A Diamond in the Rough

by Elisa Marie Hopkins

  After the words come out of my mouth, he studies me. He delays his answer. “So which is it then? I have no shame or no decency?”

  His breath rushes against my face and I blink regretfully.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wish I was more what you want.”

  “See now. This is what I mean. How can you say that? How can you apologize? You’re a highly intelligent, high-achieving man. You have everything going for you. Hell, you have every girl going for you. Why in the world would you want to change?”

  “I’m very satisfied with myself,” he says. “But it seems you’re not.”

  “Oliver! You...you irritating man! Who cares what I think? You don’t change just for change’s sake!”

  “Sophie, what do you want me to say?” He chuckles at my display of exasperation. “You don’t get to where I am without learning to rise above the petty. Stop thinking I’m perfect, because I’m not. I make mistakes. I get mad. I get sad. I get frustrated. I worry.”

  The smell of his cologne lays over me thickly. My insides burn with heat and my mind stops focusing on anything but his face.

  “I need to be alone for a minute,” I say.

  “In the bathroom?”

  “Yes, in the bathroom. I ran out of there before I had an asthma attack.”

  His mouth curves. “Sophie, you don’t have asthma.”

  “Imagine that! I guess it’s pretty serious then, isn’t it?”

  “Uncomfortable situations exist because you make them virtually uncomfortable. It’s all in that pretty head of yours,” he says, pointing to my temple.

  I look at him, hoping that some of his tranquility rubs off on me. “How do I even make it comfortable? They’re probably thinking the worst about me already. These are Jess’s parents. I don’t want them to get the wrong idea.”

  “Get a conversation moving. Ask something that requires an opinion. It’s a good way to balance the conversation in the other direction. They’ll forget all about us. I promise.”

  There’s a second of silence between us.

  “You don’t have to change anything about you,” I confess, in a low voice. “You know who you are. And you do what you want. Some people are just bound to flip out.”

  His thick brows dip together. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that sometimes people get so used to bad things happening that when a good thing comes along they...stumble.”

  “Stumble?”

  “Yeah. They question it.”

  On the outside he looks clueless. Silence follows again until I break it with a sigh. “I’m just incredibly maladjusted. This whole situation reminds me of how much I struggle every day with trying to act comfortable around everything I’m not.”

  “What are you not comfortable with?”

  “People, mostly. Conflict. Stereotypes. I know, I know. I’m in the wrong business.”

  “Well, if you ask me, it’s a good thing to push at the edges of your experience. I suppose we’re all predisposed to do the things we’re comfortable with. It’s easy, you’re not worrying, but you’re also not out there exploring. Security isn’t always a good thing.”

  I just look at him, trying to convince myself he’s standing right here with me, in my closet of a bathroom.

  “Is there anything you aren’t good at?” I say.

  “I have a terrible sense of direction. When I was a kid, I got lost all the time, even in familiar places. My mother thought there was something wrong with me. My attention was just all over the place. I also don’t connect to people easily.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re a social butterfly.”

  “I spend a lot of time thinking. There aren’t many people with whom I would willingly spark a conversation and spend more than a few minutes discussing the finer points of a particular topic.”

  “What do you usually think about?”

  “Existential mysteries, the human condition, socio-economic trajectories, why people don’t look critically at things, what went wrong, what went right.”

  I suddenly feel a sense of ease; he has a certain stillness about him that is very soothing. There is a quiet moment when I look into his eyes and I want to ask, “what are you?” and “where did you come from?” But instead, I follow his frown to where my cigarette lies dead and unused.

  “That’s not mine,” I lie right away, and I’m not sure why.

  “Whose is it?”

  “How should I know?” I ask rhetorically. “Jess’s or Eric’s. I don’t smoke.”

  He lets out a loud exhale. “Well, it’s a good thing you don’t. I don’t date smokers.”

  “Ha! It’s a good thing we’re not dating.”

