by Colet Abedi
Probably. Jeez. What a life.
A moment later, I forget everything because I see that Clayton’s set the most elegant table—seriously, it’s something Martha Stewart would put together. He covered the table with large palm leaves and bright red tropical flowers. Two white plates sit opposite each other, with a red flower in the center of each dish, and the appropriate forks and knives are where they belong, along with two, tall, bubbly, mimosas. In the center is a delicious-looking omelet, along with fried potatoes, tomatoes, and bacon. As if that’s not enough, there are also two coconut bowls filled with fresh-cut fruit. It’s almost too pretty to eat.
And so completely different from what I had expected from him. Immediately, I think of Don Miguel Ruiz again: Never make assumptions. I silently cringe. Obviously, I need to read the book again.
“Thank you for doing all of this.” I don’t even try to keep the awe out of my voice. “This spread looks like Collin Callender meets Martha Stewart.”
“I only know Martha.” He says this quietly, like he’s embarrassed to admit it.
“You know Martha, huh? Is she, like, on speed dial?” I ask teasingly.
“Actually, she’s a good friend of my mother’s.”
Oh.
Right.
Of course she is.
“I’ve surprised you again.”
I shrug nonchalantly, like it’s no big deal. I mean, let’s face it, I do live in the celebrity capital of the world. I wonder if I should tell him that Ben Affleck supposedly lives nine streets away from my parents. Nah, maybe not.
“I’m from LA, Clayton. I see celebrities all the time.” Not true, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
“That’s right. How could I forget?” He sees right through me.
A moment later, he sits down opposite me and puts a generous portion on my plate and says, “Eat.”
I take a taste. Even though it is cold, it’s really good.
“This is delicious, thank you.”
“You’re very welcome, baby,” Clayton says.
Baby. He is pretty damn sweet. And hot—I actually think he’s getting more good looking the better I get to know him. I instinctively take his hand and kiss it softly.
“You’re amazing. Thank you for this. Actually, for everything. From start to finish this is the most romantic experience of my life.”
He seems startled by my compliment and I can tell from the faint blush, not so comfortable with it.
“Get used to it,” he says.
Is he serious?? I take the serving spoon and dish some omelet and sides on his plate and realize I’m starving. I really didn’t eat much last night because we left after the appetizers.
Clayton lifts his mimosa.
“Bon appetit.”
We clink glasses then start to eat. I notice how proper he is. His manners were probably drilled into him at some posh boarding school. There’s something to be said for English etiquette.
I picture him as a child, dressed in a little boarding-school jacket, solemnly studying a book in the corner. He was probably a quick learner and a perfect student. Just the mental image brings a smile to my face. It also raises a ton of questions.
“Are you an only child?”
There’s a smile on his face as he finishes a bite of food. He picks up his aviator sunglasses from the table and slips them on as he watches me. My God. Does he realize he could have been a model? I bet the girls fought over him all the time.
“I have two younger brothers.”
Whoa. Really? I’m surprised. Clayton totally gives off an only child vibe. He seems like a loner.
I wonder if his brothers look like him. If they do, the women back home must have been beside themselves wanting to hang out with the Sinclair men.
“How old are they?” I move the eggs around on my plate as I wait for him to answer. I figure I’m going to have to pull everything out of him. He’s not going to offer any information for free.
“William is twenty-five and Michael is twenty-nine, turning thirty next month.”
“Are you guys close?”
“Yes.”
“Do you work together?”
From his chuckle, I gather he finds my comment vastly amusing.
“Definitely not. William is working at my uncle’s law firm. And Michael is off saving the world. Or at least trying to.”
“I like him already.”
“Do you?” Clayton asks softly, eyes narrowing. I try hard not to roll my eyes.
“I like anyone who tries to make the planet a better place. Unfortunately, not that many people are willing to dedicate their lives to it. I think it’s noble.”
Clayton is silent. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, especially now that he has the sunglasses on. So I’m surprised a minute later when he opens up about his brother.
“Michael is quite the do-gooder. He infuriates my parents no end, but continues doing what he loves. He’s in Costa Rica right now, trying to save the bottlenose dolphins.” He takes a sip of his mimosa. “Before that, he was in the Congo, and prior to that, Vanuatu.”
“Why does that make your parents angry? They should be so proud of him.” Even my own grumpy, hard-to-please dad would be happy if I was off saving animals instead of wanting to be an artist.
“As a Sinclair, you have two choices. Attorney or family business. And by attorney, I mean become one in order to assist the family business.”
“The family business is shipping.”
“Yes.”
“So you work for your father?”
Clayton’s bark of laughter tells me that’s a giant “no.”
“My father didn’t give me any money when I got out of school. He thought I should work for it. So I started my own shipping company with money I made myself investing in hedge funds, I thought I’d give him some healthy competition. Michael and William have had it much easier than I did.”
“I’m sure you don’t mind reminding them of that, as only an older brother would.” I can’t resist.
“Of course.” He smiles widely. “Every time I have the opportunity.”
“And your dad?”
