Confess To Be Mine

by Suzie Nelson

  Still slightly tingly from my wet dream, I head for my closet. I don’t need to open it to know that this would be one of those days when nothing fits well or looks good. And I’m right. By the time I settle on an outfit the entire contents of my closet, and half of my drawers, is lying in piles around my room.

  Adjusting the straps, I twist left and right to make sure my dress isn’t hanging funny or making my ass look flat or something. But it’s fine. With a sigh, I look myself head on in the mirror. A slender woman in her mid-twenties and a form-fitting wine red velvet dress looks back at me. Her chestnut hair is a mess, her full red lips are pulled down in a grumpy pout, and her chocolate brown eyes are in dire need of some winged eyeliner. At least the dress pushes up my breasts a bit and makes them look bigger than they are. The woman in the mirror makes a face and heads to the bathroom for hair and makeup.

  But I cleaned up pretty well, despite just having woken up from a nap. And, by the time I slide on my favorite black heels, I’m feeling pretty damn good. I put on a pair of diamond studs and head for the door. Outside, even with my wool coat cinched tight, it’s freezing. Luckily, I’m a pretty woman in a short skirt and the first taxi I hail pulls over for me.

  The address on the card is up near Central Park, but James’s family has always had money, so it doesn’t surprise me. They can afford to rent out a club in downtown Manhattan. But the ride seems to take forever and my stomach twists itself into more and more knots with each passing block. Can we just be there already???

  And then, way too soon, we’re there.

  “Are you sure this is it?” I ask the driver stupidly.

  “Uh, yeah,” he replies, handing me back the business card. “This is the address on the card, ma’am.”

  I blow my cheeks out. “Wish me luck,” I say, handing him my credit card.

  “Big night?” he asks as he waits for the transaction to go through.

  “You have no idea,” I reply, craning my neck to look up at the imposing, 1920s apartment block we’re parked in front of.

  “Well, you look like a million bucks,” he says, handing back my card and the receipt for me to sign.

  “Thanks,” I tell him and leave him a generous tip. “Merry Christmas.”

  And, just like that, I’m back out in the cold, minutes away from seeing James again. At least this time there’s no coffee for me to spill.

  The uniformed concierge takes my coat and purse and directs me to the lounge out back, which is full of people in beautiful dresses and crazy expensive jewelry. Hoo boy, good thing I went for the diamond earrings, I think as I try not to gape.

  The place is enormous and possibly the most elegant room I’ve ever been in. The floors are covered by beautiful wooden parquet, polished to a mirror-like shine, and the walls are covered in rich, garnet-coloured wallpaper and have been hung with ropes of holly, ivy, and pine. The whole place looks like something out of a BBC costume drama. And then there’s the food. Long tables run the length of the enormous room, covered in everything from decadent-looking chocolate tortes to skewers of grilled prawns in coconut. I’m already regretting wearing a tight dress. Man, I will be bloated by the end of the night.

  But at least, even if everything else about this night is awkward and horrible, I’ll have eaten well.

  I can’t see James anywhere and I don’t know anyone else (this is definitely not the kind of crowd where I’ll accidently bump into a friend) so, like all uncomfortable women, I head for the nearest booze.

  “What can I get you?” a very handsome bartender asks me as I sidle up to the bar.

  “Umm,” I glance around for a drinks list but see nothing but bowl of self-serve punch and cinnamon-topped eggnog. “I don’t know. Punch reminds me of my aunts and I like the idea of eggnog but it’s always so heavy. Surprise me?”

  He smiles. “Do you like spiced rum?”

  “Yes. And ‘tis the season, after all,” I reply.

  He nods, pouring shots into a martini shaker. “You can say that again. We’re rolling in the stuff.”

  “Ah, I see. You’re trying to offload unwanted goods on me!” I joke.

  “Drat,” he replies with a very charming smile, “you’ve seen right through me.” He slides a glass of something milky onto the bar. “Try this.”

  “It’s not just eggnog?” I frown.

  He shakes his head. “It’s similar, but a little lighter.”

  I take a sip and smile. “This is delicious! What is it?”

  “A white Cuban,” he replied. “Like the Russian, but with spiced rum instead of vodka. But if you’re planning on getting hammered tonight switch to gin and juice after this. This baby’ll give you one hell of a hangover.”

  I take another sip and grin. “Duly noted. Thanks.”

  Taking my drink, I reluctantly relinquish my beautiful bartender to a pair of old men who are arguing over the best way to drink Scotch – as if there was any other way than with a single drop of water. Amateurs.

