53 Letters For My Lover

by Leylah Attar

  I shrug his hands off. “Stay away from me, Troy. And stay away from Jayne.”

  I turn and head for the table, feeling him hot on my heels.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Heather intercepts him and leads him back to the dance floor.

  “He’s got that whole alpha-male vibe going on, doesn’t he?” says Felicia as I collapse into my chair. “If Troy Heathgate locks in on you, you’re done for. Even when you know he’s so, so bad for you, it feels so, so good.”

  Unbelievable. The Troy Heathgate Admiration Society.

  “How do you do it?” I ask. “How do you...share?”

  “Look at him,” she says. “Wouldn’t you rather have a piece than nothing at all?”

  We watch as he leans in to catch something Heather is whispering in his ear.

  “I’m going to get a drink.” Felicia gets up.

  A woman doesn’t like to share, no matter how well she’s convinced herself otherwise.

  I see Milton Malone making a beeline for the table. It’s too late to make my excuses so I say no to the dance and suffer through the conversation. Bob rescues me a little later.

  “Jayne and Matt are looking for you,” he says. “Hey, Milton. How’ve you been?”

  I escape to the head table to say my goodbyes.

  “What? No way!” says Jayne. “We’re just getting started.”

  She pulls me back to the dance floor. It’s fun until I notice Troy Heathgate’s eyes on me. Every time I turn around, there he is, following me with brooding eyes. Having shots at the bar, looking at me. Listening to his dates, looking at me. Toying with his drink, looking at me. Like a hunter stalking his prey. Watching and waiting.

  By the time everyone returns to the table, my legs feel unsteady.

  “I have to pick up the kids,” I say, gathering my things.

  “Don’t forget to take the centerpiece with you.” Elizabeth points to the ivory orchids in the glass vase.

  “I thought the centerpiece goes to the person whose birthday is closest to the wedding date,” says Ryan.

  “Yes. That would be Shayda,” replies Elizabeth.

  “No, that would be Troy.”

  “Shayda.”

  “Troy.”

  Elizabeth sighs. “Shayda’s birthday was yesterday.”

  “No shit! Troy’s was yesterday too.” Ryan slaps the table and laughs. “You guys have the same birthday?” He looks at Troy and then at me.

  Troy watches my discomfort with tipsy amusement. Or maybe that’s just how he looks when he’s completely sloshed.

  “What do you say, Shayda? Arm wrestle me for it?” He reaches across the table.

  His ‘s’s are shlurred. Um, slurred.

  “How about we go by birth year then?” suggests Elizabeth. “Troy?”

  “1962.”

  Nineteen shixty two.

  “Shayda? You don’t have to say. Just before or after?” She asks with a sensitivity that makes me smile.

  “Same,” I reply.

  Elizabeth sits back. “Now isn’t that something?”

  “My grandma used to say that people born on the same day are two halves of the same soul,” says Heather.

  “You hear that, Shayda?” Troy props his elbow on the table and rests his cheek on his palm. “We’re shoulmates.”

  Everyone laughs. He sounds like Sean Connery on Her Majeshty’s Shecret Shlurrvish.

  “Well, I’ll be on my way,” I say.

  “Please.” He picks up the orchids and stands, surprisingly steady on his feet. “I prefer prickly roses.”

  I reach for the flowers.

  “I’ll walk you out,” he says, holding on to them.

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “I insist.” He points to the door.

  Milton Malone is checking his breath.

  He’s not a bad guy. Really. Troy is much worse, except that he could charm the tux off a penguin.

  God. I miss Hafez.

  Troy leads me to the coat check and waits while I pick up my wrap.

  “Here.” He puts it around me as I juggle my keys and purse.

  His knuckles graze my nape, lingering there, a fraction longer than necessary. And then I feel something else, something soft and warm on my skin.

  I spin around, clutching the back of my neck.

  “Did you just...?”

  “Sorry. My lips may have...” He points to his mouth and then to my neck.

  “You’re not sorry at all!”

