by Jill Knapp
A few minutes later he wrote back, asking me when I was coming back home. I was glad he answered so quickly. It always got to me how some people could go an hour without answering you. I went to type that I was home, and then remembered he was probably referring to Manhattan.
I wrote, “Coming back soon, maybe tomorrow. I’ve been home for one day and it’s already too much.”
A few more minutes went by; no response. Maybe he was the type to wait an hour to respond. I decided I would go for a run and clear my head. Also, it was a good excuse to get out of the house while still enjoying my neighborhood. I used to run all of the time, but since I had moved to my apartment, the interest had gotten away from me. I suddenly felt like a make-up run. I had to dress warmly, since it was the end of December and thirty degrees outside. I threw on leggings with yoga pants over them, a sports bra, a tank top, a long-sleeved shirt, and an Under Armor sweatshirt over the entire ensemble. I grabbed my iPod out of my purse, slipped on my sneakers and bolted outside.
The run wasn’t too bad; sure, it was freezing, but after the first half mile I had worked up enough energy to keep warm. I ran a full three miles before feeling a cramp in my side and deciding to call it a day.
When I got back to my house, everyone was gone. Thank God, I thought as I made my way into a much-needed shower. The shower felt so great after my run, I knew I would be extremely sore tomorrow but I didn’t care. I needed that time to myself to let out some stress.
After my shower I was so relaxed I had forgotten all about texting Michael. That was until I saw my activity light blinking on the top of my phone. Sure enough, he had written back, even if his reply was an hour after the fact.
“I’m coming back to the city tomorrow,” he wrote, followed by another message that read, “If you are around tomorrow afternoon, we should get together.”
Before my brain could come up with an excuse as to why this was a bad idea, I wrote, “Yep, I will be there. See you tomorrow,” and hit send.
Just the thought of getting to see Michael tomorrow was enough to send me into full anxiety mode. My heart began beating a mile a minute and a herd of butterflies rummaged through my stomach. I plopped back down on my bed and tried to compose myself, avoiding all mirrors this time. I let out a soft chuckle. So much for my relaxing run.
Chapter 18
Words between words
Completely normal, non-anxious, well-adjusted people have that virtue called patience. I am not one of them. So when Michael asked me to meet him for lunch at a quaint uptown restaurant, of which I had already forgotten the name, and was now running fifteen minutes late, I began to essentially freak out. Most people, who are not me, would sit down and order a drink, maybe check their email or Facebook, and be fine while waiting for the rest of their party to arrive. I, however, had already checked my phone twice, text messaging myself to make sure the damn thing was working, and had run at least six different possible scenarios in my head as to why Michael was going to stand me up, including one very graphic daydream where his girlfriend had found out about us and has already murdered him with a Waterford cake knife from Bergdorf’s, and was coming for me next.
I decided to order a glass of white wine to take the edge off when finally Michael made his way through the door. He darted toward me, briefcase in hand, and took the seat across from me.
“Hey. I’m so sorry I’m late. Fifth Avenue is a wreck. I was sitting in traffic for almost half an hour!” He flung his coat over the back of the chair.
“It’s not a problem,” I said as casually as I could. “It took you that long to get here from your apartment?”
“No I just came from a meeting across town,” he said taking a long gulp of water.
I felt stunted for conversation and a slight awkward silence opened up, which I felt compelled to fill. “I ordered a glass of wine while I was waiting, but it still hasn’t come yet.”
Riveting conversation, I thought, as I pulled the menu up to bury my face. How could someone have such a strong effect on me? I’ve slept with other guys; hell I’ve been in love with other guys, but no one has ever had such a unique paralyzing effect over me. After we made plans last night to meet this afternoon, I fell asleep early and dreamt mostly about this encounter all night. It’s always strange to see someone the day after you’ve dreamt about them. I wonder if he knew; if he could sense it.
A few moments later, the waiter came with my wine and Michael took the opportunity to order a scotch.
“Mushroom ravioli?” Michael asked.
“Excuse me?”
He offered me a wry smile. “That’s what you’re going to order, I know you. Plus, it sounds delicious.”
I rolled my eyes in an attempt to cover up how happy I was that he remembered I was a huge fan of mushrooms.
“You think you know me so well, eh?” I folded the menu and placed it on the edge of the table.
Michael just grinned and my heart skipped a simultaneous beat. I had been on countless dates with men who would try to get me to chow down on a medium-rare burger. It was refreshing to be with someone who paid attention to my preferences.
“How was Christmas? Did you go to Cassandra’s?” Michael asked slowly, sipping his scotch.
“Christmas Eve was great,” I said, recalling the wonderful meal at the DeLuca residence. “Christmas Day, on the other hand, was another story.” I offered him an eye roll.
“What do you mean?” he asked, leaning closer to me.
“Well, in true Hastings fashion, my parents accidentally forgot I was coming home,” I said, swirling my wine around. “I did get to spend time with my brother, which was great because I barely see him, but other than that I couldn’t wait to come back to the city.”
“What do you mean forgot? How could your parents have forgotten you were coming home?” Michael asked sympathetically.
