53 Letters For My Lover

by Leylah Attar

  “To Zarrin.” She clinks her cup against mine.

  “To Khaleh,” I reply.

  Only when she has sipped all her tea and finished her pastry, does she remove the hat.

  “Call Hossein,” she says.

  I get up and start dialing the number. Then I stop, put the phone on the table and sit back down.

  “Call him yourself.”

  Maamaan stares at me for a while before collecting her face. Then she clears her throat and picks up the receiver.

  27. Two Shades Of Red

  July 6th, 1996

  “What is it?” I ask, in the quiet afterglow of passion.

  Troy takes my hand and entwines his fingers with mine.

  “I wish I could hold your hand outside this room, go for a walk, sit on a patio, watch the world go by.”

  I snuggle closer, to stop these simple, ordinary wishes from seeping between us, wishes that live and die in these four corners.

  “Are you coming to Jayne’s barbecue next month?” I ask.

  “I’m in New York that weekend.” He shifts so he’s lying on his side.

  I feel a stab of tenderness—the tousled hair, the sleepy sensuality in his eyes, the way he looks at me with that intense, soulful gaze.

  “I love your after-sex face,” I say, tracing the line of his jaw.

  “Oh yeah?” He pulls me closer so I can feel him stirring. “How about my before-sex face?”

  “But you just...we just...”

  “Shut up and kiss me, Beetroot.”

  What starts as soft and gentle, quickly becomes urgent.

  “God, I love the way you taste,” he says. “You get so wet and your clit...” He licks me with slow, broad strokes before switching to a burst of rapid, stomach-clenching caresses.

  “Your clit gets so swollen.” He places his tongue beneath the mass of throbbing nerves and slide it up with soft, wet strokes.

  Desire explodes at the pure, uncensored delight he takes in me. I wiggle my hips, hoping to ease the tension. He cups my butt and lifts me higher, deepening the red hot attack on my senses.

  My fingers claw at the bed sheets.

  “Not yet.” His voice is muffled, but his eyes seek mine.

  When he slips his finger inside, I throw my head back, unable to keep contact.

  “Look at me.” He slides his body over mine. “Look at me as I take you.”

  He sheaths himself with a condom before prying me open and settling deliciously into my core. A ragged cry leaves his mouth as he sinks into my ready wetness. My hands grip his shoulders as he eases out, almost all the way, and then back in.

  “So good.” His eyes glaze over as he looks at me.

  He thrusts into me, slowly, rhythmically, building me up, until I’m arching my hips, giving in to that explosive need. He grips my hipbones, his strokes coming harder and faster.

  “Come with me,” he says. “Come with me, Shayda.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can. Like this...” He moves behind me, drawing my back to his chest so we’re both resting on our sides. “Now.” He slides into me. “Squeeze, baby.”

  I double cross my legs and start with long, slow contractions of my thighs. It’s a different sensation, having him embedded in me, fuller, thicker, but I find my rhythm and thrill to the deep, guttural sounds that escape him. I arch my back and grind back against him.

  “Wait. Hold still.” He sucks in some air, fighting to pace himself. “You first.” His hands clamp down on my hips.

  I abandon myself to it, riding the pleasure to its pinnacle as he wraps his arms around me. I come hard, spiraling around two worlds—the hard, magnificent length of him and the twisting, pulsing bud of need.

  He takes my ear into his mouth and stifles a moan as he feels me contract around him.

  “I’ve got you.” He holds me tight, as he gives in to his own passion, in short, jerky gasps.

  We collapse against each other. I close my eyes, knowing I have never felt more connected to anyone and it kills me, that it’s wrong.

  “Shayda?”

  I refuse to look at him. He gathers me in his arms and lets me cry into his chest. There are no questions, just the softness of his fingers stroking my hair. The minutes tick by, but we stay locked together.

  “I’m glad you don’t have to rush off,” he says.

  “Me too,” I reply, drawing little circles on his chest.

  “I’ll be right back.” He excuses himself to use the bathroom.