  ***

  “WHAT DO YOU want me to say? I’m sorry! I panicked!” Jess is a hysterical mess, apologizing as she fishes into the kitchen cupboard for wine glasses. “You stormed in like a pair of randy goats in an R-rated movie, snuggling up to each other’s goodies and knocking down everything in the way. I’m talking hot... live...por—”

  “Okay, okay, I get it.”

  “You didn’t even come home last night. I would’ve at least expected a heads up. Seriously, what was I supposed to say? That you just met the guy?”

  She’s right. That would’ve been inappropriate on many different levels.

  “I’m not mad at you, Jess. I understand.” I fill a bowl with spinach dip. “Look, if anyone should be sorry, it’s me. I feel so embarrassed. I forgot your parents were coming in. I didn’t even clean my room.”

  “Of course you forgot. You were in Oliver-land.” She munches on a chip. “I’m sorry for putting you in this position with Oliver. I don’t know where you’re at with him. The thing is, my parents are very conservative and they can be pretty intimidating. They believe in two things: the way of the Lord and education. I just don’t want them to get the wrong idea about you.”

  Oh good...I’m not the only one who’s terrified.

  I’m not sure if they’re going to love me. Jess turns her head at the living room. Her mother is inspecting the sanitation of our apartment, running her finger through what I fear is a quarter-inch of dust gathering on the coffee table.

  “See what I mean?” she says, frowning. “If you think I’m obsessed, she’s always looking to see everything is ‘operating room’ clean. I just don’t want to fight with her.”

  “I think I understand.”

  She lifts a tray with a doily underneath store-bought carbohydrates and deep-fried appetizers. “So, did you sleep with him?”

  “Lower your voice,” I say. “No, of course not.”

  “Hard to get,” she scoffs. “Yeah, right!”

  “What?”

  Jess goes on mocking me. “I don’t want to go to this party. Oliver probably has millions of girls at his beck and call. I don’t think Oliver is the most attractive man I’ve ever met. Yada, yada...bull crap!”

  “Yeah, all right.”

  In the living room, I’m setting up appetizers on the coffee table and Mrs. Freeman blurts, “You and Oliver make a really nice couple, Sophie.”

  I grin like the old Cheshire cat. I’m glad Oliver is out of sight, taking a call on his phone. I wouldn’t want to boost his ego when it’s already overflowing.

  “When will you two tie the knot?”

  Gimme a break, lady. Jess mouths over the word “marriage” as if I hadn’t understood the insinuation. As for the scowl on my face, it doesn’t lie and I hope no one notices.

  I simply smile, arranging the entrées, looking at a newspaper on the coffee table. Then I remember what made the headlines.

  “Hey, has anyone been reading about those goats in Canada producing spider silk in its milk? I was just reading about it. I think it’s barbaric.”

  I question my audacity, but quickly squish the thought as Mr. and Mrs. Freeman begin a back-and-forth debate of what kind of consequences technology can have on humanity. This makes it easy for me to sit back and inhale some oomph in
to me.

  “Oh, yeah!” Jess follows my lead. “So creepy. Talk about genetic engineering.”

  “Well, how is it barbaric, exactly?” Eric asks. “Apparently, the strangest things can happen and nobody even knows about their existence. Don’t you agree, Sophie?”

  So, I can take a hint...but what the hell is his problem?

  Mrs. Freeman gives her opinion. “I agree with Sophie. It’s an extreme evil, is what it is! We are expected to go along with technology evolution and accept it. Just like that.”

  “Nonsense, Judy!” Mr. Freeman talks back to his wife. “Spider silk is much stronger than steel. Imagine what interesting uses it could have. Say, safer suspension bridges.”

  Once Mr. and Mrs. Freeman find common ground with regard to technology, Mrs. Freeman moves on to the next subject. “Jessie tells us you’re a...model?” She seems to have difficulty articulating the word.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” She says it with a smile, like she genuinely can’t conjure a reason for it. I ask myself the same thing every day.

  “Mother,” Jess warns.

  I take a great, heavy sigh. “It’s okay,” I say, hoping these words will somehow make it okay. “This job gives me opportunities.”

