Love Me Like You Do: Books That Keep You In Bed

by Fields, MJ

  I should tell her, I think.

  “I might be falling in love with him.” My body sways with the words said out loud. “There’s more we need to learn about each other, but the base is there. We’re just … right for each other. No, it wasn’t a lot of time. But I knew we’d get there. I think he feels the same.”

  Her eyes tear up. “I know, honey. But the reality still stands. You’ve got to let him get better. Otherwise, there’s no chance for a healthy future. Think about your kids and family one day. Slade needs to get professional help if he’s going to be that good man you know he can be.”

  I nod, sniffling. Rationally, I know she isn’t wrong. This is the same advice I would give her if the tables were turned. But my heart has other ideas.

  “I’m sure he’ll call you. Just step back and trust me.” She hands me a glass. “Let’s get drunk. Do you want the jet to take you back tonight? I’m not so sure staying here is a good idea, considering.”

  “All right then.”

  I easily drink it down, as though it were water.

  Three days have gone by since I came home. No one here knows I’m back, and I’ve taken full advantage of that fact. And by full advantage, I mean, not leaving my beautiful white four-poster bed unless it’s to use the bathroom or open the door for the delivery guy, who has already come twice, bringing cartons of cookie dough ice cream. Binge-eating and watching a Netflix series, I alternate between missing Slade, wanting to punch Slade, and crying.

  Eve has called a few times, but I haven’t answered. I’m just not sure I’m ready to hear from her. Everything that happened between Slade and me is still so fresh. Painful memories mixed with the best days of my life. Nothing of what happened has been digested. Instead, it’s all still sitting in my gut, weighing me down.

  I open my phone, scrolling through my calendar when I groan. Sanam’s wedding is this Saturday. I crawl to the edge of my bed to get a look inside my closet. My blush-toned gown hangs inside, pressed and ready. My shoes are still in the box and should add an extra five inches to my five-foot-three height. Sanam sent me photos of how she wants my hair and makeup to be done, and my appointments are all scheduled. Nothing to do now but let my life unfold. I look down at my stomach and know I’ve got to get my shit together if I’m going to fit into my dress.

  I do the unthinkable and call Jonathan, letting him know I’m back early and ready to come in. He’s ecstatic over the phone. Next, I let my parents know I’m back. They’re amazingly supportive, glad to hear I decided to return early and asking me to come over for dinner tonight. I look and feel like shit, but it’s time I get my ass into the shower and put some clothes on. Getting clean and dressed in something other than sweatpants will help.

  My mind doesn’t leave Slade, but I hold fast to Eve’s earlier advice. He needs to find himself and get better before a woman can enter his life. I trust Vincent and Eve have his best interests at heart. Slade will be okay.

  In the bathroom, I paint my face full of makeup. Drying tears with a small piece of toilet paper, I coat on each layer in the same way I’ve done for years. I don’t know who I am, but this is how Lauren dresses. This is how Lauren makes herself up. The soft, natural face with minimal makeup and flat shoes of Nevada are officially behind me.

  Dinner with my mom and dad goes well. They think my general malaise is from the shooting, and I don’t correct them. If I tell them about Slade, they’ll dig, and I’ll have to tell them everything. If they knew the details, they’d be shocked and mortified, casting judgment. It would only make it harder for me to move forward from everything. We eat, and I smile.

  Sanam’s wedding is beautiful. Perfect in all the ways that matter to her. I exit the ballroom, filled with champagne and steak, gowns and diamonds. The entire ceiling is coated with red roses, nothing of the original painted white showing. Even the arms of the crystal chandeliers are wrapped in thin green vines. It smells and looks like a dreamy rainforest.

  Sanam just changed into her third gown for the evening, this one a short and heavily beaded dress. Her makeup continues to hold up despite the broken capillaries in her eyes from vomiting earlier tonight.

  “Staying at a size double zero takes work, Lauren.” She wipes her mouth using the back of her arm, heaving.

  I wasn’t supposed to overhear her puking, but I did.

