by Cassia Leo
He shook his head. “Nothing. Did you pack a bag for your mother?”
I swallowed hard at the realization that he wanted to get out of this apartment as quickly as possible. “Not yet. I just need to grab a few things from the bedroom.”
He followed a good distance behind me as I made my way to the bedroom.
I let out a tense sigh as I reached the bedroom door. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Am I being nice?”
I glanced back over my shoulder to glare at him, silently communicating that I was not impressed with his habit of answering questions with questions.
He took a few more steps before he stopped not far behind me. “You have a hard time accepting help from people, don’t you?”
I gripped the door handle firmly without turning it as his words wriggled their way under my skin. “I guess I’m just used to doing things on my own.”
“I see. You’re a strong, independent woman who don’t need no man,” he said, snapping his fingers and bobbing his head like a diva.
I turned away and stared at the doorknob to conceal my smile. “Something like that.”
“Well, Miss Independent, are you going to open that door, or what? The suspense is killing me,” he said, nudging my shoulder.
My entire body tensed. He must have noticed, because he quickly took a step back to give me some space. His question hung in the air like a noxious fume, and I held my breath as I considered it.
…are you going to open that door, or what?
I let go of the knob and turned around to face him. We both opened our mouths to speak at the same time, but I beat him to it. “Would you like to see my sculpture collection?” I asked, my attention focused on his shiny leather Oxfords. When I finally looked up at him, his green eyes were locked on mine.
“I would be honored to see your sculpture collection,” he replied with the utmost sincerity.
I turned back to the door, gripping the knob even harder now. “Try not to get too creeped out.”
He chuckled. “Why would I get creeped out? Do you sculpt dead bodies or something?”
“You’ll see,” I replied, unable to muster even a subdued smile in my heightened state of anxiety.
I pushed the door open to reveal my bedroom, which wasn’t much wider than a king-sized bed. The small closet in the corner was closed off with a polka-dotted curtain I’d hung on a tension rod. In the other corner, my twin-sized mattress—one of only two pieces of furniture in the room—lay directly on top of the beige carpet, the bed unmade. The rest of the space in the room was taken up by my very large worktable. I had constructed the table out of two-by-fours and plywood scavenged from discarded shipping pallets I’d found on the free items section of Craigslist.
The entire surface of the worktable was completely hidden by the vast collection of sculptures and art supplies: mounds of clays, stacks of mixing bowls and buckets of resin, gleaming sculpting knives, chisels, a bench vice, wire frames, and enough used sketch pads to reach the ceiling when stacked on the floor.
“Holy shit… You’re an artist,” he whispered, staring in awe at the shelves mounted on each wall of the room, which were teeming with surreal sculptures and heavy books covering all subjects related to art and anatomy.
He didn’t say anything about the subjects of my work as he moved closer to the worktable. At least half of my sculptures depicted cubist interpretations of faces and bodies, surreal depictions of hearts melting, hands clawing at the air, and both cubist and surrealist styles of bodies missing various limbs. My heart raced as I watched him staring in awe at my current work in progress: a surreal statue of a decapitated woman in a tattered peasant’s dress gently placing her own head in the hands of a skeleton man dressed in a monk’s robe.
“These are amazing, you know that?” he glanced over his shoulder long enough for me to see the pure wonderment in his brilliant green eyes, then he leaned forward to get a better look at my work in progress. “How much do you sell these for?”
I shook my head. “I’m not a real artist. It’s just a hobby.”
He stood up straight and looked around at the finished sculptures and monstrous textbooks adorning the shelves. “Just a hobby?” he said with a chuckle. “If this is just a hobby, I’m frightened to think of how serious you take your career as a waitress.”
I grabbed a sculpting knife off the worktable and twirled it between my fingers, the way I did when I worked. “I wouldn’t exactly call my job at Joe’s a career. I work at the cantina because I can’t get enough of Roger, obviously.”