  When he comes out, I’m wrapped in a sheet, painting my toe nails.

  “What color is that?” he asks.

  “This is...” I turn the bottle over and read the label. “Ablaze.”

  “I love it.”

  “The shade?”

  “The shade is very sexy on you, but also the fact that it’s never plain ‘red’ with you women. It’s strawberry red or candy-apple red or habanero red.”

  “And I love that it’s all about food with you guys. Strawberries and apples and habanero. I think this is named more for an emotion or a feeling.”

  “Ah, so ablaze, aflame, aglow, astride...”

  “Astride?” I laugh. “That’s not a feeling. That’s a position, Mr. One-Track-Mind."

  “I can behave. Occasionally.” He stretches out on his tummy. “Give me your foot.”

  “Have you done this before or am I going to get goopy nails?”

  “You’ll just have to trust me.”

  As it turns out, he has an incredibly steady hand. He paints thin strips of shiny color with rapt attention. Troy Heathgate, treating my toes like they’re the center of his universe.

  “What?” he asks when I giggle.

  “You just focus,” I reply, wanting to do nothing more than shower him with big, squishy smooches.

  “There.” He sits back, admiring his handiwork.

  “Not bad.” I stretch my legs, wiggling my toes before me. “You have hidden talent.”

  “I have many hidden talents.” He rests the soles of my feet on his chest and blows on my toes in a way that makes me want to curl them up.

  “Let’s go sit on the balcony,” I suggest.

  We can watch the world go by from there.

  “Not so fast.” He gets the robes from the bathroom and helps me into the one that says ‘Hers’. Then he picks me up and carries me to the over-sized patio chair. “We don’t want to ruin your toes.”

  “You spoil me,” I say.

  He drops a kiss on my nose and settles into the chair beside me. A dazzling view of the water stretches out before us.

  “Do you always ask for this suite?”

  “I ask for the best.” He says it with no trace of pretentiousness. “Come sit with me.”

  I curl up next to him. It’s like we can’t go too long without the feel of the other.

  “I won’t be able to see you for a while,” I say.

  “No?”

  “The kids are home for the summer and Hafez is taking some time off.”

  We watch sea gulls swoop down into the water, and the bobbing sails of boats across the lake.

  “Troy?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

  “Notice what?”

  “No red condoms today.”

  “Never again.” His eyes crinkle at the corners.

  “No more Scary Cherry?”

  “No, but I kinda like the way that sounds. You may be on to something, Beetroot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean like a cosmetic company that manufactures just one shade of red. I can totally see women with Scary Cherry lips and Scary Cherry toes and Scary Cherry cheeks.”

  “You’re crazier than I thought.” I laugh. I’m crazier than I thought too. About him.

  “I wish you’d kept the cell phone,” he says.

  “Hey, we have our work email set up now. You can message me.”

  “What about beetbutt? Have you logged in recently?�
��

  “beetbutt@hotmail.com?” I laugh. “I’d forgotten about that.”

  “Maybe I should leave a reminder so you don’t forget.” He gives my bottom a good spank.

  “Ouch!” I rub it in sore indignation. “I think that’s my cue to leave.”

  “Stay.” He pulls me back. “I’ll kiss it better.”

  I stretch out on top of him, feeling his hand slide under the robe. “I really have to go.”

  “But we’re in the middle of expanding our line. We now have two viable shades of red: Scary Cherry and Beet Butt.”

  “I. Have. To. Go.”

  “You can’t. Your toes aren’t dry yet.”

  “They’ve been dry for ages.” I laugh.

  “Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he says as I step inside.

  I’m almost dressed when he comes in and helps me button up.

  “I blew off a major meeting to see you today,” he says. “You’re no good for business.”

  “You don’t say.” I lift the hair away from my neck, letting him fix my collar.

  “Uh-huh. You’re hazardously distracting.” He brings his hips into full contact with mine.

  “And you, Mr. Heathgate, are completely insatiable.”

  “Completely.” He grins before handing me my handbag. “Have you ever thought about getting your broker’s license?”

