by Shayne Ford
I’m quickly losing ground, sounding clingy and needy.
“I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” I continue in full damage control mode. “I understand that your schedule is full and you’re really busy. It’s probably too late to talk right now anyway,” I say rushed, eager to hang up. “Perhaps we should talk next week after I get settled.”
“Wait,” he says, sensing my turmoil. “Take a deep breath and try to listen to me. Okay?”
I swallow hard.
“Okay.”
My voice is almost dying.
“These people are newly hired. Some are men, some are women, and some are beautiful women.”
“But––”
“There is no but. Listen to me.”
“Okay.”
“There is no reason to freak out.”
“But I miss you,” I say, my voice brimming with desperation, the words flashing on my lips carved out of my own flesh.
He stays silent.
Oh, how I hate myself right now.
“I miss you too, baby,” he finally says with his normal voice, and a long sigh of relief leaves my chest. “But it’s not the end of the world,” he says quietly as I start to blink fast to push my tears back.
“I know,” I say, sniffing.
“Are you crying now?” he asks incredulously.
“No.”
“Thea?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you crying, baby?”
My heart spins in my chest as I hear his voice, and the way he modulates it with words, and talks to me, so tenderly, and kind as more tears rush to my eyes.
I feel as if the ground starts shaking. As if my chest is ready to split open, the pull between us stronger now than everything I felt before.
What is happening to me?
I take a deep breath, my lips trembling, my hands shaking.
I can’t remember being so emotional and broken ever.
“I’m not crying,” I say, choking on tears.
“Yes, you are,” he says, smiling.
“I want to be there with you.”
“I want you to be here with me as well. And you will be here. Sometime next week, or maybe the other weekend.”
“I will?”
“Yes.”
“Okay...” I murmur, sliding onto the sofa. “May I see another picture of you?”
He laughs softly.
“Only if it makes you smile.”
“I’ll try,” I say.
A few moments pass by before a couple of pictures pop in my messaging app.
I study them.
One shows him in a chair, a soft light glowing over his face and long drapes flowing in the background. The breeze most likely sneaks in through the open patio doors puffing the curtains while little lights gleam on the sea, painting a beautiful image.
My eyes shift back to him.
His shirt is unbuttoned down to his stomach, his sleeves cuffed up, his belt unbuckled, his suit pants still on. He looks at the camera, a soft smile on his lips.
The second picture is a close-up of his face–– his smile still there, his eyes gleaming, his expression hinting to something secret–– a memory, perhaps.
“Happy?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say enthusiastically.
“Now, you.”
I take a few pictures of myself, none of them great.
My hair could use a brush. My T-shirt has seen better days.
I send him one of them.
“What do you think?” I ask a moment later.
“Are you packing your stuff already?”
I look at my suitcases.
“Yes.”
“You shouldn’t be crying,” he says, out of the blue.
“Excuse me?”
“You shouldn’t cry because of me. I will be here, waiting for you,” he says with the most sensual, romantic voice I’ve ever heard, and my heart starts dancing again.
EDWARD
The room is quiet, the breeze rolling in along with the soft sounds of the night.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the phone screen, studying her picture–– her pale face, and blue-green eyes, her tangled long dark hair.
A T-shirt clings to her frame, her fingers long and sculpted, her lips full, and glimmering, moist. Her eyes sparkling from tears and fears.
She is so beautiful.
The phone vibrates in my hand, wiping away my smitten grin.
Lex’s name flashes on the screen.
“Hey, man,” he says as I pick up the call.
“Hey.”
I start untucking my shirt.
“Where are you?”
“My hotel room.”
“How was your day?”
“Good. I’m almost done. Monday I have a meeting with the lawyers. Tuesday, with the accounting firm.”
“Sounds good.”
“Where’s James?”
“Singapore.”
“Rain and Dahlia?”
“They’re good. Rain is in New York. Dahlia is home with me. What about your girl?”
A small smile tilts my lips.
“She just had a little meltdown,” I mutter.
“Because?”
“She can’t wait to see me. In the meantime, she got a little nervous and jealous.”
“Jealous?”
“She got a glimpse of a blonde who works in marketing.”
“Did you have anything to do with that?”
“Nope. I’m not doing any of that stuff.”
“Made up with her?”
“Yeah... She’s better now. It just that... It made me realize how young and inexperienced she is.”
“For what?”
“For everything...” I murmur, my smile fading away.
“Are you having doubts or regrets now?”
“No, no. Neither. She is the way she is.”
“You weren’t that much different than her until about a month ago.”
I laugh.
“That’s not fucking true. I wasn’t emotional like her.”
“She is in love. It has nothing to do with her age.”
“I like her in love.”
“You liked a certain flavor of ice cream, Preston.”
I breathe out another chuckle.
