by Lori L. Otto
“You at least have to let him kiss you,” Katrina says. “He’ll try to kiss you. No doubt.”
“Did you see how he was watching your lips as your were talking to him today?”
“No,” I admit. I hadn’t noticed.
“Well, he was.”
“Okay, guys, I wasn’t nervous about this at all, and now I’m going to back out–”
“No, you aren’t,” they say together. “I skipped a lab to help you get ready,” Katrina adds. “You’re going.”
“Yeah, don’t skip class for me again. It’s not worth it,” I tell her.
“You’d do it for me, if I thought he was special enough,” Rachelle adds. “Plus, I can make up the lab next week.” She smiles when her eyes meet mine. Just as I look at the clock above the door, someone knocks. He’s right on time. “We won’t wait up,” my roommate whispers to me as I answer the door. “Hi, Emmanuel,” she says as she braids a pink strand of her hair.
“Hey, Rachel,” he says.
“It’s Rachelle,” I correct him. He apologizes to her quickly, and she accepts it graciously. “I’ll see you guys later.”
“You look nice,” he says to me, eyeing my black dress and touching one of the spaghetti straps on our way out of my hall.
“You do, too.” He’s wearing black slacks and a long-sleeved grey shirt that he keeps untucked. The cuffs are rolled up haphazardly, showing a little of his tattoo. “When’d you get that?” I ask him, touching it lightly.
“Last spring,” he says.
“Does it mean anything?”
“No. It’s just something I doodled one day.” I take a closer look.
“It’s cool,” I say, noticing the spacial alignment of the curves and lines. “It’s distinctive.”
“Thanks. It’s one of a kind. Just like me.”
“Yeah, about that,” I start, “I almost didn’t recognize you on our first day of class. You’re, like, a completely different person than the guy I met last fall.”
“I’m the same guy,” he says. “I just feel more comfortable expressing who I am now.” He opens the door for me before jogging to his side of the older model sports car. When he gets in, he continues. “I gather you’re feeling the same, with the hair change?”
“We all just wanted to add a little color,” I tell him. “It’s no big deal.”
“I meant with the cut. You definitely have a harder edge to you now,” he says as we start driving down the road to the restaurant.
“Really?” I ask him with a slight laugh.
“Or are you just trying to be less recognizable?”
“A little of that, yeah.”
“I’d say your hair has less to do with that than your posture does.”
“What do you mean?”
“Last year, you seemed to have much more confidence. You stood taller, held your chin up higher. When I first saw you in class, I was sure it was you by your eyes and your smile, but the way you slouched in your chair made me doubt myself.”
I consider his observation, and try to be subtle as I adjust my posture in his car.
“It wasn’t until Professor Murphy started talking about the knack this school has for recognizing the top, young, creative minds of our generation that I accepted it was you. You know you have talent. That’s something you can’t hide. You straightened up as if she was speaking only of you.”
“I’m not that arrogant,” I tell him.
“You should be. I checked out your studio space. You’re that good.”
“Thank you.” As he pulls into the parking lot of the restaurant, I fix my hair in the vanity mirror before getting out. He opens the door again for me, offering me his hand to help me out of the car. “So, do you like my hair like this?”
“It’s sexy,” he says. “The way it exposes your neck and your shoulders is incredibly sensual. I didn’t think you should be hiding them last year when I photographed you. Remember? I moved your sleeve.”
“I remember,” I tell him with a blush as we go inside. I stand in front of him just inside the door, waiting for the hostess. I feel his thumb on the hollow beneath my ear.
“That part’s begging for attention,” he whispers. The blush from before spreads across my body in a flash of heat. That was sexy. I’m grateful when the hostess shows up and directs us to our table. He holds my hand loosely as we walk through the restaurant.
“Emmanuel, what can I get you?” a woman asks. She has high cheekbones and overly-plumped lips. I assume she’s one of his models.