  Adrift in the crowd, I take another sip of my drink, look at all the dressed up strangers and wonder: Now what?

  “Amber!”

  I turn at the sound of James’s voice. Relief at not having to wander around alone and absolute panic at seeing James battle for supremacy in my gut.

  “You came!”

  And there he is, appearing out of the crowd as if he’d read my mind. Tall, handsome, and grinning at the sight of me. Call me crazy but the man gets more beautiful every time I see him. That bartender has nothing on him.

  “Hi, yeah,” I stutter, smiling weakly. “I…well, um, Merry Christmas,” I finish lamely.

  “And to you,” he replies, his fingers brushing my upper arm. But even that cursory touch is enough to send shivers through my body.

  “It’s so good to see you again,” I blurt out suddenly. “I…I’ve…”

  His smile softens. “You too,” he says, kindly interrupting my mangled attempt at a sentence. “It’s been too long.”

  “Yeah,” I reply and sip my drink to make the pause feel less awkward.

  “You’re ahead of me,” James says. “Why don’t I grab a drink too and we can find somewhere quiet to catch up properly?”

  “I’d like that,” I reply, and I mean it.

  He beams at me as if I’d just said something amazingly intelligent. “I’ll be right back. Don’t disappear on me.”

  “Same to you,” I reply, silently wondering where the hell I’d go if I did. A very tiny part of me watches him disappear towards the bar and wonders if this is all just an excuse to escape my company.

  But a few minutes later he reappears, cradling a glass of what looks like mojito.

  “That’s not a very festive drink,” I say, nodding at his mint-filled glass.

  James laughs. “I know, but I’m lactose intolerant and they didn’t have any almond milk.”

  Taking me by the arm, he leads me through the crowd. He seems to have somewhere in mind.

  “Lactose intolerant?” I ask. “I clearly remember you eating grilled cheese sandwiches with me during our Harry Potter movie marathon.”

  James laughs at the memory. “I developed it after we moved. The doctor says that sensitivities like that can be trigged by stress or shock to the system.”

  “Oh,” I say, thinking about how my angry tirade in the woods probably hadn’t helped him ease into the transition. “I had no idea,” I say, trying to keep my guilt at bay. “That sucks.”

  He shrugs. “Ah, well, you get used to it. But I will admit that there are days that I would kill for another grilled cheese sandwich or a slice of real cheesecake. The ones made of tofu just aren’t the same.”

  “No,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “I can believe that.”

  James leads me to a cozy side room filled with dark wood walls and intimate clusters of red leather easy chairs. It looks like something out of a 19th-century gentleman’s club. We choose a pair of chairs in the far corner
and James smiles at me over his drink.

  “So,” he encourages, “tell me everything.”

  Chapter 3

  So I do. I tell him about how amazing it was to go to Berkeley, about my job, how much I love working with new books and how my co-workers are all amazing. I tell him about my cute apartment, my failed attempt to grow my own lettuce last summer, about Rufus the cat, Janice and her three kids, everything I can think of – except my recent breakup. Or that I’m still in love with him. Or that I still feel horrible for what happened between us. So, you know, everything but the important stuff.

  James is a great listener, just like he was when we were young. He laughs in all the right places, asks thoughtful questions, sympathizes with my lettuce misadventure. When I’m finally done blabbing, he tells me about his time studying economics in London, how sometimes he got confused and would start speaking German in class, how he’d missed the States and is so glad to finally be back after all these years.

  When we finally stop to catch our breath it feels like we only started talking a few minutes ago, but, judging by the accumulated glasses on the table, I’d say it’s been more like hours. But talking to James is the easiest thing in the world – the words just keep coming, as if all our stories have just been waiting until the other person showed up in our lives again. It’s so easy that I momentarily forget all our history, my cruel words, the years of silence. It feels, in that moment, with the low warm light, the buzz of spiced rum in my veins and his smiling face so close to mine, as if we’ve never actually been apart.

  So, of course, I have to go and ruin everything.

  “Amber,” says James, leaning in towards me over the seat of his chair, “I can’t say how happy I am to see you again.”

  “Ditto,” I reply. “For once my clumsiness was worth it.”

  “Definitely,” he smiles.

  The golden flecks in his eyes glimmer in the light as he looks at me. I feel as if I’m hypnotized. Without another word, I close the gap between us and press my lips to his. I’ve wanted to kiss him ever since he told me he was leaving for Germany. I was too busy being angry at the time, but underneath all the hurt and pain, all I’d wanted was for him to embrace me.

