***
The next week was filled with frantic writing, editing and polishing my essay, to make my vow to win the date come true. Unfortunately it appeared that all the senior class girls were doing the same, each convinced that she would be the one to sit across from the table with Carter with only candlelight illuminating their faces, as she weaved her magic and transformed a radio contest date into a loving relationship. Hmm.
Could I beat all of them? Would Carter read any of the letters personally? Was it worth it to reveal my identity even covertly, just in case? Or would he immediately throw my letter away in disgust, if he found out I had written it? It was agony trying to decide, with fate in the balance. My stomach hurt. It always did when I got upset.
Carter used to rub it for me when I was distressed because of my dad, or when it hurt because school wasn’t going well for whatever reason. He’d hold me with one arm and then just rub my belly softly with his hand, sometimes crooning something calming into my ear. I was able to just zone out then, just concentrate on his hand as it gently circled, feeling absolutely cared for and knowing that with him I would always be safe. But it was confusing later, to also get excited, to wish he would not stop his hand from roaming about my belly, and to explore even further – my breasts would pebble in hopeful anticipation to his gentle, sweet touch, and I sometimes I had to resist the urge to push his hand down between my legs, to reciprocate his gentle touch, to make it more insistent, more deep, more loving.
More.
Ah, Carter.
What I wouldn’t do for you to come through the door right now and hold me again, and tell me it’s all going to be ok.
I put my essay in a big manila envelope, addressed and sealed it and then kissed the seal for luck. I walked slowly to the mailbox, my mind racing, my stomach churning. This was my chance. My chance for a date with a model, Carter Reagan. To meet him not only as a sister, but as a woman. And he wouldn’t know what hit him.
***
Every day I went to school, did my best to concentrate on whatever we were doing that day, and not to pay attention to the girl talk about the contest or whatever else. For most of the people who had applied, Carter was just another in a long line of boys they would crush on and then forget as soon as the next hot number came along. A superficial thing, a passing fancy. For me, there was never another boy I wanted, and I was sad to say, I felt there was never another boy I would want. Sure, I would notice good looking guys at the pool or at the gym or wherever, but it only went that far for me. My heart was locked up in a boy I couldn’t have, a young man that was almost too remote to reach, and maybe it felt safer that way, I don’t know. But the heart wants what it wants, and my heart led me kicking and screaming home from school every day to be the first to check the mailbox, to see if there was a letter there, telling me I had won the trip to see my brother.
One day before Carter left, things had gone a bit too far. I had been crying in my room when nobody was home, as it was hitting me yet again about my father’s having left us. My dad never told anyone why he was leaving, he just was gone one day, and he never came back. The persistent thought that it must have been me, must have been my fault, was torturing me. If only I had been a better daughter, he might have wanted to stay. He would never have left if I had just cleaned my room, smiled more, been prettier, done better in school. Not been a failure. I would have talked to my mother about the whole thing but she either wasn’t there or she was in pain herself, and once she met Carter’s dad, she just never seemed as interested. On the outside I didn’t show any of my anguish, except sometimes to my brother, so maybe she just never suspected that I wasn’t handling everything as well as I could be.
That day was different. Everything was coming to a head. I stood in the bathroom, watching my tears roll down my face in the mirror, strangely detached. I felt almost as if I wasn’t in my body anymore. My mouth was making a funny shape, like an upside-down crescent moon. I remember thinking it looked like the tragedy mask in my drama class.
It was kind of freaking me out to be so strangely numb to it, and yet obviously in pain, and I couldn’t figure out how to snap the two halves of me, the impartial watcher and the painful watched, back together. In my stricken state, I somehow figured I had to cause myself some kind of pain to make me whole. Reaching in the bathroom cabinet, I grabbed a razor blade, and sat down on the toilet. I pulled up my skirt a bit, exposing my thighs and drew the edge of the silvery blade along the skin. Nothing at first, then a stinging sensation and few drops of blood. But I could feel it – I could feel something aside from my self-recrimination, my self-blame at the abandonment I suffered, and it helped. Emboldened I tried again, and this time, I accidentally slipped, and embedded the blade a centimeter into my thigh. I was shocked to see so much blood, and kept it together long enough to pull it out and put it on the counter, but soon felt extremely woozy, and watched, shocked, as the floor flew toward my face, and then I lost consciousness, laying on the floor, skirt hitched, blood flowing.