  “I know,” I reply soothingly. “Weddings are stressful. Soon, you’ll be Mrs. Nader, and you’ll be honeymooning on the Riviera. Your life will be amazing, and all of this will have been worth it.”

  My words aren’t true but meant to pacify. She’s about to walk down the aisle. Now isn’t the time for her to hear an earful of reality.

  She wraps me in her skinny arms. “So lucky to have you. I don’t deserve you. We didn’t even discuss what happened in Vegas …”

  “Don’t think about that now.” I swat my hand in front of my face, as though clearing the air. “It’s your wedding!” I exclaim excitedly, plastering a large, fake grin on my face.

  Three hours later and primped to the hilt, she is ready for showtime. Vera Wang satin gown, hair in an Audrey Hepburn–style bun, makeup cleanly airbrushed.

  Her last words, “Soon for you,” are said with genuine kindness as she squeezes my manicured hands in her own.

  In her own way, she loves me.

  Taking the elevator downstairs with her entourage of hairstylist, makeup artist, and mother, she’s as happy tonight as she’ll ever be.

  Watching her dance with her husband, the truth comes. After years of friendship with Sanam, I want a divorce. What we have between us is no longer who I am or what I want to be associated with. Still, I’m not evil. I promised to be here for her tonight, and I’d never shirk my responsibilities as her maid of honor.

  I find myself dancing with the bride in the center of the dance floor. A circle of guests surrounds us, clapping. Beneath candy-coated smiles are vultures, eager to check out every detail of the beautiful bride—diamond Harry Winston watch, four-carat diamond stud earrings from Tiffany, gigantic rock on her left hand flushed with a shimmering eternity band. As an afterthought, they gloss over her single friend—me. One of Sanam’s cousins is pushed to where we are dancing, and I take it as my cue to leave. Thank God.

  Finding the exit, I step out and deeply breathe the fresh air. I look down, seeing a man sitting on one of the steps off to the right, smoking. Leaning forward onto his elbows, he looks familiar with his broad shoulders and longish dark brown hair skimming his collar. He moves, and I can clearly see his profile.

  “Alexander?”

  He blows out a puff of smoke before turning. His eyebrows rise as he gives me a megawatt smile. “Hey there.”

  He quickly puts out his half-finished cigarette as though not to offend me, stepping on it with a shiny black shoe. I wish he hadn’t. The smell reminds me of Slade.

  I miss him so much. It’s been a week. Seven painful days of burying myself in work and preparations for this wedding. Slade hasn’t called, and I refuse to call Eve for information. I deserve an apology from him. I can’t be that girl who calls her best friend for scraps of information on a man. I spent my twenties doing that, and those days are done. I’m looking for the man of my life, and I refuse to play games. Still, my heart feels on the verge of shattering.

  “Do you have another?” I ask, gesturing to his pack of Marlboros.

  He opens it in offering. I bend down to slide out a cigarette before he stands, lighting me up with his silver Zippo. He sits back on the step, and I unceremoniously plop myself next to him. My gown pools around me. If my dress gets dirty, I’ll live.

  “How did you get your start in the restaurant business?” I need him to change the subject going on repeat in my mind—Slade and the fact that he hasn’t reached out.

  Alexander, not shy in the least, starts talking. But, as opposed to the last time, it doesn’t sound like he’s boasting. I’m honestly impressed with his rags-to-riches story. He started out doing small-time clu
b promotions at NYU. After befriending one of the club owners, they partnered up. Alexander would run the operation, and his friend would find the money. Over time, he made enough connections in the business to raise his own money for ventures. Seven restaurants and four nightclubs later, he’s still going strong.

  “And what about you?” He turns his dark gaze to mine.

  I can feel his interest, but I ignore it. I don’t want to give him any ideas, but I’m also not ready to return to the party.

  “I’m actually considering getting a master’s in social work. I’ve been working as a legal secretary for a while, but I’m not really liking it anymore, and I don’t want to go to law school either.”

