Tears threaten me, again, but I’ve already resolved not to cry, not here. I haven’t cried at all. Not yet.
“Careful, Mrs. Hamilton, someone will get the wrong impression.” I’m startled by the disdain I detect in his voice and turn back and give him a beseeching look. His blue eyes are mesmerizing and I stare at him, this golden god, and try to place his face. Do I know you?
“Jake Winston,” he says with diffidence, extending his hand toward me. “Evan’s best friend from Yale.”
I gaze at him through a haze of inebriation and a self-induced drugged state and try to focus. Then, I lift my head in defiance and shake his hand, half holding on to him. Steady. “Hello, Evan’s best friend from Yale. Julia Hamilton, the real deal,” With sudden ingenuity, I sweep my arm outward with an exaggerated Vanna White move and almost fall down. He catches me around the waist and steps back as if burned.
“I apologize,” he says with an embarrassed flush. “I guess dark stairwells are not the place for private conversation. You never know who might be there lurking in the dark.”
“You never know who’s lurking in the dark. And, don’t worry about Uncle Joe; I’m sure he’s just trying to show the grieving widow a good time.”
He gives me a deliberate look and asks, “Are you…having a good time?”
His implication is not lost on me and my temper flares. “Fuck you.” I take a deep breath. “You’re deplorable, you know that? I realize the idea of a deep relationship doesn’t extend beyond fucking someone more than twice, but my marriage to Evan was very real and I love—him.”
I’ve run out of words and lost control all at the same time. I’m mortified at my behavior and retreat away from Mr. Jacob Winston and unsteadily make my way back to the safety of the now empty bar. Frantic now, I search around for Stephanie and Kimberley and finally spy them both out on the dance floor.
I am alone. The realization at all of this overwhelms me.
I ask the bartender for my evening bag and he reluctantly hands it to me, while asking if I’m okay. I nod and give him a contrived smile. The sight of myself, smiling, in the mirror behind him, almost makes me cry again, but I turn away and make a hasty retreat. The bartender calls after me. I do a backhand wave and keep moving.
In the lounge bathroom, I pop two more Oxycodone. The funeral was too painful. And now, all of this is too much. Desolation overtakes me as I try to envision a life without Evan in it. The grief is too much. I don’t want to feel it anymore. I can’t feel this pain anymore. Not again. For good measure, I take two more pain killers.
Chapter 2—Not starting over
Moving across the lobby of the hotel toward the bank of elevators takes all my concentration. I experience increasing listlessness and vaguely acknowledge I’ve taken too many pain killers and drank all of the martinis put in front of me. The grief over Evan still rages. I cannot escape it, no matter what I do. I’m exhausted by the time I reach the elevators and lean back against the hotel wall for support, while pressing the up button with an incessant backhand motion. Finally, the doors to one open. Someone calls my name from behind me, but I’m too intent on my escape and practically fall into the waiting elevator. As the doors begin to close, I glance over just as Jacob Winston jumps his way on.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve upset you.”
“S’okay.” I turn away from him and sway with the speeding rush of the elevator as it soars to the nineteenth floor. “It doesn’t matter,” I say with an absent wave of my hand. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. Sorry.” I open my handbag and search for the card key to my hotel room. Somehow, everything in my handbag ends up on the floor. I collapse down on all fours trying in vain to pick up everything. “God…damn it.”
“I’ve got it.” Jake Winston kneels down next to me. He hands me my hotel key card and begins to pick up my things: cell phone, lipstick, compact, wallet, hotel receipts. He holds up the Virginia Slims Menthol cigarettes.
“You shouldn’t smoke,” he lectures.
“I don’t smoke,” I say airily. “Except, today, I do. Breaking the rules. Evan would want me to.” I have trouble hiding my devastation in sharing this secret with him and almost succumb to the grief. I let my hair fall forward to hide my face and try to recover from this fresh onslaught of pain.