“Well, we’ve never exactly been close. Sometimes I feel like an outsider looking in on my own family, like a stranger. When I see how they interact with Aaron, I get more upset than I’d like. It’s as if the three of them are a family without me.”
Michael probably didn’t want to hear about this and I immediately asked him how his Christmas was in an attempt to change the subject. Before he could answer, I heard a voice behind me.
“Ravioli?”
“What? Oh yeah. That’s mine,” I turned to the waitress, who looked more like she was working at a night club than a restaurant.
He didn’t seem to notice her. He kept his eyes on me until she left.
“My Christmas was fine,” he said, digging into his grilled chicken. “I saw my family, nothing special.”
Twenty minutes later Michael motioned for the check and paid the entire bill before I could even offer an obligatory reach for my wallet. A sudden wave of sadness swamped me; lunch was over and I now had to trek all the way back downtown, alone.
“I live about ten blocks from here if you want to come by,” Michael said as we walked out of the restaurant.
Before I could give him a chance to change his mind, I said yes and we hailed a cab down to 60th Street. When we pulled up in front of Michael’s apartment building, it suddenly dawned on me that I had never seen where he lived before. The apartment building looked brand new, clearly less than five years old, and extremely swanky. The doorman greeted us upon arrival, referring to Michael as “Mr. Rathbourne,” and then held the elevator door open for us. I felt like royalty as we rode up to the thirtieth floor. The apartment was as gorgeous as I imagined, illuminated by large elongated windows reaching from the ceiling down to the floor. Even though it was only one bedroom, his home was very spacious, including a large living room, a reasonably sized kitchen, a bedroom and two bathrooms. Like mine, his kitchen counters were covered in new sparkling granite, which looked even better when contrasted with a matte, off-white backsplash and rich hardwood floors. A jet-black refrigerator and ceiling-suspended pots and pans pulled the entire room together. Just to the left was the l
iving room, cleverly decorated with reprinted classic art, sandalwood-scented reed diffusers, and a self-made bookshelf, filled from top to bottom, that covered nearly an entire wall of the room. The whole apartment was a vision, something out of House and Garden, pristinely clean, and I could not believe that a twenty-three-year-old man lived here. I was beginning to wonder if Michael had a trust fund.
He took my coat and led me to the couch, where we had a two-hour-long conversation about school, our friends, and how glad we were to have a few weeks off from doing work.
I checked the time and noticed it was getting late and already pitch black outside. That’s the thing about winter in New York; just when you start to get your day going 5:00 hits, and the sun is gone. I decided I should leave and head home before the weather became too unbearably cold. I stood up to gather my things, but before I could so much as put my shoes on, Michael grabbed my arm again, the way he had the night of the NYU dinner, and pulled me toward him. We started kissing passionately, all inhibitions out the window. Michael lifted me up and pushed me into the wall. I pulled hard at his clothes, silently begging for him to take them off. The next thing I knew, I was being carried past the living room, into the bedroom, and being plopped onto the bed.
The next morning I awoke to piercing sunlight coming through the window and dancing on my face. Through tired eyes, I reached for the bottle of water I usually kept on my nightstand, but to my dismay found nothing. That’s when I realized I was not in my own bed. For a brief moment I began to panic and wondered where I was and how I got here, retracing my steps from the night before. I slowly turned around to find Michael lying right next to me, still sound asleep, with his arms carefully cradled around me.
Some people look like disasters in the morning, with unimaginable bed head and crusty eyes, not to mention morning breath. However, none of those unfavorable characteristics were present here this morning. At least, not with him. I had no access to a mirror and had no idea what I would be dealing with when I finally collected all my energy and made my way to a bathroom. Michael’s brown hair had fallen into a perfect sexy-messy look this morning, while he sported the exact right amount of facial scruff. Suddenly self-conscious about my own appearance, I gently untangled myself from his grasp, and crawled to the edge of the bed. Before my first foot could hit the floor, I was boomeranged back into his arms and gently locked under the blanket.
“Good morning,” he mumbled dreamily, still holding onto me tightly.
“Good morning to you too,” I said, all too happy to be back in his arms.
“You don’t want to get up just yet, Amalia,” he said. “It’s way too cold out and the bed is so inviting and warm.”
He did have a point; I wasn’t exactly in any rush to go home. I reached for my phone and saw that I had two missed calls from Cassandra; one from last night and one from ten minutes ago. I sent her a quick text saying I’d call her later, and put my phone back on the nightstand.
Michael and I lay in bed half asleep for another forty-five minutes, until he finally suggested a cup of coffee. Against my will, I exited the bed and stumbled into the bathroom to get dressed. I had no recollection of putting on his Cornell alumni T-shirt to sleep in, but with a hint of sadness I peeled it off and returned to the outfit I had on last night. A glimpse in the mirror revealed dark smudged make-up that actually didn’t look all that bad. The brown eye shadow had run on into the crease of my eyes, creating a smoldering effect. I reached into my purse and grabbed a light-pink lipstick. I ran the tube across my mouth and then dotted some of the make-up onto my cheekbones to give my face some much-needed color. I ran my fingers through my hair in an attempt to tame the blonde bird’s nest and took a step back to make sure I was decent enough to go back into the living room. When I emerged from the bathroom, I was shocked to find that not only was the coffee brewed and prepared, but Michael stood at the stove preparing fried cheese omelets, complete with freshly chopped tomatoes and parsley, and what appeared to be whole-grain toast to accompany it. I slowly crossed to him, and he just smiled and handed me a cup of coffee.