“Obviously, you majored in sarcasm before you dropped out.”
I caught the knife in my hand, wrapping my fingers around the wooden handle. “Actually, I majored in studio art before I dropped out of NYU.”
“NYU? You dropped out of NYU?”
His mouth hung open in an expression of pure shock. He drew in a breath and opened his mouth a bit wider, as if he were about to admonish me for dropping out of a prestigious university. Or maybe he was going to express outrage that I gave up on something I was perhaps talented in or at least passionate about. Luckily, he stopped himself before he made any such judgments.
As he closed his mouth and turned back to my sculpture, I imagined he had deduced from my earlier admission that I couldn’t afford college, and the adjustable hospital bed in the living room of our tiny one-bedroom apartment in the Bronx, that there was a distinct possibility I had dropped out to take care of my mother.
He was silent for a moment, as he seemed to decide what to say in lieu of a lecture about pursuing my dreams. “So…are these sculptures made from the ground bones of baby elephants, or something? Why am I supposed to be creeped out?”
I smiled at his attempt to downplay the darkness reflected in my sculptures. “You don’t have to pretend this is normal,” I replied. “I know these are a bit…twisted. But…” I paused for a moment, staring at the tattered dress on the subject of my work in progress and realizing I hated the opacity of the fabric. “I guess I feel like…when I turn the painful…stuff into something surreal…it makes it less painful.”
He held my gaze, but his nostrils flared slightly as his mouth tightened, almost as if he were trying to hold back some sort of strong emotion. Though, I couldn’t determine if it was anger or sadness or something else entirely. The muscle in his jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth, then he finally broke eye contact.
“Seems like you’ve figured out how to deal with things your way,” he said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his expensive slacks. “Good for you.”
I felt exposed. I had stupidly shared intimate details of my life with a guy who probably knew nothing about the kind of shit I’d experienced. He couldn’t even look at me anymore.
What was wrong with me? Why did I feel I could be so honest with a complete stranger?
“Why isn’t your buzzer working?” he asked, probably in an attempt to change the subject.
I shook my head as I made my way to the closet to grab my backpack and some clothes for my mom. “I don’t know. I think one of my neighbors on the second floor is too lazy to buzz their guests in, so they keep breaking it. Management gave up trying to fix it months ago.”
I yanked back the polka-dotted curtain and slipped a couple of my mom’s shirts and pants off their hangers. Stuffing them into the backpack, I then pulled a few nightgowns and pairs of underwear out of a plastic rolling cart in the back of the closet. When I turned around, Daniel was once again looking me in the eye.
“I’m going to talk to Jerry about that buzzer,” he said, taking a step toward me, and I held my breath as he continued. “And I don’t want you to even think about paying back that money I gave them. Jerry’s going to fix your rent situation or I’ll unleash a legal hell on him that will follow him to his grave.”
I slung the backpack over my shoulder. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I do,” he replied. “You can’t do it all alone.�
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I stared at his breast pocket so I wouldn’t have to look him in the eye. “I’m not alone. I have my mom to help me.”
But even as I said the words, I knew they were a lie. I had never been more alone in all my life. No boyfriend. No friends. Working two shifts at a place where I was expected to smile and take it when drunk assholes grabbed my legs or described the ways they wanted to fuck me.
“You’re a good daughter, you know,” he said.
I tore my gaze from his chest and looked up at him, putting on that brave smile I’d perfected. “Yeah, I know,” I said dismissively as I set off toward the bathroom to get my mom’s toiletries.
I needed to get out of this apartment before this turned into a full-blown counseling session. While I stuffed toiletries into my backpack, I stole glances at Daniel as he stood in the hallway doing something on his phone. When I emerged from the bathroom, he informed me that he’d ordered a town car to take me back to the hospital.
I tried not to let my disappointment show. “Yeah, you probably have to get going. I’m sorry I’ve kept you this long.”
