by Sunniva Dee
“Tonight needs to be special. I’m leaving, and you already know how I feel about you.”
“It’s pretty here,” I interrupt. “I... What’s with the candles?”
He groans. Then he laughs and pulls close, and I’ve never felt smaller with him than I do now. I’m Shorty, soft under a hard arm that’s gentle for me. It makes me feel—
I need to not think of how that makes me feel. But all that strength treating me like I’m made of glass?
“Ah. I’m just going to do it.”
There’s food here too, I notice. Little dishes with lids on them. Goblet-looking glasses which could hold wine and small plates. Utensils and napkins, everything needed.
The brain is a wondrous thing. Here I am, scanning the surroundings instead of steeling myself for his I’m-just-going-to-do-it.
Quietly, he eases away, just far enough to fumble inside a pocket and stare into my eyes. I stare back, unable to procrastinate his attention any longer.
Deer-eyed and innocent
Ignorant beauty queen
You, thief of hearts
Flooder of brains
You, everything
Filler of souls
Let me fight to be
Your everything too
Molten, his voice tapers off on the last syllable. My mouth opens and closes. Inwardly, I shake my head, because, No, no, no, no, no.
“All the advice online says to leave it out there in the open and give it all. If a man wants his woman, he’s got to be honest, it says. I know this isn’t the best situation for me to ask what I’m about to ask, but I hope the setting softens the blow.”
Ciro gets on one knee.
Ciro opens a box, a black velvet box, and inside something chunky absorbs the moonshine and shoots it back with a crazy sparkle.
“Jesus Christ? No!” I shout and slam a hand over my mouth.
“Savannah, please be my wife.”
“Are you high?”
“Think about it?”
“You want to go from zero to everything in one second? We’re not even together anymore, and you want to get married?” A stupid little girl lives inside me crumping with glee. Did you see that rock? It was yellow! That wasn’t just the moon. Omigod, a big, yellow diamond. Those are rare and freaking expensive and so beautiful. You can have it, Savannah!
In the candlelight, my face must be an uproar of shock, nerves, and amusement. Ciro’s features are as tender as he is with me.
“That’s me, baby girl. You should know by now.”
“What about that saying, ‘If you love something, set it free’?”
“That’s an old bullshit saying. Whoever came up with it didn’t like to fight for what he wanted. He just leaned back and tapped the seat next to him.” Ciro smirks when he sees that I’m struggling to remain serious.
“Weakly,” I say.
“Right. He tapped the seat next to him with a single weak finger.”
That does it. I crack up. Lean over my lap and cough out my laugh. It’s not just his description, but the night, him leaving tomorrow, the gigantic rock he’s still holding outstretched as if it’s a matter of seconds before I grab it.
“Oh that’s funny to you?” His pitch has lowered into that dangerously intimate tone.
“A little.”
I’m not engaged-to-be-married. I am sore though, and my non-boyfriend holds me tight in my driveway at four fifteen in the morning.
“Be good, okay?” he tells me.
“Funny coming from you,” I mutter.
“I’ll be good. Work and hotel rooms, maybe some sightseeing.”
“Who are you... working with?”
He frames my face with his hands and tips my head up so he can peck my forehead. I melt.
“It’s a South African branch of Lucid. We’re shooting a few jungle-themed scenes, and it’ll be with girls I haven’t worked with before. I’m the only one flown in.”
Pang.
“Fuck them.”
He raises his eyebrows.
“I mean, I was cussing them out.” I shake my head. It’s late. Nothing makes sense anymore while I finish my wayward cussing spree. “They should go hang themselves, all of them.”
He doesn’t laugh. Instead he hooks me into the crook of his arm and pulls me against him. He rocks me quietly, like we really are together and he wants me to feel safe. “Don’t forget, Savannah. They’re not you. No one is you to me. You’ve lodged yourself inside me so hard I don’t think I could rip you out if I wanted to. I’ll be back in two weeks. Can we pick up where we left off then?”