  “What kind of opportunities?”

  “Travelling. Meeting new people. Discovering new ways of life. It’s a good way to reach a lot of people and hopefully, make a positive difference.”

  Jess is looking fidgety. “That’s...that’s awesome, right?”

  “When you’re a public figure, aren’t you up for scrutiny?” Mr. Freeman probes.

  Eric pipes up. “Oh yeah, all kinds of rumors flying around. Every little thing you do is broadcasted.”

  “I’m not the most public figure,” I say, grabbing my glass of wine from the table in front of me.

  “Well, let me just go ahead and say something,” Eric throws out. “I’m glad you found someone, Sophie. Not that you need the extra money.”

  I can hear the proverbial cricket chirping over the sound of Eric’s chuckle.

  “Eric.” Mr. Freeman looks at him. “I’m happy you and my Jessie are together. You seem like a decent young man.”

  Decent? I shout in my head. I can only remember. Three weeks ago, I’m sitting by myself outside my apartment, waiting patiently for World War III to be over. Eric storms out of the apartment, his eyes crumpled in fury.

  “You heard?” he asks.

  “Which part?” I look up at him. “The part where Jess told you, ‘I am not going to be a whispered rumor, Eric. I have a face, so why can’t you just introduce me to your family?’ That? Oh, yes, I heard.”

  “I’m sorry you had to hear that shit.” He squats down next to me.

  “It’s fine, I hear everything around here.”

  “Jess just doesn’t get it. I need some room...you know? Our lives are so meshed together and it’s only been three months. I need to fucking breathe.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I’m serious. Jess thinks the minute I leave her place I go and screw other girls.”

  “Well, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Have you?”

  “No.” His answer comes out heated, more emphatic.

  A sense of empathy weighs in on me. “It must be scary to introduce Mama and Papa to your girlfriend for the first time. I’ll talk to Jess. She just needs to relax and realize that if she keeps pushing you to do something when you’re not ready to do it, you’ll most likely—”

  I discontinue my uplifting speech as I turn sideways and realize Eric is so in my face I can smell his aftershave. He’s never been so close before.

  “I’ll what?” he asks softly.

  I feel my heart constricting with terror. “Run.”

  “You really are a beautiful woman, Sophie.”

  He lunges into me, wrapping his hands around me and collapsing his lips on mine. My hand slams into his cheek, repeatedly, until he falls back away from me.

  He complains. “Fuck, ow! Dammit! What the hell was that for?”

  “What do you mean what? You just kissed me!”

  He winces, but pushes his mouth on me again, this time almost gagging me with his filthy tongue. I slug him again and push him off. “Eric, stop it! Jess could walk out of the apartment!”

  “All right, all right, relax. Just calm down.”

  I jolt myself into a standing position. “Calm down? Calm down? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Maybe he thinks I’m playing hard to get, which I’m not. He tries to shove himself onto me like an overeager teen who thinks girls like to be manhandled. I crack him across the bridge of the nose with my fist to bring him back to reality.

  “Ow! You bitch, you like hitting?”

  I feel like smoke is coming out my ears. “Get the hell out of my sight, asshole.”

  I’m snapped back to reality when Oliver strolls into the living room with an expression of bottled-up tension straining on his face.

  “Is everything all right?” I look at him and set my wine glass on the coffee table.

  He says he needs to leave and those words don’t lift my spirits.

  “I have a personal matter to attend to. It’s been wonderful meeting you all.”

  “Hey, I have an idea!” Jess’s father shouts excitedly. “We’ve arranged for a boat ride around the harbor tomorrow morning. Would you like to come with us?”

  “Harry, what a wonderful idea!” Mrs. Freeman squeals, placing her palms together.

  “Oh, we’ve um...” I pause, my face going ashen. “We have that thing, right, Oliver?”

  “What thing?”

  “You know...that thing.”

  “Didn’t I tell you? That thing was canceled.”

  “No!” I raise my voice. “I’m talking about the other thing.”

