by P. R. Paige
"At least with this arrangement," Storm continues, "we at least know who he's with. Outside of this situation, I would be completely in the dark."
"Totally," India agrees.
I feel as though I have just attended a free lecture about the dating habits of men and woman in the new millennium. I have a feeling that what I have just heard today from Storm and India is just the beginning of what they plan to teach me. The question is: Am I ready for any of it?
Our star server, Gypsie soon returns, carrying with her three hot pink bags engraved with the words Incredible Awesome You! She hands a bag to each of us, and I am impressed. Her timing couldn't be more perfect. I am in desperate need of a major distraction from the verbiage that Storm and India just force fed me.
As we all open our gifts, it's apparent that we all have the same gifts inside.
Inside the glossy hot pink bags, we are all gifted with a white t-shirt, which reads A Perfect 10. In addition to that, we all receive a box of Godiva turtles with the box personalized for each of us.
Storm's box reads Delicious Storm.
India's box reads Adorable India.
And my box reads Irresistible Thursday.
My eyes light up with wonder. It feels like my birthday. Never before have I received a box of chocolates engraved with my name on it, and only three words come to mind: Keep it coming.
The final gift included in our gift bags are Gucci sunglasses, and they are spectacular. With sparkles in my eyes, I'm in love with my stylish, overpriced sunglasses and quickly slide them on my face. At this moment, I fancy myself as one of those rich Hollywood women whose greatest dilemma is what to eat for lunch and at what restaurant.
Storm seems as pleased as I am, but when I turn to India, who has peeled over with the side of her face against the table, I ask her, "India, you don't like your gifts?"
"There're okay," India replies in a sour voice.
After almost thirty minutes, Rome magically appears, just as mysteriously as he disappeared. He wears an oversized chef uniform with a matching chef hat and carries several menus in hand. "Hello, beautiful creatures," Rome says to us. "I'll be your server this afternoon. Today, I'm handing out compliments and honey kisses and I'm not likely to run out of either."
"Could you be any sweeter," India asks Rome.
"I doubt it," Rome says.
I check out Rome's chef uniform. Though it's a little oversized for him, he wears it well.
"What is it with you and these different uniforms?" I ask him.
"Just doing what I can to see that you ladies have a good time. Did you like your gifts?"
"We loved them," I am first to say.
"That's right, we did," Storm says. "However, I can't be so sure about India."
"What's the problem, India," Rome asks her. It's obvious by the tone of Rome's voice that this is a question that he asks India often.
India lifts her head up from the table. "Why is Storm Delicious and Thursday Irresistible and I'm only Adorable?"
"Because you are adorable," Rome says to her.
"I'd rather be delicious or irresistible," India says. "Is Storm delicious because she tastes better than me?"
I'm shaking my head and scratching my scalp again.
Did I just hear her right?
Storm shifts her eyes to India. "Now, you know that was not nice."
"You're right." India drops her head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't said that."
Rome is a much welcomed save from the mini-drama transpiring before us when he says to India, "I tell you what. How about I order another box next week, which will be engraved with something more to your liking?"
He stoops down on the side of India so that they are face to face. "How does that sound?"
"Like what?" India questions him with a perky smile. A do-over is exactly what she was after all along. She's a fanatic about having her way and doesn't keep that fact to herself.
"Maybe something along the lines of Delectable India," Rome suggest.
"Yes, I think I would like that," India says, before planting a kiss on Rome's lips.
I am just beside myself by the way that Rome caters to these women. In a way it is a good thing. It proves that Rome knows how to treat women well. Then on the other hand, it's a bad thing because it's not solely me on the receiving end of his affections, but other women as well.
"Now that that matter is settled," Rome says. "Let's get this party started."
Rome stuffs a menu into my hand. "One for you."
"And, one for you," he says to Storm while sliding a menu into her hand.
"And one for you," he says, placing a menu in front of India.
I turn to India. "Does he do this often?"
Before India can answer, Rome asks me, "Do what?"
"Dress up and--" I say, but before I can finish my sentence, Rome interjects.
"Service my ladies?"
"Yeah," I say to Rome. "Do you do this often?"
"Every chance I get," Rome admits.
"If you ladies don't see anything on the menu that you might like, just let me know and I'll see what I can put together."
I skim over the limited menu. It consists of four different seafood dishes: Shrimp Linguini Alfredo, Wood-Grilled Lobster, Shrimp and Salmon and Snow Crab Legs. The three desserts are: Chocolate Shortcake, New York-Style Cheesecake with Strawberries and Apple Crostada. However, the selection of wines, champagnes and flavored coffees are surprisingly extensive.
Rome places a white decorative napkin on our laps, and I smile. I could get used to this type of stellar treatment.
"So, what are we drinking?" Rome asks us?
"How about a pitcher of hurricane?" Storm suggests.
"Hurricane it is," Rome says, right before he heads in the direction of the bar.