“On a mountaintop with an engagement ring?” I fib. “Or hugging in a driveway?”
He lifts me, and I clamp my legs around his waist as he kisses me, a position I’ve been in too often lately. At a different axis. “Leave that to me, baby girl.”
This is an excellent opportunity to forget there was ever a porn star boyfriend. He’s all the way in South Africa, doing god-knows-what—or more like, I-know-what, and all I have to do is turn off my phone.
I need my phone though. It’s where everybody gets a hold of me, you see. And also, it turns out that Drake Constantine has a Facebook page. A Tumblr page. An Instagram page, a Snap page—and Twitter!
So this isn’t the way to get over him and move on. It’s the way to obsess the shit out of him, because he has a-hundred-and-fifty-four thousand followers on Twitter. Two-hundred-and-thirteen-thousand five hundred and two on Instagram, and that’s how I notice that most of them are women.
@DrakeC You’re so dreamy! Next time you’re in NY, big guy, come find me! Kissy-face
@DrakeC Damn good DP on @RyderXXX’s Ibiza film. U pro!
@DrakeC Heart you! I’ll have your babies!
@DrakeC Miss working with you love Mwah.
To the latest post, there’s an explicit gif of his... yeah. It’s coming out of someone, and by the looks of it, he was pretty happy seconds earlier.
I jump when Charlotte touches my shoulder. Mintrer’s just opened for lunch, and we have no customers yet. I blacken the screen of my phone, but I can’t get rid of my face.
“You okay?”
“Will be.”
“Ciro?”
“More like Drake.”
“Ah.” Her eyes go to my phone. “You were checking out his social media.”
I nod, ashamed of how I can’t move on. She should berate me, tell me I need to stop being an idiot and get on with my life, but she rubs my shoulder.
“I’ve seen it. That stuff’s gotta be tough for you.”
“He has all these followers everywhere. Crazy stalker women and guys who think he’s awesome.”
“People like to tag him in videos too,” she adds. “I was surprised, though. He doesn’t seem to post any himself. Your ex posts a lot of pictures of his dog.” She smiles. “And nature. A lot from his travels, maybe? Like a lot of cool churches and foreign-looking streets.”
“Yeah, I don’t know. Guess I didn’t really look at that. I saw all the comments about digging him and a video someone posted saying they missed him.” And that right there makes me nauseous. “You know the worst part?”
She juts her lip out considering, but I don’t give her time to guess.
“It wasn’t the video itself. That could’ve been any porn-dude’s penis. I wouldn’t have thought twice about it if it weren’t for the chick tagging him. The worst part was that she said she missed working with him. She missed him.”
“Yeah, I don’t blame you.”
“She missed working with him.” I open my phone and force myself to look again. His dick at a leisurely pace, slowing down after a big moment. I look away, to her comment. Miss working with you.
“I’d miss working with you if you left Mintrer’s,” I tell Charlotte.
>
Her mouth twists as she catches on. “You love me that much?”
I lift a tentative smile too. “I do love you. As a friend and a colleague.”
“I’d hate it if you left Mintrer’s.”
I study Charlotte’s expression, the red lock falling into her eye and blinking with her eyelashes. My smile grows a little.
I hate my life right now. Since I gave up on the phone-sales job, I’ve been looking for a third job. Bussing at Mintrer’s isn’t enough to live off of, and walking Mr. Dakapoulous’ dogs doesn’t pay enough to be significant. Sometimes I wish I’d accepted Ciro’s offer to get paid for walking Princess.
Then there’s Mom. She’s aflame with brilliant ideas at all hours again, and I’m the first one she calls about them. As always, they involve moving really far away and starting over. It’s everything from cults to animal shelters in exotic places, to opening a shave-ice store in Hawaii from which she can keep an eye out for the Paroaria Coronata—the red-crested cardinal, of course. He needs her.
My mother has become a ticking time bomb. Luckily, her cleaning-lady gig and the few clay-blob sales she’s made haven’t amassed any savings for her.