“Are you taking these?” He holds out the vial of Oxycodone in front of me. I don’t answer. I just continue to kneel there and steal a glance in his general direction and watch him slip the vial into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He stands up again and I look up at him lost in this wondrous state—part alcohol-induced and part something else I cannot name. He reaches down and pulls me up and I feel this instant rush from the sudden motion. I try to steady myself with the help of the elevator wall and him.
“The pills? Are you taking these?” He asks again. When I don’t answer, he reaches back into his jacket and holds them out in front of me again. I flinch at the anger I detect is his voice and he looks at me in surprise. “Are you taking these, Julia?” Jake asks in a more gentle tone.
“Maybe,” I finally say. He stares at me and I return his gaze as best I can, though the elevator’s constant motion is making it difficult to remain still and I sway into him a few times.
We’re startled by the ding of the elevator and its sudden stop. The doors open and we step into the hallway and move in tandem towards the penthouse suite. After my two unsuccessful attempts with the door lock, he takes the card key from me and swipes it through. The lock clicks and he turns the handle and opens up the door. I walk past him, gripping the furniture as I go. I’m assailed by the smell of too many dying funeral flower arrangements, which brings the threat of tears again. I will not cry. I close my eyes for a moment and feel the direness of my life settle all around me. The darkness I can’t outrun.
“Nice digs.” He moves further into the room and turns on the gas fireplace. I open my eyes and watch him as he performs a self-guided tour of my opulent hotel suite.
“Kimberley’s idea. She thought it would cheer me up,” I offer in a faraway voice.
“And, did it? Cheer you up?” He gives me a speculative look seeming to assess my every reaction. For what?
“No.”
I open the bar’s refrigerator. After a moment’s contemplation, I grab the Dom Perignon, tear the foil from the cork and manage to open it without losing too much and pour the champagne into two crystal flutes. He comes over to the bar and takes one of the filled glasses and clinks it with mine.
I return his gaze, though a little disconcerted by his obvious appraisal of me and vaguely concede he is far too good-looking from this distant place in my mind that used to care about stuff like that. Evan was always handsome. My husband, the cliché, the golden god, bigger than life—the man everyone loved. This guy is more of a walking advertisement for a Calvin Klein underwear model. Another golden god, but the one who stands in shadow exuding sex appeal with the white flash of a smile and who’s far too attractive to be real. He flashes me his white smile in the semi-darkness of the room now. I’ve been staring too long and blush at being caught and busy myself with draining my glass. And, pour another.
“You should probably go slower.”
I shake my head slowly side-to-side and try to smile. “Why? The whole idea is to forget, Mr. Winston, to get to the point of…numbness. So when I close my eyes and see his face, I don’t…feel…anything. Or, better yet, I don’t see his face, when I close my eyes.” I drain the second glass of champagne with a flourish and pour myself another and unsteadily refill his, spilling some of it on the counter as I go.
From my vantage point behind the bar, I study him. His light golden-brown hair sweeps back from his face with a bit of a wave as if he has trouble taming it each morning. He runs his hand through it now, demonstrating this truth for me. He is tall, even taller than Evan had been. I struggle thinking in past tense and have to rest my head against my forearms for a moment. The dark granite countertop is cool agains
t my face and I close my eyes.
“Are you okay?” Jake asks.
“No.” I slowly lift my head and find him studying me, again. He was Evan’s best friend and yet I’ve barely seen the man and I wonder why that is. “Why? Why Mr. Winston? Before London. You declined every dinner invitation I ever extended? Why have we never talked before? Had a drink? Gone bowling?” I giggle a little at the idea of any of us going bowling and find I cannot stop. I put my hand over my mouth to stem the uncontrollable mirth. Jacob Winston is looking at me in bewilderment. I go on. “When you’re here, you have a house in Amagansett just down the road from ours and yet, we…I…never saw you. You went sailing, skiing, rock climbing, had drinks with him. With him. Never with me and him. Why?” I wipe at my face and then look at the wetness on my hand in surprise. I’m crying? I haven’t cried. Not yet. I’m beginning to lose it, talking about Evan like this. Without answering, he turns away from me and walks over to the fireplace and stares at the flames. “Why?”
