Entangled (A Tryst Novel)

by Alex Rosa

  Thinking of Blake has my heart clenching. I frantically grab for my phone, tucked away in my sports bra. I call him, eager to hear his voice, but as the phone rings, I realize that I don’t know how to explain myself if he answers. I hold my breath, unsure of what I want out of the call other than to hear Blake’s confident voice, thinking I could feed off of it. The rings soon switch over to his voice mail. I savor the sound of the first few words of the recording but quickly hang up. I toss my phone onto the counter next to the magazine.

  Just breathe.

  I grab for Gio’s navy pinstripe dress shirt and pull it over my body, buttoning it up my torso, basking in the soft, dry cotton. I glare at the last article of clothing waiting for me. I grab for his navy boxer briefs, and think it’s highly inappropriate to be wearing a piece of his underwear. Actually, I know it’s wrong. I sigh, reaching for my own shorts, knowing that these are too wet to endure, and that asking for a regular pair of his shorts that will most likely fall off of me will only cause a slew of different problems.

  I roll my eyes, thinking I need to get over myself as I take off my shorts and pull on the briefs. Gio is just trying to accommodate the sewer rat that showed up on his doorstep. The sewer rat being me.

  I look into the mirror again for confirmation, and I’m horrified by my frizzy hair, and yesterday’s makeup dripping off my face. I guess I’m not here to impress anyone, and none of it should matter.

  I tug at the hair tie in my hair, letting the damp, stringy waves fall around my face. I shrug, feeling that I have nothing to lose when it comes to Gio and grab for his comb on the counter, brushing through my tangles. I can’t imagine him caring, but I know this might teeter on rude. I don’t want to seem careless. I just look like a disaster.

  After combing out the last knot, I move to satisfy the rest of my vanity and lean over the sink to wash my face. The raccoon look that I have going doesn’t suit me. I reach for a towel, wiping my face, and drying the rest of my hair. This time when I look in the mirror I don’t feel like such a hot mess.

  I toss my clothes into his bathtub, mostly as a frustrated gesture rather than a form of rational thought, and I finally confront the item glaring back up at me from the gray tile. The magazine.

  My nausea creeps back into my gut, and it leaves an acidic burn as my eyes focus on my hand coming up to turn to the only section that I could possibly appear in. I mean, there was a time when I would read this magazine from front to back, soaking in the life of others that I enjoyed observing from afar. The idea of myself somehow slipping onto the pages feels like a cruel joke, but as soon as the thought crosses my mind, the photo of Blake and me sitting in that high-rise restaurant that was supposed to be the setting of our first real date meets my eyes.

  My mouth falls slack at the candidness of the photo. There are two, actually. This one is of our profiles, smiling back at one another with a bottle of wine between us, and even from this angle I can remember Blake’s suggestion of spontaneity with that trademark half smile. My heart seizes in my chest, conflicted with admiring the photo and angry that someone was there to take the moment away from us like this, cheapening it by putting it here. My anger only grows when I see that the second photo is a shot of the back of Blake’s glorious figure, and my arms obviously tangled around him before the elevator doors close with our abrupt departure.

  The caption reads like a terrible personal ad. Actor Blake Everett with girlfriend, premed student Skyler Silva. While Blake begins filming, Skyler attends UCLA. Here we see the couple sharing tender moments during a night out in Hollywood, California at swanky high-rise restaurant the Horizon.

  My insides grind together, and I know I need to walk away from this magazine. I toss it across the counter in disdain, hating it, all of it. Especially combined with not knowing why I feel this way or how to deal with the last hour of my life. If one magazine has this, what do others, or even the Internet, have to say? I cringe at the thought.

  When I turn to face the door, I’m overwhelmed by my unfortunate choices. Facing Gio feels hard all of a sudden.

  I shake my head, pulling in a deep breath, forcing myself to move forward. I’ll just stay for an hour, and then call a cab so I don’t seem ungrateful. That seems legit. Then I’ll be on my way.