  “No, not really.” He grins. It’s completely lop-sided.

  “You’re drunk.” I can still feel my skin tingling.

  “Guilty.” He raises one hand.

  “Hey, Shayda. Are you leaving?” Milton Malone catches up with us.

  “I am. Goodnight, Milton.”

  “Yes. Goodnight, Milton.” Troy picks up a mint from the counter and hands it to him.

  “I can take it from here, Troy,” I say.

  “As you wish.” He hands me the vase and holds the door open.

  I step outside, thankful for the slight chill in the air. He follows me out.

  “I said I can take it from here.” I glare at him.

  “Just getting a smoke,” he replies, holding out a pack of cigarettes.

  A shmoke. I roll my eyes.

  I cross the parking lot, acutely aware of his eyes following me, and don’t let my breath out until I get in the car. I hope it’s another twelve years before I see him again. Maybe he’ll have tobacco teeth by then. And thick, bushy hair growing out of his ears. And, please god, a beer belly. Yes, a beer belly would be quite nice.

  I round the exit and catch the red glow of his cigarette. His dark silhouette watches me from the stairs as my tail lights disappear into the night.

  2. November

  June 19th, 1995

  It’s past midnight by the time I get to Maamaan’s.

  “They’re fast asleep,” she says as we check on the kids.

  I stroke their hair. They smell of innocence and trust and fluffy teddy bears.

  “Why don’t you just stay over?” asks Maamaan.

  The thought of sleeping next to my mother, sandwiched between tightly tucked floral sheets, fills me with dread.

  “I’ll pick them up in the morning. Do you think you could have them ready for school?”

  Maamaan shrugs. She’s never been one to worry about details. Things always fall into place, people always do her bidding. Including Baba. Until she divorced him.

  “I don’t have to put up with it here,” she said, a year after they moved from Tehran.

  Of course, she had been counting on Hossein. He would stay with her, he would look after her.

  Maamaan pours me a cup of coffee, regal, even in her curlers and ankle-length night gown. The orchid centerpiece sits unacknowledged on the counter. It’s more Maamaan than me. I feel like November around her, dull and colorless.

  We sit in silence as the grandfather clock ticks the seconds by. The lamp over the table casts a pool of yellow light around us. The rest of the house creaks in weary darkness.

  “You should find yourself a boyfriend,” says Maamaan, snipping a coupon. “You need chicken? It’s on sale.”

  I choke on my coffee. “What?”

  She taps the paper. “Chicken. Boneless, skinless.”

  “Not that.”

  “The boyfriend? Why not?” She puts her scissors down and looks at me. “They do it to us all the time. Every man I’ve known. My father, your father, your brother.”

  “And look what happened.” I push my chair away from the table. “Hafez is nothing like them.”

  “And you think that will keep you safe?” The bitter laugh of a woman whose face is lined with disappointment. “Your father and I, we were something, you know. We burned so bright, the stars grew jealous. But maybe you know something I didn’t. Maybe if you don’t allow yourself to shine, you never burn out.”

  “I didn’t really have a choice, did I, Maamaan?
”

  “Well, you have it now.”

  I know she’s trying to shake off some sense of remorse, for using me to secure the family’s move, to leave behind the life she couldn’t live anymore. Had I not married Hafez, we would still be in Iran. But she hadn’t done it alone. I had played along. There were so many things I had kept from her. What was the point in sharing dark, ugly secrets best left in the past?

  “I have exactly what I want, Maamaan. Hafez makes me happy.”

  “Hmph. Of course he makes you happy. You’d be happy with practically anyone. You’ve never believed anyone owes you anything.”

  I sigh wearily. “What do you want from me, Maamaan?”

  “Nothing.” She goes back to her coupons. “I don’t want anything from you.”

  I look at my aging mother across the stark wooden table. She’s right. She’s never wanted anything from me. Not me. She always looked surprised when the nanny took a day off, like she’d forgotten I was there.

  “Well.” I get up. “I’m all you’ve got.” I walk to the sink and start washing my cup. The water goes from icy cold to blistering hot in seconds.