“Stop saying that for fuck’s sake. It happened once. It’s not the same thing. She’s, um...”
I pause for a second, pondering.
“She’s so easy to crush,” I say, sadness threading through my voice all of a sudden as if I just had a revelation. “Now I understand why so many women have their hearts broken when they fall for someone.”
“Remorse catching up with you, Preston?”
I muse.
“Yeah... It probably is, but there is nothing that I can do about the past right now. It was easier to think that it didn’t matter. That I didn’t make anyone fall in love with me since I didn’t promise them anything. Often times I wanted to believe that it was the women’s fault. I didn’t feel responsible that way. Anyway...” I say, eager to move away from the topic. “Things are good business-wise.”
“And you? How are things with you?”
A grin crawls up my lips.
“What do you want to know, Harrington?”
“You never talked to me about your trip to Vegas. James told me that you visited your old man. What’s up with the secrecy?”
“There was no secrecy. I, uh... I didn’t feel like talking about it.”
“That bad?”
“It wasn’t quite what I expected.”
“In what sense?”
“I thought I’d find an old thug, a sociopath, someone who I could punch in the face. Maybe he was all that way back when he was young. I even envisioned him that way when Maxwell described him to me, but he was nothing like that in reality. I found an old man who’s trying to live a normal life. He has a beautiful home and a wife, and he knows how to be nice with someone else’s kids. At a glance, he looked
like the perfect dad or grandfather. I didn’t recognize myself in him, and that was a relief. I couldn’t think of myself sharing traits with a man who was so toxic to my mother. After I talked to him, I started to see things differently... Even in my own life. All these years when I hated to let a woman close to me, I never thought much about it. It didn’t matter to me, to be honest. It felt right. But after hearing him talk, I realized that the worse thing a man can do––other than to start a war perhaps, is to break a woman’s heart. He killed my mom in the most insidious way. And it was a silent crime that could not be punished by law or man, only by life. He crushed her out of fear and hate. He disregarded her most basic needs and had no empathy for her, and like many women in her situation, she couldn’t get out on time, so she lost herself and had to pay with her life in the end because there was no one there to help her.”
I pause and take a deep breath, stretching my legs at the same time.
“But this was not the man I found. That man was long gone,” I say after I let out an exhale. “As much as I was afraid that I would find someone I would resent, he was nothing but an old man filled with regrets. He kept some of my mom’s things and gave them to me, helping me to get a better understanding of her life. He kept a journal of hers as well.”
I run my hand through my hair and take a sip of scotch before I speak again.
“Her words were a scream for help from the beginning to the end. There were very few moments of happiness in her life, and none of them were with him. She knew that her end was near, and she described her hellish life in horrid details but also in a very detached way. She thought that there was no way out, I guess, and that was her way to cope with it. Other than that she was a very sensitive woman who found happiness in motherhood. For a while, she dreamed of a nice house with a small yard filled with flowers, a cat and a bunny, and a few kids. Her words, not mine. She wanted a place where she could raise her children. Happy children with good hearts. Again, her words not mine. She said that repeatedly as if she spoke of things she missed a lot. She also mentioned a few incidents that painted a grim picture of the kind of life she lived with him and the fact that my father provided close to nothing for her... and me. So that was pretty much her life...” I say, going quiet.
“I’m sorry to hear that, man.”
A bitter grin touches my lips.
“It’s done. That all that it was.”
A few minutes later, we end the call.
I finally push out of my chair, shed my clothes and walk into the shower.
It’s way past one o’clock in the morning when I crash on the bed. A silent alert draws my eyes to my phone.
I scoop my cell from my nightstand and read Thea’s words.
‘I keep looking at your last picture. Your eyes tell a story I know nothing about. I wish I knew what makes you sad. Love, Thea.’
14
THEA
“Merhaba.”
I swing my eyes to the door as a slender girl enters the room, greeting me.
“What do you think?” she asks.
Samira has a cute accent, a colorful scarf around her neck and a long sweater dress that sets off her hourglass silhouette.
Large rings of hair frame her face.
She watches me with curiosity as I unpack my things and lay them on the bed. Clothes, a few books, and my laptop.
I push up to my feet and look around.
The bohemian chic furniture and the colorful upholstery with its novelty print comprised of birds and trees and little benches make the room look so alive.
A small coffee table sits not far away from me. I pick up the books, set a few on the wooden surface and slide the others onto the shelves.
“You can use that bookcase as well,” she says, pointing to a little piece of furniture that sits in the opposite corner before she spins around and heads out the door.
I tuck the rest of the books in the bookcase, walk to the window, open it wide and look up and down the street.
The sidewalks brim with life–– people chatting or buying food on the street, the spring dressing the trees with blossoming flowers.
A smell of fresh coffee fills the room.
I turn around.
Samira walks in carrying a tray.
