by Lori L. Otto
“God, Emi, no.”
“I’m not a placeholder, Nate. I’m not the bookmark that waits for the next chapter of your life to come along. I’m a human being. I thought I was your friend.”
I swallow hard, disbelieving how this conversation has turned out. “You are. I just... I just want you to be more. I thought you might feel the same way.”
She slants her eyes at me in disgust. “I’m not interested, thank you. I’m not desperate.”
“Is it Colin? I’m a better man than him, Emi. I’ll prove it to you, every fucking day. I am a better man,” I plead with her, holding her hand in mine.
“That’s debatable. But no, it’s not him. It’s me. I have my dignity, Nate, and your fear of being alone isn’t going to take that from me.”
“That’s not what this is at all, Emi!”
“We kissed, Nate. So the fuck what? People kiss every day and live to regret it, just like I do. You said it meant nothing to you. You told me that–”
“I was trying to protect my feelings–”
“By hurting mine?”
“I didn’t mean to. Did it? Did it hurt your feelings, because if it did, you must have felt something for me, too.”
“No,” she says, her posture steeled and her eyes mean. “You are so arrogant. You think the whole world revolves around you, don’t you?”
“Actually, no. I feel like it revolves around you.”
I can hear the surprised sigh escape her lips as her cheeks blush. She swallows hard. “Well, you know I didn’t feel anything. So you’re wasting your time.”
“It’s bullshit, Emi.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Then why have you been acting like this?”
“Like what? Depressed? Withdrawn? Colin and I broke up, that’s why. Thanks for asking.”
I nod silently. “I’m sorry,” I tell her.
“No you’re not.”
“I’m sorry you’re hurting. I’m not sorry you’ve stopped seeing him, you’re right. He was wrong for you.”
“And you’re not?”
“I don’t think... I don’t know.”
“I know. You need to really think about what you’re doing, Nate, and what you’re asking. And the consequences of your actions. Everything you’ve done recently just seems to mess things up. Your confession to me today is just one more.”
“I’m just being honest.”
“You’re just feeling alone.”
“I’m not.”
“And I’m not going to just jump into your arms and tell you I feel the same. I don’t. In fact, I’ve never been more angry with you than I am right now.”
“Why?”
“Because,” she begins to cry. “Because you keep messing with my emotions, Nate, for your own personal gain. I just want you to leave me alone.”
“No, Emi. Please don’t say that.” We end up back at her apartment building.
“There are some days that I really hate you,” she tells me, the expression of pain taking over every muscle in her face and body.
I shake my head at her words, feeling moisture in my own eyes. “I don’t think you do, Emi. I really don’t think you do.”
“Well then that’s for me to figure out. Please don’t come by unexpected anymore.”
“When can I see you again?”
“I don’t know, Nate.”
“Can I call you?”
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”
“Don’t do this, Emi. Please don’t cut me off. Not now.”
“I think now’s the best time. It seems like you need to really think long and hard about what you’ve done... and what you’re suggesting.”
“If that’s what you’d like.”
“It’s what you need.”
“Fine,” I concede quietly. She nods her head. “Like ya, Em. And again, happy birthday.”
A tear drops down her cheek. She wipes it with the back of her hand, turning to walk inside her building. I stare blankly at the empty space she left for a good ten minutes before returning to my own loft.
When I got to my apartment, I expected her to call quickly. I wanted her to come to her senses. Minutes became hours. Hours became days. Days became weeks, and before I knew it a full month had gone by. I tried to reach her many times. In person, by phone, by special delivery, regular mail, email. She wouldn’t respond. My friendship with her brother even suffered as he stopped taking my calls, too. I began to feel like I had been cut off by my own family.
CHAPTER 9
The thought to remain single crossed my mind briefly after my recent failures with women. Celibacy had also crossed my mind, although I knew that would never be an option for me. I spent a few weeks just trying to get into a new routine. In an effort to find a new outlet for all of my pent-up frustration, I decide to go jogging every morning in Central Park.
The alarm goes off at six-thirty in the morning. I’ve long given up on my “sleep late every day” resolution. There are just too many things to do in the daylight hours, and I just don’t feel like wasting my life away anymore. I’ve been unusually productive with my paintings lately, no doubt because of the absence of Emi. Break-ups are one thing. They start off painful but get easier every day. Being apart from Emi just feels worse with every hour. It’s been seven weeks... seven insufferable weeks since I last saw her. She doesn’t return my calls, won’t answer her door. The one time I waited outside her building, she caught one glimpse of me and walked quickly away from me. The look she had given me made it clear not to follow her.
I even wrote her a letter and shoved it under her door, apologizing for my inexplicable behavior.
Dear Emi,
This has gone on for too long. It’s fine if you don’t have feelings for me like I confessed that I have for you. I don’t deserve you, and I’m well aware of that fact. If I could take back everything I’ve said and done to upset you, I would. I just want things to be normal again. Is there any way to move past this? Anything I can do to make this better? Because I’ll do it, Emi. Whatever it is, I will do it, you just have to tell me. You have to talk to me.
