by Amy Rose
Before I have time to second guess myself and to really think about what I am considering, I take off, running toward the taxi. I pull open the door and get in the back seat, slamming the door behind me as quickly as I possibly can, spitting the address of where I need to be taken to the middle-aged fellow in the driver’s seat. As he nods in response, I settle back in the seat and fasten my seatbelt.
As the car begins to pull away from the curb, I see Elliot jogging toward the departing cab with an outstretched arm. I can faintly hear him call out my name; I turn my face down to look at my hands and begin to crack my knuckles as a way to distract my thoughts.
The cab has the faint smell of cigarettes mixed with perfume. No doubt the remains of other passengers from this evening. Normally the smell of smoke makes me want to heave, however tonight I don’t even give it a second thought. Instead I remember the look on Elliot’s face as I pull away from him. Shock, hurt, and even a little bit of worry.
We make our way across town; with the surprisingly light traffic this evening it only ends up being a $20 cab fare to my destination. The swanky and wealthy district of Central Park West.
When we pull up in front of the historic and well-known San Remo apartment building, I start to feel my heart beat slow. My emotions calming, here no one will find me. Here I will be safe.
I say well-known, due to it being one of those landmark buildings that tourists make sure to snap a photo of when they are in the area. The architecture, a highlight not only in this part of town, but right across the country. I slap my money into the cabbie’s outstretched hand and exit the vehicle, quickly closing the door behind me with a thud.
Bzzzzzz, I hear my phone vibrating, I look down to see Elliot’s smiling face lighting up my screen. I know why he is calling and as much as I want to tell him that he isn’t the reason why I ran, I hit the end call icon sending his effort to reach me straight to voicemail.
Seeing me approach, the doorman opens the front door. “Welcome home, Miss White.” As always, John is cheerful, wearing a three-piece suit with a top hat along with a smile that makes you feel like everything is going to be okay. He has been here since my very first visit so many years ago as a child.
I smile back at John, “Thank you, it’s been awhile, but it sure is good to be back. Have a good night,”
Once I step inside the open door, faced with the twin lobbies, I walk straight toward the elevator for the North tower. The clicking from my heels on the terrazzo floor, echoing around me. Standing in front of the art deco elevator, I press the call button. When the doors open, I enter, quickly pressing the number twenty-five, followed by my security entrance code. Once entered, the doors close in front of me. I feel the tell-tale signs that the elevator is on its way up. I’m almost there.
When the doors reopen, I walk into the open foyer space at the entrance to the apartment. It’s bare with wood paneling and terrazzo floors. Only one painting hangs here. One my grandmother painted during her final years, water lilies in a pond. I feel a tear trying to escape my eye. Being back here always brings back emotions.
Bzzzzzz, Elliot is once again phoning. I look down at my phone, contemplating answering, instead deciding to end the call again. I just can’t speak to him right now, too many emotions are flowing through my head. Knowing if I do, in fact, talk to him at this moment, I might tell him where I am and ask him to follow me.
I walk across to the internal front door of my apartment, the one that will let me into the rest of my home. I reach into my clutch bag and fish out the set of keys I always carry, holding them out in front of me. I place the key into the lock, hearing the familiar click signaling the retraction of the locking mechanism, and push the door open. I step through and close the door behind me, locking it as soon as it’s in position. I lean back against the door, needing the support that its cool, hard upright surface provides.
Looking into almost pitch-black darkness, I reach out beside me and flick the light switch located beside the front door. As the lights flicker on and come to life, I cast my eyes around the gallery, wooden panel walls, stained to bring out the grain in the wood, eleven-foot ceilings, rising high above me, antique chandelier hanging from the center of the room. It hasn’t changed at all since I was here last, over a year ago now. Why would it change when I am the only one with a key?
I inherited this very apartment along with several other properties scattered about New York from my grandfather when he passed away. I, alone, being his sole grandchild, received quite the inheritance, both money and properties, along with trust funds that still haven’t been accessed.
I am technically a very wealthy person; however I don’t see myself that way as I haven’t earned any of it. Instead it was gifted to me when two of the people I love the most in this world passed away. I would give up every cent and every inch of space in these properties for one more day with my grandfather and grandmother.
I have kept the apartment almost the exact same way that they had it when they resided here. The only touches that I have brought in myself are the colored kettle and toaster and my few clothes hanging in the wardrobe.
If this were my full-time residence, I would hang some photos on the walls and bring back Grandma’s sewing machine, but since I only come back once a year, it’s best off remaining this way.
Although this apartment is close to eighty years old, you wouldn’t tell just by looking at the interior. Through the years, renovations have been completed. The kitchen has all the new whizz-bang appliances you need and the bathroom has been brought into the here and now. The remainder of the house has been done sympathetically. The wood paneling remains, the terrazzo floor has been polished a few times and the carpets have been replaced along with a few light fittings. The internal walls are still all erected, so open-plan living doesn’t exist in this apartment, a building of a bygone era.
