More Than Water

by Renee Ericson

  “So, what’s the occasion?” I ask, lifting my glass.

  “It is Christmas.” He clinks his glass with mine, and we both drink. Then, Gerard grabs the bottle in his other hand and rises from his seat. “Take a walk with me?”

  “And leave this lively party?”

  “I thought you might approve of the suggestion.”

  He offers me an arm, and I empty myself from my chair, locking my elbow with his.

  “And where are you two off to?” his mother asks, bringing the entire table’s attention to us.

  “I’m just taking Evelyn for an evening stroll. Would you all mind if we left your company?” he asks coyly, knowing full well that none of them would care one bit.

  They just want to call attention to any time he and I spend together—alone.

  His mother gives a knowing look to mine while our fathers both smile broadly.

  “Of course we don’t mind,” my mother answers for all of them. “You two enjoy your walk.”

  Gerard pivots on his heel, leading me away from the table and out of the private dining area, down the long hall toward a part of the hotel I’ve yet to see, despite coming here for years. We tend to only stay on one end, and this section is generally used for resident staff.

  “So, where are we going?” I ask, squeezing his arm.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  Intrigued, I allow him to escort me farther down the hall and into an ultra private room that resembles a small aquarium with fish tanks lining the lower half of the walls. At the end of the space, a large floor-to-ceiling window opens up to the dark foliage below the summit.

  “What’s this room?” I question, peeking at the colored fish swimming in the illuminated waters.

  “Just a sitting room,” he says.

  I peer over my shoulder, finding Gerard resting the wine on a nearby table along with his glass.

  “It was the one room I had a say over when we acquired the place—design-wise, that is.”

  “I like the fish.”

  He steps toward the entrance, brightening the lights slightly, allowing me to see the details of the walls more clearly. “Do you like the decor?”

  I scan the framed artwork—approximately a dozen masterful reproductions of Van Gogh’s work. His more noted and popular works are represented, but I’m pleased to see some of my favorites and lesser-acknowledged masterpieces, including Wheatfield with Crows and The Red Vineyard. Near the window, overlooking the water, is a print of Starry Night Over the Rhone.

  “They’re all Van Gogh,” I say.

  “Every last one.” He leads me toward the window. Pointing down at the sand, he asks, “Do you recognize that spot? Near the rock where the water meets its edge?”

  I smile. “That’s where you kissed me. Of course, I remember. We were practicing, just in case.”

  “Yes.” He laughs. “Just in case.”

  “That was such a long time ago.”

  “Five years. Do you remember our pact?”

  “Yes.” My gut flips, sour with anticipation of what he’s leading toward. “We made it the same time in that very same spot, agreeing to wed when I turned thirty.”

  “Yes.”

  “We still have a lot of years left before then.”

  “Come,” he requests, taking my hand and leading back to where the bottle of wine rests.

  I take a seat and allow him to fill my glass to the brim, and then I take a long drink, nervous as to why he could possibly be bringing this up so soon. He sips his wine, calm and practiced. My palms become clammy as the seconds and then minutes perpetually tick by.

  Finally, he rests his glass on the table between us, staring at the plum-colored liquid trapped by the fine crystal.

  “Do you know why I agreed to such an arrangement with you?” he asks, his question firm and steady.

  I take a moment, sorting the words in my head before replying, “Because…we were being stupid? Because…some things are inevitable? I don’t know. It was all so silly at the time. I almost thought it was a—”

  “A joke?” He raises his brows.

  “No,” I say, backpedaling, realizing that I might have insinuated something hurtful. “No, of course not. But I wasn’t really sure it was serious. I mean, we were tipsy on champagne, and I was only seventeen.”

  “Yes, you were, but you were fearless. You still are.”

  “I don’t feel fearless.”

  He covers my hand with his own. “You are though. The fact that you even dreamed of and still constantly fight for something more than living underneath your parents’ thumb is one of the most admirable acts I’ve ever witnessed.” His eyes shift to his glass. “And because of that determination, I fell in love with you.” He returns his gaze to me, focused and sincere. “That’s why I agreed to the pact that day.”

  My muscles tense. “Gerard…I never knew.”

  He grins. “I know. It’s my fault. I never told you.” He rises from his seat, pacing toward the large print of The Red Vineyard, pondering over the brush strokes.

  Staring at his back, I ask, “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

  “Because I could see that the way you looked at me never mirrored the way I felt inside. I was afraid it would put a divide in our friendship.”

  I set my glass of wine on the table and join him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Gerard…I do love you but not—”

  “Not like that.” He smiles to himself and then pats my hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “You shouldn’t be.”

  I remove my hand, feeling the wall of emotional separation being erected between us, as we stand side by side, gazing aimlessly at the artwork before us.

  “Do you think they’re happy?” Gerard asks into the silence.

  “Who?” I question, confused.

  “The workers in the painting.”

  I’ve been looking at paintings all my life for my own enjoyment and, in the later years, as study. His question is a simple one, and part of me wants to reply with a formulated answer, one that would make a scholar proud.