I am so sorry. This apology is insufficient, but it’s a starting point. Please meet me here, and take the steps to move beyond this fight. I can go back to being friends, if that’s what you want. But I can’t continue to be nothing to you. You mean too much to me. We’ve become too much a part of each others’ lives. We’ve become too much a part of each other, period.
I want that other part back, Em. I want you back in my life.
Please call me.
Like ya, Nate
The letter found its way into a pile of paper shreds on my welcome mat the next day. It gave me hope that she at least went out of her way to do that. She hadn’t given up on our friendship completely.
I’m at a loss how to show her how very sorry I am, and I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I need my friend, even if she wants nothing more from me.
I leave my phone at home while I jog. Any calls can wait until I get home, and really, the only woman in the world that doesn’t hate me at the moment is my mother, and since she and James are currently celebrating their anniversary in Paris, that leaves exactly no one to call me.
It’s unseasonably warm outside, even for early July. We’ve been experiencing a heat wave. I like to think that maybe the weather has just put everyone in a foul, unforgiving mood, and that maybe Emi isn’t really mad after all. It’s a good way to fool myself anyway.
I start my run as usual, at the park entrance by the modern art museum. I’m not five minutes into it when a small dog– a terrier, of some sort– runs past me, leash attached... but no human. It chases a squirrel up a nearby tree and claws at the bark, trying to find a way to get to it. I stop running and make my way toward the dog, grabbing the end of the leash when I’m close enough. I look behind me to see if anyone looks as if they’ve lost a dog, but everyone seems to simply be going about their own business.
The
friendly dog lets me pet it. He starts jumping on me, clearly wanting more attention. He is wearing a collar with a tag. “ROSCOE” is engraved on it above a phone number. If I had my phone, I could call the owner. Instead, I decide to find a park bench close to the sidewalk and sit with the dog. Surely someone will be looking for this dog.
Twenty minutes pass, and just as I decide to start walking back home with the dog, I hear someone calling his name. I can’t see where the voice is coming from, but I start walking in that direction. Through a group of trees over a hill, a woman sees the dog and immediately starts running in my direction. “Roscoe!” she yells in relief.
“I take it you know this guy,” I say to her as she bends down to pick the dog up into her arms. She has long, straight hair, and she’s wearing a velour jogging suit that fits her toned body perfectly.
“Bad dog!” she tells him, her mocha skin glistening in the sun. “Thank you so much. I just knew he’d run in the street and get hit by a car...”
“The squirrels kept him in the park. I think he would have been content to stay and bark up that tree for days.” I smile. The woman looks to be about my age, possibly a little older. She’s beautiful... she’s just what I’m trying to avoid right now.
“Nate,” I tell her, offering my hand.
“Kiersten,” she says, shaking my hand. “And Roscoe.”
“Yes, we’ve met.”
“What can I do to repay you?”
“No, it was my pleasure, really. He’s a sweet dog.”
“Please, let me do something for you. Lunch? Dinner? A drink?”
“Umm,” I smile at her. “Sure.”
“Let me get your number. I’ll call you and we can grab a drink sometime.” I take her phone and type in my information, handing it back to her. “I’ll call you,” she says. She seems way out of my league, and I doubt she’ll ever call.
“Sounds good. You have a good day and hold on tight to little Roscoe.” I walk over to pet him one last time on the head.
“Have a good run,” she says as she puts Roscoe down and winds his leash around her wrist.
“Thanks.” Continuing my run, my mind lingers on the beautiful woman I’ve just met– and I wonder, and kind of hope, that she will call. It’s just a casual drink. It doesn’t have to be anything more.
~ * ~
A few days later when Kiersten finally calls, my mind is made up that I will meet her. When she suggests a local bar, I suggest a time and plan to arrive a little early. I shower to get the paint off of my arms and out of my hair. I find some nice slacks and a blue button-down shirt to wear over a white t-shirt. I decide to leave both shirts untucked, making sure I look casual. This is just casual. Just a drink.
I make it to the bar a half-hour earlier than I had suggested. I order a soda in a tumbler with ice. By the time Kiersten arrives, the ice will have melted and my drink will look like something alcoholic. I hate explaining my history on a first date, but women inevitably ask why I’m not drinking if I order water or anything less-than-spirited.
Kiersten sees me immediately as she walks in. She’s wearing a very professional-looking suit, and she carries a briefcase. She sits down on the barstool next to mine and orders a club soda.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” she says.
“Of course. I couldn’t resist.” I smiled. “How’s Roscoe?”
“He’s fine, thank you,” she laughs. “We’re going back to obedience school this weekend. I guess it didn’t take the first time.”
“I see.” I pick up my tumbler and offer a toast. “To obedient Roscoe.”
“To obedient Roscoe.” Our glasses clink and we both drink.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” I suggest.
“Oh, no thank you,” she answers politely. “I don’t drink.”
I laugh quietly. “Well, I don’t either,” I admit. “Soda,” I tell her, pointing to my glass.
“Recovering alcoholic, eight years,” she says. “You?”
“My dad was an alcoholic... so I just don’t make a habit of it,” I explain without going into too much detail. “Well, I don’t see any point in hanging around here, then,” I suggest. “How about some gelato on this warm night?”