When I came to, Carter was holding me in his arms, wiping my face with a wet washcloth.
“Heather! What happened, Heather? I was so worried!” He took the washcloth and pressed it to the cut on my thigh. “I came home and heard you crying, then nothing, and then a big thump! I had to break the door a little to get in. Was there an accident?”
“I cut myself,” I said. “I guess I fainted from the shock.” No need to tell him “the accident” was mostly intentional.
“Why were you crying because you cut yourself?” He dabbed gently at the wound. I couldn’t answer. “This looks pretty deep,” he continued. “We should wash it.” Carter wrapped me with a big bath towel and got out some hydrogen peroxide. His concern and meticulous cleaning of the cut thawed something inside me, and suddenly I felt everything again, I felt whole, and I felt strong love for him seizing and wringing my heart so that I couldn’t breathe. His tender care was also turning me on, and I wanted him to kiss me better. All over.
“Carter,” I croaked as he dabbed at my cuts, eyebrows furrowed.
“Yeah, Heathe?” He was so careful not to hurt me. I tried to stop gasping at the sting of the disinfectant.
“Carter, I love you,” I said.
“I love you too. You should be more careful,” he said absentmindedly. I wanted to tell him, no, I mean I love you, for real, with all my heart and soul, but instead I just gritted my teeth and felt that love for him healing and stitching my broken parts back together again, just as he tended to my wound. “I wonder if you need stitches?”
“Don’t tell mom,” I said. “She’ll flip. It was just a little accident.”
“Ok, I won’t, but we have to keep an eye on it so it doesn’t get infected.”
Once he was done, Carter put his arm around me and gently turned my face to him, looking me sternly in the eye.
“You be careful ok? I don’t want anything to happen to you.” His face was close and I could smell his manly scent, cologne, clean sweat and citrus. My social mask I wore everywhere was stripped from my face. I am sure he could see the love in my eyes.
“I mean it, you know, Carter? I love you,” I whispered.
“Love you too, sis,” he said and cleared his throat. His voice was thick.
I couldn’t help it. I had to kiss him, and I did. I kissed him like he had saved my life because in a way he had. I kissed him because he was my life, right then. And he kissed me back in the same way, hands in my hair, urgent, unabashed, hungry, tender.
The next day he got the call, and he was gone, with only a goodbye written on a piece of his good stationery. “Bye Heath – had to go. Love, Carter.” I was almost ashamed, but I knew there was nothing I would or could change about that moment. What can you do when you are no longer in control of yourself, when love takes hold of you, and makes its decisions through you? How can you be held responsible for that?
***
The next day I got home to shouting in the house. It was
my mom and stepdad fighting. They had been doing so less often lately, so I’d thought that things were going better between them. Based on the sounds coming from their bedroom, I suppose not. I heard something smash as it hit the wall. My mother used to throw things when she was upset. Not at anyone, she wasn’t violent that way, but with enough force to break whatever it was she was throwing.
After the initial rush and thrill of finding one another, my mom and Carter’s dad just had a really hard time making a go of things, which I suppose was extra tough after the heartbreak they had both suffered already. I suspect my mom felt like she hadn’t really gotten over the shock of my dad leaving, and because of that she had gone too far with Carter’s dad too fast. Also, I think Carter’s departure probably really upset his dad. I worried for them, for me and for Carter.
Carter.
With all the commotion, I almost forgot to check the mail.
***
I stood in front of the post box, heart in my mouth, trying to work up the courage to open it and peek in. Finally I closed my eyes and did it before I could think too much. My hand immediately seized a thick envelope! I drew it out slowly and saw the radio station logo on the corner. This is it.
