No One to Hold

by Arell Rivers

  “Well, it’s a lie by omission.”

  “Yeah, and she changed her last name. For all I know, she did it to keep me in the dark. I’m sure she’s been laughing at me behind my back with her girlfriends for all these years, just like Steffy did to me in high school.”

  As I pause to take another sip of my beer, Dan jumps in. “From my perspective, you have an easy solution to all of this.”

  “Really? What, ‘cause I don’t see it.”

  “Back away from her. Dump her lying ass and tell Greta you want a new account rep.”

  I stare at my friend. His words simply do not compute. “Dump her?”

  “That’s what I said. Problem solved.” He snaps his fingers as emphasis.

  The possibility of not seeing Rose again, of not hearing her laugh, of not listening to her newest ingenious publicity strategy, of not touching her, makes me physically ill.

  “I can’t do that,” I whisper.

  Dan leans in. “What was that?”

  “I can’t. There’s no way I can dump her.”

  “Why not?

  I pick up my beer and bring it to my lips, but then put it down without taking a sip. “She’s different, Dan,” I say. “At least that’s what I thought. But it turns out she was just another random chick that I picked up.”

  “We’re finally getting somewhere.” He pauses. “You slept with her like ten years ago. Don’t you think you both might have changed since then?”

  When I don’t say anything, he continues. “Cole, do you like her? Do you like the woman that you know her to be now?”

  “Yes,” I say, picking at the label on my bottle. “She’s funny, cute, smart and very sweet.”

  “Does she ever bring up your past, how should I put this . . . indiscretions? If I’m right, she’s had to listen to quite a few of the groupies you’ve dumped over the past five years.”

  My eyes fall to the floor. “No. She’s only ever mentioned them to me in a professional context, and not since we . . . uhm, started this quasi-dating thing we’re doing. Her only objection has been Gruesome’s non-fraternization policy.”

  “So what I’m getting is that you like Rose. More than any other woman since that cheerleader in high school. Do you think Rose is using you as a placeholder like that girl did?”

  My lips pull back and I shake my head. “No way.”

  He nods. “Okay.” He brings his beer to his lips. After a moment, he continues, “So you think she broke your trust by not telling you that you had sex with her years ago.”

  “And by insisting on total honesty between us. I believe her exact words were ‘if I ever get the whiff of a lie, I’m done.’”

  “So you’re being held to a higher standard than she holds herself to. Right?”

  I mull over his last comment, feeling my anger draining away. “And I don’t like people laughing at me behind my back.” Even as the words leave my mouth, they sound stupid.

  “Cole, think about it. Do you really believe that she’s snickering with her girlfriends about how you don’t remember having sex with her? If anything, she’s probably deeply hurt by the fact that you didn’t remember.”

  “Shit.” I hang my head and run a hand through my hair.

  “So, who are you truly mad at?”

  I ponder his question for a full minute. “I’ve been a jerk,” I admit. This sucks.

  Dan nods his head. “Do you want to date her?”

  For some reason, I find myself thinking about how she cried for me last night. No one outside of my family has ever expressed feelings like that for me. The chemistry between us is like nothing I’ve ever experienced, and I can’t deny it’s because there’s so much more than a physical connection between us.

  “Yes. I do.” Fuck.

  Dan’s look of surprise mirrors my own. “Welcome to the wonderful world of relationships, my man.” He brings his bottle to mine and taps the neck.

  “You know how confused you’re feeling right now? Well, multiply that by one hundred, because that’s how you’re going to feel from now on. You’re in for a wild ride.”

  “That is, if Rose will have me,” I say, feeling my stomach sink. “I said some pretty harsh things to her.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  “And we’ll have to work though these trust issues.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  “How do I do this? I’ve never had a girlfriend before.”

  “That’s true. Well, what do you think about this?” Dan and I talk and strategize over the next hour while eating some heavy-duty sandwiches. I pray that Rose wants to try again with me.