  “Good plan.” He nods. “Every lawyer I know hates it.”

  “Don’t I know it.” I inhale the smoke into my lungs, and it turns me slightly light-headed. Perks of being a nonsmoker, I guess. Taking a moment to assess the man before me, I ask, “How old are you?”

  “Just turned twenty-eight last week.”

  “Oh my God. You’re a baby!” I exclaim.

  “Hardly.” He doesn’t smile.

  “You are to me.” I shake my head, feeling miserable over my number.

  “And how old are you?”

  My inner voice screams, Almost thirty-three.

  I could be his big sister! But there’s no way in hell I’m telling him that. I’d just be opening myself up to scrutiny. By my reaction, I’m sure he’s figured out I’m older than he is. Alexander doesn’t need to know my concrete age. So, I do what any woman would do in my position. I shrug and smile seductively.

  I look at my watch, realizing we’ve been outside together for too long. “I should go back inside and check on Sanam.”

  Our friendship might be over, but I would never disappear at her wedding.

  “How do you know the bride?” he asks.

  “We met in college. Our parents are Iranian, too, so that’s something.”

  “Ah.” He nods. “I get it. I’m here for Reza. I’ve opened up a restaurant in one of his buildings in downtown LA.”

  “Of course you have,” I reply dryly.

  “How about you give me your phone number? I’d love to take you out.” His grin is breathtaking but still wrong.

  “I don’t think so. I’ve sort of been through a bunch of stuff, and I feel like, right now, I need to take it slow.”

  “This means, no dates?” He opens his hands to me, all charm.

  “Nope.”

  “Well, give me your e-mail at least. I’ll invite you to my next opening.”

  “Sure.” I give it, and he nods. “Bye, Alexander,” I say in a singsong voice.

  “Bye, beautiful,” he shouts to the back of my swaying blush-toned gown.

  Twenty-Two

  Lauren

  Four Weeks Later

  Work today is insane. Jonathan has been driving me crazy all morning with bullshit tasks. Nothing is complicated, but it’s all tedious.

  On a good note, I’ve already begun studying for the GRE exam so I can apply for a master’s degree in social work. Those few days I worked with Eve were enough for me to realize that helping women and children is where I see myself growing professionally. The jury is still out as to whether or not I’ll work with her out in Nevada, but regardless, I want to take this path. My parents are happy, too, that I’ve found something that fulfills me and finally made a move toward it.

  My father insisted that it wasn’t law he was hell-bent on, but he wanted me to “be settled in a career.”

  I apologized for always giving him the runaround in regard to law school, but he understood.

  Once I stopped avoiding what had happened with Slade, Eve and I got back in touch. She was annoyed that I hadn’t answered her previous calls, but thankfully, she understood why. Still, I asked her not to say a word about He Who Shall Not Be Named.

  If he has anything to tell me, he’ll have to do it himself. It’s been eight weeks and nothing but radio silence from his end. It hurts and angers me. The dust has settled, and I see our situation for what it was. Slade treated me like shit, and I took it because my feelings for him were so strong. His good parts were extraordinary, but his bad ones brought me six feet under. I thought I was resilient and the kind of woman who’d never get caught up in an abusive relationship, but I ultimately caved to his will. I’m disgusted by myself, but most of all, I’m hurt.

  My personal inbox pings and I click on the tab.

  Alexander Kasovitz

  To: Lauren Amini

  Subject: Lounge Furniture

  Question: lounge furniture in the bar area of a restaurant. White or black?

  I smile. But, in my defense, I really try not to. Ever since the wedding, Alexander and I have been e-mailing about random things. Favorite movies—his: Fight Club, mine: The Notebook. Best vacation—his: Peru, after graduating from NYU with some of his buddies; mine: Paris with Sanam four years ago when we went with empty suitcases and returned with them full to the brim.