  “Would you just leave it?” Maamaan grabs the sponge and pushes me out of the way. “It drives me nuts. You can’t even have a cup of coffee without cleaning up after yourself.”

  I push down the familiar prick of pain and wipe my hands. “Thanks for having the kids over this weekend.”

  “Wait.” She gives me a yellow envelope stuck to the fridge with pink daisy magnets. “They made this for you.”

  Inside is a lined sheet of paper, folded in half to make a card.

  ‘Happy Birthday Mum!’ it says. Four stick figures with giant heads hold hands in front of a crooked house. They’re standing on green spikes of grass under a crayon yellow sun.

  ‘We love you.’ Natasha’s careful print, the kind she reserves for important projects, scrolls across the sky.

  “What is it?” asks Maamaan.

  “Nothing.” I smile, folding the waxy paper back into the envelope. “Did Hafez call?”

  “No. Were you expecting him to?”

  “I thought that maybe—never mind.” I head for the door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Come early,” she says. “I want you to call Hossein.”

  My brother, her baby boy.

  I am the secretary between two VIPs.

  “Hossein, Maamaan wants to speak to you.” That’s how it goes.

  I can always feel his misery, picture him squaring his shoulders for the guilt trip that’s about to hit him.

  Maamaan had chosen the prettiest girl for him, the flower of Tehran.

  “Give me lots of grandchildren,” she said.

  But things fell apart. Hossein fell in love with someone he wasn’t supposed to. He left his wife, said goodbye and moved to Montreal. He has three kids now. He sent us a picture of his first born five years ago. We are like shadows from another life to him.

  “Maamaan, he loves you,” I say in the moments her heart is breaking.

  “What good is love if you don’t show it?”

  3. Kiss Me

  June 21st, 1995

  “Troy Heathgate, Line 3.” Susan buzzes me.

  I stare at the flashing red light.

  Don’t pick up. Don’t pick up. Don’t pick up.

  “Good morning, Shayda Hijazi,” I say in my most professional voice.

  “Shaydahhh.” So lazy, so raspy, so I-just-woke-up that I can almost see him in bed. “I’m looking for a place. A condo or loft. Downtown. I’d like you to help me find it.”

  “Sorry, Troy.” I press down hard on my pen. “My client list is pretty full right now.”

  A long pause.

  “Let me get this straight...” His voice turns steely. “You’re refusing to work with me?”

  “I...uh...” I wind the telephone cord around my fingers, wishing I could throttle the connection.

  “I see.”

  The line goes dead.

  I unclench the phone from my hand.

  That was easy. I look at the line again.

  Too easy.

  An hour later, he strides into my office and shuts the door behind him. V-neck t-shirt, worn-in jeans, silver belt buckle—looking like he’s walked straight out of a Levis ad.

  “Wha...what are you doing here?”

  “I get to you, don’t I?” He leans back against the door and folds his arms, unnerving me with point blank scrutiny.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The only reason you didn’t take me on is because you’re afraid.” He takes two steps towards me.

  “That’s ridiculous.” I give thanks to whoever thought of putting wheels on a chair.

  “Bullshit!” His palms slam down on my desk.

  I grip the edges of the folder I’m holding.

  “Kiss me, Shayda.” His voice is thick, like slow-pouring molasses. “It can’t possibly be as good as it is in my head. I’ll walk out of here and we’ll both be free.”

  He leans in, his hands spanning the width of the table. I notice twin tattoos circling his biceps. The blue-black barbed wire reminds me of a crown of thorns. I bet he hasn’t had to sacrifice a thing in his life. In spite of the cross dangling around his neck. I scoff and meet his eyes.

  Big mistake.

  This is what it must feel like, being sucked into the dizzying spiral of a deadly tornado. One moment I’m spinning in the absurdly dark rings around his electric blue irises, and the next, everything fades into the smoldering sensuality of his mouth.

  How many heartbeats does it take to cross ten inches? To close the buzzing, zinging, charged up field between us?

