by Anne Jolin
He was intimidating just with the sheer size of him, but he was surprisingly graceful as he moved me across the dance floor.
I should have balked at the hands of a strange man on me so publically, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. There wasn’t even the smallest part of me that grew concerned over his potential identity. This excitement seemed to call to the part of me that revelled in the exchange of new highs.
That part of me was hungry tonight amidst the angst, and I was a woman who fed the addiction in her.
My hands slid up his chest and found their way to the back of his neck. This brought our faces closer, and I admired his full lips, though he never spoke another word. He was a beast, and I felt delicate in his arms. His olive skin was darkened by a few days of stubble, and he pulled me closer as the song bled into another and then another.
He seemed to know how I wanted to be held, so I didn’t speak either. Resting my head against his shoulder, I closed my eyes.
I had found a moment of peace in the chaos with this masked man.
I wasn’t sure how long we danced like that—minutes, maybe hours. The songs continued to blur together until a growl erupted from his chest and abruptly we were moving.
His hand at my lower back was pushing me impatiently through the crowd. It seemed as though he knew where he was going, falling in tandem with the floor plan of the event and leading us into the back hallway where, at last, his pace began to slow.
His legs were longer than mine, so I shuffled in a hurry to keep up with him.
“Are you all right?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He grabbed my hand and backed himself into the corner of the wall, plastering me up against his front.
Whatever fear I had that my having spoken would break our trance fell quickly by the wayside.
His hands fisted roughly into my hair, jerking my head backwards as his mouth came down on me fast, hard. It was domineering, just like he was, and my lips pushed back against his, finally our tongues duelling for control.
My hands grabbed at his jacket for some kind of grounding as the race in my chest began to soar.
He bit.
I moaned.
Our bodies pressed against each other so hard I wondered if we’d become one entity.
My hips bucked and I pulled at his hair.
It was less a kiss and more a battle of sorts.
It was only the crash of a vase hitting the floor that reluctantly separated our lips.
Breathing heavily, I forced my eyes open and found one of Tina’s arrangements strewn across the tile floor beside us.
Dead flowers weren’t pretty.
“Ooops.” A woman to our left stumbled and giggled.
The masked man pressed into my front and groaned in annoyance. I felt in agreement with this response, as I was not fond of this interruption either.
The woman noticed us, the state in which we remained, and grinned like a Cheshire cat in heat.
“I’ll have that taken care of,” I told her, nodding to the floor.
The masked man nipped behind my ear.
He didn’t like that idea.
A whimper fell from my mouth and a sweat broke out over my skin when his teeth bit at my collarbone.
“Your speech was ah-mazing,” the somewhat older and definitely intoxicated brunette slurred without thanks, waving her wine glass towards us before swaying in the direction of the restrooms.
“Yeah.” He scoffed against my throat, nipping again, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood at full attention.
“What?” My mind was hazy.
Lifting his head, he glared at me. “Who wrote that for you?”
I came crashing into reality at Mach five and not a moment too soon. “Excuse me?”
“The speech. Who wrote it?”
“I did.” My voice had dropped low. I was edging farther away from being turned on and closer to being royally pissed off.
“You didn’t,” he accused as his hands trailed over my backside. I loosed the grip I had on his suit lapels for fear I’d rip one off and use it to choke him.
“I did.” I shoved the wall of his chest.
It was futile, as I moved not even an inch.
“What’s someone like you know about grief, Princess?” He laughed.
He actually had the audacity to laugh in my face.
Maybe he thought I hadn’t suffered enough. Maybe he thought I deserved it. Or maybe his head was so far up his ass he couldn’t find his own without a road map.
My hand moved of it’s own accord.
I slapped him, hard.
And I didn’t regret it.
Not one fucking bit.
My nerves were shot from the day’s vulnerability, and I had no patience for a condescending son of a bitch. I was so wound up I barely noticed the way my hand stung.
“How dare you,” I spat. “I dragged my brother from the gutter for years until the day I watched his demons slaughter him in it. So don’t you dare assume I don’t know what grief is. I may not have fought wars, but my trenches are laced with blood just the same.”
I stepped backwards and tried to rip the mask from his face. He caught me by the forearms on my retreat and I snarled as he dragged me back into his chest.
“I let you hit me once,” he growled, and it never occurred to me to flinch. “Do it again and you won’t be able to sit down for a week.”
I lifted my hand to slap him again, but his grip was too tight. “Let. Go.”
I leaned into his space. Prey challenging a predator like it had a death wish.
“No,” he deadpanned.
I wasn’t sure a man had ever made me so mad.
I was losing control and I hated it.
I hated that he belittled my suffering.
I hated that I was becoming unhinged in front of him.
“Let me go,” I seethed, biting down hard enough on his bottom lip to draw blood. “Let me go, or I will rain a hell down on your head so ruthless you’ll wish you knew my grief and not the one I unleashed on you.”
He grinned.
He wasn’t afraid of me.