  But I don’t.

  Art is all about feelings, emotions, and the human connection. As I ponder the people in the painting, I see them, and I see myself.

  Focused on the figure in shades of blue and green with a basket on her hip, I say, “I think they’re as happy as they can be for people put to work at a task they never desired.”

  He nods his head. “I used to think that, too. But do you know what I think now?”

  “No. What’s that?”

  “That happiness is waiting for everyone.” He faces me. “I love you, Evelyn, but it’s much like the way you describe the happiness of these workers in the painting. I loved you as much as I could, given something I never desired, but there’s more to be gained outside of what we were born into.”

  My head tilts as I try to understand his words.

  “I’m sorry,” he continues, “but I’m breaking our pact.”

  “You’re confusing me.”

  “I can tell.” He glows and somehow seems to become inches taller in a matter of moments. “I’m just going to say it. I’ve met someone.”

  “You meet a lot of people.”

  “Yes, but never anyone like her.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Her?”

  “Yes.” He smiles so bright that he gleams. “I think I was waiting to find her, and that’s why I never told you about my feelings for you. There was someone else waiting for me.”

  Then, I comprehend the truth of what he’s telling me. It’s all over his persona, his aura, and his entire being. It’s so obvious, and I was blind until he shoved it directly at me, like a bullet to the head.

  “You’re in love?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She’s a public attorney who lives in the States—in New York City, of all places.”

  “Huh?” I blink a few times. “How did you two
meet?”

  He grins widely. “I was in New York on business, went out one night, saw her at a bar, showed her my undeniable charm, and she called me an asshole.”

  “Sounds like love at first sight,” I comment sarcastically.

  “It was,” he counters, serious. “The spark in her eyes. The way that she flung her dark hair over her shoulder. The quirk of her lip, teasing me. And then, the moment she spoke, I knew.”

  “You knew what?”

  “That she’s the one.”

  My heart races. His emotions are so palpable.

  “What do you mean, the one?”

  He grips my shoulders, ensuring that my focus is on him. “Evelyn, you’re my closest friend in this crazy journey, and you should be the first to know.” Gerard inhales. “I’m going to propose. I’m going to ask Caroline to be my wife.”

  “Marriage?” I state, flabbergasted. “Gerard, you’re only twenty-five. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

  “And I want to spend it with her.”

  “What do your parents think?”

  He laughs, like a giddy child in a candy store. “It doesn’t matter. For the first time, it truly doesn’t matter. I don’t care about what they think. Since meeting her, everything is so simple.”

  “Simple,” I repeat, saying the word, trying to understand how he feels.

  “Like breathing air and taking that first step, all at the same time.”

  He’s taking a bigger-than-life leap with someone else, going beyond the expectations of his breeding. I beam, unable to be anything but ecstatic for him in this moment.

  “I’m so happy for you,” I say, throwing my arms around him.

  Circling his hands around my waist, he breathes, “Thank you, Evelyn. I was hoping you would be. I’m going to need someone to lean on if she actually says yes. My parents won’t likely be pleased. She’s not you.”

  “Of course, she isn’t. No one could be as fabulous as me.”

  “You’re so modest.”

  “We both know that’s a lie.” I giggle. “Even though she’s not as remarkable as me, I’m sure no one could be better for you than her. I’ve never seen you look the way you do right now. You’re freaking glowing.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “And she’d better say yes, or else I’ll kick her law-knowing ass the next time I’m in New York.”

  “I’d expect nothing else. Thank you.”

  Squeezing him tightly, I cherish his happiness. The kind of love he projects is something I’ll never be able to enjoy. It’s beyond stipulations, expectations, and all the rules we have both come to abide by through the years.

  With Gerard’s arms wrapped around my waist, I spy a figure peeking through the doorway. She doesn’t budge, only allowing the pleased look to grow upon her face as she continues to watch Gerard and me in an embrace.

  There’s an anticipated knock at my apartment door, only four minutes past Foster’s estimated arrival. He never disappoints when it comes to punctuality.

  I’ve been back in town for almost three whole days, and I don’t miss the sunshine, the boat, or all that comes in the expectant package of spending a holiday with my parents.

  After the formal Christmas with our longtime friends, we all parted ways. The Beauchamps headed back to France, Gerard took a flight north to New York for what he’d claimed to be a business trip, and my parents began the next part of their journey to Madrid. I packed my bags and flew home to the quiet campus where many of the students were still on break with their loved ones, including all of my friends.

  The silence was a welcome friend when I first returned from the angst surrounding my family. While the trip on the surface was easy, it left a bad taste in my mouth. Gerard’s sudden news about his upcoming engagement and the unsettling knowledge that our parents will not likely embrace it has left me feeling a little…funky and flustered.

  So, when Foster texted me earlier today, inquiring if I was back in town, I was thrilled by the idea of having some company, a distraction. Foster is a good one. My fingers dialed his number, and he answered on the first ring. As a formality, he and I exchanged a few words in greeting, got down to the nitty-gritty, decided we were both losers with no friends in town—other than each other—and now have plans to watch a movie this evening. Of course, I asked if that was code for ripping off my clothes and sticking it in. He sarcastically replied that he had no idea what I was talking about.

