Interlude [Book 2]

by Auden Dar

  I can’t believe him. I refuse to believe him. “You can fool yourself, Julian. I don’t know if I can handle you leaving me again. I need to go before you completely tear me apart.”

  His glassy eyes stare directly into mine. “Lina, we could forget that the past was nothing but a figment of our imagination. We could try to forget how perfect we fit together … that everything around us … that all we shared these past few months never existed. But I know that would never happen. I’m willing … no, I need you to know I’m not going to just let you go. I’m right here, fighting for you. I’ve never cared before. I’ve never loved before. Shira, other women, they don’t matter. It doesn’t matter if they want me or love me because I love only you. I don’t want anyone else. I’ve loved you all my life. I told you last night that you are my home.”

  “Julian−” Words fail me because my thoughts betray me. The image of Shira and Julian’s photo reappears along with her text from yesterday.

  Why can’t I trust his admission?

  “Darling, look at me. What’s real is something, no matter how exquisite, our eyes can’t see. What our hands can’t touch.” He extends his hand, but I don’t accept his invitation. He continues, “What our mouths are incapable of expressing, this” −as he points to us−“is the only real thing in my life.”

  I shake my head. Although I have made up my mind, he moves closer until he’s not an inch from my face. His full lips are ready to kiss me, but he manages to stop himself. Instead, tilting his head toward my ear, he whispers in an unfamiliar tone, “I’ve never had my heart broken. But I feel it coming because only you can affect me this way. Only you can break me into a million pieces. I’ve loved you all my life, and that’s not going to change. You’re the lucky one. You know that you, alone, will always have all of me. Nothing less.” He exhales. “I love you so much it hurts.”

  And somehow the image of the bitch’s text comes to mind.

  SHIRA: Baby, just arrived in London. Can’t wait to be with you again.

  “You know what hurts? It hurts to know Shira’s in London waiting for you.” I admit as a stream of tears fall. There’s nothing more to say. Shaking, I turn away with trembling legs, barely able to make it to the master bathroom. The door behind me closes.

  Julian didn’t deny he has a woman waiting for him.

  I take a brisk shower. As I clean myself, I foolishly believe I can rid myself of everything that is Julian. But deep down, my heart clings to him although I’ll be leaving in a few minutes. Once out of the shower, I quickly gather my wet hair into a bun and dress. Why bother with makeup? It’s not going to hide my swollen eyes. It’s not going to mask my broken heart.

  Julian is out of sight. Opening the closet and dresser drawers, I take a few dresses, pack them and try to hold back the tears. Lying by the door is Mugpie, watching guard. I bend down and pet him. “I love you, Mugpie. You’re such a good boy. Don’t forget me, buddy. Take care of your daddy.” Lifting his wrinkly head, he licks my face before snorting. Rather than remain by the door, the beast of a bulldog slowly rises and walks beside me. We amble down the staircase and head straight to the open living room.

  Mugpie heads to the sofa where his dad sits. Julian’s gray-blue eyes follow my steps while remaining quiet. His silence unnerves me. What do I need him to say to make me want to stay? Do I want to endure the pain of loving him, knowing my heart will continue to break and will be irreparable because I will never be enough? The fear of him leaving me consumes my thoughts.

  He’ll leave you again.

  I take a deep breath, and it takes everything in me not to fall into his arms, to push my fear aside.

  Glancing at my phone, the car service will be in front of the building in a few minutes. I survey the room again, and there is the man I love still on the couch with his head down. Both his hands balled into a fist, touching his forehead. He turns his head slightly, and our eyes lock for what may be the last time. His cheeks are stained with tears, no doubt matching my own.

  With a weak voice, Julian confesses, “I knew you would leave. A glimmer of hope had sustained me all these weeks. I saw it in your eyes every time we made love. You love me, Lina. And I’m the boy, the boy who fell in love with you. You’ve made your choice, and I’ll respect it. Although you fucking love me, you choose him.”

  “I … I …” I’m too choked up to say the right words.

  Julian remains motionless, his eyes completely fixed on mine. His next words surprise me. “Believe what you want. But I need you to know this. This is a mistake you’ll need to realize on your own. And just because you’re walking out that door, don’t think for a second that I’ll stop loving you.”

  I’m surprised that I’m standing when my legs can barely hold me up. I remember my nana’s words. “Follow your heart.” What if following your heart actually destroys it? This particular question taunts me, and I’m unable to ignore it.

  Salvage what’s left of your heart.

  “I love you,” are the last words that escape my lips before making my way out of Julian’s home.

  With my bags in tow, I rush down the hallway heading straight for the elevators.

  You’ve made your choice, I tell myself.

  The elevator door opens, and Julian doesn’t stop me. I turn around, and he has not left, knowing he remains seated on his couch with Mugpie. Just like Andrew a few months ago, Julian doesn’t run after me. My chest aches because I had hoped− prayed− the man I love would do just that.

  In addition to my luggage, laptop bag, and handbag, all I take with me is a broken heart.

  I left him.

  And he let me go.