“Let’s see... Spanish tapas? I have to go for a margarita, I guess. On the rocks.”
“And your date?”
I look at Emmanuel first, unsure if I should order anything. He nods subtly. “Ummm...” I have no idea what to even ask for. I’m about to order a rum and Coke, but the waitress speaks up before I can.
“The red sangria here is wonderful,” she suggests. I shrug my shoulders and tell her that’s fine.
“What’s sangria?” I ask when she walks away.
“It’s red wine with fruit and juice. I bet you’ll love it.”
“If someone recognizes me, they’ll know I’m not old enough,” I tell him.
“That’s why we got this table... and why you’re seated with your back to everyone here.”
“Oh,” I say shyly. “Thank you.”
“Do you get that a lot here in Connecticut?”
“Not really. People don’t make such a fuss here.”
“It must be weird, living your life.”
“I wouldn’t know. It’s the only life I’ve ever led.”
“Do you think you’ll go back to Manhattan after college?”
“Of course,” I tell him. “I love it there.”
“Even with no privacy?”
“I have some privacy,” I explain. “It’s just when I make a scene in public that photographers start to swarm like blood-thirsty sharks.”
“Do you do that often?”
“More often than I’d like to admit. I don’t think I make a scene more than any other person does.” I hear my phone ringing in my purse, but ignore it. “It’s just that when I do it, people gravitate toward me instead of turning the other way.”
“Tell me the last time you made a scene,” he says laughing. The waitress brings our drinks, and Emmanuel holds up his hand to stop me from answering. He picks up both of our drinks, handing me mine, and offers a toast. “To a fun night.” His toast is definitely a let down from all other toasts in my life, but I can’t expect everyone to be as eloquent as my father.
“To a fun night,” I return, touching my glass to his. We both look over the menu quickly after taking a drink, picking out a few different dishes to try.
“Okay, you made a scene...” He urges me to continue.
“You know,” I say, shaking my head, certain that he’s already familiar with the story. “After my graduation.”
“No, I don’t know. What happened?”
“Really? You haven’t heard this?”
“There’s a reason why you don’t get bombarded in New Haven, Liv,” he says. “You’re really not news here. Yet.”
“You have family in Manhattan, though, right?”
“Sure, but you’re not really news with them, either. Yet.”
“Oh. Well. I’d rather not get into it then.”
“No, now you have to tell me. I presume this is something I can look up on the Internet, huh?” He takes his phone out of his pocket and starts to type something into it.
“Okay, please don’t, Emmanuel.” I put my hand on his, stopping him.
“Will you tell me?” My phone rings again.
“Hold on. Let me see who’s bugging me.” I pull out my phone, stunned to see the name on the display. Camille. She hasn’t spoken to me since the day I graduated. “I have to take this.” Emmanuel nods, looking back down at his phone. “Camille?”
“Hey, Livvy,” she starts hesitantly.
“Can you hold on a se
cond, Camille?” I don’t wait for her to respond before I cover up the mic and address my date. “Emmanuel, please don’t look it up. I promise I’ll tell you in a second.”
Sensing the urgency in my voice, he agrees and puts his phone away.
“Sorry, ummm. What’s going on?”
“How are you?” she asks.
“I’m good, Camille. How are you?”
“Great, Livvy. I’m really great.”
“Great.”
“Yeah,” she says. “Listen, if you’re busy–”
“Yeah, I’m just out with a friend,” I tell her.
“Well, I’d love to catch up, but I have a reason for this call, and I hope you don’t mind.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“I’m failing chemistry,” she says. “I need a tutor.”
“Oh, well... you know I went to Yale, and not Columbia, right? I don’t think I’d have the time during the week, and my weekends are pretty up in the air.”
“No, of course, I know you chose Yale. I wasn’t suggesting that you be my tutor. I remember you had one last year that helped get you the best grade in your class... I wanted to see if Jon would be available to work with me some afternoons. Do you think he could? I’d pay him.”
