“I just wish that I’d met you earlier,” he says.
A big part of me wishes that too. I’ve spent so many years being poor and living paycheck to paycheck, on even less than a paycheck, that having money seemed like an answer to all of my problems. People like to say that money is not the answer to all of your problems, but for many years it would’ve been the answer to all of mine.
We share more this day than any other day. I feel us growing closer and closer. Even if we don’t fully comprehend or understand or conceptualize each other’s childhood experiences, we are at least aware of them.
After we finish our salads, Mr. Whitewater brings us soup. I hand Wyatt his bowl and take mine. It’s not very comfortable to eat soup on the couch, but I don’t want to move.
“What did you want to be when you grew up?” Wyatt asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “You mean for work? I thought I’d be lucky if I became a nurse or something like that. It would give me a steady job or profession. The pay is much better than a waitress’s.”
“No,” he shakes his head. “That’s not what I mean. Not just for work. Didn’t you have dreams of what you wanted to do or to be when you were older? No matter how unrealistic.”
I smile. I’m about to tell him that only wealthy or privileged kids spend their days thinking about unrealistic dreams and go about pursuing those, but then I really think about it and realize that I, too, had a dream once. And, perhaps, still do.
“Okay, I’ll tell you, but only if you promise to keep it a secret.”
“Keep it a secret? Don’t you know that dreams can’t become a reality unless you verbalize it? Unless you infuse them with the power of speech?”
“Actually, no, I didn’t know that. But if you want to hear this then you have to promise.”
He takes a moment, then agrees.
“I’ve never told anyone this before, but I want to be a writer,” I say.
“That’s great! That’s an amazing thing to want to be,” Wyatt smiles with his whole face.
I feel overwhelmed by his exuberance.
“But why don’t you want anyone to know? It’s so inspiring and beautiful!”
Inspiring and beautiful? I’m not so sure.
“Because it’s embarrassing,” I mumble.
“What? How?”
I stare at him. “I just don’t think you understand, because you were probably raised to think that you can be anyone you want. Do anything you want. Right? But I wasn’t. I don’t even have a bachelor’s degree, Wyatt. Only a high school diploma. I’m practically illiterate in the writing world.”
“That’s crap! Don’t say that. Degrees don’t matter. All that matters is whether or not you want to do it. And then you gotta take steps to do it.”
“That’s your privileged upbringing talking,” I joke.
“No, it’s not,” he leans closer to me. His face gets really serious. “To be a writer you need heart. And you have that. I think you can be a writer. No, I know you can.”
His words wash over me like a wave. Overwhelmed by his support and encouragement, I have trouble taking a full breath. A knot forms in the back of my throat. If I don’t inhale slowly, I’m afraid that I won’t be able to take a full breath again.
No one has ever believed in me so much before.
We both return to our food. Wyatt takes two last scoops of the soup. I lean across him to put the bowl on his side of the side table.
I’ve done this hundreds of times over the last six weeks, but today is different. There’s a warmth emanating from Wyatt, the kind that I haven’t felt since our last kiss. I watch him take a breath and inhale the world around us, the way people smell a bouquet of flowers.
When he opens his eyes, he catches me staring at him and sits back. He’s giving me room to collect myself. He’s respecting my boundaries and the rules that we have both agreed to play by. But this time, I don’t – can’t – respect those boundaries anymore. This time, I don’t pull away. I look at his sweet, beautiful lips and press mine to them.
Immediately, his lips respond to mine. He pulls me closer to him and wraps his arms around my shoulders. In a split second, the whole world fades away. His hands move through my hair and my fingers run along his jawline. It’s strong and powerful and touching it makes me want him even more.
“This is wrong,” I whisper without pulling away.
“Yes, and yet it’s so right,” he mumbles.
And then suddenly, he stops and looks at me.
“Do you want to stop?” he asks. “Is that what you meant?”
Yes and no. I don’t know.