I’m relieved to have my roommates. I’m not big on branching out, so I don’t make new friends hand over fist like some. But the ones I have don’t tend to get sick of me. Lin, Sam, Charlotte, and Frieda. They’re there and so close I can knock on their doors if we’re not already hanging in the kitchen.
I’ve stayed true to my decision of not encouraging what Ciro and I are not, so we haven’t been in contact since he left for South Africa. Doesn’t mean I’ve been fully good. I don’t follow Drake, but I’ve been on his social media. Basically, I make it about twenty-four hours at a time, but then I’m right back to watching his train wreck.
The pictures he posts are of palm tree alleys leading up to cathedrals, a water fountain at the center of a lake against the backdrop of a lush forest. A Christ statue against the sky. The silhouette of a bridge at sunset. “Wish my lady was here with me,” the text on the bridge says. My lady. My chest pangs again. Ciro is the expert at making my chest pang.
I think about how easy it was to talk Mom down from her China idea with him there leveling with her. Between Paul and me, we’ve at least kept her from packing her suitcases again. So far.
I miss him. I went out with Frieda the other night, on the lookout for a new man. Seriously, it’s like that. I dressed up with the sole intention of finding someone who could stop my mind from churning on my ex.
This guy hovered around us most of the night, patient while Frieda and I danced with wannabes and over-enthused waiters. I guess I liked that he didn’t give up. He was a talker too, like Ciro. Check-check, right? Then we kissed, and it was bullshit.
Skip forward to the morning after. Frieda was still excited. “Come on. You’ve got his number. You should give him a go. Gah, I wish you’d let him come home with you.”
“Right, especially since he was already falling short in comparison to Ciro. Me, after a one-night stand from Whatever Central right now: can you imagine the angst? You just like him for his name.”
She grinned through a sluggish blink. “If I had a twin, that would’ve been the name. Did I tell you that?” She raised her hands, looking at an imaginary neon sign and spelling it out. “‘Frieda and Freddie.’ It would’ve been like my best friend was dating my brother.”
“God, you’re weird.”
She sets me up on a blind date—only because she’s having one. My thought on that? She’s setting herself up, via-via friends, so there’ll be a date for me. She knows I’d never do that stuff on my own.
It’s at a fancy sushi place. So fancy I’m delighted my wallet isn’t involved. And as it turns out, we’re blind-dating twins. What are the odds, right? In the restroom, Frieda admits to not being the slightest bit attracted to her twin, but, “Damn, girl! We need to stick this one out. What if we end up seriously in love with twins? We could buy a house together and have one part of it each, and then we’d have a common kitchen.”
“Sounds familiar. Though we’d have separate bathrooms.”
“Of course.” She grins.
“And we’d need three bedrooms, at least. Two for my twin and me, because never!, and one for yours and you,” I say.
She bursts out laughing. “Make that four bedrooms.”
I smack my fresh layer of lipstick and put on my determined-face. “Alrighty. Time we head on back and describe our future living arrangements.”
My twin has lost the lemon from his water into his wine. It’s sunk deep already, and he’s trying to fish it out with a fork. Frieda’s twin is passing him a second fork, mimicking how he can pull it out between the two forks like tweezers.
“I wonder if they help each other with every mundane task?” Frieda ponders. “Like, what if one has problems opening a condom. Would he call for help?”
“Stop it.” I cover my mouth to hide my amusement as I sit down. Beady eyes look up from the glass and at me.
“I lost my lemon.”
“I can tell. You want a new one?” I joke, and the guy looks relieved.
“Oh right. Good idea. I don’t know what happened.”
Seriously?
I flag down the waiter, like the good Samaritan I am. “We’re going to need another slice of lemon over here. For him.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re all paid up, out of there, and in Frieda’s car. I open my hand and look at the crumpled napkin with my twin’s phone number on it. Then I look at Frieda, who does the same thing.
“Wanna swap?” she asks.
I nod like I mean it.