  The only man I have ever been in love with. The person who understands me, loves my quirks, and accepts my faults. The man who brought me back to life.

  The man who will also be joining another woman in London.

  The elevator descends along with my heart. An emotion so strong consumes me. Grief. My body aches like I’ve just lost a part of me. I just died a few minutes ago. There’s no other way to describe the emptiness that surrounds me as I head back to my former life.

  Thirty-Five

  I can barely make my way inside the town car. Once we pull away from the curb, I reach for my phone, needing a lifeline. After a second ring, Patti answers, and I sob uncontrollably.

  “I’ve just left Julian, and I’m on my way to JFK … heading … back … to LA.” I hiccup through my words.

  She’s silent for only a few seconds. “What happened between you and Julian? You haven’t answered any of my calls. After the way you left my party with him, I assumed you two had kissed and made up.”

  “We … we did.”

  “Lina,” Patti says my name sternly. “What happened? Why are you going back to LA?”

  “Andrew …”

  “Did Andy finally call you and beg you to marry him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh my God, Lina. Even if he wants to marry you, he’s not going to make you happy. You know that, don’t you?” I hear her sigh on the other line. “Please go back to your loft. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “I need to go back to LA.”

  “Don’t do anything foolish. Don’t marry him. If you need to go back to LA, then go. But please, I beg you, don’t get married for the wrong reasons. Don’t reconcile with Andy because you feel obligated to. Please don’t settle.”

  Uncontrollable tears induce my heart to palpitate. Deep down inside, Patti is correct. Her honesty hurts, but I need to at least give Andrew a chance. How can I turn my back on him? How can I discard our history?

  Selfishly, I want it all.

  I want a man who will be committed to me. I want a family. I pray to hold a child of my own. Julian was an excursion. He was a distraction that helped me realize where I need to be. Andrew admitted to making a mistake. Andrew has never lied to me. I need to be with a man who will never tire of me−who won’t have other women waiting for him−who will want more tha
n an interlude−who will always love me.

  “Lina, are you still there?” Patti asks in a very worried tone.

  “Yes. I’ll call you once I get home.” I hang up and can’t contain my tears. The driver turns his head around a few times but says nothing. I roll my forehead along the glass, staring out the car window and watch the cityscape fade as we head toward Queens.

  I sit in first class, continuously glancing at my watch. Another thirty-three minutes before take off. Being thoughtful, Julian managed to upgrade my ticket as well as purchasing the seat next to mine. I just left him for another man, and he still cared about my state of mind. Sitting next to a stranger for the next six hours would be a nightmare. What passenger would want to sit next to a blubbering mess?

  Thank God for gin and tonic. I gulp my first cocktail like water. Sensing the melancholy my swollen eyes have failed to hide, the stewardess continues to serve me until my third gin and tonic. As we are about to depart the tarmac, she walks by, acknowledging my pain.

  “Excuse me, are you okay?” she inquires, unaware of my heart’s affliction. Unaware that the woman before her might have a breakdown any minute.

  “Umm.” Groaning, as I am hunched over, with both hands firmly placed on my belly.

  “Are you in pain?”

  I glance up, pursing my lips tightly and nod.

  “Shall I get you a Tylenol?”

  “No, thank you, that won’t help. My body aches too much,” I respond, still hunched over.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Yes, my body aches because of a broken heart.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she sadly offers before attending to other passengers.

  I don’t want to make a scene, so I try to find something to do instead. All I want to do is … die. Yet I know I need to move on without the man I fell in love with. Sadness, heartache, pain− emotions that help create an authentic love song.

  In need of my black moleskin notebook, I open my bag. As I turn the pages, before me are words written in Julian’s handwriting.

  “Laugh”

  “Cry”

  “Fuck everyday” takes up an entire page.

  The last page reads, “I love you.”

  Oh, God, please don’t let me fall apart.

  When I place the book back in my bag, my fingers touch several Blackwing pencils. I let my fingers wander along the form of the pencil as I recall his words about needing not only inspiration but also the proper tool. When I reach for one, a single folded paper surprises me. It is a letter written in a distinctive handwriting that can only belong to Julian. Afraid to read the words, I grasp it in my hand for several minutes. With trepidation, I finally read the letter.

  Dearest Lina,

  Grace Darling was a heroine who famously rescued shipwrecked sailors. I addressed you as ‘darling,’ not because it’s your middle name but because you’re my heroine. You saved me from drowning in a life without meaning, without love. Without you, I had been out at sea, wandering in this world with no purpose. For fourteen years, I was dead inside. You saved me. You made me feel alive. You gave me a sense of purpose in life. You gave me love.

  I have loved you all my life and although you have made your choice, I hold only love for you in my heart. All I ask of you is that when you’re feeling unsure of where you are in life, unsure of what life holds for you, know that you are forever my love.

  Yours,

  Julian

  I reread his letter throughout the trip, committing it to memory. Time stands still as I will myself not to wail. The overhead speakers interrupt my thoughts. We are about to land as I hold the letter close to my chest.

  Closing my eyes, I whisper to myself, “I love you, Julian Caine. I wish I could have been enough for you.”

