she put the idea in my mind I can’t stop thinking about the truth of it.
Shit.
Saved by the music.
The song changes from Chubby Checker’s upbeat classic to “She’s Like The Wind”. I was hoping that showed up soon. Taking Jenny’s hand I bring her close to me. The warmth of her soft skin against my palm and my face, the feel of my hand on her back, right where her waist dips is powerful. I want to be inside her. Not just sexually, although I haven’t stopped wanting that. But emotionally too. Whatever she’s made of has captured me, changed me. Never have I felt this way before. How can I say goodbye?
She runs her fingers up the back of my neck and entwines them in my hair.
“Jenny,” I whisper in her ear.
An unexpected tear runs between our cheeks and when I look at her face I see her bottom lip quiver. She pulls me closer to her. “Please keep dancing. I don’t want anyone to see me cry. Please.”
So I do as asked, holding her close and moving around the room till we’re positioned in the hall that leads to the front door, hidden from the others.
“Let’s go outside for a few minutes.”
“Can you get me my purse? It’s on the kitchen counter,” she says, her voice wavering.
“Why? You’re not leaving are you?”
“I have to. It’s too painful, Nikos. Please, get my purse.”
Tears are streaming down her face, and her beautiful brown eyes are pleading with me. So I do as asked, making it
into the kitchen without anyone noticing. The loud Saturday Night Fever music has encouraged the group. They stand watching the three kids do their best impressions. Grabbing the bag, I make it back quickly.
“Thank you,” she says.
I take her by both hands. “Jenny, please don’t.”
“I’m going now. I just can’t take this happiness a minute longer. It was a bad idea that I come.”
There’s no irony in her comment. Her eyes shift to the side and are glazed with a layer of tears. I try to bring her in, but she puts a hand on my chest that keeps me away.
“There’s no reason to prolong the goodbye. I hope you know I wish you well, Nikos.”
“Don’t leave like this. Let’s go to a hotel, spend the night.”
She gives me the strangest look. “Talking! Spend the night talking,” I say.
Her head shakes defiantly. “No. Stop it. I’m cutting it off right now. For my own benefit and yours. Goodbye, Nikos.”
She bites her lip tightly in an attempt to stop the crying sound that wants to escape. My heart sinks. Then I feel a soft kiss on my cheek and a squeeze of her hands in mine. She turns and walks out the door.
A single tear rolls down my face.
Her leaving was the end of the party for me. The bogus excuse I gave my family for going to bed because my elbow hurt was accepted. What choice did they have? The look on my face must have been enough to quiet their questions. And ten minutes ago the music ended and I heard everyone leaving.
Laying in the dark makes it impossible to escape what haunts you. I’ve always been good at playing devil’s advocate with myself, but most of the time the devil has the last say. Tonight it’s my better side, my greater self. That fucker keeps throwing in the one reason not to let her go that can’t be argued against.
This could be love.
Love?
How did that happen?
We’ve only known each other for five weeks. I’ve never been to her house. We’ve never fallen asleep at night or woken up together in the morning. What we know about each other could fit in a short story. Yet. I know I’d want to read it. More than that, I’d want to be the hero.