  On my way out, I give him a fist bump. “You missed your calling. You should’ve been a shrink. Give my love to Suzanne and Emma.”

  On my way home to lay my soul bare to Rose, I stop by a florist shop to pick up the three-dozen roses I’d ordered. Back at my house, I scramble out of my car, rubbing my sweaty palms on my jeans. Under my breath, I mutter, “Please don’t hate me for what I said earlier, Ro.”

  Fortified with the flowers and Dan’s advice, I take a deep breath and go in the front door. The house is still.

  The patio is empty.

  The guest room is empty.

  My bedroom is empty.

  The kitchen is empty.

  “Rose!” I scream, racing throughout the house. She doesn’t respond.

  She’s gone.

  I RACE BACK INTO my car and drive to Rose’s place in Venice. No lights are on inside her house, but she has to be there, right? I shudder thinking of her returning here after the robbery and break-in. It’s not safe. She has to be safe.

  I stay in my car for a long time, running through the strategy that Dan and I discussed earlier. Rehearsing. I need this second chance with Rose. Or am I already on my third chance?

  Get a grip, Cole. It’s time. Gulping down air, I grab the roses and walk toward the front steps, more anxious than pre-show jitters.

  From off to my right, I hear, “Uh-oh, honey. What are you trying to make up for with all them roses?”

  I quirk my lips and turn to see Rose’s neighbor in her yard. Walking over to her, I say, “Nice to see you again, Grandma Gertie. I brought these for Rose. Do you know if she’s home?”

  Nodding, she replies, “I saw her walk in a little while ago. You must’ve done something real bad if you need that many flowers.”

  “Let’s just say I’m hoping they’ll get me out of the doghouse.” I wink at the older woman and turn back toward Rose’s house.

  “Remember what I told you before, young man. You hurt her and you’ll be answering to me!”

  “Got it.”

  All too soon, I’m at Rose’s front door. Trying to summon the courage to ring the bell, I hear Gertie follow up with, “Lordy, you must’ve done a doozie. Now ring that bell and ask her for forgiveness, Hot Stuff!”

  Damn. If I linger any longer, Grandma Gertie will alert the whole neighborhood. I turn and give her a slight wave and a wan smile before returning my attention to the door. It’s time.

  I press the doorbell and wait. Nothing. I press it again and then follow up with a knock. She doesn’t answer the door, but I swear I hear a noise inside. I repeat the process. From inside the house, she says, “Who is it?”

  Well, that’s good. She’s being cautious following the break-in, as she should be. “It’s me, Rose. I’d like to talk with you.” I wait a beat. “Please.”

  “Cole?”

  “Yes. Can we talk?”

  “You’ve said enough.”

  “Rose, please give me five minutes. I’ll leave you alone, forever if you wish, after that. I just want five minutes.”

  My breathing becomes shallower while I wait for her to respond.

  Finally, she unlocks the deadbolt. Air fills my lungs.

  The door opens slowly. Think, Cole. What the fuck was I going to say to her? My mind blanks, and I forget everything I discussed with Dan. Rose stands at the threshold, not stepping back to allow
me to enter. She looks both defiant and deflated. Oh Christ, how can I make this better?

  “Here,” pops out of my mouth, and I thrust the bouquet at her face. She takes a startled step backward to avoid being hit with them. Real smooth, Cole. My palms are damp and I can’t conjure up one word to say to her.

  “You have four minutes, thirty seconds.” She stands her ground, chin up, arms at her side. She doesn’t take the roses.

  Don’t fuck this up again, don’t fuck this up again, don’t fuck this up again. I close my eyes to block out the sight of what my anger did to her, then slowly open them.

  “Rose,” I start. “I selected these for you. The light pink ones represent the past—I am so sorry that I let you slip away after our night in college. I was a complete fool. The yellow ones represent the present—I can’t express how awful I feel for what I said to you earlier, and I promise to work to make it right, if you’ll have me. The orange ones represent the future—the future I hope we’ll have together, because I’ve relied on you for so long but only now am realizing how much I need you in my life.”