  It takes a minute or so for Oliver to finally end my misery. “We would love to, Harry, but apparently we have another thing happening tomorrow. When will you be leaving?”

  “Ah...that is such a shame. We leave in a couple of days.”

  “I’m sure we can plan a gathering in the meantime. I apologize. I do have to get going.”

  “Good-bye. It was great meeting you!”

  I’m a complete fool for letting myself get dragged into this position. I walk Oliver out of my apartment, hand in hand, after saying “I’m going to see him out” just to keep up my warm, lovey-dovey act. The second we go out the front door I reclaim my hand and snarl. “I don’t play games, all right?”

  “Good. Neither do I. What are you doing later?” he asks, putting his strong arm in between the elevator doors so they don’t close.

  I feel the heat suffuse my cheeks. “I’m working till late.” I massage my forehead. “I should be in hair and makeup right now.”

  “Okay. How about tomorrow?”

  “I’m having lunch with my aunt at her house.” I wait, my heart pounding in my chest, my brain and heart at war once again. “Do you want to come?”

  He mumbles something that makes me think his answer is yes.

  “However,” I raise a finger, “we are not playing this twisted relationship game around my aunt.”

  “Will you play with me now?” He wraps his hand around my chin, teasing my face with the warmth of his lips. He leans in, closing the distance between us.

  I move back, a hint of a smile escaping my lips. “I think it’s been enough for one day.”

  Once more, he draws me in, kissing me softly. My hands cling to the back of his neck where I run the tips of my nails through his hair. I break away and a soft grunt comes out of his mouth, a symptom of disapproval.

  “Come on, Oliver. I’m saying no.”

  “Is it a fake no? Because your body keeps saying yes.”

  “My body doesn’t know anything.”

  “What does your heart say?”

  “That’s number one on my list of unenlightened organs. It believes anything it hears. It’s screwed up in som
e way.”

  A chain of laughs burst from his lungs. My heart now believes Oliver finds me entertaining, but again, what does my heart know of love and its trappings?

  When I don’t flinch away like a frightened monkey at the sight of trouble, he tilts my head and touches my neck with gentle lips and his fingers then trace along both my arms.

  “I can’t seem to remember where we left off,” he says smoothly.

  “Says the guy with the pretty good memory.”

  “I stand corrected. I remember now.”

  Right there in that moment we make eye contact, and it leaves me completely breathless. My spine prickles and it is at that moment I know he’s going to go for my heart and destroy me.

  Suddenly, a kiss is not just a kiss. It is a potent, lethal weapon. An invitation. A question. An announcement. A force of nature too strong. My hands distractedly hang on to the back of his shirt and he pulls at my waist, trying to hold me closer.

  SEVEN

  COMING HOME FROM work that day, I’m completely bushed; I want to be alone and do nothing. It practically takes the whole night to have someone shoot a video of me for a statewide anti-kidnapping social media campaign. It’s a real rush of a commercial—a one-minute spot where not a single word is spoken. I’m up for about three seconds with a few other recognized faces, there’s stagey music playing in the background, and I’m holding a sign with a written caption that reads: #I’m Not Yours To Take. With panic growing over a whopping 2,300 Americans reported missing every day, the community seeks to coordinate a campaign where social media users can go online and adopt the hashtag #I’mNotYoursToTake.

  I arrive home and Jess and Eric are arguing loud enough I can hear them before I open the door to the apartment. I let out a breath and go inside, slamming the door behind me on purpose. The shouting doesn’t stop. It’s like I’m not even here. I pace around, making all kinds of noise, and then walk into my room. A frosty chill blows in through my window. My stomach clenches at the smells of sausages on buns, pretzels from the food truck, automobile exhaust, and a rotten smell coming out of the street vents. There’s always something to smell in New York. I lean over the sill on tiptoes, pulling the white drapes aside and stretching my arms to grasp the wooden panel. My gaze turns toward a skyline of towering skyscrapers, an energetic metropolis rising out of the asphalt at my feet. I contemplate the view while the rest of New York swarms on the streets like honeybees.