“Relentless, aren’t you?” He shakes his head. “Now, I’m actually my father’s biggest competitor.”
“That must make for an interesting Christmas dinner.”
He cocks a brow. “You have no idea.”
“So why didn’t you just work with him?”
“Because my father is from the old guard, the kind who believes in a conservative way of doing things. I’m of the new age, you might say, much more fearless about taking risks. And what I call fearless, my father would call reckless.”
“How did your father take it?”
“He didn’t speak to me for two years. My grandfather, his father, forced a reconciliation by feigning a life-threatening illness.” A soft smile appears on his face when he mentions his grandfather, and it’s wonderful to see. There is genuine affection there.
But let’s be real.
This is a little strange. Why would he want to compete with his father? He’s his father, not his enemy, for God’s sake. This is not normal.
Mental note to self, Clayton Sinclair has some serious daddy issues.
“Your grandfather sounds like my kind of guy.”
“The finest of gentlemen.”
It’s hard not to hear the hero worship in his tone.
“So he’s still alive?” I ask carefully.
“Yes. And as tyrannical as ever. But softer in his old age.” The smile is still on his face. It’s the longest I’ve seen it there.
“And obviously loved.”
“Without a doubt.”
I study his face again, reveling in the softness and love that is there for his grandfather. If he could love that way, it would be a dream come true—but I can’t allow myself to entertain that dangerous idea for one second. I’d just be setting myself up for heartbreak.
I quickly fire more questions, intenti
onally trying to distract myself from dwelling on emotional thoughts that could lead to sudden Sophie depression, or SSD, as I call it.
“I assume this is a century-old family business?”
“Yes. Both my father and I are in oil, deep water drilling, and maritime transportation,” Clayton interrupts. “I’m contemplating investing in rigs and tankers, but I haven’t decided if I want to take on the challenge just now.”
No wonder money is no object to him—he’s not only made what I can only fathom is an obscene amount of money on his own, but he comes from serious blue-blood, old-school, ancient-lineage, family money too.
Sinclair.
Or is it St. Clair?
As in the St. Clair family hypothesized to be of the Merovingian bloodline?
I can feel Clayton watching my reaction and it takes all my willpower to pretend that this is the type of conversation I’m used to having all the time. I go on.
“So are you more successful than your dad?”
“As I said, I am not afraid to take risks and my father is. He refuses to gamble, whereas I have achieved the success I have from listening to my gut, which he believes is foolish.”
“Well, he must be proud of you, even though you’re the competition.”
“Secretly, perhaps,” he says quietly. “But he’ll take that to his grave.”
“Oh.”
We’re both quiet for a moment. I know Clayton is thinking of his father and I hope I didn’t somehow ruin the day for us by bringing up a sore subject. I give him a big smile and pour us both some coffee.
“Do you and your brothers see each other often?”
He picks up a mango slice and takes a bite.
“We made a pact that we would never let more than a month go by without seeing one another.”
“I like that.”
“It works out pretty nicely. It’s just enough time apart for us to want to get together, and briefly enough that we don’t kill each other.”
“You’re lucky. I grew up alone with two overbearing parents.”
“Did your parents want more children?” he asks curiously.
“My mom was a dancer and had all sorts of issues. When she carried me, it was very difficult on her body. A year after I was born, she had a cancer scare and opted to have a hysterectomy, just as a preventative measure,” I tell him quietly, “so that was it. No more kids. Just me. So they kind of obsess over every little thing.”
“Understandable.”
True. But try telling a seventeen-year-old that. Or making an eighth grader understand why she is the only one in her class who can’t go to D.C. for the graduation trip, the only kid out of a class of one hundred-fifty. The only thing that makes that memory acceptable is the fact that I met Erik during that week in school alone. He was three years older, a junior in high school, and was serving detention in our library.
He had the horrific job of inputting the library card catalog into the computers that had been donated to the school. And I had to spend eight hours a day there with him because even my teachers were away. Now we both like to say that it was destiny.
Even at that age, Erik was hot as hell and always dressed to kill. He reminded me of a blond version of A. J. McLean of the Backstreet Boyz. His hair was spiked and he had dyed the tips black. He wore black shades in the library, which I thought was cool but intimidating as well.
I remember the day we met like it was yesterday. I slowly approached the table that was furthest away from any possible human activity as I did not want to be looked at in pity by seventh graders. That table happened to be close to Erik, who was busy ignoring the world. I unzipped my bag and pulled out my history book. I tried to concentrate on the text, when all I could think was that the best history lesson would have been to actually see Washington firsthand.
“Could you die?” Erik said to me as he leaned back in his chair, completely surrounded by cards filled with Dewey Decimal numbers.
“Totally.” It was the only word I could mumble out. I didn’t know what to say. He was a cool high schooler, I was a loser eighth grader. I tried not to smile as the last thing I wanted was for him to get a good view of my metal braces.
“It’s just wrong.” He went on in that dramatic voice that would become so endearing to me later in life. He motioned around the table. I thought he was pointing at all the catalog cards. I pitied him.
