Strapped

by Nina G. Jones

  “Not yet, but I am going to,” I say as we walk through the vast open living space of the loft.

  “So what do you think of this place?”

  “It is incredible. Is this the penthouse?” The brick walls and old timber give the empty space a homey feeling.

  “Yes. It was recently custom renovated.”

  “It’s a dream.”

  “It’s yours.”

  The statement doesn’t quite register. “What? You mean you got this for yourself?”

  “Well I hope I am welcome here, but I mean it’s yours. As in it belongs to you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I am not sure how else to put it. I had this renovated for you. Almost all of the condos are sold, but I held onto this one for you as a celebratory gift for the new job.”

  “No! Absolutely not, Taylor. This is outrageous!”

  “Please don’t fight me on this.”

  “Taylor, I have my apartment and plus there is a lease on that thing.”

  “It’s taken care of.”

  I put my face in my hands in total exasperation.

  “It’s just not right!”

  “What is so wrong about this?”

  “I can’t explain it. People just can’t accept gifts of this size from people.”

  “So because of some stupid societal rule we can’t give each other big gifts?” He puts his finger up as if to silence me. “Before you go on, know this. I give what I want to give, and no amount of bitching about it is going to change that. Do what you want with this, but it’s yours.”

  His statement takes the proud wind out of my sails and I let out an audible sigh. “Thank you.”

  “I kind of thought that we could stay here most weeknights to have a faster commute to the office when I need to go in. That is, if you’ll have me over.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Let’s go furniture shopping this weekend.”

  “Okay, but somewhere normal humans go.”

  “You can’t furnish a place like this with Ikea. We’ll work something out. You can pay me back with blow jobs if you feel so awful about accepting things from me. They are worth their weight in gold.”

  I shove him. “Taylor! You can’t weigh a blow job!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I call Chad later that day to let him know that I am accepting the job offer and agree to start the following Monday. That weekend, Taylor and I agree to go to a local furniture store that sells vintage inspired, reasonably priced furniture. I also insist that I pay for the furniture. Of course, the vast majority of the money in my bank account is from Taylor, so it doesn’t take much convincing. The loft itself is more than I could hope for: reclaimed timber and hardwood floors, high ceilings and restored windows. The building is an old tannery and the rooms are huge. The living room is so large I had trouble deciding on how to arrange the space. I created a Pinterest board for inspiration and shared it with Taylor. He humored me as much he could, but soon confessed that he always uses an interior designer for furnishing and the only reason he did not in this case is because he knew that I would want to put my own touch on the place.

  I settle on a slate grey velveteen sectional with very clean lines and deep seating -- the kind of couch you could just sink into. Canvas cream curtains adorn the tall windows. A reclaimed vintage teak table adorns the dining area. Pops of color in the form of throws and pillows pepper the furniture. The space is light, clean and simple, so different from the scattered stream of consciousness that now decorates my mind.

  I find myself lying alone in my living room during my last jobless night. The place doesn’t feel like it’s mine, but that could change. Taylor is trying to give me space so that I will claim ownership. He insisted that I spend this night in the condo alone. I really wanted him to stay, but he thought I should get used to the idea of this place being mine and not just a loaner from him. The penthouse is lovely, my views of the city from my rooftop deck and balconies are priceless, but this all feels like an extension of Taylor. I didn’t earn this no matter how he tries to spin it. His arguments as to why I should accept his gifts without question are compelling and appeal to the basest part of me that wants to accumulate material possessions, but sitting here alone; it still doesn’t feel right. I don’t deserve any of this. The place is in my name, but if things between us came to an end, would I, could I, stay here?

  A text:

  Mr. Sexypants:

  I really regret going home. OX

  Things have been feeling strangely normal this weekend. Whatever was bothering him has subsided, at least temporarily. Besides the occasional exhibitionism and doling out of inappropriately large presents, I feel like we are a regular couple. The darkroom hasn’t been visited since my first time a few days ago, and Taylor made it clear to me I would have to initiate. I plan to give it another go, but my meekness about initiating that level of kinkiness has delayed me.

  Shyla:

  Same here. Your idea to leave me here alone was dumb, but I’ll let it slide. Nite. OX.

  As I brush my teeth in my master bath, I hear my phone alert me to a new text. I grin wondering what Taylor has to say to me.

  I was right about you.

  As I stare at the message the apartment goes from cozy to arctic. The silence of the huge loft rings in my ears. This is the first time one of these mysterious texts scares me. The name calling in the past seemed like it could have been accidentally sent to the wrong person, but this statement feels personal. While vague, it stings right to the heart of what I am feeling. If this person thinks I am a gold digger, sitting in this loft is evidence to support his or her thesis. If this is a wrong number, I have to resolve it now.

  Shyla:

  You must have the wrong person. I do not know who you are. Pls stop messaging.

  Unknown:

  I have the right person.

  Shyla:

  Who are you?

