by Taylor Dean
“What a louse.”
“Right?”
I jump to my feet. “If I sit for much longer, I won’t be able to get up again.”
“Amen. Let’s move.”
On the sixteenth floor, Paul does the kneeling thing again, only this time he places a soft kiss on top of each one of my sandal laden feet. I resist letting an “awwwwww” escape my lips.
When he rights himself, he says, “Did you know that in some countries kissing someone’s feet is considered the highest form of respect?”
“I’ve heard that, yes.” Is this his way of telling me he respects me? I’m touched and have no idea what to say in response. I’m well aware of how risky my actions have been. I traveled to China just to meet him and he could’ve been a total jerk. Instead I’ve found a kind and considerate man.
Our climb to the seventeenth floor turns sluggish. I’m not sure if it has to do with being exhausted or because neither of us wants to feel quite so out of breath during the upcoming kiss. Perhaps a little of both. Regardless, I know a real kiss is coming, perhaps it’s even overdue.
“Tell me more about all these boys named Paul.”
“Okay. As a junior in high school I dated Paul Allen. He played the bass guitar in the Jazz Band, looked a little like a young Rod Stewart, and always made me laugh. He knew how to kiss a girl and my first kiss was lost to him. He was laid back and never serious about anything. Translation: irresponsible and failing most of his classes. We broke up because we had absolutely nothing in common.”
“A wise choice. I don’t see you with the rocker type.”
“It gets worse.”
“You know what they say about quiet girls. They have a hidden wild side.”
“Sadly, the next Paul in my life might prove that to be a true statement.”
On the seventeenth floor, he doesn’t hesitate. He takes me in his arms and presses his lips to mine, kissing me in a way he never has before. I wrap my arms around him and return his kiss, our mouths melding together as one. My sisters call it a “movie kiss.” And it is. Like one of the great classic kisses between Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr. So perfect I nearly swoon.
When he pulls away, we both catch our breath.
“I’ve never dated a Savannah,” he says.
“I’ve never been kissed like that.”
His eyebrows furrow ever so slightly. “Never?”
“No.” My heart thumps in my chest as if it wants to escape.
“I’ll never look at these stairs the same way,” he says, changing the subject. I wonder if my lack of experience makes him uncomfortable.
“I suppose not.” In all truth, I like the weird little fact that the stairs will forever remind him of me. Sore muscles though, not so much.
We take the next flight slow and easy.
“Distract me with your wild side, please,” Paul asks, sounding tired. I feel a twinge of guilt for making him do this.
“As a senior, I fell for Paul Kincaid. He had long hair that went down a little past his shoulders and he was a bit of a free spirit, the original rebel without a cause. When he walked, unseen wind blew through his long hair and I always thought he looked like a model with a fan trained on him during a photo shoot.”
“What is it about the bad guy that girls love?”
“I don’t have a clue. It was only a few years ago that I flipped through my yearbook and stared at his lifeless, stringy hair and wondered what I’d been thinking. I saw what I wanted to see.”
“Don’t we all?”
“Yes. I guess that’s why some say love is blind. Paul Kincaid was a bit of a loner and I’m not really a crowd person, which made us a perfect match. We had lunch together every day for a month. When we finished eating, he’d take out his favorite book and read poetry to me and I swooned appropriately. When he finally asked me out, I said yes before the words left his mouth. Then he showed up at my house to pick me up on his motorcycle and my father put an end to our ill-fated relationship and crushed my rose-colored-glasses dreams.”
“He probably saved you from a life of welfare checks and food stamps.”
“In my heart, I knew that. But a few days of sulking in my bedroom and telling him he’d ruined my life had been called for. I never told him I’d already enjoyed two thrilling helmetless motorcycle rides with him. He would’ve grounded me for life.”
“Did you thank him in the end?”
“Yep. Three months later, Paul ended up in juvie for shoplifting, saying it wasn’t fair that only people with money could get things from a store.”
“Free spirit, indeed.”
“I look back on it now and wonder where my common sense was hiding.”
“Ah, high school. Those were the days. Glad to hear your ‘wild oats’ have been sown.”
“I’m kinda boring. That was pretty much the extent of my wild oats. Scientists used to believe the human brain reached its peak in early childhood and stopped developing. Research now shows the brain is not fully developed until people are well into their thirties and forties. The prefrontal cortex actually continues to change shape and . . .” I trail off. I sound like a textbook. My education has taught me something, but I wonder if I’m completely boring him.
“That explains everything. I can blame all of my mistakes on my still-developing brain.”
I laugh. “Exactly.”
On the eighteenth level, there are two doors, one door leads to the main hallway, and one door leads to a private stairwell that will take us up to his apartment.
“We’re almost there,” he says as he takes me in his arms again. But he doesn’t immediately kiss me. He hovers over me, our lips an inch apart.
“What are you doing to me, Savannah Tate?”
“I’m not trying to do anything, I promise.” Except trying to fall in love with him. Had I fallen in love with him during the short time I’d known him? I’m not positive, but it certainly feels like love. If it’s not all out love as of yet, it’s absolutely headed in that direction.