He waits for me to answer, but I’ve lost the ability to speak. Instead, I reach up to him again and run my tongue on the inside of his mouth.
“Oh, Brielle,” he moans. He lifts up my head with his hands, then runs his hands down to my hips. With one swift motion, he lifts me up and places me on top of him.
I laugh and continue kissing him. I feel how hard he is, and it makes me feel all tingly all over my body. He pulls away from my lips and starts to kiss down my neck. I tilt my head back and sigh from pleasure. His lips make his way down my collarbone and toward my breasts. He takes one of my breasts in his hand and kisses the top.
I close my eyes. I want this moment to last forever.
“Oh my, I’m so sorry!” a female voice shatters our bliss. I pull away from Wyatt but remain firmly on top of him.
“What the fuck are you doing here, O?” Wyatt yells out. His deep voice startles me, and I fall to the side. I scramble to adjust my clothes. When everything seems in place, I look back up.
There’s a tall, gorgeous woman in five-inch heels standing before me. Her hair is jet black and cut in an aggressive slant. Her makeup is flawless, and her eyeslashes are long and powerful. She has pale skin, and her blood red lipstick makes her look like something of a clash between a 50’s pinup and a vampire.
“I live here, too, remember?” she laughs and tosses her hair. “Besides, I’ve come to see how you were feeling. And from what I can see, you’re doing quite well.”
Neither Wyatt nor I say a word. I probably look as dumbfounded as he does.
“Well, since my brother seems to have forgotten his manners, I’ll introduce myself. I’m Ophelia, Wyatt’s older sister.”
Ophelia extends her hand to me. When I shake it, what strikes me most about it is how cold it is. Her fingers are long, and her long gray nails are filed down to a point at the end. In fact, come to think of it, everything about Ophelia is pointy. She has pointy heels, a pointy nose, pointy nails, and even pointy elbows.
“I’m Brielle. I’m Wyatt’s personal assistant,” I mumble.
“Yes, I see. You’re definitely assisting him on a very personal level,” she says lifting one of her eyebrows.
“O, please. Play nice,” Wyatt says. “Brielle’s a friend.”
Ophelia puts her sunglasses back over her eyes, turns on her heel and waves her hand. “Well, I gotta get my bag.”
Wyatt and I watch her walk out. Before she reaches the end of the hallway, she turns around briefly and says, “Brielle, can you help me with something here?”
I look at Wyatt, unsure as to what to do.
“No, O, take care of it yourself,” he yells back.
“No, it’s okay,” I get up. “I’ll help her, it’s no problem.”
Chapter 13- Brielle
Mr. Whitewater takes O’s Louis Vuitton bags to a guest room upstairs and places them near the bed.
“You don’t mind unpacking these for me, do you? Brielle, is it?” Ophelia asks walking toward the door.
“What?” I ask. I’m not sure if I had heard that right.
“You work here, right? Or do you just get paid to fuck my brother?”
I stare at her.
“Hello? Earth to Brielle! Do you work here or not?”
“Yes,” I mumble.
“Well, please unpack my bags for me, then,” she says and walks out.
I’m dumbfounded. I’ve never been treated like that by anyone. I’m not sure what to do. I look at her three bags. How dare she speak to me that way? I’m not a maid! I’m not a servant!
I want to toss her bags over the railing and punch her in her stupid face.
I sit down on the bed.
Suddenly, I come to an unfortunate realization. If I don’t do this for her, if I don’t act like a servant, then what am I really here for? What am I getting paid for? Well, I do help Wyatt out a lot. I serve him food and help him with his crutches. Take him outside. But now that our relationship has turned into something more interesting, will I still be doing that? Yes, of course! I decide. I’m here as a personal assistant. He’s definitely not paying me to sleep with him. And we haven’t even slept together yet. Perhaps, in the future…
My mind drifts again. I hate Ophelia for her snooty attitude and her self-importance. But there’s also something else that I hate about her. I hate her for interrupting us. Our kiss. Now, instead of sitting around thinking about how wonderful our kiss was and how it could’ve become something more and what that could be, I’m sitting here thinking about Ophelia! Fuck her!