  When I enter the living room, Gio is back to wearing clothes, and I feel a bit more relaxed. Good-looking men make me nervous, no matter who they are. This charismatic Italian’s résumé doesn’t help, either.

  He tugs down his crewneck, faded red sweater, smiling as I enter. “How’s my bella?”

  I gift him with an honest smile as I sit across from him on the large white couch, sinking into the plush cushions, liking the feeling of the soft, worn canvas against my bare legs. “I’m much better. Thank you. You don’t know what you saved me from.”

  His lips falter. “I have some idea. Did he hurt you?”

  I wonder how close Jason was behind me as the blood drains from my face. “Um, no.” I take a short inhale. “Not really.”

  “He kept running right past the house, if you’re curious.” He says solemnly, testing each word.

  “I’m not curious,” I reply curtly.

  Gio’s calculated eyes shoot briefly to my upper arm, which I wasn’t aware I was rubbing with my right hand. I stop, trying to steer the conversation.

  “I’m sorry I showed up unannounced. I know we’re supposed to meet next week.”

  He leans back into the couch. “A surprise visit from you is all I could hope for. We could do the shoot now?”

  I wrinkle my nose, but can’t fight my smile. “No, Gio. I don’t think I can do it right now. I’m too—”

  “Raw? If you’d let me, I can really capture that. I wish I could somehow explain to you why you’re so fascinating to me. I think the only way is to show you.”

  I most definitely feel like a science experiment, especially with his stare pinned to me, like a beam of desert sunshine. I do like the way he stares at me, even though it makes me fidget. I don’t understand the look, but the more I get used to it, the more I’m willing to accept it. I don’t feel in danger, or even like a piece of meat. I simply feel appreciated. How does he do that?

  A whistling kettle echoes from the kitchen down the hall. A giggle squeezes its way through my lips as I watch Gio rise from his seat.

  “Why are you laughing?” Gio asks, perplexed.

  I exhale, sinking further into the couch, turning my chin up toward him. “You’re just so . . . weird.” The idea of a homely Gio with a tea kettle borders on hilarious.

  “Weird?” he repeats back with an obvious accent and bitterness toward the word. I understand. It’s simply a word too plain for him. He’s much grander than his eccentricities.

  More laughs emerge. “No, I mean, you just surprise me the more I get to know you. Who still owns tea kettles? What are you? A fifties housewife or a world-famous photographer?”

  This time his laughter only ignites more of mine, and the sound makes him glow. The want to just be in his presence is palpable. It must be the normal effect he has on people, and what I assume only helps his success. People are drawn to Giovanni Vigilucci. Period.

  “I’m all sorts of things, bella. I’m multi-talented, and with characteristics that range through the ages.”

  I huff as I digest his words, watching him walk out of the room. Who says those types of things?

  He returns with a large white mug, handing it off to me. “Thank you,” I whisper, inhaling the citrus scent steaming from it.

  “You’ve been out in the rain,” he says, “and before you run off on me, I feel it necessary to provide you with tea to avoid illness. At least I can clear my conscience with that.” He sips his tea as he sits, his eyes on me, and I think he’s trying to hide his grin.

  It’s his form of joking, and I don’t know how it gets me to want to laugh every time when I don
’t even find it that funny.

  Gio begins telling me about his day, as if to get me to relax further, filling the silence, and I welcome easier topics of general chitchat.

  I curl my body around the cup of tea, absorbing the heat from the ceramic through my frigid fingertips. Even cozy in Gio’s shirt, I wonder if I’ll ever completely warm up.

  I like listening to Gio talk. I like the rhythm of his words, especially now when combined with the pitter-patter of the rain outside. My heart slows, and I feel he could talk about anything and I’d listen.

  Although my body is still acclimating, I feel safe, and that’s all that matters.

  It isn’t until I hear the snapping of a camera that I notice my eyes have lazily drifted closed; I am surely exhausted from the peaks of adrenaline and fear. They fly back open, coming in contact with Gio’s annoyingly charming smile, half hidden by his large camera still held up to his face.