Another tender “movie kiss” ensues and I melt in his arms. Our climb up the stairs is an unequivocal success. He’s definitely made the falling in love process happen a little faster with his clever idea. I know it’s too fast, but I also know my heart is open to the idea.
When we reach the door on the nineteenth level, he says, “We made it.” Once inside, we both collapse onto the floor, sitting with our backs against the wall, and our knees to our chests.
“I’m exhausted,” he says.
“Me too.” I know I’ll never forget our climb up the stairs. I’ll always think of this as one of the most romantic moments of my life.
I’ll block out our exhaustion. And in a few days I’ll forget about sore muscles too.
We sit in the entryway of his apartment, recovering. I note his private elevator also opens up directly into the entryway. As my eyes scan his home, I immediately decide the word “apartment” doesn’t fit the bill and penthouse is much more appropriate. His living space sprawls across the top of the building and is the size of a small home. The walls are made of windows, lending a feeling of air and space.
The main living area is one open room consisting of a large kitchen, dining area, and a huge wrap around couch with a big screen TV. With a smile, I imagine the two of us cuddling together watching a movie. The view from every angle sparkles from the surrounding city lights.
“Wow. This is incredible, Paul.”
He stands and stretches his legs. “I’m glad you like it.” He holds out his hand and helps me up. “I haven’t kissed you on this floor yet.” He pulls me close and, for the first time, kisses me deeply and aggressively. I admit, I’m distracted by his penthouse and I have trouble concentrating on the kiss. When his lips leave mine and trail down to my neck, I can’t help myself, I open my eyes and peek at my surroundings. “Can I have a tour?”
His entire body goes still. “What?”
“A tour. Of your home. It’s amazing up here.”
“I’ve been dying to see it.”
He runs his hands through his hair and straightens his shirt. He holds his hands on his hips and stares down at the ground for a moment. “Um . . . okay. A tour.”
I wander around his living room, pausing to view the framed pictures on the walls, most of which consist of Chinese artwork. When I face him again, I find him observing me quietly with a slight frown, his eyes unreadable. I think back on the last few moments.
“I’m sorry. I interrupted our kiss to tour your apartment, didn’t I?”
He clicks his tongue. “A girl’s gotta have priorities.”
We both laugh, then I ask, “Can I see the rest?”
He shakes his head accompanied by a smiling scoff. “You bet.”
There are four large bedrooms, each with their own connecting bathroom. Off the living area, a sliding door opens up to a patio with a small plunge pool.
“I wasn’t expecting a pool.” I can’t hide my excitement. His home is beyond amazing and I go on and on about it, until I notice he looks . . . well, bored. “I’m sorry. I get a little overenthusiastic when I see an incredible home. I can’t pass by an open house and all that. It’s a fault of mine. Forgive me.”
He shrugs and smiles, but the smile doesn’t seem to reach his eyes. “I like your exuberance. I happen to be obsessed with architecture and share in your enthusiasm.” Then, politely, he offers, “Would you like a drink?”
“A glass of water would be great.” After our climb, I’m feeling a little parched.
“Just water?” he says with raised eyebrows.
“Yes, please.”
We make our way into the kitchen and he hands me a bottled water, which I promptly down. He pours some sort of amber liquid into a glass and tosses it back rather quickly in one gulp, then has another. I realize when he asked if I wanted a drink, he meant something alcoholic and I feel gauche.
His fatigue shows on his face and I again feel bad for making him climb the stairs, even though he’d made it into a romantic rendezvous. The thought makes me smile. Everything’s working out perfectly.
“What’s the smile for?” Paul asks.
“It’s been a perfect day. Thank you. I’ve loved every minute of it”
“It’s not over yet.” He approaches and pulls me close.
I soak up his warmth, loving his affectionate nature. As my arms circle his neck, I catch sight of the time on my wristwatch. I gasp, “Oh, I didn’t realize how late it is. I have to get back. I can’t miss curfew.”
“Curfew?”
“Yeah. It’s a safety measure for all of the foreign teachers. I’m not sure what they’ll do if I’m not home in time. Call the equivalent of 9-1-1 maybe? Search high and low. Bang on your door. It won’t be good.”
“Wait . . . you’re leaving now?”
“I’m sorry, I know I just barely got here, but I have to get back.” The stair climbing escapade had taken longer than I realized.
His disappointment sends a thrill through my veins. He wants to be with me as much as I want to be with him. Am I dreaming? This night has certainly felt dream-like.
“Are you sure you can’t . . . stay?” His eyes are filled with regret . . . and something else I can’t quite read.
“I can’t. I can’t break the rules. I don’t want to get on bad footing with the school.”
He backs away. “Of course not.”
“Thank you for a lovely day.” One of the best days of my life.
“You’re . . . welcome,” he says slowly.
His expression is a little hard and I feel bad for disappointing him. “I’m sorry, I can tell you’re upset.”
He shrugs. “Just wanted to spend more time with you.”
“No worries. I still have several months here. Is that enough time?”
His smile is a little weak. “Guess it’ll have to do.”
I’m tempted to say we have the rest of our lives, but that seems presumptuous. “Look, you don’t need to walk me out. It’s a lot of stairs and I’m not going to make you walk them again just because of my phobia.”
