by Jaimes, Cole
“Oh yeah?” Brandon looks genuinely pleased for me, grinning from ear to ear. “Lucky guy. I hope he’s treating you well.”
I think of Aidan, making me promise not to get up and leave before he wakes up in the morning. Aidan, the way he looked at my body, the way he knew just how to touch me. How it felt like I could be myself with him, like he didn’t have any expectations, wasn’t going to expect me to be something or someone I’m not. And before I can stop myself, I am nodding my head at Brandon.
“He really does,” I tell him.
***
Finally, it’s time to leave the office. I hear a few of the girls talking about which bar they’re going to meet at and whether or not they should go out to the movies after or to this new club that’s just opened up. They’re laughing and sharing inside jokes and not one of them looks at me on their way out. It must be nice for that to be your biggest dilemma in life—whether to go to a club or to the movies—and even though none of the girls will invite me now because I never took them up on their offers when I first started working here, there is a part of me that wishes I was closer with them. If I were, I could have a girlie chat with them, ask them what I should do. Not that I’d give them the full story, of course. No, just the basics. It would be a conversation held over drinks, no doubt, and they’d help me decide whether I was crazy or if maybe this is the best thing that has ever happened to me.
I could never tell them I’ve slept with Aidan Callahan, though. Those girls would never believe that someone like him would ever give me the time of day. It would take some serious convincing on my part to make them believe I had, and, if and when they did, they’d probably want to know every last sordid detail. There are a million girls out there who would just die to trade places with me right now, who would trade anything to have Aidan Callahan soulfully requesting that they still be in his bed in the morning when he woke up.
When I get home, there’s a bouquet of flowers and a card outside the door to my apartment. I pick up the flowers—pink and white tulips—and open the card.
Essie, if two broken halves can make a whole, then maybe two broken people can do the same. I never felt complete until I met you. You need space, and I respect that. But I meant what I said last night. I am not going to leave you. I will be waiting for whenever you feel ready to come back. Aidan x
I read the words over and over, imagining him writing them, and then coming over here, maybe knocking at the door. Did he think I was home and just not answering? Did it cross his mind to stop by the office or did he come here knowing that I’d be out?
I take the flowers inside. They’re beautiful and fragrant and I put them in water. Then I start to pace. I can’t sit still. My heart is racing, my palms sweating, my mouth completely dry. The flowers sit in the vase, gorgeous and alluring, a burst of color, an exclamation of how he feels toward me. That’s what those flowers are—a reminder of what we have between us. If we weren’t Aidan Callahan and Essie Floyd, this whole thing would be absolutely crazy. We’ve had two dates, slept together twice, but this different. I knew who he was before I even met him, and I’m getting the distinct impression he knew me, too. We are joined so tightly that however many dates we’ve been on doesn’t seem to matter. We’re neck deep, and we’re both drowning.
Can two broken people make each other whole? A small part of me wants to be excited, to believe that might be possible. But then again, I’m indignant, furious with myself that I would even consider my own feelings in this. This is about Vaughn. This is about making right a wrong that should never have taken place.
I sit down at the table and take long, deep breaths, trying to calm myself. I can’t seem to control my thoughts. My feelings are running rampant inside of me, unchecked and wild. I don’t know how long I sit there in front of the flowers. Long enough that it’s completely dark outside, that my stomach is protesting in hunger, but I finally force myself up and crawl into bed. It’s the only logical action I can think of.
My bed seems so big. Bigger than it ever has before, because now it feels like there’s something missing. It feels like he should be here with me. Maybe he’s lying in his own bed, thinking the same thing. I try not to imagine what we’d be doing if he were here, or I were there. I close my eyes. I concentrate on taking deep breaths. I try to think of nothing else.
Chapter Six
Aidan
I am in a constant state of arousal, it seems. My dick is always at least half hard, the simple rubbing against the fabric of my jeans enough to bring on a full on erection. It gets so bad I have to go out and buy a pair of boxer briefs. This, after going commando since middle school.
This morning I awoke from the most pleasant of dreams, the recurring one I’ve been having lately. The locale might change and the position might change, but it’s always the same, incredible mind-blowing sex. Sometimes Essie will be on top, or I’ll be doing her from behind. There’s even been a sex swing involved. That particular dream was so fucking good, I’m considering having one installed in my apartment.
I lie in bed for a little while, stretch, absentmindedly stroke my dick. I get up and get into the shower. I let the hot water run over me for a few minutes, and then I start to lather myself up, the steamy air becoming infused with the scent of my I’m-a-dude-and-I-play-sports shower gel. I pay special attention to my cock now, running my hand up and down the length of the shaft, applying slightly more pressure when I get to the tip. I roll the flat of my palm around the head of my cock before sliding my hand back down. The whole time I think of Essie. I imagine her here in the shower, the way the water would look, running in rivulets down her body. She’s got an amazing body, and part of that is due to the fact that she knows it. Not in an arrogant sort of way. In the kind of way that allows a woman to truly enjoy herself. When she’s not shy about the way she looks, a woman is free from her inhibitions. She’s able to appreciate herself as a work of art, a thing of beauty. No woman is perfect. Nature doesn’t hand out perfection to anyone, rich or poor, and you sure as hell can’t buy it, no matter how hard you try. If a woman simply feels comfortable in her own skin, it’s always a turn on for me. Essie’s full, firm breasts, slender waist, toned legs, and that curvy, amazing ass of hers are all incredible for sure, but if she wasn’t confident, I wouldn’t be anywhere near as turned on as I am these days. I am constantly ready to fuck. If things carry on like this, I’m going to suffer from a permanent of loss of blood to the brain.