“I, um...” I can’t believe she thinks we’re still on good terms. “I’m not sure if he has time.”
“But could you ask him?” Could I ask him? He didn’t even want to talk to me the last time I saw him. And he hasn’t answered any calls from me or returned a single voicemail since, well... since the last time I made a scene in public.
“Sure,” I tell her, regretting my answer as soon as it comes out. I should tell her no. I should change my response, but I don’t. To have a legitimate reason to call Jon is too tempting for me. I wonder if I’d be brave enough to give him a piece of my mind. I wonder if he’d just hang up on me. I’ll have to find out now. “It may be a few days before I get back to you.”
“That’s fine,” she says. “I’d call him myself, but I deleted his number. Honestly, I deleted yours, too. I had to call your dad’s office to get it.”
“I understand, Camille. I’m really sorry. I’d love to have a chance to explain.”
“We can talk when you get back to me.”
“Sounds good. I’ll call you soon.”
“Thanks, Liv.”
“You’re welcome, Camille. Thanks for calling me.” I hang up and stare at the phone. What in the world will I say to Jon? In a daze, I look across the table to see Emmanuel staring at me. “Huh?” I ask, assuming he’d said something to me.
“You were going to tell me about the last time you made a scene.”
“Funny thing about that,” I tell him. “The last time I made a scene, I kissed a friend of mine, and lost my best friend in the process. That was her on the phone. I haven’t talked to her since then.”
“That’s weird.”
“Yeah,” I say, finally deciding to put my phone away.
“So you had a boyfriend when you visited. What happened to him?”
I’m sure my regret shows in my expression. “I kissed a friend, and lost my boyfriend in the process, too.”
“You cheated...” He raises his eyebrows and purses his lips, as if this intrigues him. “Livvy Holland, I didn’t think you were the type.”
“I’m not,” I tell him quickly. “I had a concussion... caused by the previous time I’d made a scene. I had a bad day. They said the wrong name at my graduation. Jon didn’t show up. It was just an...” I realize I’m rambling. “It was just an all-around horrible day.”
“What do you mean they said your name wrong?” he laughs. “How do you mess up Livvy Holland?”
“They said my birth name. Olivia DeLuca.”
“Your birth name? DeLuca?”
“I’m adopted,” I tell him. I’m not sure I’ve ever had to tell anyone this news. Everyone has known it all my life.
Emmanuel shakes his head. “I don’t think I knew that about you.”
“I really am not news, am I? And you’re from Manhattan!”
“I have a feeling people in your small, secluded circle know that, but I doubt most people do.”
“Sure they do,” I tell him. “It was a big deal when my parents adopted me. I have newspapers in my scrapbook.”
“I’m sure it was. Jack Holland’s chosen daughter... you’re pretty lucky.” Chosen. My stomach falls when he says the word. Again, I reach for the pendant that isn’t there. “What happened to your real folks?”
“I never knew my dad, and my mom died of cancer when I was three.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. I didn’t really know her, either. I have no memories of her.”
“Then I’m really sorry. So, at your graduation, why’d they say... what was it again?”
“DeLuca. And it was a clerical error. Some new administrator took it off my birth certificate that the school had on file. She was a temp, covering for someone on medical leave.”
“How’d your dad handle that?”
“With grace and forgiveness,” I tell him. “My dad’s the kindest man I know. He’s extremely reasonable and understanding. I don’t think I take after him.”
“No?” he asks. I shrug my shoulders, sitting up straight as the waitress puts some plates in the middle of our table. She smiles at Emmanuel as he orders more drinks for us.
“Enough about me,” I say, noticing the look she gave him. “So, with your new hair, and those piercings... I bet it makes it harder to convince the models to go out with you.”
“Ha,” he says as he finishes off his margarita. “That’s a big assumption. But actually, no. It’s much easier.” Honestly, it doesn’t surprise me. I probably wouldn’t have said yes as quickly as I did if he still carried himself as he did last year. He has this... this swagger now that definitely wasn’t there before. I can probably thank the models for that boost of confidence.