“I wasn’t sure if you were hungry or not. You must be. The food on the plane is never enough for me.”
She sets down the tray and pours Turkish coffee from a cezve–– a small copper pot, into a tiny cup that’s elegantly painted with aubergine and gold.
The aroma of the frothy concoction wafts through the air.
“You have to try this as well,” she says, sliding another plate onto the table.
“Gozleme. Feta cheese and spinach pastries,” she says, taking a seat on the sofa next to the table.
She takes one pastry from the plate and starts munching on it above a napkin.
“It’s good,” she says, her expression of contentment making me smile.
I follow her advice and taste the food before I drink coffee. It’s the first time when I drink something different than my usual morning java, but it’s really good.
Not too sweet. Perfect.
Samira and I spend a few minutes chatting over food and coffee, about the trip, and the student life back home before she makes another trip to the kitchen and brings back a plate with syrup-soaked baklavas.
Our conversation continues as we taste the sweet dessert.
I learn more about the other students and the places where she’d like to take me to.
Before I know it my head fills with all the images that she paints for me, my ears buzzing with exotic names. Hagia Sophia, Topkapi Palace, Bosphorus Straight, Galata Tower, Basilica Cistern, and Blue Mosque.
I learn about Cappadocia, the historic areas of Istanbul, and the Sultanahmet District.
Within moments, I’m introduced to the Turkish gastronomy, as she reviews first course meals, snacks, street food, and desserts.
It’s almost seven o'clock in the evening when we finish chatting, and she retreats in her room while I finish unpacking.
A few minutes later, I walk to the window and listen to the clamor of the street. This place has a different pace, pulsing with life. It’s a different way of living.
I linger at the window a little more before I take a shower, wrap myself in a robe, put my slippers on, and go back to my room.
From the nightstand, I pick up the phone and start skimming the messages. Liz, Chloe, Terry... Ed?
I send him a reply before I read and answer all of them.
Liz wants to talk to me. I call her and spend a good half an hour giving her a detailed description of my room, my roommate, the food and the coffee that I just had, the first glimpses of the streets.
“You sound really excited,” she says.
“I am. You need to come here and see. You’re gonna like it.”
“My Turkish is a little rusty,” she says jokingly.
“Don’t worry. You’ll learn. If not, English will do just fine.”
I send her a few pictures of my room and the view from my window before I say goodbye to her and call Ed.
“Hey, baby,” he says.
He seems to be in a good mood.
“Hey, handsome.”
He laughs at the other end.
“What is my favorite CEO doing?” I ask, all flirty.
“Getting ready for a few hours at the gym and a spa treatment.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
I smile.
“Indulging yourself, huh?”
“As much as I can before you come here. I want to be in my best shape,” he says humorously.
I grin.
“I like that.”
“How’s Istanbul?”
“Busy, colorful. Exotic. Romantic. The food is great.”
“Sounds good. What about your place?”
I glance around at the pink lampshades, the paintings on the walls exploding with color, and the flowi
ng curtains.
The humming of the street ripples through the air, entering my room.
“It’s nice. Small, and cute, with a lot of personality. Very bohemian.”
A few moments of silence slip by before I speak again.
“You need to come here. The sunset is so beautiful. We can go on a cruise, experience the Bosphorus Strait at night... There are many places to see.”
“You really like it?”
A smile lines his voice.
“Mmm-hmm... There’s something unique about it...” I say thinking of all the bits and pieces of color and sound that flooded my eyes and ears in the few hours I’ve spent here. “When you look at the water and the people and the colors of the sky shifting at the end of the day it feels as if the stories written across the centuries breathe through the air. History vibrates in everything you see and touch. So many people passed through this space, walked on this ground, and sailed those waters. It’s quite an experience,” I say, my eyes still trained on the window as I absorb every sound coming from the street and every new sensation that flows through me.
THEA
The next two weeks fly by.
It’s the new place, the things I learn every day, the few Turkish words I pick up, my friendship with Samira.
The other students, as well. The people living in flow, and the myriad of things happening at any given moment. Little things that make life colorful and fascinating.
People like to spend hours chatting, hanging out, tasting food, and discussing everything from politics to history and archeology.
I make a few more friends and hit almost all the points of attraction, including a sunset cruise on the Bosphorus Strait that leaves me breathless.
The spring dances on the streets, making the city even more animated.
Friday finds me in a state of joy.
Brimming with excitement, I get ready to pack a suitcase and fly to Monaco.
Getting together happens much later than we thought it would, but hearing him on the phone every day made these two weeks bearable.
A few dresses lie on my bed as I study them with a critical eye.
I hear a soft knock on the door.
“Come in.”
The door opens, and Samira walks in with a small silver tray, carrying Turkish tea and a plate of lokma–– fried dough balls coated with sugar syrup.
