“Geez, it’s cold.” Nina brought her arms up, bracing herself for the winter chill.
“Where’s Paul?”
Nina shrugged. “He said you wanted to do something destructive. What’s that about?” She paused. “Are you crying?” Nina pulled her dress up, carefully walking closer.
“I can’t do this.”
“What?” Nina frowned.
“I can’t go through with this charade … I can’t marry Dario.” She covered her face with her hands.
Nina yanked Olivia into an embrace. “Hey … Hey, it will be all right. Liv, seriously, stop! You will get mascara all over yourself, and me.” Nina pulled back and reached into her purse. “I know what’s going on…”
“You do?” Olivia took the tissue out of her sister’s hand, wishing Nina could just read her mind.
“It’s just cold feet.”
Olivia’s heart slumped. She knew it was more than that, but how was Nina to know? Olivia had been hiding everything from her family. There was so much they didn’t know about her relationship with Dario.
“I had cold feet before I married Peter. It’s only normal. It happens to some people.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
“No, it’s true. Ask him.” Nina’s teeth chattered.
“But Peter is good to you.”
“Yeah, Liv. All men are brilliant in the beginning. They bring you flowers, sweep you off your feet, and when you marry them it becomes a different story.” Nina brought her arms higher around herself, bouncing back and forth. “Suddenly you become this freaking 1950s housewife. Picking up his dirty socks at the end of the bed. Every. Freaking. Morning. Somehow they seem to forget what the laundry basket is for.” Nina pulled a face.
“But you love him.”
“Sure I do. We’ve been together for so long, but sometimes I wish we could go back to the beginning.” Her smile faded. “Marriage is not a fairy tale, Olivia. Other things come into the picture. Mortgage, bills, kids—life has a way of sucking the romance right out of it. There are days I swear Peter gets on my nerves. I could just choke him … But when I force myself to stop and think back to the first moment I saw him, and why I love him, it renews my faith in us.” Nina’s eyes softened.
“I don’t know…” Olivia understood that relationships went through all kinds of changes. They evolved into something else, leaving a remnant of their former obsessive, passionate love behind. But if you didn’t have the love to sustain the relationship, any snag could cause everything to unravel. She had heard this speech or something like it before, from Aunt Teresa to the sweet Chinese lady next door. It seemed everyone had a piece of advice since she'd gotten engaged.
Her dilemma was simple: what if she was making a terrible mistake by settling down before meeting the person she was supposed to love? Even at the beginning of her relationship with Dario, she couldn’t have called it a great love story. Olivia wasn’t sure what had sustained their relationship all this time. Perhaps it was love, but lately she had realized it had been her father. He was the one who’d set them up.
There was nothing more motivating than the fear of disappointing a parent.
Nina jumped at the sound of a crackling noise behind them.
“Ma, you scared the shit out of me.” Nina placed her hand on her chest.
“Girls, I didn’t think you were crazy enough to be out here. Quick, get inside! You’re going to catch pneumonia.” Their mother’s voice came through the open glass door. She looked sophisticated in her shift dress and white pearls, the Jackie O. look. Even though their mother had arrived in Canada as a young girl, she had never managed to lose her Italian accent when she spoke English.
“We’re coming, Ma.” Nina shook even more. “What the hell are you made out of? Aren’t you cold? Please tell me you’re ready to go in.”
Olivia nodded.
“Are you okay?”
Olivia took in a deep breath. “Yeah … sure … I’m just overwhelmed.”
She spotted Dario from across the room, standing close to a very attractive blonde.
At what point had she forgotten that there were other choices?
Also by Maria La Serra
Lyrical Lights Mable Harper is a hardworking model trying to make her name in the fashion business. The only problem is that the world of fashion—and her agent—isn't really ready for a hard of hearing woman on a mission to challenge their patriarchal expectations. So after a string of unfortunate and unpleasant situations, Mable is relieved and glad her run of bad luck is over when a handsome, young stranger named Simon comes to her rescue at a bar. Then, when she runs into Simon once more before an unexpected opportunity revives her fashion career, she starts to wonder if it was more than a coincidence that she ran into this charming photographer.
As her modeling career flourishes so does her relationship with Simon—as he awakens desires she never imagined she had. However, as Mable falls more and more for Simon, she soon discovers there’s more to him than wit and charm and his complicated past keeps coming between them.
Suddenly, Mable struggles to find a balance in her life in a world that keeps insisting on trying to tear her down, forcing her to choose between the life of fame that she always wanted and the man that, until now, she never knew she needed.
Chapter 1
Mable
The Little Orange House was the latest trendy bar in the Meatpacking District, a hot spot for the arts and fashion crowd. With an unfinished degree in computer science, I was still trying to figure out where I fit into the fold.
The bar itself was chic, a mix of Spanish and industrial revival. To my left, there was a concrete wall lit up by candles, each in their individual compartments. All the way in the back, past the iron gates, was where I sat alone on a rust-colored leather couch, away from the crowd and the rhythmic music that played on the speakers. Rather, I assumed it was music, because everything sounded like ruckus. I rarely liked to come out to these places; the commotion and the background noise would annoy the average person, but it could be very stressful for someone hard of hearing, like me.
I had been waiting here for an hour, and it was clear that Jason wasn’t coming. But hey, I wanted to make it official. Besides, the martinis weren’t half-bad.
Jason?
How can I explain my relationship with Jason? I guess you could say it was in eternal purgatory—it fell anywhere between hooking up and something of a real relationship. A girl can get lonely in a big city with no other prospects in sight. You take what you can get. Besides, I didn’t have time for a real relationship.