As it stands, there’s enough blood getting to my brain to let me think about the immediate future, and an idea that’s been percolating in the back of my mind for a while now. If this merger with GFS pans out as it should, then the stockholders, lawyers, other various employees, and even myself, will be very happy with the current state of affairs, which I think means a well deserved vacation should be in the works.
I know most people would probably roll their eyes to hear that phrase come out of my mouth—well deserved vacation—but managing, preserving, and ultimately growing a billion dollars is not the equivalent of lying on a beach somewhere with a pina colada. There are those who think once you’ve got enough money you don’t have to worry about earning any more, that you can just rest on your laurels. Perhaps for some that’s true, but for me, I’ve found that resting is pretty much impossible. I certainly had far less responsibilities, stress, and anxiety when I was living on in Hawaii, when my “office” was a three kilometer stretch of sand and the endless blue ocean, when sometimes I did live pay check to pay check. I didn’t care, though. There were no expectations, was no one looking over my shoulder, no one handing out advice I wasn’t seeking.
Most people will never see anything close to a billion dollars in their lives, will never know what it’s like to have the resources to buy whatever you want. But perhaps that’s the irony here—it’s mostly lost on me. I don’t feel the need to buy ridiculously overpriced shit that I don’t even want in the first place. I don’t care about status, and no amount of money is
going to make me feel any more or less like a man. And perhaps that is why I’ve been successful at this—maybe even more than Alex himself would’ve been. Because I know it’s essentially all just one big game, and it doesn’t matter if I win or lose.
And yet. There’s still stress. The sense that I need to prove myself to someone still hangs over my head like the fucking blade of a guillotine. I’ve been dealing with these warring emotions for so long now that I’ve just accepted them as part of my life; I hardly even acknowledge their presence. I am here and doing this because I want to and at the same time, don’t want to, and I haven’t let myself think about my past life as a beach bum, haven’t let myself imagine what it might be like to fall in love, to meet a woman who you actually want to wake up next to in the morning.
Until now.
And now, all bets are off. I want Essie. I want to fall asleep with my arms wrapped around her. I want to wake up next to her every morning. I want to take her to Hawaii and show her how sweet and simple life can be.
After I get out of the shower, I dry off, and, with just a towel wrapped around my waist, I go out and get my laptop. I sit down on the couch and open a browser window, type in Hawaii and scroll through dozens of pictures that fill me with an aching nostalgia. Some of the places I recognize, some of the places I’ve been to. Hell, that could even be me way in the background, that tiny little figure out there in the midst of the vast expanse of ocean. Would Essie be interested in surfing? Has she ever done anything like that before? Probably not. For a few satisfying moments, I sit very still and imagine what it would be like to watch her catch waves, to be right there behind her, riding my own.
I look up a few websites, including a hotel site advertising a spectacular villa right on the beach. Maybe I book us a suite. Maybe after that, I go buy two plane tickets, too. First class. I’ve actually never flown first class before, and I doubt Essie has either, so it can be a new experience for both of us. I send her an email with the confirmation, for both the tickets and the villa.
You deserve a vacation, I type. You actually deserve a whole lot more than that, but this is a good place to start.
I send the message and then answer a few work emails. A few moments later, my new message notification goes off. She’s replied. Just one line:
Are you for real??
I smile. There’s a certain childlike innocence about her, which most people probably don’t see. She’d probably hate to hear that I think so. She does her best to keep it under wraps, but underneath that tough girl exterior there is this sweetness, this sense that she doesn’t believe she deserve to have anything good happen at all. I don’t want her to feel that way. I want to eradicate that. Granted, I don’t want to turn her into some self-entitled haughty egomaniac, either, but I want to help her see that life can be, in fact, very good—life can be so good that you’re excited to wake up each morning.
Absolutely for real, I write back. It was kind of on impulse. Okay, mostly totally on impulse, but I’ve been missing Hawaii for a long time now and you’re the only person I can think of that I’d like to go back there with, even if it is just for a couple weeks. Is it too much?
She doesn’t respond. I put the laptop down and go get dressed, thinking as I’m sliding my arms into the white-collar shirt, securing the tie around my neck, of how much happier I’d be to just be throwing on a pair of board shorts and a ratty old t-shirt. Instead of Italian leather loafers, it will be either barefoot or flip-flops. Instead of lugging around a briefcase, it’ll be a surfboard. I allow myself just one moment to think about my Jeep, that loyal vehicle I came to think of more like a dog than a mode of transportation. I sold it for cheap when I had to leave for the mainland at the last minute. I expect the guy who bought it from me—a friend of Jim’s actually, the guy who taught me the wood carving—was out having many lovely adventures. Maybe I could even get in touch while we’re out there and take the thing for a spin.