“You really go out with your models?”
“Sure. Does it bother you?”
I ignore his question, not really knowing if it does or doesn’t bother me. I’m with him tonight. They aren’t. “Do you date them because they’re models?”
“I date them because they’re beautiful.”
“Right,” I tell him, making my playful judgment of him obvious. He takes a bite of a little chip that’s topped with some sort of olive concoction. It’s not one of the ones I selected. I choose an empanada, poking it with my fork to see what’s inside before I eat it.
“I date you because you fascinate me,” he says, catching me off guard.
I try to make a joke out of it, sensing his intensity and feeling suddenly nervous. “But not because I’m beautiful. Way to make a girl feel special.”
The waitress sets down the drinks in front of us, and I quickly take a few gulps as I avoid his gaze. Emmanuel puts his hand on mine as soon as I put down the glass.
“Livvy, my verbal omission doesn’t reflect what I recognized in you the first time I met you. You’re beautiful–inside and out.”
I blush hard, another unexpected compliment. “That’s a little better,” I say to him softly.
“Why do you date me?” he asks, returning to his food and taking another taste. Immediately my nerves settle. This is the guy I’m comfortable with.
“Because I’m not afraid of you,” I tell him.
“Not even a little?”
“You look intimidating, but no.”
“There has to be some fear... anxiety? Nerves?”
Only when he compliments me, or touches the spot below my ear. But the Emmanuel who I agreed to go out with–the one I’d spent time with in class, and the one I have an easy time talking to–I’m not afraid of him. “Nope,” I tell him. I don’t want him to make me feel nervous, anxious. I don’t want to be turned on by things he says, and I’m not ready to admit that I kind of am.
“Well, that can’t be good,” he says, looking confused.
�
��You’re afraid of me?”
“A little. I think a little fear is good in a relationship. Or else, what propels you to make a good impression? You lose pieces of yourself with everyone you meet–especially those who get close to you. That doesn’t scare you?”
I’d never thought of it that way. “I don’t know. First of all, I’d already made an impression on you. That’s why you asked me out, right?”
“Sure.”
“So the only thing I needed to do tonight was be myself. And I am. But there’s nothing to be scared of. If you don’t like me, then you don’t like me. I move on.”
“But I do like you.”
“Well, then I’m doing something right,” I say brightly. “Are you being yourself with me? Or is this just your way of trying to impress me?”
“Uhhh...” he hesitates. “I’m admittedly trying to impress you. But this is me. Maybe a slightly toned-down version of me, but I’m not sure you’re ready for all of me.”
“I’d rather know all of you than a little of you,” I tell him. “I’d rather know who I’m dealing with up front, rather than digging through your bad habits one date at a time,” I say with a little laugh. “Don’t waste my time.” I kick him playfully under the table, and he smiles back at me. Just a few seconds later, I feel his foot dragging up my leg. He’s taken off his shoe.
“Will you come back to my place tonight?” he asks softly. I drop my fork, struggling to recover in a graceful manner, but clumsily flicking the utensil off the table entirely in the process.
“I can’t,” I tell him, knowing my cheeks are the color of the sangria I’ve been drinking. Our waitress brings me a set of new silverware. I finish off my drink in a hurry, hoping it will dull the awkwardness.
“So maybe you just want to know most of me,” he suggests.
“Some of you,” I correct him. “When I said ‘all,’ maybe that was too all-inclusive. I want to know who you are. I want to see if we’re compatible before... you know...”
“Before... you know? Before sex?”
“Yep,” I say quickly, looking away from him.
“Did you need another drink?” he asks.
“The water’s fine.”
“Are you a virgin?” he asks, leaning into me and nearly whispering it.
“No!” I say, my voice much louder than his. People actually turn to look at me, and I duck my head into my hands.