  He waits, not moving, not breathing.

  I move, not thinking, not caring.

  Anything to break free of this absurd, intense connection between us.

  That first brush of our lips—I think it’s going to be like a white-hot current zapping through me, but it’s not. It’s soft and still and very, very quiet.

  Ha! I rejoice. I can do this. I can break this spell.

  My smugness lasts for all of two seconds. Until his arms come around, cradling my face. And he kisses me back.

  All of that dancing, cheating, lying-in-wait energy explodes between us. It swirls through my blood and surges inside me. I reel back, but he doesn’t let go, holding me immobile as his mouth devours me. A hot, awful joy bubbles in my veins as he drags me through a twisting-turning tempest. My fingers start to loosen their grip on the folder, greedy for the texture of his hair.

  And just as I begin to melt, he backs off.

  My eyes bolt open.

  “Thank you. That’s all I needed.” He turns and walks out the door.

  A few minutes later, I hear him in Bob’s office, cool as ice, asking him to show him some properties.

  God. I twist my wedding band until the skin beneath turns white. How could I? How could I, knowing he kissed Jayne with those lips? And Heather. And Felicia.

  My eyes sting with tears.

  What is it about Troy Heathgate that just won’t let me be?

  4. Earth And Sky

  July 23rd, 1995

  “Welcome back.” I hug Jayne. “You look amazing.”

  “Like my tan?” She holds out her arms. “Greece was fabulous!”

  “This place isn’t too bad either.” I look around.

  A sprawling log cottage, tucked away in a secluded cove on Lake Of Bays. The water sparkles through the majestic pines lining the shoreline.

  “It’s been in Matt’s family for three generations. I’m going to love spending the summer here.”

  “And then what?” I ask.

  “And then there’s so much to do! We have to find a place of our own. Then I’ll be busy decorating. Oh, and Matt’s mum wants me to help with her charity. Can you imagine? Me, a sophisticated socialite?”

  “You’re going to do great.”

  It’s true. There may be just four years between us, b
ut Jayne and I are worlds apart. She loves the glamour and glitter, the dinners with influential people. I prefer quiet nights at home, the simple rituals of tucking the kids in, of putting away a freshly washed load of laundry; the smell of homemade soup.

  We turn at the sound of rubber on hot gravel. A car pulls into the driveway. It’s impossible to mistake the driver’s silhouette, the narrow waist, the long muscular thighs.

  I suck in a lungful of air. It’s been a few weeks. His skin is darker, like he’s been playing in the sun. He starts walking towards us, with that lazy gunslinger stride, a power keg dressed in snug jeans and a black t-shirt.

  “Troy, you made it!” Jayne abandons the lunch we’re setting and runs to greet him.

  “Friends?” She kisses him on the cheek.

  “Friends,” he replies.

  His eyes skim the long table under the oak tree and fix on me.

  “Nice,” he says, but he’s not looking at the rustic lanterns on the table, or the mason jars filled with bright sunflowers.

  He takes me in, from the red bandana holding my hair back, to the white summer dress, to the bamboo sandals on my feet.

  “Hello, Shayda.”

  “Troy.” I nod and busy myself with the table.

  “Oh good!” says Jayne as a van arrives. “Ryan’s here. Troy, would you mind rounding everyone up? Mum, dad and Matt are in the kitchen with Shayda’s kids.”

  His eyes swing my way.

  Yes, Troy. Kids. I had another one after the girl.

  “I can’t believe you invited him!” I say as soon as he’s out of earshot.

  “Troy?” Jayne looks puzzled. “Why?”

  “Really? The man who had the audacity to kiss you on your wedding day?”

  “Oh that. Well...” She smiles. “He didn’t kiss me. I kissed him.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t look so shocked, Shayda. You know I’ve always had a killer crush on him. He came in to congratulate me and I figured it was my last chance. Ever. So I kissed him.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing.” Jayne shrugs as she arranges the cutlery. “He gave me cold, dead lips. It was rather awkward, to say the least.”