  As the sound of a second knock echoes through the walls, I pick up the play prop from the counter and proceed toward the door.

  I call out, “Just a second.”

  With my heart racing, I’m excited to actually have human contact after days of solitude.

  I hold the fake mustache on a stick to my upper lip and open the door.

  Foster is dressed in a canvas jacket and a beanie due to the snow, and his glasses are fogged from the balminess of the apartment building’s air.

  He gazes upon me with confusion when he notices my prop. “What is that?” he asks.

  The sound of his familiar voice steadies my pounding heart.

  “I mustache you a question,” I state in a serious machismo voice.

  “Okay…”

  “Are you ready for the greatest night of your life?”

  “I’m not so sure. Are you going to be wearing that?”

  “Maybe. I’ve been told that men like a curly mustache.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s not the kind of lip hair that’s being referenced.”

  “Are you saying it might be something else?”

  He tightens his mouth, trying not to laugh. “Think about it.”

  My mind goes over what he’s trying to insinuate. It only takes me a few moments before it clicks that he’s made a joke about cunnilingus.

  “Damn, you’re naughty sometimes.” I shake my head and lower the mustache.

  “Just trying to stay ahead of the game with you.”

  “Good luck with that. Come on in.”

  “Thanks.”

  Stepping aside, I allow Foster to enter my apartment. He sets down a small bag at his feet, and then he proceeds to take off his coat and hat. Like any good hostess, I hang his things and then show him in. This is the first time he’s ever been here, seeing that we usually go to his place. I just thought it was safer to avoid confrontation and questions from Chandra. It’s not that I’m ashamed of Foster or what we have going on, but it’s easier not to put a label on it for others. Plus, he lives alone, so his apartment makes more sense for our trysts. There, we’re less likely to disturb anyone while doing the bump and grind.

  “Drink?” I ask, leading him through the living area toward the kitchen.

  “Yeah,” he responds absently, his eyes wandering over the walls of the apartment. “Nice place. It’s…colorful.”

  “Thanks.” Opening the fridge, I say, “We have beer, soda, beer, chick wine, wine coolers—who the hell brought those over? Beer, water, prune juice…” I peek over the door, chuckling at his inquisitive look. “Don’t ask. Beer…and—”

  “Let me guess. Beer?”

  “You got it.”

  “A beer would be great.”

  Pulling two off the shelf, I shut the door, pop the caps from both of them, and then join Foster at the small bar space in the kitchen where he’s patiently waiting.

  “Here you are,” I say, handing the cool brown glass bottle into his hand.

  “Thanks.” He offers a gift bag in my direction. “And this is for you. It’s good manners to bring a gift for the hostess.”

  “I didn’t realize I was having a formal dinner party.” I set my beer on the counter. “What is it?”

  “Most people do something called open it to find out.”

  Widening the mouth of the bag, I mutter, “Smart-ass,” and then dig into the package. I pull out a solid cylinder object wrapped in tissue paper and begin to tear the delicate covering from the gift, revealing two stacked clear pint glasses. Separ
ating them from one another, I turn them within my hands to have a better look at the printed design.

  I laugh. “Is that Sir Isaac Newton?” I ask, referring to the image of a man in a wig, holding an apple in one hand while making a rock-and-roll hand gesture with the other. Underneath the bust of the ancient-looking gentleman, the words My Laws Rule are scrolled across the glass.

  “The one and only. The other is a cheat sheet in case you ever play the elements drinking game again,” he adds, pointing to the pint with the periodic table of elements.

  “These are perfect.” I wash them quickly at the sink and then place them on the counter, one in front of him and the other next to my beer, for immediate use. “I love them. Thanks.”

  We empty our bottles into the new glasses and each take a drink. I then invite him into the living room in preparation to watch a movie. He takes a seat on the overstuffed tan sofa across from the television.

  “So, how was your Christmas?” I ask, crouching down to shuffle through the film collection Chandra and I have acquired through the years.

  “It was nice.” He places his glass on the coffee table. “We all went to my grandmother’s farm. She doesn’t like to travel much, ever since my granddad passed away.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay. It was a few years ago. But it makes the most sense anyhow. Her place is really the only one big enough for all of us.”

  “All of you?” I ask somewhat absently, trying to weed through the large amount of chick flicks that he would have no desire to watch.

  “Yeah. My aunts, uncles, and all the cousins.”

  “Sounds like you have a pretty big family.”

  “Kind of.”

  Still sorting, I ask, “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “Two older sisters and a younger brother.” He sips his beer. “Both of my sisters are married and live out of town. One lives in Texas and the other in Georgia. They usually come back for the holiday, but Camille couldn’t make the flight from Georgia this year. She’s expecting a baby, and her doctor said she’s passed the flying window—whatever that means. My brother is still in high school and will graduate this year.”