by Auden Dar
Such passion has haunted me all my life. Now that I’m with Andrew, the only love I have ever known, I simply stopped believing in passion. Not everyone is entitled to it. I comfort myself by believing I, at least, have someone who loves me and would always be with me. It may not be the “I’ll kill myself without you” kind of love, but it is, nevertheless, love.
After Andrew finishes one of his favorite meals, he stands up, bending over to kiss my cheek. “Lina, I’m sorry again for being late. I have a few more hours of work to finish. I love you,” he whispers before he returns to his study, typing away on his old typewriter until he slips into bed at ten thirty. Through the early night, the all-familiar sound can be heard from each room of the small, quiet house.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Two
Walking along Main Street, I pass mothers power walking their babies in their strollers, retailers opening their shops, and surfers with their surfboards as I head toward one of my favorite coffee shops, The Garden Café. Tucked away in the middle of Santa Monica’s Ocean Park neighborhood, the small intimate café serves some of my favorite breakfast pastries.
Along with a cup of Italian Roast, I order a Nutella croissant that is sinfully delicious. With my new MacBook on the table, I savor my coffee and search for my Bose headphones.
For the past seven years, I have been working as a soundtrack composer. In a field predominantly male driven, I am fortunate enough to have a burgeoning career. I write mainly for indie films, and after garnering several awards, my work is steady.
Rather than dive into the last track I need to review, I read emails that have been unread for the past two days. I press play to Chris Botti’s “Emmanuel,” and as the music begins to soothe me, I respond to seventeen messages. A slight breeze touches my skin when someone enters the small café. When the music stops, I hear a beautiful British accent ask for a cup of espresso as I continue to type furiously. The accent alone halts my fingers. The voice makes me take notice. It is deep, raspy and … seductive. Bedroom voice. You know the kind that leaves you speechless. My breath hitches when I gaze up at the man, standing way over six feet tall, as he leans against the counter with a New York Times in hand. The bar is a few feet away from my table. I watch him as he pays for his bill, sips his espresso, and heads to the exit. As he passes my table, he breaks his stride. Cocking his head to the side, the handsome man’s eyes widen. A few long seconds pass before he finally continues to make his way out of the café. Recognition hits me, but I cast that possibility aside.
Although I had seen him briefly, the stranger in the café is the kind of man who captivates you. He was breathtaking. His eyes were arresting−an intense gray-blue that somehow sparkled. His thick black hair was slightly long, almost hitting the nape of his neck. It was slightly wavy and had that just got out of bed look. The cheekbones and strong jaw that framed his gorgeous face reminded me of the lead male character in Stoker.
Somewhat curious, which I must admit, never ever happens, I make my way to the counter and find myself holding a conversation with the barista.
“Hey, Peter.”
“Want a refill?” my favorite barista asks.
“Yes, please. By the way, who was that guy who just left?”
“Don’t know. He’s stopped by a couple of times but he’s not from around here. He had asked me about the area a few days ago.”
“Really? Umm, something was familiar about him.”
“He’s probably another Millennial gobbling up Venice real estate. I can’t be mad, though. He was smokin’ hot. Speaking of hot, how is our friend?” He winks and continues to wipe the counter.
“Roger is fine. He’s still back in New York City.” Watching Peter’s OCD in full force takes a lot of restraint. He continues to wipe the counter over and over again even though there’s nothing to clean. “Peter, I’d like another Nutella croissant, please.” He nods and wipes one more time before heading to the kitchen.
Handing me the warm croissant on a plate, Peter pauses before admitting, “I’ve been waiting for him to call me. I actually thought we had a great time but haven’t heard from him since our date.”
I nod, and unfortunately, I know how the story will unfold. Another man will be tending to a broken heart because of my best friend. Roger is a wonderful man but he’s not the type to commit. Simply put, Roger Bartley is a slut.
The conversation with Peter could turn into an all-day thing if I don’t end this soon. “Roger’s been busy, and he has a lot on his plate right now. Which reminds me, I need to get back to work. Thank you for warming the croissant.”
With my new cup of Italian Roast in hand and a croissant begging for me to eat, I remain at the café working through the entire morning, with the handsome stranger intermittently interrupting my thoughts.
At twenty-nine years old, I, Lina James, lead a neat and comfortable life. People assume I have it all. I have a home by the beach. I have a thriving career. After years of struggling as a soundtrack composer, I am finally at a point in my life where I have a successful catalogue of my own music. And even though Andrew’s mind has been preoccupied lately, I know my fiancé loves me. Yet with everything I have, a gnawing feeling inside me yearns for more. It’s definitely not monetary. My father had set up a trust fund for me and I’ve made some money with music, yet I can’t help but feel destitute. I always thought that by this time I would have a child, but fate has never blessed me with one. And now, because I have a fiancé who believes we do have it all, he no longer wants kids.
My work has helped fill the void I daily try to forget.