  “Gio!” I bark, faking a stern reprimand, trying not to bask in his boyish glee.

  “Skyler, humor me,” he begs, hinting at our conversation on this topic before.

  Gio tends to not use my name unless he’s really trying to get my attention. I bring the tea up to my lips, savoring the lemony steam against my face as I stare into his eager eyes. He doesn’t bother being patient enough for a response.

  “I want to play a game, and you don’t even have to do anything.”

  I take a final sip before placing the mug on the concrete coffee table, the thud echoing between us. “What kind of game?”

  He scoots his chair closer, brushing a soft wave of my hair away and placing it strategically around my face. “A word association game. I say something, a word or a phrase, and all you have to do is let me take a picture of you in that moment.”

  My brows scrunch together, which only has his lips bashfully stretching wider as he watches my every move. “I don’t understand,” I reply.

  “I know, but you will.” If I were to guess, he looks almost giddy with anticipation.

  Gio stands from his seat and grabs for a step stool near a vintage, teal cabinet and places it next to the couch I’m curled up on. He climbs to the third step, looming over me, and it’s the sudden gleam of excitement in his hazel stare that convinces me. Convincing me of what? I’m not sure yet, but my answer is already yes.

  “Lie down, and trust me.”

  “Right now?” I reply timidly, but still find my body shimmying down until I can only see Gio’s large lens hanging above me, shielding his face, but his bulky arms bend outward, holding the device in steady place. I can’t tell if I find it more comforting with his face hidden or not.

  I try to relax as I lie back, letting my hair splay out on the cushion. I find myself welcoming this distraction to my erratic thoughts. Actually, for the first time, this feels like a form of mental Zen as I shift gears, leaving my emotions down the hall in that bathroom with that stupid magazine. Instead, I’m in the moment, here with my cup of tea and this strange man with a camera. I think I can release my anguish here, that’s if I can get a grip on what I’m getting myself into, but I think I like it.

  He speaks from behind the camera, his accent thicker than before, crooning over me. “All I’m going to do, bella, is say something, and all you have to do is relax and react.”

  Those seem like two contradicting sensibilities, but before I realize what is happening he practically whispers a word into the air like an incantation.

  “Love.”

  My face squirms at first, struck by what it means to me, and then my cheeks heat in unison with my stare as I let myself get absorbed into the glass orb six feet above me, my eyes wide with apprehension and need. I need love.

  The rounding, clicking sound of his camera snaps four times before he exclaims another magic word, barely allowing me a mental moment to expand on the word from before.

  “Pain.”

  This time my body flinches, and reflexively my hand rubs over the forming bruise on my arm.

  Click. Click. Click.

  I see Gio twitch, and I almost think he’s going to scold me for moving my arm rather than staying still. Instead, he crisply exclaims another word, and it feels like a punch to my gut.

  “Hurt.”

  I curl inward while my hand comes to touch my eye, as if to remember the bruise that once marked me. I can’t help but let my eyes drop from the lens to sink into how I feel. My previous relationship, and the abuse that it came with, swallows my world whole. The silence in between words feels heavy now. I’m flooded with memories that swiftly move from love to hate, and then combust into hurt.

  Click. Click. Click. Click.

  “Family,” Gio blurts out, but my eyes flicker with a sense of love and loss, and I think of Josh, who’s still within reach, but then also of my parents, who left me too early in my life.

  Click. Click. Click.

  Curiously Gio says another word, but this one rings empty of meaning as he looks for an answer. “Sister?”

  Unmoving, I stare up at the faceless orb above me.

  Click.

  Gio chuckles before adding another word questioningly. “Brother?”

  This time the corners of my mouth twitch, thinking of one of my fondest memories of Josh. That day he flew back to this city just to drive me to my first day at a new high school after our parents died, and I had to move in with a relative. I’ll never forget how much I needed him then, and how much it meant that he dropped everything to be there for me, even if he could only be there briefly because he was attending Cornell University.