  Thirty-Six

  The Victorian style bungalow is unassuming. Plants surround the front porch. Andrew’s plants. A white rocking chair in the corner is empty and dusty. The brass wind chimes by the door are rusty.

  Before I open the front door, I send Patti and Roger a text to let them know that I’m in Santa Monica. Immediately, Patti responds.

  PATTI: Lina, I know this is going to hurt but you don’t have to go back to that sad existence again. Don’t settle. Please call me. I love you.

  In a matter of seconds, I receive a text from Roger.

  ROGER: Patti told me you’ve left for LA.I’ve been calling you. Sweetheart, turn around and come home. Or I’ll go to wherever you are. Please let us know you’re ok. I love you.

  I respond to both texts and tell them I’ll be fine before turning my phone off. The waterworks flow, and it takes everything in me not to fall. I sit on my porch steps, unaware of anyone passing by. After a good twenty minutes, I gain some composure. I reach for my compact and inspect myself in the mirror. Just a little blush on my cheeks but that’s about it. With reluctance, I finally unlock the door that takes a while to open. Upon entering my house, nothing has changed.

  The house smells the same. The fragrance of rose potpourri from Bed Bath & Beyond still lingers. There are stacks of unopened mail in the foyer, and everything appears untouched, as if the house had been uninhabited for weeks. Although it is still daylight, the house is dark, recalling Julian’s words from his last visit. “You live in a funeral parlor.” The brown curtains are closed, and the only light coming through is from Andrew’s study. After placing my bags down, I straighten myself and make my way to the back of the house.

  With the door ajar, Andrew is seated hunchback in his old brown leather chair. His hair is neatly brushed. His light brown eyes are fixated on his old black typewriter. Although I am only a few feet away from him, he fails to notice my presence.

  I cough to gain his attention.

  “Oh, Lina, you’re home.” Glancing at his watch, he says, “You’re early. I thought you wouldn’t be arriving for a few more hours.” His tone is relaxed as if nothing has happened between us these past few months. As though we had never had our time apart. As if he never let me go. As if we had never broken up. As if I had never fallen in love with another man.

  “I decided to catch an earlier flight,” I say with exhaustion.

  He quickly rises from his chair, surprising me. “I can’t believe you’re here.” Reaching for my hand, he hesitates for a second before admitting, “I really missed you.”

  Feeling uneasy, I press my lips and say nothing.

  The man I’ve loved for so long stands before me, waiting for some sort of a sign.

  “Are you hungry? We can have an early dinner,” he softly asks while still waiting for a sign.

  “No, not really. I’m going to take a quick shower,” I respond, trying to fight the need to fall down and cry.

  “Yes, of course. You must be exhausted.” Searching my face, he offers, “I’m glad you’re home. I picked up some food from a new place a few blocks from here. Let me know when you’re ready to eat,” he says casually. As I make my exit, he taps me on the shoulder and I turn to face him. With hesitation, Andrew leans closely and places a chaste kiss on my cheek. “I’ve missed you.”

  Although innocent, Andrew’s kiss makes me uncomfortable. We stand face to face after several months apart, neither one of us offering a warm embrace. I can’t leave the room fast enough.

  I trudge along the hallway where framed pictures of my past with my first love capture my attention. Photos of me and Andrew at my high school production of Les Miserables, the two of us lying on the floor of his studio apartment on East 69th Street, last year’s Christmas dinner with his folks in Glendale, and front and center is our engagement photo that took place so long ago in little Italy. These memories should help ease the pain of a broken heart, but instead, they fuel it. The silence in my home is too much to bear, so I place my phone on the docking station in my bedroom and press play.

  The first six words from Damien Rice’s “My Favourite Faded Fantasy” hits me. It was less than twenty-four hours ago that I was in Julian’s bed, in his arms, and i
n his life. We had spent the night making love, both climaxing to this heart-wrenching song.

  That time in your life is over.

  I need to forget.

  This is where I belong.

  Julian’s words right after we made love last night hit me. “There is only one thing in this life I am certain of. You’re it for me. And if ever your memory of us fades, it will still linger in my mind as if it were only minutes ago. You are all that I know, will care to know, will ever know. My home is wherever you are. It’s not San Francisco, London, or even New York. That’s just spatial context and really inconsequential. You, here with me, even in my heart, that is home. Without you, there is no home. You are my home.”

  Why couldn’t I have just accepted Julian’s declarations of love?

  Because I’m frightened and afraid that I will never be enough for him. Self-doubt and insecurities surface and continue to plague my mind.

  I quickly slip out of my floral Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress that Julian purchased a few days ago, knowing I loved her dresses. I proceed to the master bathroom and turn on the shower. Cold water hits me, jarring me. It takes several minutes for the water to warm up.

  I close my eyes, attempting to forget the past few months. I want to take back the time when Julian took a piece of me, day by day. I struggle with the memory of overwhelming passion. Someone once told me that trying to pick up the pieces of a broken heart is more difficult than putting together the pieces of a broken vase. Those words are so true.