“I can’t believe they’re making you input all those cards. That really sucks.” I shook my head at the horror of it all, completely sympathetic.
“This? Who gives a shit about this,” he said, waving off his detention assignment. “I’m talking about your parents not letting you go on the class trip.” I could feel my face light up in bright, red flames.
“How do you know?” I asked him.
“Everyone knows, babe. The librarians are even talking about it. They think your parents are pretty lame and they feel sorry for you. Unfortunately, they have no pull so their pity is kind of a waste.”
I was so horrified that I was the topic of conversation by even the adults in school that I wanted to cry, a ritual habit back then.
“But who gives a shit about D.C. anyway? Politicians are so stiff. Most of them have the worst style ever. I used to dig Clinton’s look but he lost me when he let Lewinsky suck him off. I mean, you’re the president, for God’s sake. Be like Kennedy, fuck someone famous, like Marilyn Monroe.”
The tears I was about to shed dried instantly. I was so in shock I couldn’t speak. But I was also in awe. He took away the sting of not being allowed to go to D.C. In that moment, he became my new hero.
I smiled broadly.
“Oh shit,” Erik blurted out, completely appalled over my braces. “That’s full-on. I didn’t even know metal was still an option. Or that anyone would ever willingly choose it. That’s fucked up.”
My hands moved up to cover my mouth.
“My parents wouldn’t let me get the clear ones. They think they’re toxic or something.” I was mortified.
“Motherfucker. You’re parents are ruthless, man. They’re, like, extreme.” Erik was clearly appalled.
“Yeah.” I didn’t know what else to say.
I looked down at my book sadly, thinking Erik would label me a “loser” and start ignoring me.
“But I guess there’s nothing else for you to do but take it in the ass from them. They’re in the driver’s seat for now.” I’m sure my mouth was hanging open; I’d never met anyone that spoke this way … especially about parents.
I watched as he started analyzing me, completely checking me out in that way of his.
“You’ve got beautiful features. Great eyes and lips. Perfect nose, thank God; nose jobs are brutal. But I can totally see it—once you get out of this weird, hormonal stage, you’re going to be a knockout.” His words gave me hope.
Then he got up and walked over to me, extending his hand.
“Erik.”
“Sophie. Sophie Walker.”
“Great name. Are you French?”
And we’ve been friends since then. I actually still get a shiver every time I think of the Dewey Decimal System, because somehow Erik suckered me into helping him with his detention assignment. I had nightmares about numbers for a long time.
“Where were you just now?” Clayton pulls me out of my reverie.
I smile apologetically.
“I was just thinking that if my parents hadn’t been so overprotective, I never would have met Erik.”
“And so you give credence to the ancient belief that everything happens for a reason.”
“I guess so.”
Right? I mean, look at me now? In the Maldives, of all places! A location I personally picked because I saw a picture on the Internet and thought, what the hell, let’s go. And now I’ve been intimate and am sitting across from a man I would never have met in LA. There’s got to be something to it.
“Are you complaining because you received too much love and attention from your pare
nts?” It’s his turn to question me.
“No! Not at all.”
Am I?
“It’s not like that. I just … ” I let my voice trail off for a second as I think about what I want to convey. The babying? Their need to know everything? The million calls a day? The fights over boyfriends? Education? Clothing? Everything? My parents took “nosy” to a whole new level. There were times when I felt so suffocated by them, so completely smothered that I just couldn’t wait to escape.
I don’t want to sound ungrateful because it’s not like I didn’t hear the way his friends spoke of their own parents. God, they hated them! From what I gathered, Clayton comes from a world where children are neglected, even thought of as a nuisance, and sent away at every chance.
Ignored.
Mine was just so different. Sure, we had problems, no family is perfect, but these people have serious ones that have been there for generations.
“Just what?” he asks.
“Sometimes they make me claustrophobic, that’s all.”
A light bulb goes off; I see a pattern. I run across the world to escape being controlled by my parents, right into the arms of a man who makes my dad look like a rookie when it comes to control. I’ve literally jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. Thank you, Sigmund Freud.
Obviously, I’m nuts. Clinically. Insane. Put me in a straightjacket—seriously. I don’t think Noom’s got a crystal to fix this shit. I’m so screwed.
Clayton interrupts my internal plea to be committed with, “You’re an only child. They’re protective. Can you blame them?” He leans back in his chair, watching me.
“No, I can’t blame them. They just took it too far. They never let me fall, you know? And sometimes you have to fall in order to learn how to walk.”
“People tend to guard rare stones with their life.” I feel my body light up from the comparison.
“Yeah, but they practically stuck me in an armored car with full-time Secret Service surveillance.” I joke. “It’s just a lot.”
“I’d guard you too.”
You would?
So maybe this is what I’m drawn to here—the feeling of being protected. I let my mind drift and I wonder what it would be like to be under his constant protection, with him worrying about me, calling me to check in, and taking care of me because I was everything—because I was his life. I could get carried away in this fantasy. I can’t meet his intense stare, so I look away.