He shook his head. “Please don’t apologize. I’m sorry I can’t take you myself, but I have an early meeting with some investors.”
“Yeah, of course,” I said, trying not to roll my eyes at this obvious lie.
He couldn’t get away fast enough.
After he walked me down, we found the town car parked along the sidewalk. I flashed him my brave smile, not wanting to seem upset that he was handing me off to another stranger.
“Can you text me tomorrow…to let me know you and your mom are okay?” he asked, opening the car door for me.
“Yeah, sure. Thanks…for everything,” I said, tossing my bag into the backseat of the black sedan.
He held the door open, watching as I clipped my seat belt. “Hey, there’s a new art gallery that opened up in midtown a couple months back. Maybe we can check it out sometime,” he said. His cool demeanor was back, and he held my gaze as he awaited my response.
I chuckled. “Are you into art?”
He smiled. “I am now.”
I pressed my lips together as I tried not to grin like an idiot. He was using his charms on me and I was falling for it hook, line, and sinker, as if he weren’t as transparent as glass.
Shaking my head, I looked up at him. “As long as I get to pick the music in your fancy car.”
“Deal,” he replied, his smile widening.
The butterflies in my belly were having a goddamn field day as I pulled the car door shut. I watched as the front passenger window rolled down and Daniel slipped the driver some cash. He took one more glance at me before he stepped back onto the sidewalk and the car pulled away from the curb.
I could think of nothing but Daniel and that gorgeous smile as I spoke to the doctor at the hospital. As Leslie and I caught an Uber back to the apartment, I used my phone to try to find this new art gallery in midtown he wanted to take me to. It wasn’t until we arrived at our building that I realized this entire experience with Daniel had not been an elaborate daydream. As Leslie tried unsuccessfully to pull the burgundy door open, I smiled and reached into my purse for the key to the building.
Someone had fixed the buzzer.
Step Four
“Don’t forget to smile.” My mom’s voice on the other end of the call sounded urgent as we said our good-byes.
It’s sort of hard not to smile around Daniel, I thought to myself, then I sighed into the phone. “I know, Mom. I’ll see you in the morning,” I said, referring to her elbow surgery appointment the following day. “Ask the nurse for something so you can get some sleep. I don’t want you up all night worrying about me.”
“I’ll always worry about you,” she said, the urgency in her voice replaced by the usual weariness.
A knot of guilt tightened in my belly as I thought of everything I’d put my mother through in the months after I quit NYU. Inevitably, my mind wandered to Petra.
“I’ll be fine,” I replied, eager to end the call. “Good night, Mom.”
“Good night, sweetheart. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I ended the call with a lump in my throat and shaky hands. Looking into the bathroom mirror, the sheer terror of messing up tonight was plainly evident in my face. I needed to relax before Daniel got here or I was going to pass out at the sound of the doorbell. For the first time in months, my mind conjured a dangerous solution to my anxiety.
My mom kept a bottle of wine hidden in the back of the cupboard above the refrigerator. The bottle was a gift from Leslie for my mom’s birthday a few months ago. Leslie didn’t know about my past. I was certain my mother kept the bottle because she always had a hard time throwing away gifts.
Since the last time I saw Petra, and the brief stint with binge drinking that followed, I hadn’t consumed a single drop of alcohol. Serving cocktails every day at the cantina had never tempted me. According to the therapist who helped me give up booze, I didn’t have an addictive personality. My biggest problem was that I lacked coping skills, which she was going to teach me.
I ran down the checklist in my mind.
* * *
Step One: Try to sit down in a quiet location and take at least ten deep breaths.
* * *
I sat in the recliner next to my mother’s hospital bed in the living room. Leaning back, I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath through my nostrils, letting it out slowly through my pursed lips. I counted off ten inhales and ten exhales before I opened my eyes and cringed as the image of the wine bottle flashed once again in my mind.
* * *
Step Two: Remind yourself of the reasons why you gave up your addictions.