  No response comes and I anxiously look through every closet and crevice in the home to make sure I am alone. I want to call Taylor because he makes me feel safe, but I resist the urge. I want to take care of this myself. Who else can I talk to? The fleeting thought to call Rick passes, but it is inappropriate to insist on his help right now. Kristin. She’ll know what to do and I already told her about the condo, so I won’t have to explain that part to her.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Do you have a minute?”

  “Yeah. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “I didn’t want to bother you with this shit, but something weird has been happening that I haven’t told anyone but it’s starting to freak me out.”

  “Tell me!”

  “Someone has been sending me threatening...well not threatening, but insulting text messages.”

  “What are they saying?”

  “Well, stuff like calling me a whore, a gold digger. The creepy thing was tonight, as I am sitting here alone, I got a text saying they were right about me. It’s as if they know about the gift from Taylor, at least that’s how I took it.”

  “You don’t think it’s Rick, do you?”

  “No! He would never do that. That is why I am at a loss. The thing is, Taylor has mentioned people have gone after him in the past because of his money. They have tried to steal from him, but this doesn’t feel like that. It feels personal.”

  “Have you told him?”

  “No.”

  “Shyla!”

  “Listen. Do not say anything to him. He has had a lot on his mind and unless I know this is really something, I don’t want to tell him. He’ll get me guards or something and I am not ready for that. What else can I do?”

  “Save all of the messages. You never know when we’ll need them. Maybe you should look into hiring a PI. I have an older cousin who does PI work. He used to be a detective. I can talk to him and see if he can find out who is doing all of this.”

  “Okay, that sounds like a plan.”

  “Do y
ou want me to come over? Maybe you shouldn’t be alone.”

  “I feel like a five-year-old saying this, but yes. Only if you want to though!”

  “We can have some fun and get your mind off of this. I’ll be there in 20 minutes. See you soon!”

  ***

  It’s my first day at the office. I am immediately greeted by Chad, who takes me around to introduce everyone. I finally meet Laura, a portly woman with wire-rimmed glasses and short chestnut hair, whose child is feeling much better. He takes me to one of the break rooms where they set up a welcome breakfast of fruit, muffins, and bagels. The office attire is quite casual and while I am sure everyone works hard, the general atmosphere is laid back. There are very few offices as most of the work is done in open space to foster a collaborative environment. People appear very happy to work here. Chad shaved his face since the last time I saw him and I am now able to see his features more clearly. His baby face is on full display and he really is adorable.

  Although I am hired to be the assistant director, I will work as a senior designer for the first four weeks to get a grasp on procedures. In addition, I will join Chad in meetings and help him with some of his day to day tasks so I can ease into the team management role. My first day is spent as most are, filling in paperwork, learning my way around the office, setting up my workspace and getting caught up on the first project I will be designing. I nearly hit the floor when I find out who the first client is: Bella’s Intimates.

  Chad explains: “This is a very high-end lingerie boutique.” Don’t I know it. “She wants to redesign her website and all the accompanying marketing materials. This is a straightforward project and I thought you and Tonya could work on it together. You would lead the project. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds great. It’s right up my ally. Frou-frou and lacy.” My personal experience with this place could come in handy.

  Chad invites me to lunch at the cafeteria on the lower level of the building. Over salads, we briefly discuss work, but move into getting to know each other better. He is so easy to talk to; I don’t feel like he is my boss at all. He tells me about his dog, Stacy, who is the love of his life. He recently broke up with his girlfriend and I assured him that I knew what he was going through.

  “So do you have a dog to make you feel better about being alone like I do?”

  “Oh, no, a dog would be nice, but I am actually seeing someone.” Does that sound bad from the outside looking in? Here I am telling Chad about my longterm relationship recently ending and I am already in a new one.

  “Lucky you,” he says sincerely.

  “I definitely wasn’t looking for it. It fell in my lap. More like I fell into his. I spilled coffee on his suit at a coffee shop.”

  “Sounds like a scene out of a romantic comedy. If he was able to look past that, he must be a keeper.”

  “Time will tell.”

  I get a text. My throat dries, a new conditioned response to texts thanks to my personal harasser. It’s Taylor. Thank god.

  “Speak of the devil. He just texted me.” I make sure not to mention his name as I don’t want to reveal quite yet to Chad that I am seeing my former boss.

  Mr. Sexypants:

  Let’s grab dinner right after work doll. Your fav?

  Shyla:

  Not in the mood, let’s try another place.

  My response was a white lie. I met that Eric guy at my favorite spot and want to buy a little time before Taylor and I go there again, just in case. After work, I freshen up and go to a little sushi place to meet Taylor who is running about 10 minutes late. I grab a table for us and order some wine to tide me over. I thumb through my phone to occupy the time.

  “Well, what are the odds!”

  One: people really need to stop coming up on me without warning. What ever happened to a gentle tap on the shoulder? Two: oh fuck, it’s Eric.

  “Wow! Hi!” No reason to get nervous. He knows you have a boyfriend and Taylor doesn’t even remember him. Then why is it that I have a sinking feeling in my stomach?