When Andrew accepted the position at UCLA, one of the requisites to my moving out of downtown Manhattan would be that our new place would have a pool with a guesthouse. On a professor’s salary, that seemed impossible. Relentless in my search for a place that would help ease the pain of leaving my hometown, our realtor found one in Santa Monica’s Ocean Park neighborhood that was considered a tear down. The thousand square foot Victorian-style bungalow has a detached guesthouse. It doesn’t have a pool, but the beach is within walking distance. I have to admit, I don’t like the house itself. I fell in love with the guesthouse, and the Santa Monica meets Venice location. Andrew had refused to pay the astronomical rental fee but had agreed to move in once I offered to pay the rent in its entirety out of my own account.
A mere two hundred and fifty square feet, I turned the guesthouse into my music studio. It is my haven, a place where I can create. Most people would consider my profession as a composer a lonely one. But for someone like myself, it is the only thing I know I can do. When I don’t have to meet with a director, my days consist of reading scripts, watching cues, and listening and writing music all day. As the years have progressed, I started writing more at night after Andrew went to bed.
Some days, the only human being I’m around is my fiancé, and that’s usually in the early morning or early evening. Lately, I’ve forced myself to spend a few morning hours at a café as not to feel so alienated from the outside world. I’m back in my studio downloading some of my compositions when George Michael’s “Freedom” plays on my phone.
“Hey, Roger.”
In his Southern accent, my best friend’s excitement on the other line can’t be missed. “I need to see you this Wednesday.”
“You sound excited. Did you meet someone?” I ask, hoping one day he will find true love. There are too many Peters in his life.
“I wish! I have exciting news for you.”
I stare at the laptop in front of me, halting my fingers from typing the link to one of my favorite websites. “Yeah? Do you want to come over or do you want to meet at our café on Main Street?” I suggest, secretly hoping that the man I saw earlier would be there.
Why do I want to see him again?
“Is Peter still working there?” he asks nervously.
“Of course, he is; he will never leave that place. He’s disappointed that you haven’t called him.” I can’t remember the
last time he had more than three dates with the same man.
“Peter was fun, but I didn’t feel a connection.”
“Roger, you had sex with him.”
“Yes, about four or five times.”
“And there was no connection during sex?” I ask because I can’t imagine having sex that many times with one person without feeling something.
“No, none,” he murmurs before suggesting, “Let’s meet somewhere else.”
“Roger … well, you can’t avoid all the places where your former flames work. You’ll never be able to go anywhere.” I begin to laugh a little. “Either that or you’ll have to abstain.”
I hear his loud sigh on the other line. “All right, we’ll meet there and of course, I’ll be charming as always. I just don’t want to lead him on.”
“Break it to him gently. He’s such a nice guy.”
“I’ll be on my best behavior. So I’ve looked at my schedule, and I can take the red-eye tomorrow, and if it works for you, we can meet at eleven on Wednesday.”
“That’s perfect. I can’t wait to see you.”
“Me too, sweetheart. Love you.”
I smile when I tell my best friend that I love him as well. Besides being one of the most important people in my life, he is also my business partner and runs the small publishing company we started a couple of years ago.
After ending our call, I decided to forgo watching one of my guilty sites on my laptop. Instead, I want to surprise Andrew. Placing a call to one of the local spas, I make an appointment to groom my lady bits this afternoon.
Three
“Lina, there’s this gorgeous guy staring at you. He’s blatantly staring. Do you want me to go over and talk to him?”
Sitting directly across from one another, I sit with Main Street as my view while Roger faces the café. Although he won’t admit it, he’s disappointed that Peter is off today.
Unlike yesterday, more patrons are here this late morning. Usually quiet, the small café is bustling with conversation and the sound of bossa nova in the background. When we arrived a few minutes ago, we were fortunate to find a table inside, since no seats were available outside. Roger ordered our drinks and pastries while I sat and waited for him.
“Who could possibly be staring at me?” I ask while sipping my coffee.
“He’s on the other side of the room.”
I turn around to look at the guy inconspicuously.
Ooh, it’s him.
“No, please don’t. He was here the other day. It’s strange, but I feel like I know him from somewhere.” I continue to enjoy my Italian Roast. This is extra yummy. That guy looks extra yummy as well.
“How could you forget someone who looks like that?” Roger admires the handsome stranger up and down without a hint of restraint. I swear, I think his tongue is about to fall out of his mouth. There he goes, licking his lips.
“Yeah, he’s hot … but I need to know why you had to fly to see me, not that I don’t love being with you.” I begin to tear a piece of my chocolate croissant.
“Give me a break. It’s not every day that I notice a man like him,” he teases. “Anyway, our favorite production company has a new film and they want you to score it. I know it’s last minute, but they’re moving quickly and already have a release date slated for next year. They requested that you be in New York for at least a month.”
“Really? How soon do I need to be there?”
“Like yesterday,” he answers with a laugh.
“Seriously?” I peek down at my light gray dress now covered in croissant crumbs.
Before taking a sip of his coffee, Roger answers in a more professional tone, “No, but they’d like you to be in New York starting next week. I know this is not the norm, but you’re going to want this project.”
“I don’t know anything about the film.” I drop my napkin, and when I reach for it, I turn my head slightly and notice light sapphire eyes on me. Suddenly, I find myself lost in them.
“Lina … Lina …”
Those eyes are mesmerizing.
“I’m sorry, just distracted.” Stop staring at that man.