Soon afterwards, Rome returns with a huge pitcher of the mixed cocktail. He fills our frosted glasses with the fruity alcohol-laced concoction and then firmly seats himself with us, between Storm and India. This is the first time he is joining us since boarding the yacht.
"Rome tells us that you write romantic stories," India says to me.
"I have been known to write a few from time to time," I say.
"Do you get excited when you write sex scenes?" Storm asks me.
Rome's eyes shoot to me. Apparently, Storm's questions have struck a nerve with them. "I'd like to know the answer to that one myself," Rome says.
I wash down my fruity cocktail. "Let me put it to you this way." I paused. "In answer to your question, yes."
"Maybe I should read some of those stories myself," Rome says.
"Perhaps you should," I agree with him.
"Thursday," India says, "if you really want to write something spectacular, something straight out of the park, you should move in with us and write about that."
"That's not a bad idea," Rome says.
Having already considered the idea myself confirms for me that we may all be on to something. "To be honest with you, I had already considered that idea myself," I say.
"If ever there was good reason to move with us," Rome says, "it would be to write a juicy story, unlike anything you have ever written before."
"I concur," Storm says, then slides her chair over to me and leans in towards me. "Aside from you moving in to write your story, let me put the cards on the table so that you know exactly where we are coming from."
I ease back. My senses are heightened, and I listen with an attentive ear.
"Basically, in the smallest amount of words," Storm says, "we're idiots, all of us. Me, Rome and, most of all, India."
"That's right," India says, "and that's a compliment by the way. Who wants to be ordinary? I sure don't."
Storm continues. "What India is trying to say is, we want you to be an idiot with us."
"That's right," India says, "that's what we want."
"You don't have to decide right away," Rome says. "Let the idea float around your head for a while if you need to."
"You move into The House of Rome," Storm says, "and we will take care of the rest."
I feel as if I'm on the loony train with a one-way ticket to Crazyville, and it occurs to me that now might be a good time to jump off, but the curiosity in me keeps me stranded.
India pours herself another drink and guzzles it down. She then rises and clanks the spoon against the wine glass. "Attention everyone, attention! I had an epiphany last night."
"My sister had one of those once," I say, "and she said that all you have to do is put some cream on it and it will be gone in a couple of days."
Rome, India, and Storm all laugh.
"That's a good one," Storm says to me.
"I thought so too," I say.
There's something about being on the water that brings out the silly in me. Then again, maybe it's just the alcohol.
"May I continue please," India says. "I'll have you know. I made a discovery last night about myself, and after giving it careful consideration, I have decided to finally take the Paxil."
Rome and Storm both rise and boisterously applaud India's decision with the clapping of their hands and the stomping of their feet.
Are we at a live concert or what? It sure sounds like it.
"It's about time," Storm says.
India bows gracefully several times as if she's just performed on Broadway. "Thank you. Thank you."
India is as impressed with her decision as Storm and Rome are excited for her, and I am at a disadvantage because I have no idea why.
"I'm sorry," I say to Rome, "but… what the F."
"Ladies," Rome says to India and Storm. "Thursday wants to know why all the excitement."
"I'll handle this." Storm says to me. "Basically… India is a bitch."
"I am," India says as if she's proud to wear that label.
Storm continues. "But not just any kind of bitch. Oh no, but a really stubborn bitch who is also cuddly and sweet."
"I see," I say. "So this Paxil will make it so she will not be a bitch anymore?"
India is first to answer the question herself. "No, I'll still be a bitch, just calmer and not as stubborn."
"And that's a good thing?" I ask them all.
"It's a great thing," Rome says, before rising up and taking down our orders for lunch.
An hour after we stuff ourselves, all except Storm that is, who only eats half of her crab legs, we convene inside to the lounge where salsa music is blasting.
We all spice it up on the dance floor, each of us taking turns doing more and more outrageous moves than the other. We twist. We turn. We wiggle. We prance. We swing. We bounce. We sway and we shake, switching dance partners every minute when India yells switch.
Simply put, we are killing it.
Up until today, I have never been a huge fan of salsa music, but after my delightful time on the dance floor, that's all about to change.
My enchanting and groovy day at sea is coming to a close, and Rome and the girls return me to my apartment. Rome has changed clothes again and is wearing the white chauffer uniform when he opens the car door for me.
I step out, still feeling the charge of too many cocktails in my system. "Thank you, kind, Sir."
"You are most welcome."
"That was great," I say to him.
"Of course, it was," he says.
India and Storm both exit and stand by Rome's side.
"We hate to see you go," India says to me. "Any chance you might want to come home with us tonight?"
I smile. She is only so serious. "Unfortunately, no," I say, "but thanks for the invitation." I pause, my eyes circling all of them. "Well, goodnight."
I turn and head towards the revolving doors of my building when I hear the words, "No hug?" Because of the southern twang, I recognize the voice to stem from Storm.
I stop in my tracks and do a complete about face. I return to Storm and India and offer them a warm hug.