  “Me? Do what Bob does?” I laugh. “I’m fine with being an agent.”

  “Don’t settle for fine, Shayda. You’re a fantastic negotiator. I think it’s because you’re so good at making everyone happy. You should look into it.”

  He gives me a long, slow kiss goodbye, the kind that will stay on my mind. I linger, not sure when I’ll feel the full, firm crescent of his mouth on me again.

  I walk into the hallway, straightening my skirt as I wait for the elevator. A man walks out, but I’m too busy smiling at the shiny red paint peeking through my open-toed shoes.

  “Shayda.”

  I freeze.

  Baba.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, holding the elevator open.

  “I was just...dropping off some papers.” How easily the lie rolls out of me.

  “Ah, for a minute I thought I’d caught you in the act. You know, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” He laughs like it’s an absurd inside joke, because it’s something that can never be.

  I want to scratch his eyes out. Because he’s right. I made sure I married someone as different from him as possible. I never expected that I’d be the one who would turn into him.

  “I didn’t know you were in town,” I say.

  He shrugs. “You know how your mother gets when she finds out. Why am I here? Who have I come to see? It eats her up inside. I can feel her curses raining down on me.”

  I nod. “Well, see you around.”

  He pushes the door aside as it starts to close. “Listen Shayda, I...uh...”

  Oh dear god. Not here. Not when Troy can come striding out of the room at any minute.

  I watch as Baba fumbles. I notice the age spots on his hands, the way his lids droop on his eyes, like a tired, crinkled roof, sliding lower every year.

  “Maybe we can meet for coffee while I’m in town?” he asks.

  I see us sitting across the table, sugar cubes and awkward silences, like two strangers stuck together on a train.

  “Sure,” I reply.

  Baba smiles. I know he won’t call. He knows he won’t call, but it’s not about that. It’s about me accepting his olive branch. And how can I not, when I am trailing in his footsteps myself?

  The door closes, separating our worlds—the Apple and the Tree.

  28. Tsunami

  August 4th, 1996

  “Are you kidding?” asks Ryan. “You’re going to serve us year-old cake?”

  “It’s a tradition,” replies Jayne. “And it’s been carefully preserved. I didn’t even have to re-frost it.”

  “I don’t know.” Ryan eyes the thawed out top of Jayne and Matt’s wedding cake. “Can I just get another hamburger instead?”

  “Ellen.” Jayne turns to his wife. “Can you talk some sense into my brother?”

  The deep, heavy rumble of a motorbike cuts her short.

  “Holy shit!” Ryan gets up as the fire-engine red steel and chrome machine rolls into the driveway. “I’ll be damned!” He races off towards it.

  Tough boots, snug jeans and a wicked black leather jacket—trouble cruising for a place to land. Even with the sleek, dark helmet, I know the sexy, assured way Troy carries himself—feet planted wide, the broad measure of his shoulders, the chest that cradles my cheek.

  “Who’s that?” asks one of the guests.

  “Down, girl,” says Jayne. “There’s a waiting list.”

  “Does it look like I care?” she replies.

  “That’s a Ducati 916,” says Hafez, more interested in the hardware.

  The men make their way, gathering around the bike like schoolboys around a shiny, new toy.

  “Helllllooo?” yells Jayne. “Cake-cutting going on here!”

  “Come on, guys,” says Matt. “Before my wife serves my head instead of cake.”

  “Hello, Jayne.” Troy gives her a peck on the cheek.

  “Making a splash as always?”

  “Sorry. Bad timing?”

  “You’ll just have to make it up to me,” replies Jayne. “Maybe a ride on that sexy thing after wards?”

  “You got it, Mrs. Cavelry.”

  “Happy Anniversary!” We clap as Jayne and Matt cut into the cake.

  My eyes find Troy’s over the cheering. I’m immobilized by the rawness he pins me down with. That intense sexual tension, yes, but something else, a slow inner smoldering, like a heart on fire.

  “Where are Natasha and Zain?” I ask Hafez.