“The screenplay is adapted from that book you’ve read a gazillion times. Cosima Carp, your girl crush, is directing and really wants you to do the score. She’s traveling and will be calling you later today.”
“Holland Kingsley’s Disappear?” I shake my head.
The boyish grin on his face is priceless.
“I swear, you’d better not be playing with me. You know how much I love that book. And I love working with Cosima. I would actually pay to do it!”
“Well, let them pay you,” he says sternly. “This is going to be your fourth film with Cosima, so you know the drill. I know this is all moving quickly. Do you want to discuss this with Andrew before committing?”
I lower my head, staring at my hands, and realize I need to get a manicure. “To be honest, Andrew wouldn’t even notice if I were away for a year.” I start laughing nervously. “He’s been working on his book, has some new classes and is worried about tenure. He doesn’t remember that he has me anymore.”
Admitting my fiancé’s lack of interest in me forms an ache in my chest.
“Andrew is … he’s … he’s ... I don’t want to say, okay? But sweetheart, you’re going to need to open up to him.” He pauses before changing the subject. “This is going to be your best project yet with your favorite director and your favorite book. Let’s not forget, the most gorgeous writer. By the way, did you finally go to the store on Sunset?”
“Roger, how the hell do you go from my dream gig to asking me if I finally went to the Hustler store? And the answer is no.” I take a bite out of my chocolate croissant, trying to forget the missing O in my life.
“There are other adult stores close by. Suit yourself.” He shrugs. “But if you don’t get something soon, you’re going to crack.”
This conversation needs to end. “I’m not going there,” I say adamantly.
Roger traces the edges of his white coffee mug. Without taking his eyes off it, he says, “You know, studies suggest that a woman can look better and live longer with satisfying sex.”
“I guess that’s why I don’t look so good these days, and at the rate I’m going with Andrew, I’ll be dying at an early age.” My laugh is dry and unconvincing.
“When was the last time you got fucked? Wait. Don’t answer that. It was probably months ago. Sweetheart, you can always get something online or even at Brookstone on the promenade.” Suddenly, he moves forward and whispers, “They sell personal massagers.” Leaning back, he taps his bottom lip with his forefinger before thinking out loud. “Ask Patti. She has quite a collection. She could easily open her own adult store.”
“I’m not going to ask her. Knowing Patti, she would probably order an entire cargo load for me. And anyway, Andrew would die if he caught me with a vibrator. Hell, I would die of embarrassment.” Me, myself, and I are pretty good at getting me off. “It’s really not that bad.”
It’s pretty bad.
“Fuck embarrassment. Sweetheart, you don’t need to pretend with me. You were the only one who remained my friend after I came out. You can’t tell me that having sex only once a week and on a specific day and time every week is normal?”
“Yes, well, for Andrew and myself, yes. It works for us. Let’s just leave my sex life alone, okay? We don’t have much time and I know you have other meetings, so let’s discuss something else.”
“Sooooo on edge. You need a real good fuck, my friend.” Roger laughs heartily before sipping his coffee.
I would love a real good fuck.
As Roger tells me about the new man he’s trying to bed, the same sparkling eyes from yesterday are burning a hole right through me. I turn around to meet his gaze, and I blush. He got some sun today. We stare at one another a bit too long. And I notice the small curve forming at the corner of his full lips. It’s as if he recognizes me as well. I notice the slight movement�
� he’s about to rise from his seat. Suddenly, our connection is broken. An exotic beauty in a striped maxi dress walks in and heads toward him. Even though his gaze falls on someone else, I continue to study him. His gorgeous face lights up when he greets the raven-haired woman who resembles a young Monica Bellucci. Sitting only a few tables away, my fingers itch to touch him. Standing to greet her, he’s actually much taller than I had remembered. Standing at about six-foot-two or three, his dark form-fitting jeans show his incredible long, lean legs and his vintage Bob Marley t-shirt, although loose, reveals his muscular biceps and lean abdomen. He is hot. As I continue to admire him, trying desperately not to be too obvious, I can’t help but feel the same familiarity that I felt yesterday. It couldn’t possibly be him. He would surely have said something. Then sadness sweeps my heart knowing full well he couldn’t be the boy who left me broken-hearted years ago.
Roger glances up, and his jaw drops as well.
“Stop staring.”
“Well, you stop staring too!” he says as he reaches across the table and lightly punches my left arm like a toddler. Sitting back in his chair as if he were watching porn, a grin forms across Roger’s face. “Oh, Lawdy. That man is fucking hot.” Finally noticing the Monica Bellucci look-alike, his smile disappears. “Oh, he’s with her, you think?” He pauses, and his next words surprise me. “Well, at least she’s beautiful, too. Even my dick could get hard for her.”
“Ewww, that’s … that’s too much. I’ll have to drink something hard to wipe that image out of my head. I swear he looks familiar. He reminds me of a childhood friend. But I don’t think it could be him.” Feeling uncomfortable at the thought of someone who had been dear to me years ago, I have this sudden urge to leave. “I … I should go soon. I’d like to get some work done before Andrew gets home. It’s Wednesday night,” I remind him with a forced smile.