Slowly, I pick up one of her bags and unzip the top. I’ve never touched a Louis Vuitton bag before, and it’s even nicer than I expected it to be. I love how soft and delicate the leather is. The structured frame of the bag reminds me of those vintage bags that everyone used to travel with in the movies from the 40’s and 50’s. If only my phone worked in this place, then I could actually look up how much one of these bags costs. Agh, why do you even bother, Brielle? I ask myself. It’s Louis Vuitton, each one must cost a fortune! So the Wild family is loaded, what else is new?
Inside Ophelia’s bags, I find some gorgeous dresses, crop tops, designer jeans, and three smaller Louis Vuitton bags full of makeup. Once all the dresses are hung up in the closet and all the jeans and tops are folded nicely on the shelves, I check the bags for any left over things that I might’ve forgotten. In the front pocket of the smallest bag, I find a box of pregnancy tests. I don’t know what compels me, but I decide to count them. The box says that there should be ten, but she only has seven. Three are gone. Hmm. Why would three be gone?
I’ve never been in this situation, but my friend got pregnant in the eleventh grade. I remember standing next to her and holding her hand as we waited for the results of the first test. It was between third and fourth period. When the first test said that she was pregnant, she immediately took another one. That one confirmed the results of the first so she took another one and another one. We went through four tests before she finally gave up and believed that she was indeed pregnant.
I sit back down on the bed. I can’t believe what I’ve discovered. Ophelia is pregnant! Or at least, she might be. Oh, my God! I want to tell Wyatt, but I can’t. Right? It’s not my place. I was snooping through her stuff…Well, actually that’s not true. She asked me to put everything away, and I made this discovery of the three missing tests inadvertently.
My mind continues to race. I don’t know why I’m so involved with this. So what if Ophelia is pregnant? She’s in her late twenties. It’s not even that surprising. It’s not like she’s a teenager. It’s not a big deal.
I try to remember whether she was wearing a ring of any sort when I saw her. Wedding ring? Engagement ring? No, the only ring that I saw on her hand was a small twist ring around her thumb. If that was anything sentimental, then it definitely wasn’t from a significant other in her life.
But even if that was the case, who cares? She’s in her late twenties, and she has every right to be pregnant even if she isn’t married or engaged or with anyone. It’s none of my business, and no matter how much I want to tell Wyatt, it’s none of his business either. Damn it!
“Brielle! Brielle!” I hear Ophelia’s voice traveling up the stairs.
Jesus Christ, I say to myself. I just met her a few minutes ago and she’s already treating me like a servant.
“Yes?” I say walking to the top of the stairs.
“Are you done yet?”
“Yes,” I nod.
“Okay, great. Can you be a darling and get me some ice tea, please. I can’t find Mr. Whitewater anywhere and I’m so thirsty. It’s so fucking hot outside!”
I stare at her.
“Brielle?” she asks and snaps her fingers. “Are you there?”
“Did you just snap at me?”
“Sorry, sorry, it’s a dumb habit. I know we’re not supposed to do that to the staff anymore. But who can keep up with all of these changes in socioeconomic relationships?”
Who the hell is this woman? And does she live on this planet?
“Brielle? Ice tea, please?” she says and walks away.
I sigh. I have to talk to her about this, but something tells me that it will be a very long and tedious conversation.
I go down to the kitchen and get the pitcher of ice tea from the refrigerator. I pour her a glass and bring it to her in the living room, where Wyatt is still sitting on the couch.
“Here you go, Ophelia,” I say.
“So how did you two meet?” she asks when I turn around to leave the room.
I don’t know what to say.
“In a diner actually,” Wyatt says after a moment.
“A diner, really?” Ophelia asks in her snooty, stuck up way. “That’s weird.”
“Why’s that?” Wyatt challenges her.
“Just a step down from your typical fare, isn’t it?”