  Rose stands before me, head bowed toward the flowers. I’m still holding the bouquet in my sweaty hands. “Rose,” I plead, shaking the flowers.

  She looks up at me, but I can’t read her expression. Her face is a mask. She finally reaches out and takes the flowers from me, careful not to touch my hands. Well, that’s something, I guess.

  She stands there in the doorway, holding the roses, for what seems like an eternity. Then she takes a deep breath and steps back, motioning for me to come inside.

  I enter her place. The one I was helping her clean up only yesterday. After closing the front door, I sit down on the couch. Why is it so easy to write a three-minute song, yet so difficult to have an honest conversation with a woman who means this much to me?

  She enters the kitchen and puts the flowers into vases. She places the yellow ones on the dining room table and brings the pink ones with her into the living room. The orange ones stay in the kitchen. That doesn’t bode well. I swallow hard.

  Taking a seat opposite me, Rose says, “Cole, I appreciate that you came by to make sure I’m okay, but I think it would be best if we kept our relationship strictly professional from now on.”

  Shit. I am not going to let her do this to us. I just found her—okay, again—and I know she feels something for me. She obviously did back at NYU, otherwise she wouldn’t have slept with me all those years ago. And the way she responded to me this morning makes me even more convinced that she feels a connection. I need to unlock those feelings again before I lose my chance with her forever.

  “I came over here because I realized what an ass I had been to you, and I wanted to make things right. I went back to my house, where I’d left you without a car, and found it empty. That killed me.”

  Rose sits there, looking at those damn roses. Since she’s not telling me to shut up, I blunder forward. “I would like to understand why you didn’t say anything to me about our night in college,” I press. I wish I could touch her, hold her hand even, but while she’s just across the coffee table from me, she might as well be on a solitary island.

  “Cole, that was a lifetime ago. What would you have had me do? Blurt it out in Greta’s office five years ago? I was relatively new to her company, and all her employees are made very aware of her strict non-fraternization policy. I figured you wouldn’t remember me, and I was right. When you didn’t recognize me, I breathed a sigh of relief that I wouldn’t have to leave my dream job.”

  “I get that, Rose, I really do. We were both young and excited to be starting our careers. I am so sorry that I didn’t recognize you.” Now that Dan pointed out my stupidity to me, my heart literally hurts for how that must have wounded her. “But what about recently? When you knew my interest in you had become personal?”

  “I didn’t know what to do. You obviously had no recollection even after we kissed a few times, so I figured you’d never remember. I almost told you last night, but . . .”

  “Honesty isn’t always easy.”

  “Yeah.” Rose is still staring at the damn flowers. “Look, I meant what I said. We need to keep our relationship professional.”

  “I think that ship has sailed, Ro.” Her lips rise slightly. I’m not sure if it’s because of my choice of words or my use of her nickname. I choose to believe the latter. “May I ask what happened to Bloomer? It was the last name you gave me that night . . .”

  Rose’s face falls and her mask seems to be fraying a bit around the edges. “Greta asked me to use a different last name when I started with her. She thought ‘Rose Bloomer’ was too cutesy. In order to be taken seriously as a female publicist, she said that I needed to be perceived as powerful in every way. So, I changed my professional name to Rose Morgan.”

  “I take it Greta VonStein is not her real name either?”

  Rose shrugs. “I never asked, but I doubt it.”

  Needing to lighten up the mood and maybe get through her defenses, I say, “What do you think she’s hiding? Maybe her real name is Ernestine Futterman?”

  Rose laughs. I’m so happy to hear it, I join her. “Thanks, I needed that.” She pauses. “Would you like a drink? I haven’t been to the grocery store, though, so all I have is water. Or coffee or tea.”

  “Water would be great, thank you.” Relief washes over me. If she’s offering me a drink, I’ve survived the five-minute deadline. We still have a lot to discuss.