“I live in London, now.”
“Why?”
“Evan wanted to expand Hamilton Equities. I was contracted for the legal services to help him out. It seemed like a good place to start.”
“A good place to start,” I murmur in confusion. “To start what?”
“To start over.”
“Why? Why would you need to start over? That’s what I do.”
He grimaces as he looks me over again. “So, you’ll start over. Good for you.” His southern drawl is more pronounced as he says this. I realize I know next to nothing about the man who was Evan’s best friend from Yale.
“No,” I say in agitation. “I’m not starting over. Not this time.” I’m emboldened, suddenly anxious to share my secret. “It’s too much. Too hard. And for what? So I can lose it all again? I believed him. I believed him, when he said we could have a wonderful life together. I believed him. Look what happens when you believe them. He’s gone. They’re both gone. My life is over. I can’t do it again.” I cross over to the sofa and drop down onto it and close my eyes.
I’m pulled to the present again when he grips my forearms and kneels in front of me. I try to focus on him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not doing it again,” I say slowly. A plan. A decision of sorts comes together.
“Starting over?”
“Right. No starting over.” My words come slower. The pain from grief diminishes as he holds on to me. He doesn’t let go. He seems to need an answer of some kind from me.
“What will you do? What will you do? It’ll be up to you. What you decide to do…” He’s looking at me with this desperate expression. He seems to be searching for the right words. “With the London office, now, that he’s…gone.”
“London?” I ask in confusion. Why are we talking about London? I move my hand to my forehead as if to physically stop the thought. “God, I miss him. Why did he leave me in charge of his company? We talked about it, when we redid the will, when Reid was born. I told him, no. I told him—”
“I don’t know, but at some point, you’ll have to deal with it, Mrs. Hamilton.” There’s an edge to his voice and I try to focus on him more closely.
“At some point, I would have to think and do something about a lot of things. Or not,” I say in a conspiring tone.
I reward him with my best smile and lean forward and look into his eyes. He has this strange, almost haunted look on his face. I reach out and trace the outline of his face. He has these amazing blue eyes that seem to pull me in and I put my arms around his neck and pull him to me. My lips trail along his chin and find his and I kiss him. This pent-up release of all the emotion I’ve been carrying takes over. I just buried my husband and the overwhelming sense of loss that’s been with me seems to fade away as I give in to the sensation of needing to be held.
This fiery passion comes out of nowhere for this stranger. He sighs as his arms encircle me and I kiss him more deeply. At first, he doesn’t respond. I sense his hesitation. Then, he groans and begins kissing me back.
The room seems to catch fire as we come together. The difference between what is right and what is wrong evaporates within seconds under the heat of our coming together. His lips are on mine, then trail along my neck causing these pleasurable sensations to ignite and I respond in kind to him.
Time just seems to stretch out into infinity as this unexpected attraction that neither one of us seems prepared for takes over. It dominates all of our senses. We shift in our movements and occupy the length of the sofa. His body is draped over mine and his kisses travel to my breasts, my neck, and back again to my lips. I luxuriate in being able to feel anything, even this sexual desire for him. I feel his physical response to me. The barrier of my black silk dress and his suit seem surmountable. He makes me feel alive again. On some level, I acknowledge I shouldn’t feel this way, but my body betrays me in wanting him, to feel more of him. He seems almost shy and I smile with encouragement and give in to this brazen desire for all of him. I pull him even closer and kiss him again. I want him. I need him to fill this pervasive emptiness that’s invaded me for the past ten days. Fill me up; take away this pain.
His fingers trail along my body, setting it aflame wherever he touches me. We acquiesce to our mutual need in desiring to possess the other. On some unknown level of consciousness, I accept this. His kisses take me to this sanctuary where time seems suspended and gravity nonexistent. I feel this release at a soul level. I open my eyes and try to focus on him again. This mysterious golden god, dreamlike, just above me. I unbutton his shirt and run my fingers along his chest and then trail kisses along his neck and face. In a desperate frenzy, I work at the button on his pants and finally make it work and unzip him. At his liberation, he stops moving and I cry out in protest at his stilled movements.