“And what’s that?” he asks. I’m on a verge of crying, and he’s actually going to make her say it. Why is he doing this? Why are they both acting like I’m not here?
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ophelia tosses her hair. She opens her compact and fixes her perfect lipstick application. “Cocktail waitresses in five-star hotels? They aren’t doing it for you anymore?”
“And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Which tight end will it be this week, O? Or are you over football players in general now that certain quarterback dumped you for a Victoria Secret model?”
“Fuck you!” she turns to him. Wyatt wipes little droplets of spit off his face.
“Don’t start something you don’t want to finish, big sister. Or you’ll be up way past your bedtime.”
“Go fuck yourself, Wyatt,” Ophelia gets up from her seat.
“Oh, what’s the matter? You can dish it out, but you can’t take it?” Wyatt yells at her.
“He was my fucking fiancé, Wyatt,” she says. Her voice cracks a bit. Is she actually tearing up? No, that can’t be it.
“I don’t care,” Wyatt shrugs, unfazed. “Brielle is my guest, and you’re going to treat her with a little respect.”
Ophelia gets a hold of her feelings and returns back to normal. “This is my house, too, and I’m going to treat the help any way I want to, bro.”
Wyatt stood up for me. I’m grateful, but I also get the feeling that it made things a lot worse.
“Just so you know, we’re not having dinner together tonight,” Wyatt yells after her, but she simply slams the door behind her.
“I don’t think she was expecting to,” I say.
“Fuck,” Wyatt shakes his head. “I don’t know why she has to be like that.”
“Like what?” I joke.
“She’s not always like this. Sometimes, she’s nice. She can be really nice and kind. I don’t know what the hell is going on with her, but ever since that son of a bitch dumped her, she’s been a real bitch.”
I find it hard to believe that Ophelia wasn’t always a bitch, but I take his word for it.
“Listen, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry about her.”
“It’s okay,” I sigh. I don’t really know how else to respond to this whole situation. I’ve never been treated like this by complete strangers before. “I just feel like she hates me or something. For no good reason. Do you think she’s jealous of me?”
Wyatt la
ughs. “No, I don’t think so.” His nonchalant laughter makes me tense up.
“Why are you laughing?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Just the thought of O being jealous of you?”
“You’re such a dick, Wyatt. You know that?” I shake my head and get up to leave.
“What? What did I say?”
I turn around to face him. The expression on his face is blank. He’s either a total idiot or completely clueless.
“For your information, I didn’t mean that O is jealous of me…I meant that she might be jealous of you and me. But you just had to take it somewhere shitty, didn’t you? You know, I have a lot to offer. Just because you all have money and I don’t have any doesn’t mean that no one can be jealous of me. You fuckin’ stuck up asshole.”
I turn and walk out the door.
Chapter 14 - Brielle
I don’t want to see his face again for a long time, but a few hours later, there’s knock at the door. I know who it is, but I don’t answer.
“Go away.”
“Brielle, please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of that. I don’t know what came over me.”
“I don’t care. Go away,” I say without getting off the bed.
“I was just really mad at my sister for how she was treating you. I don’t know why she said any of those things.”
“It’s not her I’m mad at right now, Wyatt.”
“I know. I know,” he says and slaps the door with his hand. The slap is angry, but not at me. It sounds as if he’s angry with himself. “Brielle, please open the door. I really want to apologize to you face to face. And then I’m going to go.”
I take a moment, but eventually give in.
“What?” I ask opening the door. My hands are folded across my chest. I am in no mood to hear anything, but his most heartfelt apology.
“Brielle, I didn’t mean any of that. I’m not going to make any excuses. That was wrong of me to say. It was wrong, and it was also untrue. I was an asshole. You know it. I know it. I’m sorry.”
Wow. That was a much better apology than I’d expected. I thought he would make excuses, try to explain. I thought he would cloud up his apology with all the things that we usually say to diminish our wrongdoing. But he didn’t.
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