“Sounds great,” she laughs and we make our way out the door and down the street. “I’m sorry. It’s just so socially... normal... to meet for drinks that I always just jump to that, assuming that’s what everyone wants to do.”
“Oh, it’s not a big deal. I don’t mind being around it.”
Kiersten is a 32-year-old human rights lawyer. She was married right out of high school, but her husband soon became abusive and she left him. She started drinking heavily through college until her family convinced her to get help. By the age of twenty-four, she had lived a lifetime. She was determined to turn things around and decided to go to law school. She has made it her mission in life to help those in need. She just seems so good... and selfless.
Even though we seem to have very little in common, the conversation flows easily all evening. She’s very centered and knows what she wants in life. She tells me she hasn’t found a man that deserves her. I can believe it. I’m pretty sure I don’t. Still, when I muster the courage to invite this classy, bright, exotic, beautiful, completely-out-of-my-league woman back to my apartment, she doesn’t hesitate.
At the loft, I show her my recent paintings, and she seems very impressed. She discusses them intelligently, commenting on my choice of colors, textures and shapes. I find out that she minored in art as an undergrad. Finally, some common ground. I am blown away by her, and am moved in that moment to take her face in my hands and kiss her, softly. She kisses me back, her lips moving in ways I’ve never felt before.
I exhale deeply. “Wow, what are we doing?” I ask, running my fingers nervously through my hair.
“Just kissing,” she says.
She smiles slyly, closing the gap between us and kissing me again. She knows what she’s doing, knows the power she has over me in this moment. I start to unbutton her jacket, but she catches my hand and holds it, not letting me continue. She looks up at me and repeats, “Just kissing.”
“Got it,” I say, and continue just kissing her. We sit on the edge of my bed and kiss for about ten minutes. I am extremely turned on, imagining what other amazing things her lips can do, and I hope in secret that this is just the most incredible foreplay of my life.
Sadly, though, it’s not. She breaks away from me and looks at her watch. “I’ve got an early meeting,” she tells me. “Can we continue this another time?”
“Just say when and where.”
“Tomorrow night, nine o’clock, my place,” she says and hands me a card with her information on it. “Don’t be late.”
“Never.” I attempt one last kiss, but she won’t let me.
“Tomorrow,” she says and smiles. As soon as the door closes behind her, I immediately take a cold shower.
The next morning, I wake up before the alarm goes off. I can’t get the day started fast enough. I’m not sure how I’ll make it another fifteen hours. I can’t wait to see Kiersten, can’t wait to continue what we started last night. I’m not sure what she sees in me, though. Sensing my self-doubt, I decide to go ahead and hit the park for my run. I’ve found I feel better about myself after exercising.
Today is no exception. When I get back, I shower and begin humming a tune while the warm water rinses my body clean. I haven’t written a song in over a year, but I’m feeling strangely inspired today. I hop out, dry off, find my boxers and pick up my guitar. I grab a pencil and some paper to write some ideas down. Two hours later, I have a completed song. It’s about a woman coming to terms with her feelings for a man who she thinks is all wrong for her... but turns out to be the love of her life... the man only wants her to find love, in the end.
It’s not a song for Kiersten, though. It’s for Emi. It was a vision of Emi that played in my mind while I created chord progressions and penned lyrics that I was sur
e I’d never be able to sing in front of an audience. I sigh and pick up the phone to attempt to call her. She still declines my call. I can tell because it only rings once before her chipper voicemail greeting announces itself.
“Em, call me. Please. I am so fucking sorry, Emi, believe me.” This is getting old.
I pick up my sketch pad and walk over to the window. I begin to draw the view outside in an attempt to distract myself. The ground below seems less bustling than usual. People must be staying inside, avoiding the heat as much as possible. New Yorkers are not cut out for this. I just watch the people below, walking around, two by two. I sigh as I hear my phone beep, notifying me of a text message. I race across the room.
“Someone’s interested in a few of your pieces... possibly some commissioned work... let’s meet to discuss... I’m in LA now... will call when I’m back in town...” My agent, Kate, rarely contacts me. I’m her least-known client. She loves my work, promotes it often, and represents me well, but there isn’t a lot of traditional demand for my non-traditional style. I know she must have found a serious buyer. She doesn’t bother me with little things. She typically just handles them on her own.
“Great,” I text back. “Give me a call when you get back.” I haven’t done anything on commission in awhile. I find it very difficult, creating things at the request of other people. They often have specific things in mind that they want. I’m a fine artist... I do what I like... but it’s hard to make money that way. I don’t need the money, of course, but it always does wonders for my ego when I do. It’s nice to affirm that I could support myself some day, if the money ever ran out.
I arrive at Kiersten’s building early, eager to see her again. I circle the block a few times killing time. At five till nine, I pull up to the valet and hand them my keys. The doorman of her building notifies her of my arrival, and she comes down to meet me in the foyer.
She’s wearing a different velour jogging suit, but looks impeccably put together. Every hair is perfectly in place, her make up is subtle but flawless, her fingernails are painted to match her outfit. My decision to wear some nice jeans and another button down shirt seems to be a good one.