“Julia? We can’t do this,” he says against my neck. He sounds helpless, unsure, and even fearful.
I feel hopeful and certain. I lift my head and try to focus on his face. “Yes. Take away this pain, Jake…please.”
“No,” he says again. He pulls back away from me and searches my face for a moment. Then, he pushes off the sofa in a single motion and strides across the room and begins to pace, back and forth, running his hand through his hair in agitation.
“Please. Take this pain away.” I don’t attempt to hide the desperation in my voice. I can feel myself spinning out of control.
“I can’t. I can’t do this.” In a daze, I watch him as he tucks in his shirt and zips up his pants. He has this tortured expression as he moves toward me; he seems wary of me, now.
“Please,” I say back to him as he comes to stand in front of me. I stand up, unsteady now and reach out and pull him closer. My lips find his again and he kisses me back. I lift my head and attempt to smile up at him. He holds me close and I register his heartbeat pulsing at my cheek.
“We can’t do this,” he says in a resigned final kind of way.
I’m desperate to stay in this heady state of feeling nothing, in this unfamiliar place, where grief hasn’t yet found me. I hold on to him even tighter and close my eyes and savor the feeling of falling backward into the dark abyss as I feel his arms around me. Unafraid now. The pain of grief is far enough away; there’s this sense of peace I haven’t felt in days.
“Oh God. Please. Jake.”
He answers me with the most gentle of kisses. This peaceful feeling comes over me. I can’t even be sure he’s actually kissed me again as I fight to stay conscious now. My arms and legs begin to feel strange as if somehow separate from me. I let go of him and seem to fall away.
“Are you okay?” I hear him ask me from this faraway place. “Julia! Are you okay?” He sounds worried and I struggle to open my eyes to see why that is, even as he shakes me.
“I’m fine. Not..…starting over,” I whisper. The sweet darkness engulfing me is interrupted by this roiling sensation in the pit of my stomach. “Oh…God.”
I push myself away from him and stagger
toward the master bath. I’m dizzy from the sudden movement and clutch the furniture as I go. On some level, with swift clarity I know I’m going to be sick. Just in time, I lean over the toilet basin and vomit up all the food and drink I’ve ingested in the past two hours. I sink to the floor.
Water is running. I turn my head and spy him at the sink holding a hand towel under the faucet with shaking hands. He looks scared and I wonder why.
“Just go,” I say from my resting place at the toilet. Moving my head side-to-side causes me to feel nauseous again. Then, Jake’s there, pulling me up. He towels off my face with the wet cloth and grabs my chin and looks into my eyes.
“How much did you take?” He shakes the vial of Oxycodone at me.
“Enough.” I pull away from his grasp and violently vomit again and slink further down to the floor. My world of cognizance continues to shrink. I hear the shower water running. I’m suddenly pulled up again and shoved into it, still clothed in my black silk dress. I shriek at the cold and feel as though I’m drowning as water runs over me.
“You’ve got stay awake!” Jake yells over the din of the shower and adjusts the water temperature, until it runs ice cold. “How many pills did you take?”
“I don’t remember.” I shiver from the coldness of the water, while the narcotic chases through me at an ever increasing velocity.
“Try,” he commands.
“Eight or ten. I don’t remember. Maybe twelve. Enough,” I say with hostility. “I’m not starting over.”
“Jesus!” He props me up against the tiled wall and steps away from the shower. Dully, I watch him go. From the open doorway, I gaze at him as he gets on his cell phone. Snippets of his conversation resonate with me. “Emergency…Peninsula Hotel…Possible drug overdose… Oxycodone…Ambulance…19th floor.”
Uncontrollable shivering takes over and I lean against the wall and give myself over to the cold. It numbs me further. I close my eyes unable to keep them open.
Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories Page 20