“Fuck you,” I spat.
He dropped his hands to his sides.
Good.
His wasn’t stupid either.
“Goodnight, Princess.”
I walked away surprised I managed to stay upright. My limbs visibly vibrated with fury.
“Asshole,” I muttered under my breath, ducking towards the service entrance.
“Excuse me?”
I swivelled to see Tom approaching me with Tina on his arm.
“Nothing,” I lied.
Tina, his wife and my employee of three years, looked from him to me, and back again; she didn’t seem like she bought the lie, but she didn’t seem like she was going to call me on it either.
Shaking my head, I pointed to the direction in which I came.
“Someone knocked over a vase in the back hall. I just need to have it cleaned up.”
Tom nodded. “I’ll let them know. I need to check in with the sound crew anyways.”
“Thanks.” I sidestepped them and aimed for the ladies’ room to avoid any further scrutiny.
Tina was observant, and the thought of anyone seeing through me in that moment made me dizzy.
I was certain they wouldn’t like what the saw.
I certainly didn’t.
I was falling from a high, and fast.
No one handled the downfall gracefully, especially not me.
Making slow fists in the bathroom stall, I dug my nails into my palm before stretching my fingers wide and repeating the motion. My knees shook as I leaned into the cheap aluminum paneling and I continued the motion until my eyes dried.
I took the time to right my hair in the mirror and confirm the blush of my cheeks had settled before entering the common room once more.
Scanning the event, I waved to a few familiar faces and assessed if anything seemed out of place. It didn’t
. The music was loud and the guests were drunk and happy.
Kevin made pained eyes over the head of his red-haired dance partner, and I shook my head.
The things people put up with for sex.
I was looking for Leighton when an arm slid around my stomach from behind and my gut coiled in response.
“You look beautiful tonight, Charleston.”
I recognized his voice as he moved the hair off my shoulder and placed a kiss there.
It surprised me as the tension fell from my body and I relaxed instantly against him. Rarely did I feel so at ease in the presence of a man as I did with this one. This was perhaps a change in me that I could get used too.
He turned me in his arms and I smiled. “You look better in person than you do on my television set,” I teased.
His laugher was deep and hearty.
I liked the way he laughed.
Tucking me into his side, he grinned. “I’m glad you think so.”
I was about to speak, when Beau sighed, looking down at me sympathetically. “I’m sorry about this.”
There wasn’t much time for confusion as people began to bombard us one after another. Some were interested in his political views; others just seemed to enjoy his company. Regardless, he introduced me to each of them and praised the work I’d done with Henry’s charity.
Many of the people we spoke to praised my speech and offered condolences for my untimely loss. It was kind, but I’d always hated sympathy, and each time someone mentioned it, I thought of the masked man and how small he’d made me feel.
Beau handled the crowd with ease and practiced discipline.
I was in awe of him.
He seemed to accept everyone for who they were without any hesitation. He boasted about the accomplishments of his loved ones proudly, and I felt at ease by his side.
We wore out the evening together, talking and laughing. Though, we didn’t dance. I noted some time ago that he’d stopped drinking rye, switching out to tonic water at my benefit.
He was a gentleman through and through, his small gestures surmounting to a great deal of thought.
My evening high was replenished in full by all that was Beau Callaway.
“He’s… wow,” Leighton whispered, eyes wide, as Morgan and Beau went toe-to-toe over golf scores.
Leaning into his side, I smiled at her. “Yeah.”
I didn’t know what to say. Beau was definitely wow.
The guests started to trail out, and before long, a member of his security team requested they make their exit soon.
“I’ll be out of town for a few weeks for the campaign.” I frowned at this and he laughed. “When I get back, I’d very much like to take you out on that date you owe me.”
His thumb trailed my jawline lightly. It was nice.
“You know where to find me.”
He kissed my forehead. “That I do.”
Then he lifted my hand and spun me in a little circle before kissing the top of my hand.
“Goodnight, Charleston.”
“Safe travels, Beau.”
I didn’t watch him go, not this time.
Instead, I settled into a chair next to Kevin, rested my head on his shoulder, and rode out my high.
I felt wanted, again.
I felt lethal.
I liked that.
“Venti vanilla misto, no foam, for…” Pause. “Charles.”
I rolled my eyes behind my sunglasses, picking up the coffee and twisting it to face me.
Charles was inscrolled in barista handwriting across the side. Close enough.
Deep down, I swore the doctors and baristas of the world were pulled aside during school and taught the art of creating nearly illegible script for public consumption.
Like every year on the Sunday following the gala, I was headed to the ‘burbs to spend the day with my family to recuperate. Thus, I was running on less than five hours sleep at 7:30 in the morning and picking up my second Starbucks of the day.
My parents lived in Tsawwassen, a small beach town suburb just an hour outside the city, in the home I grew up in. Together, after much discussion, they made the conscious decision each year not to attend the gala. I had supported their decision four years ago, and I still supported it now. It was hard enough to lose a loved one, never mind a child, and be reminded of that loss on every holiday, birthday, and anniversary, but it was another to have that loss publically exposed for the greater good.