* * *
Glancing at the bed next to me, I imagined my mother sleeping, her knotted limbs hidden beneath the thin blanket she used during the summer. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t stop the image of Petra’s bloody face from jumping to the forefront of my thoughts. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and shook my head in a vain attempt to rid myself of this daymare.
* * *
Step Three: Call someone you trust for support.
* * *
I had just spoken to my mom. I couldn’t call her right back. She needed her rest. I couldn’t call Leslie. It was 7:30 p.m. Leslie and her family would be finishing dinner and getting ready for bed. Besides, she had already gone above and beyond the duty of friendship since my mom had fallen a couple of days ago.
A sharp ache burned inside my chest as I longed to call Petra. I blinked back tears as I realized I would never be able to do that again.
Before I could stop myself, I opened up my phone contacts and dialed the number.
The phone rang twice before a voice answered, “Kristin?”
“Hey, I’m…I’m sorry to call like this. I was just wondering… Did I leave my sunglasses in your car?” I rolled my eyes at this terrible excuse.
Daniel chuckled. “I don’t remember you wearing sunglasses when you were in my car. Do you usually wear sunglasses at night?”
“No, I wasn’t wearing them,” I replied, silently cursing myself. “I just thought maybe they’d fallen out of my purse or something. No big deal. Just trying to track them down.”
I shook my head, painfully aware that I sounded like a complete idiot who’d cooked up some lame excuse to call him. He could probably hear the desperation in my voice. Now, he was probably wondering why I couldn’t wait a measly thirty minutes—when he was scheduled to arrive at my apartment for our date—to ask him about the sunglasses.
“No, no sunglasses,” he said, and I could swear I heard a smile in his voice. “But I’ll be there soon. You’re welcome to search my car and pat me down, if necessary.”
I let out a long sigh of relief as I smiled. “Thanks for the offer. I’ll take your word for it.”
A brief pause followed, then he spoke again. “Are you okay? You sound… I don’t know.”
I bit my lip as I
realized this man, whom I still considered a bit of a stranger, had just helped me through something difficult, without his knowledge. “I’m fine. See you soon.”
I ended the call before he could express any more concern. I didn’t want tonight to be a therapy session. I wanted to go on my first date in years without the dark cloud of my past hanging over us. Tonight, I would spend the evening with a gorgeous man in the most beautiful city in the world, and pretend I deserved it.
* * *
Step Four: Distract yourself.
The knock at the door startled me out of my TV stupor. I scrambled for the remote and, in my haste, knocked it off the arm of the recliner and onto the floor. Scooping the remote off the floor, I pointed it at the TV to turn it off just as the anchorwoman’s face became somber and she said, “We have more details tonight about the deadly crash that left—”
The TV went black and I breathed a sigh of relief that Daniel had arrived at the end of the light and breezy special-interest piece on New Yorkers escaping the hustle and bustle of the city for various seaside vacation hot spots this summer. I didn’t usually watch the local news. It was too depressing.
I glanced down at my dress—a black Victoria Beckham shift dress I’d found at the fourth thrift shop I visited yesterday—and the nude slingback heels I’d found at Nordstrom Rack. I’d heard a girl at work once complain about having to spend $600 on a dress for her aunt’s third wedding. I’d spent $62 on this outfit and I nearly pissed myself with guilt afterward when I looked at my bank account balance.
I took a few deep breaths as I made my way to the door in an attempt to settle my nervous stomach. It didn’t really work, but it didn’t make it worse. I’d have to remind myself to keep finding those silver linings tonight.
I pulled the door open and my jaw dropped at the sight of Daniel.
He looked as if he’d just stepped off the set of a GQ magazine cover shoot in his crisp white button-up shirt with no tie and a trim-fit gray suit that showed off his athletic build. But it was the glint of mischief in his eyes that pulled the ensemble together. It was a look that spoke a thousand words—very naughty words.