I am now sauntering towards the entrance of my building again when I realize I forgot something. I neglected to hug Rome goodbye. For the second time, I double back and curl my arms around Rome.
"Goodnight for real this time," I say to him.
Here is what I now know about Storm and India from my day on the water with them.
Neither of the girls work or go to school. Storm spends her days at the gym, gardening, doing yoga, reading, and not wearing any panties.
And India, she spends her days volunteering at the animal shelter, visiting coffee shops, watching Lifetime Television, and remembering to throw tantrums every other day so that Rome will baby her.
As I ride up on the elevator, I think about all of these nuggets, and most of all, about how much fun it would be to write about Rome's radical lifestyle and the women in it. I can still hear the salsa music in my head when I stride through the front door of my apartment. I am still roused up from all the drinking, all the dancing, all the laughing and most of all, all the astonishing conversation.
I wash my face, brush my teeth and change into my nightshirt. I relax in my bed, watching Investigation Discovery when my phone rings and sure enough, it's Rome.
"Did you enjoy yourself with the girls?" he asks me.
"You know I did."
"Well," he says. "Just in case you were wondering, they only had the best things to say about you."
"And what about you? What do you have to say about me?" I ask him, fishing for compliments.
"I want to see more of you, lots more. What were you doing when I called?
"Watching Investigation Discovery."
"Were you doing anything else?" he asks me.
"No, I was not," I say to him as I know what he is hinting at, but I don't take the bait.
"Are you ready to move in with us yet?" he asks me, completely out of the blue.
Via remote, I lower the volume on the television and rise up. "I admit, I think you guys have a lot of fun together, and it seems like a nice setup. It would be a blast to live there."
"So what's the problem?"
"I'm still not sure it's for me," I say to him. "For instance, if I did decide to join your family as you call it, would I be required to have sex?"
"Do you want to have sex?"
"That's not the point," I say. I am well aware that one day I may want to have sex with him, but I don't want it to be something that I have to do.
"Thursday, I want you to do whatever it is you want to do, and I don't want you to do anything that you don't want to do, so if you just want to live with us and it be totally platonic, I have no problem with that."
"Really?" I ask, surprised as I didn't even think that was an option.
"You surprise me," I say, "because I thought sex was what the whole arrangement was all about."
"Then, you misunderstand the big picture. The arrangement is about family. Sex is just a part of it, so for the time that you are with us, if you are okay with such a limited game plan, that's definitely doable. Also, I am totally prepared to pay your expenses at your condo while you are with me."
This is sounding too good.
"Really? What's the catch?"
"There is no catch," he says. "I just want you to be a part of our family and stay only for as long as you are happy there."
"And that's all?" I question him.
"That's all. The moment you stop being happy, the arrangement ends. It's just that simple."
"That's very sweet, Rome. I'm sure it's bull, but at least it sounds good."
This sounds too easy. Rome is up to something. I might be crazy enough to move in and find out as my defenses are weakening. However, I'm not completely sold on the idea. "Just tell me this, Rome," I say to him. "Why me?"
"I adore you and I want you in my life and my home."
"You forgot bed," I remind him.
"That, too."
"Okay, that may explain
your reasons for wanting me there, but what about Storm and India? Why are they so dead set on having me join your family? I mean I hardly even know them."
Rome doesn't speak right away, and then he spills it. "Besides, the fact that you're very pretty much like them, they are absolutely intrigued by the fact that you are a writer."
"What? What does that have to do with anything?" I ask him.
"In their minds, you're on the verge of stardom. They see you as a celebrity in the making."
I'm scratching my head, squinting my eyes and shaking my head. "What? A celebrity in the making?"
"That's right."
"But I'm not a successful writer."
"They don't care about that," Rome says. "They're intelligent enough to know that most writers start out as unknown and become very famous."
"That doesn't mean I will be one of the famous ones."
"It doesn't mean you won't either," he reminds me.
Flattered by his words, I shift the phone to my left ear and say nothing.
After a short silence, Rome says, "Now that that is all cleared up, let's get back to the subject at hand."
"Must we?" I question him.
"Yes, we must. There is one small subject that we need total clarification on, though."
"And what is that?" I ask.
"If it's really going to be totally 100% platonic," he says, "it will be platonic all the way. No exceptions."
"What does that mean?" I question him.
"It means that you and I can never and will never have sex again."
My mouth springs open and I laugh. "And why is that?"
"Because that is the way that I want it. If you want to join the family as a non-sexual participant, I would rather keep that way."
"So you and I can never have sex?"
"That's right," he says, "You can't have it both ways. The decision you make today is the law, unless, of course, you want to reconsider."
I'm so on to Rome. I'm supposed to agree to a sexual relationship for fear that if I don't agree to one now, I forfeit my turn somehow, but I'm not falling for it.
"No, I don't want to reconsider," I say to him. "I'm moving in for the sole purpose of writing about this usual setup and nothing more. Besides, I'm really not into sharing men anyway."