  He’s witty and funny, and he seems to always be doing something interesting. Me, on the other hand? Boring-ville. Not that I mind. I’ve had enough drama to last a lifetime, and this past month has been spent trying to find some sort of equilibrium. It’s all about finding my career path and letting my heart settle. I don’t get excited when I hear from Alexander. But, after what I went through with Slade, it does feel good to have some healthy attention even if it isn’t going anywhere.

  Looking down at my screen, I click REPLY.

  Lauren Amini

  To: Alexander Kasovitz

  Re: Lounge Furniture

  I love white, but the lighting should be dim. Otherwise, it’s tacky.

  Alexander Kasovitz

  To: Lauren Amini

  Re: Lounge Furniture

  Why don’t you come check it out? The space is almost complete. We’ve got white furniture coming in on Tuesday. I’d love your opinion.

  Lauren Amini

  To: Alexander Kasovitz

  Re: Lounge Furniture

  Oh, puh-lease! You have so many restaurants. I’m sure you’ve got some fancy designer. What would you need me for?

  Alexander Kasovitz

  To: Lauren Amini

  Re: Lounge Furniture

  You’re honest. You’re not trying to sell me something. And you’ve got great taste. Who else would I need?

  I exhale, massaging my temples. Slade and I are over. He was horrible, and to add insult to injury, he still hasn’t contacted me. I groan, hating the fact that his name is even on my mind. He doesn’t deserve my time or attention.

  Maybe I should force myself to just go out with Alexander, for the sake of staying busy. He has been trying to see me since the wedding, and I keep denying him. What harm could it do anyway? The wall around my heart is so high; Alexander couldn’t make a dent. Maybe I’ll have some fun though. I deserve it, right?

  Lauren Amini

  To: Alexander Kasovitz

  Re: Lounge Furniture

  Let me know when.

  I hit SEND and immediately regret it. No! I won’t allow myself to regret anything. It’s just looking at furniture for his restaurant. That’s all. I refuse to feel guilty for having a good time. Slade and I are completely over. He hurt me, and I hate him. The end.

  Alexander Kasovitz

  To: Lauren Amini

  Re: Lounge Furniture

  Friday night. 7 p.m. I’ll text you the address. Send me your number?

  Friday night comes in a blink of an eye. I don’t return home to doll myself up but instead go straight from work. This isn’t a formal date, so I have no reason to drive myself crazy. Anyway, the days of taking hours to get dressed are behind me.

  My white blouse is tucked into gray wide-leg pants, and my black heels are simple and sophisticated. With my makeup subdue
d and clean, there’s nothing about me that screams sexy, and I prefer it that way. Sure, I added a little shimmery copper-toned eye shadow to my lids and texturizing dry spray to my roots—thankfully back to blonde—before stepping out of the office. But that’s just because I want to look presentable.

  The drive over is quick. I’m in awe as I walk into the space that’s to be the newest and hottest restaurant in LA. It’s stunning! There are already reservations booked up for a month out, and it hasn’t even opened yet. The only reason I know this is because, before leaving work, I caved, Googling Alexander Kasovitz and this new restaurant. And then I called Eve to ask her opinion on me going out with Alexander, a younger guy.

  “Age doesn’t matter. Do you like him? If you do, you should go. And, if you don’t, you shouldn’t. But, Lauren, there’s something I think you should know about Sla—”

  “No,” I snap. “Please, just don’t.” I bite my cheek, trying to maintain calm. “The whole ordeal is just … embarrassing. He treated me like shit the week I was there and hasn’t contacted me since. Of course, I’m dying to know what you want to tell me. But I can’t play that game.”

  “I know. But there are things you don’t know. I think, if I told you about them, you’d feel better.”

  “Please don’t make excuses. I don’t need you being Slade’s mouthpiece. If he can’t tell me himself, then I’d rather just delete him from my thoughts. I’m not letting him off the hook by speaking through you. If he wants to talk, he can be a big boy and call me himself.”

  She blows out air, as though exasperated.

  “So, what did Vincent say about him?”

  “Slade?”

  “No. Alexander.”

  “Oh. He told me, ‘He’s cool.’”