When he starts to protest, I interrupt him. “I insist. I can take a taxi home.”
“No, no, I’ll arrange for my limo to escort you home safely. It’ll be waiting for you by the time you get to the first floor.”
I appreciate his thoughtfulness. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”
“No problem.”
“See you again soon,” I say, hoping I don’t sound too desperate. After tonight, I don’t doubt I’ll see him again. Not for a second. As a matter of fact, it seems a sure thing.
He nods and says, “See you.” He doesn’t move to kiss me goodnight. That’s okay, we spent a lot of time kissing during the course of our perfect evening.
He opens the door for me. “Are you sure you don’t want to take the elevator?”
“Positive. I’ll be fine. Downhill is easier, remember?”
He nods rather stiffly, just as sad as I am to see our evening end. “Goodnight, Savannah.”
“Goodnight, Paul.” My Paul. At last I’ve found you.
As I descend each flight of stairs, I’m reminded of each perfect kiss we shared.
And even though my legs ache something awful, I’ve never felt happier in my life. The search for Paul is officially over. I can’t wait to tell my sisters.
To my utter surprise, Paul is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. He holds out his hand and helps me walk down the last few steps.
“Thank you, Paul. You didn’t have to come all the way down here.” But I’m glad he did.
“What can I say? I missed you. Besides, I refuse to let my date walk out alone. At least let me see you to the limo.”
I’m tickled by his kindness. The evening ends with a soft kiss on my cheek and a whispered, “Goodbye, Savannah.”
So . . . now the evening has ended perfectly.
As the limo pulls away, I turn in my seat. He’s standing on the curb, hands in his pockets, a brooding stare on his handsome face. I watch him until the cityscape steals my view.
But nothing can steal the joy in my heart.
Chapter Twelve
September
“MY CLASS WAS crazy today. Two of the boys started to fight and they were yelling at each other at the top of their lungs in Chinese and I had no idea what they were saying or what they were fighting about. When I tried to break them up, one of the boys accidently hit my right cheekbone. It still hurts.” Dakota takes a careful bite of her burger and I can tell she’s in pain. She spent the afternoon holding a bag of ice on her face.
I’m glad Dakota felt up to coming tonight. After eating cafeteria food all day, we all look forward to a delicious meal at Burger, Burger in the evenings. The cafeteria food is a little different every day, but always includes a huge container that looks like a garbage can filled with cooked rice. It’s not the most appetizing way to receive your food. There’s always a sheet pan filled with wet, squishy tofu flavored with chicken broth and topped with herbs and red pepper flakes. No one likes it except Hunter. He likes to mix it with his rice, saying it adds a nice flavor. It turns my stomach.
Dakota moans as she takes another tentative bite.
Keeping the kids in line at school isn’t easy. The children look upon their time with the American teachers as playtime. Their pent up energy tends to make them squirmy and restless.
Tao and Luli helped us set up a reward system. Every time a student speaks proper English, they’re given a token. The tokens are not to be used for good behavior, only for speaking proper English. At the end of the day the children are allowed to redeem their earned tokens for small prizes: pencils, erasers, balloons, bouncy balls, and other miscellaneous items. These silly little toys serve as surprising motivation and even though the tokens are not rewarded for behavior, manners had definitely impr
oved—barring the fight of the century Dakota had been blessed to witness.
In any case, I’ve come to accept that my classes will always be “active.” As long as they’re learning and having fun while doing it, my mission is accomplished.
Hunter chimes in, “The other day I peeked into math class and my worst student had been put in charge of keeping the class in order. My worst student! He’s unruly and loud all the time. Yet you could’ve heard a pin drop. I couldn’t believe my eyes.” He shakes his head with incredulity. “If one of the other children so much as breathed the wrong way, he shouted at them—and they obeyed. Unbelievable.”
It’s true. When the children are in their core classes, their behavior is impeccable. They behave with military-like rigidity. It’s quite impressive.
I change the subject. “We haven’t seen much of you lately, Hunter? How’s your young lady?”
A blush climbs up his face. “She’s awesome.”
I raise my eyebrows. “When do we get to meet her?”
“Oh, I don’t know. This type of place isn’t really her scene.”
Not her scene? I frown. “What is her scene?”
“She’s classy, you know, stunningly beautiful and kind of elegant. She likes the nicer places in town.”
Wow. It sounds as though Hunter worships the ground she walks on.
“By that, do you mean she likes the expensive places?” Dakota huffs.
“Well, yeah. But I’m okay with that. She’s, uh, a little older than me.”
Dakota gives him her no nonsense stare. “How much older than you?”
“Oh . . . by about seven years.”
That’s a little creepy. What’s a classy and elegant Chinese lady doing with a young and effervescent, slightly childlike, Idaho boy?
“She got me a job,” Hunter says modestly.
“A job? What kind of job?” Dakota asks.
“She knows I’d like to be a writer and she used her connections to get a gig for me. I’ve been hired by the publisher she works for to write several articles about the wonders of China. They’d like to spin a positive light on China through the eyes of an American. And the pay is really good.”