  “In the back with the other kids. Matt set up a trampoline and a sprinkler to keep them busy.”

  “I’ll go check on them.” I need to get away, to breathe. I’m completely unprepared to see him.

  “Shayda.” Jayne stops me. “Would you mind rustling some lunch up for Troy?” She turns to him. “I should let you go hungry for showing up so late, but there are lots of leftovers inside. Tell Shayda what you want.”

  Tell Shayda what you want. I almost laugh at the irony of it.

  “I thought you weren’t coming,” I say as he follows me into the kitchen.

  “I rescheduled New York.”

  I can feel the heat of his body behind me as I open the large foil dishes. Hamburgers, chicken, corn on the cob, coleslaw....

  His hand halts mine as I reach for the plate, pressing my palm flat against the counter. His other arm comes up from behind, circling my waist.

  “Troy—”

  He swings me around and captures my lips in a rough, savage kiss, branding me with his possession, rendering me defenseless. I push against him, but he forces one leg between mine, slanting his mouth to deepen the kiss. His hands slide into my hair, tugging my head back, plundering my mouth with his tongue. Blood roars through my veins, a rushing boom-boom-boom, drowning out where I am, who I am. My body ceases to struggle.

  “Why haven’t you returned any of my calls?” His lips press against my temple.

  Because I’m scared. Because each time I see him, it’s a little more overwhelming than before. Because I’m afraid it’ll build up to a tsunami-like crescendo and come crashing down on me. I cling to him, inhaling the rich, intoxicating smell of him and wind and leather.

  “Hello? Anyone here?” A woman’s voice asks from the entrance.

  We break apart at the sound of approaching footsteps.

  “Hey!” It’s the girl who was admiring him outside. “I hear you want some lunch.” She holds out her hand. “I’m Tanya.”

  “Troy.”

  “So did you find anything yet?” She looks at me, then him, and then the counter.

  “You know what? I’m going to leave the two of you to it,” I reply. �
��I have to check on the kids.”

  Troy’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say anything. He slides out of his jacket and gives Tanya that knees-to-jello smile.

  “I think we’ll manage just fine,” he says to her, without looking at me. “Won’t we? Tanyahhh.”

  I leave the kitchen, my heart dragging like a wet rag behind me. I follow the trail of kids’ laughter outside, but there’s no sign of Natasha or Zain.

  “I can’t find them.” I say when I return to Hafez.

  “Here.” He hands me his half-eaten cake. “I’ll go take a look.”

  Troy comes out of the house laughing, with Tanya literally eating out of his hand—carrot sticks or celery or whatever’s on his plate. The two of them sit under the tree, away from the rest of the party. I know what he’s doing. He’s wringing my wet rag of a heart until it’s all twisted and turned, punishing me for keeping us apart.

  The cake tastes like saw dust in my mouth. I laugh at something Matt says, because everyone’s laughing, so it must be funny.

  Don’t look, don’t look, I tell myself, but my eyes wander back to Troy...the exact moment when he leans over and kisses Tanya.

  A high pitched shriek comes from the lake. Everyone pauses.

  Then we hear it again.

  “Natasha!” I drop my plate and start running towards the water.

  She comes crashing through the trees.

  “Natasha! Are you all right?”

  “It’s Zain. He’s in the water.” She catches her breath. “We were playing on the boat and he fell over.”

  I can’t get to the dock fast enough, my heart hammering against my ribs. Heavy, urgent footsteps follow me.

  “He can’t swim,” I cry.

  “Keep her here.” I hear Troy’s voice. And then a splash.

  Hafez catches up to me.

  “Zain.” I point to the water. “He fell in.”

  Another splash as he joins Troy. Matt and Ryan peel off their shirts and dive in.

  My knees buckle and hit the hot, splintered wood. I’m vaguely aware of Natasha crying beside me.

  One by one, heads come up in the water.

  Oh please. Oh please. A flicker of hope bursts to flame each time someone emerges, but no Zain. They come up empty, gasping for air before diving in again.