I walk into the kitchen dropping my handbag onto the counter, pulling my cell phone from within and turning the volume all the way up. I place it face down on the counter. Turning the light on, I fill the kettle with water from the faucet and replace it to its cradle, then switch it on to boil. Reaching up into the cupboard above, I retrieve a mug; turning around I open the pantry and find the box of tea bags, making quick work of making a cup of tea. I lean back against the stone countertop and take a sip, the hot liquid warming my insides and feeling the calm, that only a good cup of tea provides, completely wash over me. I step away from the counter and deposit my empty cup into the sink, rinsing it before I go.
I exit the kitchen and make my way to the living room, reaching the closed curtains. Grabbing the wand in my hand, I begin to pull them apart. Once fully open, they reveal the night-time view of Central Park. Turning around I see the familiar sight of all of the furniture items covered with sheets, I pick up the cover from the sofa and flick it high with my hands pulling it towards me when it’s in the air. I fold it quickly and deposit it on the floor next to the arm.
I look at the newly revealed sofa and run my hand along the deep red crushed velvet fabric. I close my eyes and remember sitting here with my grandfather, back when I was just a child, reading me stories, showing me plans of buildings. The memories come back as though it was yesterday. Opening my eyes again, I let myself flop down and take up prime position, angling myself best so I can look through the floor to ceiling windows of glass. Although I am too high to see much of Central Park from this height, I can see the twinkle of lights in the skyline of this city, which was once my home.
Being back in my safe haven, I allow myself the opportunity to reflect on the happenings from this evening, and it’s not long before I am bursting into tears. Of all the people that Dylan could work for, it had to be Elliot. Of all the places that are in this town, he had to be on that boat tonight, and because he still elicits the same reaction and stirs the same feelings inside of me, I ran. I ran away from Elliot, without so much as an explanation. I ran from someone who has done nothing but be kind to me. I ran
from the man who I am falling in love with.
Why? Because seeing Dylan brought back up all of those feelings that I have tried my hardest to bury over the past four years. Even though I truly believed that they were buried deep enough, seeing him tonight proved they are still just under the surface. Looking at him brought back fear, brought back dread. My heart stammered and then almost stopped when I first heard his voice behind me.
When Elliot called out to me on that boat deck tonight, asking me to meet his associate, I considered yelling back that I don’t need to, that I already know who that is. I also almost fainted, instead I kept both of those reactions at bay, keeping my composure, I said hello to Dylan and then took the first opportunity to walk away, not caring if either of them found my behavior rude.
I had to get away from him that moment, Since I am now here all alone and Elliot is no doubt on his way back to Greenwich, I won’t get the opportunity to explain to him my actions this evening. To tell him why I left him this evening. To tell him the history that Dylan and I shared. To tell him that I can’t be with him due to my inability to completely move on. To tell him that I am falling in love with him, and then it hits me, right in the chest, I have to see him again, for so many reasons.
Bzzzzzz, my cell phone rings, and it brings me abruptly out of my thoughts. I jump up from my position on the sofa and walk the way back across the lounge, through the gallery and into the kitchen, reaching the breakfast bar. I snatch my phone from its position, I’ve missed the call by the time I’ve got it in my hand.
The screen lights up at my touch and shows that there are three missed calls from Elliot. I really should let him know that I am okay, apologize for leaving him there tonight without an explanation. I wonder if he is worried? Or maybe he is mad? There are also three voicemails that have been left. I call the provider and listen to the messages; all having been left by Elliot.
Voicemail 1 - Angie, it’s Elliot. Are you ok? Call me back.
Voicemail 2 – Angie, it’s me again. Please let me know you are okay. I’m worried. If you don’t want to call me then send me a message. Please.
Voicemail 3 – Oh, Angie, I don’t know why you’re not picking up, I need to know that you are okay. I’m not sure what I’ve done wrong, but whatever it was, I’m sorry. Please let me know you are okay.
Walking back into the living room, I listen to each message several times over, feeling comfort upon hearing his voice, and horrible knowing that because of me he is no doubt feeling a number of emotions. I notice that by the third message his tone has changed. Is what could possibly be described as panic coming through?
My heart breaks, he is apologizing when he hasn’t done anything wrong. I can’t let him think that he is the reason why I ran tonight. He is worried. Looking at the screen of my phone which has now gone black, I think to myself that I really should at least tell him I’m okay and that he shouldn’t worry.
I open the message program and compose a quick text message to fire off to him.
Elliot, I don’t want to talk right now. I wanted to let you know that I’m okay, but I need some space.
Once hitting send, I place the phone screen down beside me on the sofa and return my gaze to the white lights twinkling outside. The skyline is really beautiful at night, lights are on in people’s homes, they are probably sitting at home watching a movie, snuggling up on the couch with a loved one. Some are probably having a party. Not me. Instead of any of those things, I’m sitting here all alone, moping.
The sound of a text message coming in on my phone brings me out of my silent meditation, I reach down and flip the phone so I can see a text message from Elliot:
What did I do wrong?
Reading those five little words over and over again, I feel my heart breaking into many pieces. This man thinks he has done something wrong, when in fact he did nothing but be attentive and kind all night. Not just tonight, but for the short time that we have been seeing each other. He has absolutely no reason to think that it is his fault that I ran. He doesn’t know that deep down I know that I am Safer Alone.