I stuck it in my coat, and practically ran home to open the envelope in the safety of my room. They wouldn’t send out such a thick envelope if I hadn’t won, would they? What if it were just filled with ads or promo stuff?
My parents were still fighting, but at this point I could barely hear them. My mind was elsewhere. Finally sitting on my bed, I tremblingly slid my finger under the seal and the contents fell out. The letter read:
Congratulations Heather Greene!
Your essay has won an all-expenses-paid trip to New York City to go on a date with model Carter Reagan! You will stay in a luxury suite at the sumptuous Central Park Boutique Hotel, where you will be pampered at PLUSH, the hotel spa. Don’t forget the shopping spree for everything you need for your date with a celebrity!
All the information including flight numbers and limo service is attach—
I couldn’t make out the rest of the letter due to the tears filling my eyes. It was happening. I wiped my eyes to check when. The date would be in one week.
***
Buckled into my seat on the plane, I tried to relax. It was a smaller plane, and so though was in First Class, it wasn’t that much nicer than regular Coach. Still it was exciting. The flight attendant handed me a hot towel, and asked if I wanted something to drink. I got a fresh-squeezed orange juice and looked around me. I was the only one who seemed excited. A few others were deep into their work, staring intently at computer screens, while another seemed to be meditating behind big sunglasses.
I closed my eyes, trying to forget what had happened as I left the house that morning. There had been another fight between my mom and step dad, and it was the nastiest, loudest one yet. But even they couldn’t bring me down, as my excitement for my trip to see my step was just too great.
They had hardly paid attention when I had told them I had won the trip, but then again, I left out the part about Carter. My mom just saw the plane ticket, the hotel reservation, and accepted my departure, even driving me to the airport. But I could see the tension in her knuckles as she gripped the steering wheel, and the tightness of her lips.
“Are you ok, mom?” I had asked.
“Yes, yes,” she had demurred. “I’m just tense about your stepfather and I. But I am sure it will all blow over.”
“I hope so,” I said quietly.
Taking a page out of the book of meditating cabin mate, I closed my eyes and settled in to the soft seats, trying to focus on nothing more than my breathing. It was useless. Unbidden, images of Carter were filling my mind. What would he do when he saw me? Would that electricity still be there? Would he throw a drink in my face, ignore me, or possibly worse – just go on the date and get out of there as fast as he could? Or would he take one look at me standing there in my gown and realize that I was more than a sister? Take me in his arms, look into my eyes, and kiss me deeply, binding together the boy and girl we once were, and the man and woman we are now?
I shifted in my seat. The thought of Carter kissing me had gotten me excited and my underthings were getting uncomfortably damp. But how could I feel any differently? The most caring man I had ever known, and the most beautiful, wrapped up in one gorgeous, unattainable package?
I must have fallen asleep because when I came to, we were landing. Departing the plane in JFK I looked around uncertainly. The vibe here was certainly different than that of Mistwell – about 1000 miles an hour faster. There was a thrill of ambition in the air, and people moved quickly and with purpose. I tried not to bump into anyone as I made my way from baggage claim. A chauffeur in a suit and cap with a sign that had my name and the radio station’s logo on it was waiting for me, and I sighed gratefully. He graciously took my luggage and brought it to his black limousine, and I scrambled in. The soft leather seats felt lush, and comfortable, and the limo came with an intercom, a well appointed bar and fresh flowers. I could get used to this. I smiled. I bet Carter is treated this well all the time! I wonder if he’s happy? Only thing was he couldn’t travel without getting recognized by someone at this point, and causing a scene. Luckily for us, the radio station were playing it safe, and not going to publicize our date until afterward, for security reasons, so aside from his usual following I wouldn’t have to deal with any severe blowback.
The limo moved smoothly through the crowded streets. There were so many people in NYC. All kinds. Rich and poor, sophisticated, plain, genius and mad. The grey grid of streets was filled with energy and life, and I took in everything as best as I could. This was Carter’s world now, and if all went according to plan, it might become my world too.