I check my email once more after I make some coffee. She’s written back.
Yes, it IS too much. But I’ve never been on a plane, and the thought of you taking some other woman on vacation makes me feel sick. Count me in. I’m excited!
I set my coffee cup down and hit reply.
I’m happy to hear that. Got plans after work? Why don’t you come by and we can talk about the details.
I wear the biggest shit-eating grin for the rest of the day.
***
I get home from work, change out of the monkey suit and I’m having a beer when Essie texts. Leaving the office now. Be there in about fifteen.
My heart speeds up a little in happy anticipation. I don’t care what we do tonight—we can sit here on the couch and look at pictures of Hawaii, for all I care. So long as it’s just the two of us, I will be content.
That reminds me of something my father said to me once, before I took off for Hawaii. I’d agreed to go on a blind date with the daughter of one of my dad’s colleagues, a girl my mother had met before and was very fond of. The girl, whose name I can longer remember, was pretty and smart and we’d had a nice time, but I knew long before our night was over that she wasn’t someone I’d be calling for a second date. “Someday,” my father said the next morning as I sat at the kitchen table drinking a glass of orange juice, “you’re going to meet someone who you can’t get out of your head. You’ll want to and it will seem like an impossible task. Just thinking about this person will make the whole world seem like a better place, and you’ll be glad to be alive. It won’t matter what anyone else thinks about this person. Nothing anyone says about them will be able to change your mind. That kind of connection is a very powerful thing. The sort of thing that you won’t understand until it happens to you. The sort of thing that, if you have to ask yourself if it’s happened, then, you’ve got your answer: it hasn’t. It’s very unlikely the person you find yourself sharing a connection like that with will be via an introduction from your mother, though. Do not tell her I said that.”
It was a rare moment between Dad and I; most of the advice and wisdom he imparted to me was from a much sterner position, and it never ended with him suggesting I not tell her something that he said. At the time, while I thought it was cool that my dad was trying to level with me, I also thought he was full of shit. I mean, what could he possibly know about it? It certainly didn’t seem as though he thought about my mother and suddenly he was shitting rainbows. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about them since they died, though. How they were with one another. How they spoke to one another. The small, brief smiles they would share that always seemed intensely polite. It took me a while to understand, but that was just how they loved each other: quietly, politely, respectfully. What I mistook for indifference was actually a deep and enduring affection that very few couples get to carry into the autumns of their lives these days. I’m sure my mother and father would have carried that affection with them in their hearts into the winter of their lives, too, if only they’d been given the chance.
I can imagine the whispers once it becomes public knowledge that I’ve found someone to be with. Though no one has said it, (at least not recently) it was generally expected that I would eventually meet a woman of good standing, be the daughter of a financier, or an actress, or some self-made woman. Essie probably isn’t the kind of girl people are expecting me to align myself with. She’s from working class stock, from no money whatsoever, and is a legal secretary, not a neurosurgeon. I could give two shits where she’s come from or how much money her family has. And I really don’t care what she does for a living, so long as she’s happy doing it. Society will definitely be raising a few eyebrows, but fuck those guys. It’s no one’s business but mine who I do or do not date. Stepping out publicly with Essie, taking her to Hawaii, will draw attention. I don’t care what the rest of the world is going to say, though.
Okay, Dad, I think. I get it. I know what you were trying to tell me all those years ago.
Essie and I order delivery, Thai food, a
nd I give her another t-shirt of mine and lounge pants to change into out of her work clothes. Instead of going into the bathroom, she changes right there, gracefully stepping out of her gray pencil skirt, unbuttoning her pale pink blouse. She faces me, moving slowly, reaching around to unhook the bra. She stands there, just in her panties, and folds her work clothes neatly before putting the t-shirt and pants on. It’s all I can do not to rush over and take her right then and there.
Our food shows up, and we eat pad thai and mama kee mow out of the cartons, and I show her pictures online of Hawaii, of some of the places I’ll take her.
“It looks so beautiful out there,” she says. “I mean, I guess I’ve always had a vague sort of idea what Hawaii was like, but the reality is nothing even close. It’s like paradise.”
“It is. Sometimes I have a hard time believing I ever left.”
“I don’t think I would have if I were you.”
“I wouldn’t have met you if I didn’t, though.”
She smiles. “That’s true.”
For a second, I think about telling her about that conversation my dad and me shared, but I decide not to. At least not right now. To do so would be to admit how hard I am falling for her. How, despite the fact that we haven’t actually known each other long yet, I’m already well on my way to falling in love with her. If I’m being honest, I was well on my way to that eventuality a couple of years ago, the smallest kernel of emotion blossoming into something all-consuming as I bent over one of the photos of her that my P.I. shot of her walking into her workplace.