  Click. Click.

  “Parents.”

  A soft gasp catches in my throat, and I let my head turn to the side, not willing to let the Cyclops above me capture my tears that are always ready at a moment’s notice with the topic. I miss my parents, hating that with every year my memories of them only get fuzzier. No teenage girl should ever have to endure the loss of both parents.

  Click. Click. Click.

  “Friends.”

  I wipe my nose, but don’t turn my head as I let a grin grow across my face.

  Click. Click. Click.

  “Enemies.”

  I shift my look upward, daggering the lens with my eyes, and I swear I hear a short intake of breath.

  Click. Click. Click. Click.

  “Gio.”

  The name throws me, but I’m so absorbed in this game, my face unveils an involuntary look of suspicion and caution, but my brows pull together apprehensively.

  Click. Click. Click.

  I see his body flinch for a split second, and I try to politely soften my look.

  Click. Click. There’s no escaping that lens.

  “Blake.”

  I feel my whole body turn languid at the mention of that name. Blake’s name oozes through my insides like thick, sweet, sinful syrup, and the need to put my arms around him and bring him close flushes to the surface of my skin.

  Click. Click. Click. Click.

  Finally, Gio pulls the camera away from his face, letting out a ringing whistle.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Tell me how I can get a woman to look that way at the mention of my name? Per favore.”

  Although he’s smiling approvingly, I can’t help but scramble for an apology. “I didn’t mean to be that way when you said your na—”

  Gio’s laughter cuts me off. “I guess I know how you really feel about me now.” He laughs a few more times, but ends it with a breathy resolve as he swings his stare back to mine softly, his eyes like a brewing electrical storm. “I don’t want you to feel that way about me. We are friends, no?”

  I nod, sitting up to bring my knees to my chest, hugging my legs and his freshly laundered shirt close.

  “I will get you to trust me, and I’ll be sure that that look you gave when I said your love’s name will
remain on your face forever, too.”

  I want to roll my eyes at his sudden transition into cheesy. “You mean that?”

  Gio steps down from the ladder, tapping me on my chin a few times before saying, “I do.”

  Chapter 11

  Blake

  I strum my fingers over the steering wheel, enjoying the burn of the heat on my fingertips as they feverishly patter over the hot leather. The burn means only one thing to me, and it’s that I’m getting home long before the sun has set. That has not happened since I started filming. For once, my day is done before five in the evening, and I have so much planned with the opportunity. I’m antsy to get home.

  Doesn’t Kathryn know that each minute is precious? I have this one early night. It’s like a small gift from the studio before I board the plane for the second press junket to start. It’ll be another flight to New York, but this time for two whole weeks.

  I stretch out my neck, rolling it to the left and right, feeling a pang of guilt at the thought. I admit, each moment away from home has been painful, but all at the same time, work has been thrilling, and my career is expanding. I can feel it. This is the success I’ve been waiting for. It’s happening faster than I imagined with the rising hype for the movie, but nonetheless, I want to grow. I want to succeed, and I want to share this life with that feisty, dainty thing that is hopefully home right now.

  My knee bobs under the steering wheel. I know the frantic movements are out of frustration with my current delay, combined with my nerves over the slew of things I need to ask Skyler before I leave again.

  For now, all I want to do is lay my eyes on her in the light of day.

  I want to be excited to talk to her, and I want her to be excited to answer the questions I have. She can handle all this with me. I know she can. I just hope she’s willing, because I need her.

  There have been so many times in the past month that I’ve wanted nothing more than to join Skyler on campus to study, or to sit in the coffee shop, watching her until she got off work like I used to; entranced by something so simple yet so beautifully complicated. Those are the simple pastimes I enjoy. It’s a sense of normalcy that I crave in between the bouts of flashing cameras or rolling film. I didn’t know the balance would be so overwhelming to wrap my head around. I want it all.