When I got to the hotel, I was blown away by its extravagant splendor. It was the most tasteful place I had ever been in, and my simple knapsack on the sumptuous carpet, and my tatty jeans seemed even more out of place in such a lavish environment. Would Carter feel the same about me? That I didn’t belong here in the big city? A pang of trepidation went through me. I could feel a little stomachache beginning.
I realized my fears were unfounded as soon as they took me to the spa. There was a team of experts ready to prod and groom me until I was shiny and beautiful. It was like going through a beauty factory with the most prominent experts in the field, and I just knew I would leave looking chic. The first day, Shoshanna took care of my face, Wilbur massaged away my tension and muscle knots, and Liliane gave me a mudbath; Raina waxed me within an inch of my life, leaving my eyebrows shaped and the rest of me baby-smooth. The next day, Andre took care of my hair, cutting it expertly and highlighting it in a soft, face framing, glow. And Carmen, the makeup artist, gave me a natural, yet incredibly becoming look, with smoky eyes and a delicate, inviting pink lip. When I looked at myself in the mirror, it was almost like I didn’t recognize myself, but at the same time I looked more beautiful and more like myself than ever before. These were true experts! Taking and enhancing everything I was, while minimizing any little flaw or blemish. They were magicians.
In between spa treatments, I was whisked away to the most stylish and fashionable boutiques in the city. SoHo, Fifth Avenue, Bloomie’s, it was all fair game, and with the personal shopping assistants I was more beautifully dressed than ever before. I couldn’t believe I actually got to keep everything. I felt like Cinderella!
Still, I couldn’t shake the anxiety about meeting Carter. Would he take one look at me, spit out his drink in disgust, and run, or would he politely sit through the dinner? Or was it possible that he might be happy to see me? Even the best prospect was difficult, and my stomach was responding in kind. Could I look beautiful for our date if I were doubled over in pain?
The icing on the cake happened as the stylist was blowing out my hair. I heard my phone’s unmistakable texting alert through the hum of the hair dryer, and slipped it out of my pocket to see a message from my
mother.
“I just couldn’t tell you before. I’m sorry, but your stepfather and I are getting a divorce. We tried our best and we both love you. Love, mom.”
Leave it to my mom to sign a text. I didn’t know what to say. On one hand, I was shocked that my mother would tell me this through such informal means. I got it though, she and I weren’t exactly close. We didn’t have big heart-to-hearts. It might be easier to say something like this over a more impersonal medium. I was sad that my mother was going through this pain, and that I wasn’t there to comfort her. At the same time, one thing was absolutely, stunningly clear to me. Carter and I would no longer be stepsiblings. We would be free to pursue one another if we so desired. The thought itself made me shudder. Could it finally be? Carter and I? Together at last? Or was I like a crazy person, coming to his city, holding on to these taboo desires and forbidden dreams? Would he think I was crazy to even consider it?
***
I stepped out of the limo, in my new, radiant blue silk Balenciaga dress, strappy Jimmy Choo heels, and Prada purse, trying to stand tall and hoping I looked every inch the celebrity Carter would look. I tried to stop catching glimpses of myself in any reflective surface, but the truth was, I hadn’t realized that I was actually a good-looking girl, until now. Of course, it took a team of experts to make me believe it, but believe it I did, and that faith allowed me to see Carter feeling nothing if not confident. I smiled at the chauffeur who would be waiting for my command all evening, and then walked into the restaurant. It was nothing like the chain restaurants in Mistwell; candlelit, with a soft glow, and discreet staff who were carefully watching every move of every patron, anticipating and fulfilling their needs before they even knew they had any. I wobbled a tiny bit on my heels, and the host came up beside me, discreetly took my arm in a steadying motion and said,
“You’re Heather? We have been expecting you.”
I smiled at him. “Yes, thank you. I am here to meet –“
Double Trouble: A Billionaire Twin Stepbrothers Forbidden Romance Page 4