“I can get us another blind date, pretty sure. My cousin works at this dot-com place that survived the heyday. They’ve got tons of nerds in need of saving.”
Mr. Dakapoulous is sick. It’s just a cold, but he’s so thankful when I get him his pharmacy remedies and take the dogs for the day. He’d hate it if Daisy/Dolly/Dixie and Ralph/Rough had to lie around watching him like this all day. He wants to pay me a babysitter price, but I can’t. The man is old and has no one else. How can I rip him off just because he’s sick?
I don’t have work until late, so I bring the dogs to Mom’s.
“Ooh, looky at the babies,” she coos. “You know what I need to do? There’s this place up north. Have you heard of the Arctic? The polar bear is suffering because the climate and all that. Did you know it’s almost extinct?”
“Mom. What the heck would you do in the Arctic? There’s hardly any people there. Anyone you know? Any job? How will you survive?” I go for the kill right away, shortening Ciro’s longer, nicer version that worked miracles weeks ago.
She folds her hands, a patient moment while she waits for me to come to my senses. Then: “Savannah. How can you be so worried all the time? Let people live their lives and do what makes them happy. Have I ever tried to stop you from pursuing your passions?”
“I don’t have any passions, Mom,” I mutter. “All I want is to survive financially and make sure you don’t get into trouble.”
“No? No passions? I beg to differ. For instance, I don’t believe in marriage.” She slaps her chest like she wasn’t married for twenty-one years to the most patient man in the world. “But did you hear me complain about your relationship with that boy, Ciro? I want what’s best for you, and I could tell right away that you are happy when you’re with him. I’d be a poor mother if I tried to stop something that made my girl happy just because of my own principles.”
“Wow. Well, that’s a little different, don’t you think?” I make a scale with both hands, tipping it in the air. “Having a boyfriend versus uprooting and hightailing it to the North Pole.”
“It’s not the North Pole, silly. I think.” She frowns, scanning the room behind me and stretching her head to see out the window toward my car. �
��Where is that boy anyway? You haven’t brought him in a while.”
“Traveling.” I don’t feel like going into detail with her.
“That’s nice. When’s he back?”
“In five and a half days.” And yes, I know I shouldn’t be so aware of this.
“Aww, I bet you’re excited, sweetie.” Her face takes on a mischievous sheen, and I’m pretty sure I won’t like what comes out of her mouth next.
“When your dad had been away for a while, he always made it up to me. I’d get you kids off to school, and he’d take a sick day, and we wouldn’t leave the bedroom until it was time to pick you up.”
“Oh Jesus, I did not need to hear that.”
“What, is it so hard to believe that your mother and father also had a sex life? Did you think the three of you were brought to us by the stork?” She laughs heartily, and that’s when Daisy has an accident on the kitchen floor. It’s a happy accident; it gets me out of my mom’s house.
It’s been ten days and not a word from him. Ten. Days. He proposed to me for crying out loud. Doesn’t that count for something?
I’m in class, supposedly listening to the professor, but my pen shakes too hard in my hand. Or more like I wiggle it, whip-whip, whip-whip, between index and middle finger, slamming it against the palm of my hand.
“Miss Nichols. Do you mind?” Professor Hargrove juts his face forward and stares over the rim of his glasses.
“Of course. Sorry.” I put the pen down and cross my arms, staring up at the whiteboard. Bottom-line Business Growth. Closed-Loop Marketing. It doesn’t ring a bell at the moment. Better study when I get out of here. We have a quiz on Tuesday, also according to the whiteboard.
Texting Ciro wouldn’t do any good. He probably has roaming off on his phone, what with it being crazy expensive to keep on in another country. And again, texting your ex never does any good, no matter where he is.
I check his Twitter. Oh wow. There are photos of him in a stunning suit holding some trophy. He has the same girl at his side in all of them. She’s a dark-skinned, dark-haired beauty, co-star from the film that won Hottest Scene of the Year, and she smirks in all of them as if she’s aware that I’m stalking his Twitter.