It was painful. So, in lieu of that, we spent this day together instead.
The drive took another twenty minutes, post coffee stop, until I pulled the SUV into the half circle driveway of my childhood home.
It still looked the same, save of course for some upkeep here and there, but still, the same. The outside was a pale blue, naturally faded from a lifetime of summers by the sea. Windows were framed with white shutters, and the last of mom’s flowers cascaded over the window boxes on the bottom floor of the two-level beach house. Five steps from the driveway brought you up onto the wraparound porch that was painted a washed out Cape Cod grey, and sitting in the swing Dad built her was my mom.
I settled the engine and grabbed the flowers alongside my purse from the passenger seat.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” Mom called.
She’d been waiting on me.
“Hey, Mama.”
I took the stairs two at a time, limber in my yoga pants (that rarely ever saw a yoga studio) and black Hunter boots. It was sunny now, but I knew as well as any daughter born and raised next to the ocean of the Lower Mainland that it rarely ever stayed that way.
Mom looked well, with rosy cheeks and her greying blonde curls blowing in the wind. Mary Smith was a healthy woman. The kind whose yoga pants really did go to yoga, and the kind who genuinely enjoyed the taste of quinoa.
I had her smile and her hands, but otherwise, our appearances were fairly in contrast to each other.
“How was the drive?” She lifted the blanket that was across her legs and motioned for me to join her.
I rested the flowers on the flat railing and left my purse on the deck as I moved towards her while speaking. “Quick. No one’s on the road this early in the city.”
“Mmm,” she hummed as I tucked underneath the quilt, careful not to bump the coffee in her hand, and laid my head on her shoulder. “And how’s my gorgeous girl?”
I closed my eyes. “Tired.”
That wasn’t a lie. I was overwhelmed, overworked, and under slept.
The week had sucked the life from my bones.
“You want me to make you a coffee?” she asked, and I felt her free hand cup the side of my face gently.
I shook my head and breathed her in. She smelt like vanilla soap and oatmeal. Like home.
“Where’s Dad?”
I noticed his truck was missing next to her BMW in the driveway when I arrived.
“Rodney caught some halibut in the Queen Charlottes last weekend, and your father wants to make it for dinner.” I smiled and Mom laughed.
Jon Smith (yes, that is his actual name) was a wonderful cook, but a terrible fisherman, and constantly in envy of their neighbour down the road.
“I didn’t cry,” I spoke into the crook of her neck. “During my speech, I didn’t cry.”
It had been my fear each year that I wouldn’t make it through the words I had to say without crying. Mom knew this, and though she told me each time that it would be okay if I did, she understood why I didn’t want to. The way I looked on the outside was a carefully constructed armour, and crying in front of those people would poke holes in that shield that would take me years to repair.
“Your brother would be so proud of you, Charlie.”
I hiccup-sobbed.
My family were the only people who called me by that nickname, and Henry had been the one to start it when I was little.
“Charlie bear, where are you?”
With my eyes closed, I could almost hear the sound of his steps on the porch
wood while I hid under the stairs.
“Oh, Charlie… Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
We sat like that awhile, silent. Mom drinking her coffee, and me, letting the comfort of her presence soothe the pain in my heart to a dull ache.
“Are you ready?” Opening my eyes, I studied the lines in the quilt Auntie Donna had made for Mom’s fiftieth birthday two years ago. “We can wait awhile if you need more time, sweetheart.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m ready.”
Mom gathered the blanket and took it inside with my purse.
Standing, I zipped up the grey parka I was wearing just as she returned to the deck with her windbreaker secured snugly around her.
I started to follow her around the deck, but stopped short. “Oh.” Turning around, I grabbed the flowers I’d taken from one of last night’s arrangements off the railing and jogged back to her.
“That Tina really outdid herself with those,” Mom praised, and I took her hand in mine.
We walked around the porch, taking the stairs at the back down onto the beach.
The tide was low, and it seemed like the sand went on for miles.
“When I catch you, Henry Smith, I’m going to put sand in your mouth!”
I saw a ten-year-old me chasing her brother through the tide pools.
“You’ll never catch me, Charlie bear.”
Sometimes, when I really listened, I could still remember the sound of his laugh.
It was quiet, but it was still there in my memories.
We followed the shoreline, hand-in-hand, the sun still shining but the wind cold against our faces.
After ten minutes, Mom turned, taking the path into the high grass and stopping under the shade of the willow tree.
“Hi, my sweet boy,” she cooed, bending down to run her fingers over the brass plate. “Your sister is here to see you.”
Kneeling next to the base of the tree, I let go of my mom’s hand and allowed my fingers to trace the lettering.
Henry Jon Smith
Beloved son and brother.
“Come fly with me.”
May 13th, 1983 - April 22nd, 2007