That’s a lie; time was what I had in spades. I was a broke model, working part-time at an Italian deli on the Upper East Side. Technically, I wasn’t allowed to work anywhere while under contract with the NY Model Agency. They literally had me on standby, waiting for the next job, but I hadn’t heard a peep from my agent in over three weeks, and my debts were on the rise. With what I got from my dad and what Johnny paid me under the table, I managed to survive. Working at the deli wasn’t my dream job, but the owners treated me well, especially the little one they called Nonna. She heckled me every time I got in her line of sight. “Eata, eata … you too skinny. Don’ta worry, you make the model anyway.”
I was damn fond of them, but holy cow, what was with these people and their obsession with food?
I only wished my agent Dania had the same philosophy. The last time we had spoken, she’d said, “Darling, you need to lose three more inches, okay? Around your waist and thighs.” The sound of paper crackling came through the phone—what I assumed was my contract compressing into a nice little ball—and I swallowed. “That’s if you want to work. If you don’t, it’s not going to happen, not here in New York City or anywhere else.”
She was oblivious to the fact that I was two layers deep in my lasagna.
“I’m sorry, Mable, but it’s not working out … I have to let you out of your contract.
” She’d sighed. “I wish you luck.”
It was business; if she didn’t make money, then I couldn’t pay my bills, and, unfortunately, I was the product she was selling. We weren’t having any success with each other.
But the worst of it hadn’t come from Dania—it had come from the designers themselves, who had related their concern that I wouldn’t be the best match to represent their label, since I was hard of hearing. It caused me to talk funny.
I asked myself, constantly, why the hell I put myself through this. It was straightforward: the dream was bigger than me. It was like an entity of its own, making me believe that, if I held on a little longer, if I could prove to them that my disability was an asset, I could represent girls who were different. I thought things would happen, just maybe.
So tonight, I had hoped Jason would be able to console me, like I had many times for him. I should have known better. When a guy said, “I’m not looking for a serious relationship,” it most likely translated to, “I have no intentions of having one with you—like, ever.” But my mind was a tricky little gal, the kind to concoct a better truth, one that suited me better. I had failed miserably at conforming him to boyfriend material, but I couldn’t blame the guy. He had laid it out for me, but did I deserve better? Sure, I did. But I had allowed this shit-show to run its course for several months because I believed it was better than being alone. With every passing minute living in this metropolis, my views on dating had reformed into something more cynical. After a while, you realize that everyone around you complains about dating in New York.
As soon as I finished my glass, I ordered another one. I thought, I surely deserve it. I had a plan. Tomorrow I would call my dad and tell him he was right, that this whole modeling thing was a waste of time. In a few weeks, I would return home to Montreal and continue my studies, like we’d agreed. But on the bright side, at least, after a year of putting my body through hell, I had been fortunate not to develop an eating disorder like some of my colleagues.
Within minutes, the waitress brought me an apple martini, and I reached over for my purse beside me. I swept my hand on the soft leather … nothing. A surge of anger came over me.
“My purse was here just a minute ago, and now it’s gone,” I said, looking up at the twenty-something waitress, who looked like she couldn’t be bothered. She repeated something, but I had no clue what Miss Muffet was saying. The music was blaring in the background, drowning the sound of her voice. All I could see was her bright pink lips flapping in the dark, but they were moving way too fast for me to catch anything. It’s a misconception that a deaf or hard-of-hearing person can read lips—that we have developed a sixth sense to compensate for our disability. If that were true—I was still waiting for mine to kick in.
“Can you ask the bartender if anyone found a purple boho bag … with a gold clip?” I was yelling at this point—I couldn’t hear my own voice. She stood there, showing me my bill, and those damn lips still flapped.
“Yes, I would like to pay for my drinks, but someone took my purse …” This is crazy. “I can’t understand—I’m hard of hearing … can you please write it on your phone?” I saw her smartphone peeking from the pocket of her black apron. Talk, talk, talk … Her mouth kept going, and I was getting annoyed with her expressions. I was raised in the hearing world and had never deprived myself of anything any other twenty-one-year-old like me was doing. Never allowed my disability to impede anything.
Good grief, talk about an off night.
“Okay, just give me a second.” Obviously I wasn’t getting anywhere, and instead I focused on finding my bag. It was possible it could have fallen on the ground or gotten kicked under the couch. I got on all fours to look around, and that’s when I stumbled across a pair of navy oxford shoes. I forced my eyes up the length of the muscular legs attached to them. Then a set of hands appeared, guiding me up, and I straightened my body.
When I did, my eyes met the most expressive, soft, ultramarine eyes I had ever seen. And I found myself speechless. I would have expected no one to come to my rescue, but there he was, with a laid-back vibe in his style. He’d come with a gorgeous smile and light tousled shoulder-length hair. Without a doubt, I knew I was in for some trouble.
“Are you all right?”
“Someone took my purse,” I replied. I looked past him and realized Miss Muffet had disappeared.
“No worries. I took care of it.” As he spoke, I looked at his face.
“Do you want to talk outside?” I pointed to my ear underneath my hair. He nodded, but I was aware he didn’t grasp my situation. It was pointless to explain, but he would soon find out.
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About the Author
Maria La Serra lives in Montreal. Before becoming a writer, she worked as a fashion designer. She will try everything at least once, except for skiing, hiking or camping- okay anything relating to activities done in the great outdoors. When she’s not working on her next book, you could find spending time with family.
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www.maria-laserra.com
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The One & Only: The One Lover Series Book 1 Page 15