The risk of being in a relationship increases when there are real feelings, and when those feelings develop into love, like they have on my part, it becomes dangerous. I’ve opened up my whole self to him, even though right from the very beginning I tried my hardest not to feel anything. Telling myself that this would never go anywhere. How wrong I was.
Instead, the depths of my emotions and what I feel for this man are so incredibly strong, strong enough that I know that when Elliot decides that he has had enough, when he decides to walk away when he hurts me, I won’t be able to pick up each of the thousand pieces of my heart that will have scattered across the ground.
He doesn’t know any of this though. How could he? I have never told him that I have fallen in love with him. All he knows is that he turned around mid-conversation and realized I was no longer beside him. Instead he saw with his own eyes that I was sitting in a taxi, driving away from him without any explanation, and yet he has sent a message asking what it is he has done wrong.
My phone chimes again signaling another message has come through:
I’m currently driving around the city. Let me know where you are, and I’ll come to you. We can talk about this. Please, Angie.
I want to send him a reply telling him no, tell him to leave me alone, I don’t though.
Next, I consider ignoring his text message, switching my phone off and pretending that my phone has gone dead. I can sit here and pretend that he doesn’t care, but I can’t do that to him either; his text messages prove that he cares. He also deserves some sort of explanation. I scroll through my contact list and locate his phone number, opening the contact I see his perfect face looking up at me, that smile that only comes out every now and then, those eyes that look right into my soul, I press call.
He answers before the first ring has even finished, “Angie, I’m so happy that you called, are you okay?” His voice is unmistakably full of concern,
“I’m okay. I just needed to get away.” I can feel my voice is starting to wobble. I need to end this call shortly. Otherwise he will hear my voice crack.
“From me? You ran from me? What did I do wrong?”
There is no malice present in his voice, just concern.
“I didn’t run from you, Elliot,” pausing as the tears are now flowing. “Never mind, I’m at the San Remo. Do you know where that is?” I breathe out, lifting my fingers to brush away the tears.
“Sure do. Central Park West, I can be there in ten minutes.” Good, he can come to me.
“Okay. I’m on level twenty-five of the North tower.” I get ready to hang up just before I hear him speak once more.
“I’ll be there soon, baby,” and then the phone clicks off and I drop it to the floor. It bounces once and then settles into place. I just stare at it.
~ Chapter Eight ~
Elliot
I arrive back at the penthouse, frustrated out of my fucking mind. She walked away from me. No, scratch that, she ran away from me. Without even so much as a goodbye. Who the fuck does that?
Angela does, so it seems. I retrace the night in my mind again, for what seems like the millionth time since I tried to follow her in that damn getaway taxi. Still nothing springs to mind about why she would leave. I mean, sure, she seemed a little upset when I found her outside the bathroom shortly before we left but she smiled at me and took my hand while we said our goodbyes. We walked off the boat together, hand in hand toward our awaiting car so we could go home together, and then I turn away for what, fifteen fucking seconds, answering a question, and by the time I look back, reaching my hand out for her, she is closing the door of a taxi. I started to run towards the taxi, calling out her name and she looked at me, our eyes connected and yet she still took off.
I rake my hands violently through my hair several times and then rub my face too. I pull out my phone and dial her number again; for the third time tonight, she doesn’t
answer. Her beautiful voice comes through the phone in the way of her voicemail message.
“This is Angela White from Nashville Realty. Please leave a detailed message and I will get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you and have a lovely day,” followed by that god-awful beep.
I take in a breath and leave my third voicemail for the evening: “Oh Angie, I don’t know why you’re not picking up, I need to know that you are okay. I’m not sure what I’ve done wrong, but whatever it was, I’m sorry. Please let me know you are okay,” before pulling the phone away from my ear and hitting the end call button.
I open the message app on my phone and send my best friend Drake a message:
Hey man, you home yet? Wanna have a beer?
I receive a message back almost instantly; he always has his phone within reach.
Got home around five minutes ago, Kat’s still partying though. Sure thing brother. But you’re shouting. I’ll be up in five.
I put the phone back in my pocket and head into the bedroom to take off my tie, shirt and jacket. On the way back out to the kitchen, I stop in at the office and grab the stress ball sitting on my office desk, I start squeezing it instantly.
Drake and Kat’s apartment is in the same building as my own. Both having to work long hours, we each needed a place close to our companies’ home bases, for me making it easier to still get in a decent amount of shut eye when those early meetings mean getting up at an ungodly hour when I’m back at home, or a lesser of two evils when I’m closer by.
We bought them at the same time, directly off the plan. One of the perks when you know the architect, John White. And let me tell you, that guy really knows his stuff. We have collaborated on several projects. Another perk is that once I had laid down the cash for the apartment, he was more than happy to let me change whatever I wanted. Being the penthouse, I had the entire top floor of the building. What should have been two four-bedroom, five-bathroom, penthouses was now just one three-bedroom, four-bathroom, media room, study, games room, gym, museum, kitchen, and one hell of a large open-planned living/dining area penthouse. Perfect for me, especially since I’m the only person to have ever stayed here.