“Milk and two sugars, for you,” he smiled. “Sorry I didn’t have the ingredients for a soy latte, but I hope this will suffice.”
“It’s perfect,” I said as I took a seat at the small table in the corner of the kitchen. “It’s all perfect. Thank you for making this.”
We ate our breakfast in a comfortable silence and I thought about how happy I felt. My happiness was quickly interrupted by the harsh reminder that Michael was not mine, he belonged to Marge. I was renting him, well actually, more of an illegal sublet kind of situation. I thought about bringing it up, about asking him if he and Marge were still dating and if so, was he going to break up with her? Even through all of this confusion, I believed he had feelings for me. Why else would he go through all of the trouble of helping me with school? Or cooking me breakfast in the morning? If I was merely a booty call, he would have made up an excuse about an early meeting and politely asked me to leave. Instead here we were, eating eggs and drinking coffee. I decided, as wonderful as this was, I wouldn’t give him the opportunity to kick me out. I finished the last of my coffee and got up to clear my dishes off the table.
“Stop,” he said, as he wiped his face with a napkin. “I got this.”
He stood and cleared both of our plates and immediately loaded them into the dishwasher.
“Thank you for everything, but I really should be going,” I said as I grabbed my coat off the edge of the couch.
After our perfect evening together, I expected him to put up a small fight, to insist we spend the day together, or at least a long drawn-out kiss goodbye. Instead, “I’ll talk to you soon,” was all he said. He walked me to the door and gave me a hug.
Disappointed that I didn’t even get a kiss goodbye, I made my way outside into the freezing December air, and walked to the subway station alone.
Chapter 19
Resolutions
“I’m freezing!” Cassandra cried as we made our way to Libation, a chic club on the Lower East Side, that night.
New Year’s Eve was a fresh start as far as I was concerned, and tonight we were going to party it up. I glanced over at Cassandra, taking note of her outfit. Of course she was freezing. She was wearing a paper-thin coat with a sleeveless silver dress underneath, no stockings and strappy black sandals.
We finally turned on to Ludlow Street and I shouted, “We’re here!”
We had decided to walk to the bar after dinner instead of taking a cab in a concerted effort to save money, since we’d be blowing a large wad of dough this evening. I checked my watch as we walked past a crowd of rowdy teenagers. Ten forty-five; plenty of time before the ball dropped.
The line to get into the bar was literally around the corner. A deep shudder shook me as I realized we were nowhere near getting out of the cold. Without hesitation, Cassandra made a beeline for the bouncer, who held one hand up to stop her from walking any further.
“Cassandra DeLuca,” she stated proudly as she began to unbutton her long Armani coat. “We’re on the list.”
And sure enough, we were. She practically handed the bouncer her coat, before he motioned to the coat check inside. I should have known better than to assume we’d be waiting on line like the rest of New York; one call from Cassie’s boss and we were VIPs anywhere in the city.
The inside of the club was beautifully decorated with an elegant winter theme. Sparkling snowflakes and silver Christmas lights lined the wooden bar. I felt a chill run through me; the kind that happens when you feel excited and can’t quite place why.
“What do you want?” Cassandra asked, pointing to the bar.
“Champagne!” I said with a smile. “I’m feeling festive.”
I felt a hand on my shoulder and quickly turned around to see who it was. In true creepy fashion, Alex had snuck up behind me and was now greeting me with a smirk.
“Good tidings to you, Miss Hastings,” he said as he took a s
wig of what was most likely a glass of scotch. “I was hoping you would be here.”
“How did you get past the line?” I asked, suddenly feeling less elite from being on the list.
“I’m friends with the bartender.”
Unwilling to further engage in this conversation, I asked him if he had seen Olivia and Michael yet.
“Yes, Olivia just arrived a moment before you, but I’m afraid our dear Michael isn’t coming this evening,” he said with a smirk, or maybe I was imagining things.
Pain stabbed my chest as I heard these words. I was under the impression our entire group would be here tonight and sudden anger rose up inside me when I realized that Michael wouldn’t be joining us. Albeit unfounded anger, but anger nonetheless.
“What do you mean he isn’t coming? I thought we all agreed to spend New Year’s together?” I uttered, trying not to sound as desperately defeated and betrayed as I felt.
“I don’t know. He told me he got a last-minute flight to Phoenix to spend tonight with his girlfriend.”
I could barely process the information. Michael wasn’t here because he was in Phoenix with his girlfriend? My anger suddenly turned to sadness and then to guilt.
“Oh, I didn’t know they were still together,” I said softly, tears warming up behind my eyes.
Just then Olivia swooped in and wrapped her arms around me.
“Amalia! I’m so happy to see you, Happy New Year! Listen, I am really sorry for being world-class bitch to you the other day, it was completely unwarranted,” she said apologetically.