  “So how are you doing, new friend?” He motions to the empty seat across from me and I nod. He sits in Taylor’s seat.

  “Great! I got the job.”

  “Congrats! Let me get your next drink. Are you alone?”

  “That’s fine, really. Taylor is coming in a few.”

  “I’ll keep you company until he comes.”

  “Sure...are you grabbing dinner?”

  “Take out at the bar, then I spotted you. It must be fate!”

  “Well, busy day at work today securing people?”

  “The usual. Can’t complain. So did Taylor remember me?”

  “What makes you so sure I asked?”

  “Usually an honest person feels the need to somehow confess when they meet someone of the opposite sex that they have a connection with.”

  The boldness of his statement leaves me blank for a moment.

  “He doesn’t remember you,” I say stoically. I don’t know why, but I feel the need to defend Taylor’s honor, maybe because what he just said was true.

  “I figured. It was a long time ago. Usually people remember meeting him, not the other way around.” That statement reminds me of my task at the Russian gala.

  My eyes catch Taylor’s tall figure in a black fitted suit on the other side of the glass entry. I wave my hand in the air to get his attention and smile, trying to set an amicable tone for the introduction. His facial expression changes from neutrality to curiosity when he sees someone seated across from me. My wave incites Eric to turn and look in Taylor’s direction.

  Taylor stops dead in his tracks. His face goes pale, his eyes and nostrils flare and then he marches towards me. What the hell is going on?

  Eric stands. “Taylor, so good to see you!”

  Taylor doesn’t even acknowledge him. He looks directly at me. “Let’s go Shy.”

  “Taylor, what is going on here?” My eyes dart to Eric, who is coolly smiling.

  “Shy, this is not the place. Just come.”

  He grabs my elbow and I pull away and put my hand out towards him. “Okay...okay!” People are beginning to watch the scene unfold. I grab my things and rifle through my wallet to leave cash for the waiter.

  “Don’t worry Shyla. I’ve got it,” Eric says in a low, sympathetic voice.

  Taylor turns to acknowledge him for the first time. “Like hell you do.” He pulls out a one hundred dollar bill from his wallet and throws it on the table.

  Our waiter comes back over to and makes the mistake of placing a hand on Taylor as he asks if there is a problem. Taylor aggressively swats his hand off of him, triggering audible gasps from other restaurant goers.

  “Let’s go,” he says firmly and storms out of the restaurant.

  As we walk away, I mouth that I am so sorry to Eric. He nods in acknowledgment.

  Once we hit the sidewalk I erupt. “What the hell was that Taylor? What is wrong with you? I was just talking to him, we bumped into each other again and I was going to introduce you two. Nothing was going on!”

  “Shy, you don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Wha-What? You don’t get to determine that. I am not a child.”

  “Let’s just get in the car.”

  “No, absolutely not. That was so uncalled for. You made a huge scene. You don’t own me. I am not a child. I can talk to anyone I want.”

  He begins to chuckle. “You think this is about jealousy? Like I said, you don’t know him.”

  “And you do? You said you didn’t know anyone named Eric when I asked.”

  “I didn’t think that was the Eric you were talking about.”

  “Don’t bullshit me!”

  “This is not the place for this.”

  “Oh and the restaurant was? You could have simply asked me aside like a normal person instead of humiliating me. I am not getting in the car with you. I’ll walk.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Please just get inside.”

&
nbsp; “Not until you tell me what the hell that was all about.” He hesitates. I turn my back to him and tromp away boiling with anger and humiliation.

  “Fine, I’ll tell you. Just please get in the car.”

  We get in the car and I slam the door as hard as I can. Taylor looks at me with disapproval from the corner of his eye.

  “So tell me now.”

  He takes a deep breath and runs his fingers through his hair. “I don’t want to drag you into this Shy.”

  I shake my head and attempt to open the car door which is now locked. “Harrison, unlock please.” I see his eyes dart to Taylor in the rearview mirror. “Harrison, unlock it now!”

  He does and I dash out of the vehicle. I hear Taylor’s footsteps behind me. “Shyla!”

  I turn to face him. “I can’t do this anymore. You can’t just act however you want and keep the reasons away from me. That just doesn’t cut it. I know you think I am some fragile doll that can’t handle the truth, but I can. I have been through some shit in my life too.”

  “It’s not you who I think can’t handle it. It’s me.”

  “You have to move forward. You are stuck. I can’t be with parts of you. What if I shut you out of entire parts of my life? This is the only way you have a chance of getting better.”

  Taylor pauses to think. “You have to promise you won’t judge or pity me.”

  “Haven’t I proved that already?”

  He nods.

  “Now tell me the truth. How do you know Eric?”

  Taylor remains silent for several seconds before finally uttering a response.

  “Eric is my brother.”

  My stillness is only interrupted by an angry cab driver honking at us for blocking the street.

  “Please, Shy. Let’s go to your place. I’ll talk. I am tired of this too.”