  She sets down our water glasses and reclaims her chair across from me. At least I can see she has relaxed somewhat. My next question erases any goodwill I might have garnered. “Is Morgan your Mom’s maiden name?”

  “No,” she responds. Her eyes turn stormy and dart back to those damn flowers.

  What did I say? “May I ask how you chose Morgan?”

  Rose is quiet for a bit, struggling to tell me whatever the story is behind the name. What could it be? Did she pick a name out of thin air? No, that wouldn’t make her squirm like this. Oh my God, what if she’s married? That can’t be it. If she was ever married, she’s not now. She’s not the type to cheat.

  “It’s a long story, Cole.”

  “Ro, I would like to hear it if you’re willing to share it with me.” My fertile imagination is conjuring up all sorts of wild possibilities. I’m better off knowing the truth. She seems determined not to open up, so I decide to circle back to her last name later.

  Sighing, I continue. “Listen, you told me last night that you wouldn’t stand for any lies. I have to admit, that’s one of the reasons why I went off earlier. I felt you had lied to me by not telling me about our night together. Or your real last name. I want us to have a chance, but that’ll only happen if we’re really honest with each other.”

  “I didn’t see that as a lie. I’m sure there’s plenty in your past that I don’t know about.”

  “But this was directly about us.”

  “I didn’t think it was my responsibility to fill in any blanks in your bad memory.”

  “Touché.” We both take sips of our waters. This intense honesty shit certainly takes a toll.

  Rose puts her glass down on the coffee table with a definitive clink. “I chose Morgan because I was engaged to Chris Morgan before I moved to Los Angeles.”

  Quietly, I place my glass alongside hers and look at her face. The mask has disappeared, and her eyes are full of sorrow. “What happened? Didn’t he want to move to California?” I want to hold her, but I don’t dare. Not yet. What man who was lucky enough to get this woman to say yes wouldn’t have moved heaven and earth to keep her happy?

  “Well, no, he didn’t. But that’s not why we didn’t get married.”

  She collects her thoughts in silence, her fingers playing with her blue beaded earrings, then lets out a long sigh and starts speaking. “I met Chris when we were both sophomores at NYU, and we began dating right away. Senior year we lived together off campus in an apartment. We got engaged over winter break, and
everything was great.” Rose offers a sad smile while rubbing the ring finger on her left hand.

  “Chris was an accounting major, and got several offers at big firms in New York City. I, of course, wanted to become a publicist. Most of the jobs I applied for were in New York, but I also sent in an application to Greta, never thinking she would grant me an interview. Well, she did. And, as you know, she offered me this job.” She takes another sip of water.

  “Chris and I had a series of fights about this. He didn’t want to move out here at all. I gladly would have stayed on the East Coast, but I hadn’t gotten any job offers out there. After one particularly bad fight, he said, ‘I need some air,’ and stormed out of the apartment. A few minutes later, I heard tires squealing and a big crash. I ran outside to see that a car had hit Chris. He died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.”

  “Oh my God, Rose.”

  Those were the very same words I said to her earlier today before peeling out of my driveway. I can’t even imagine how gutted that must have made her feel. No longer able to stay away, I rush over to her. Landing on my knees by her chair, I put my arms around her waist and hold her. She’s quietly sobbing, and I’m only slightly surprised that my cheeks are wet, too.

  “That was nearly seven and a half years ago. I’ve made a good life for myself out here. My job’s been my lifeline.” She continues to rub her empty finger.

  A sudden realization hits me like a wrecking ball. I kiss her finger. “They stole your engagement ring, didn’t they?”

  Rose sniffs. “It was a starter ring, as Chris liked to call it. He promised to get me a bigger ring once we were both settled in our careers.”

  “You wouldn’t have wanted to trade up, would you?”

  She smiles wistfully at me. “No,” she murmurs.

  I make a mental note to check in with the police about this particular piece of jewelry. Hopefully the fuckers who stole the ring will pawn it, giving me the chance to buy it back for her.