  After a second, James pulls back, staring at me. “Amber…” he says softly, a frowning beginning between his eyebrows.

  Fuck, I think. Oh, fuck.

  “James, I’m—” I begin, wanting desperately to make things right.

  “James!” Someone with the world’s worst timing calls from the door to the main hall. “James! We need you!”

  James looks over his shoulder at the stranger then back to me. “I’ll be right back,” he says, leaving me alone with my breaking heart. How could I have been such an idiot?

  After a minute or so of hyperventilating, I decide to get up and do what everyone does in these situations: drown their sorrows. The waiter being nowhere in sight, I head back to the main room to find a very stiff drink. As it turns out, this was a terrible decision.

  There, standing by a dessert table, is James. As I watch, a beautiful blonde woman comes up to him, leading a little boy with perfect golden curls by the hand. James beams at them, kissing the woman’s cheek and lifting the kid into his arms.

  Jesus Christ, I think. He’s married. He’s married with a kid. Could I have fucked this up any worse?

  Shame and embarrassment flood through me and I feel my throat close up and tears well in my eyes. As fast as I can without drawing attention to myself, I wade back through the crowd and into the lobby.

  “Coat p-please,” I croak to the concierge who, bless him, brings my things faster than any other concierge in the history of concierges. I slap down a few bills as a tip and run out of the lobby, not even bothering to put my coat on first. For all I know, I just left a forty dollar tip.

  The December air hits me like a slap in the face and I give in, pausing to pull on my jacket. Wrapping it snuggly around myself, I duck my chin, hugging myself tightly with both arms as I head into the wind. It’s so strong that it whips the tears off my face as they fall. I’m pretty sure that the last time I was this miserable was when I ran, crying, from James in the woods all those years ago. I certainly didn’t cry this much when Bobby broke up with me last week. Hell, I think I just shrugged.

  But I’m not shrugging now.

  “Amber!”

  I falter. Did I really just hear someone call my name or was it the wind?

  “Amber!” Closer this time, and louder. Definitely not the wind. I turn.

  “James?” My mouth drops open of its own volition.

  “Amber!” Not even out of breath, James comes to a stop in front of me. He’s just run the whole block to catch up with me – in nothing but his shirt and tie. “They told me you’d left. I couldn’t…I couldn’t let you go again. Not like this.”

  “Let me…? No, James, this is entirely my fault. I didn’t realize you were married. I shouldn’t have just jumped on you like that, it was totally—”

  “What I wanted you to do,” he interrupts, shivering uncontrollably in the wind.

  “What?” I stare at him, fighting the urge to wrap my arms around him and warm him up.

  “I’m not married. You saw that blonde woman and the little boy, I’m guessing? That’s my little sister and her son. My nephew Jackson.”

  “Oh my God, that was Natalie? She’s so beautiful!” I knew his sister in high school, but only barely. She was five years younger than us and, at the time, had been all elbows, knees, and braces. “You mean you’re not…”

  James shakes his head, his teeth chattering. I give into the urge and step forward, wrapping my arms around his waist. I can feel the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric. “Thanks,” he murmurs as his arms close around me.

  “What did you mean that was exactly what you wanted me to do?” I ask, looking up at him.

  “Let’s go inside,” he says. “I live above the club. We can talk there.”

  “God, yes,” I nod. “I don’t want to be responsible for you catching hypothermia on top of everything else.”

  He chuckles and takes my hand in his. My skin erupts in goosebumps that have nothing to do with the cold. Together, we jog back to the warmth of the lobby.

  The concierge doesn’t seem at all surprised when James leads me back inside and we head for the elevator. He just gives me a smile and a nod as if people run back and forth through his lobby every day.

  As the elevator rises, I notice that we’re going to the top floor. “You didn’t mention you live in the penthouse,” I say, pointing at the buttons with my free hand. James is still holding my other one.

  He smiles as though the fact embarrasses him slightly. “Yeah…” he says. “Well, business has been good to me.”

  When we finally arrive in his apartment I see that business has been more than good. It’s been in-fucking-credible. The place is enormous and every piece of furniture is probably worth more than everything I own put together. But the most amazing part is the far wall: it’s made entirely of windows and looks out at Central Park.

  “Holy shit, James,” I whisper, suddenly realizing that I’ve been holding my breath. “This place is incredible. What are you? Like a millionaire?”

  He bit his lip like he always does when he really doesn’t want to admit something. “Billionaire,” he corrects.

  “Fuck,” I say. “God, my life must have sounded so dumb to you. There was me, so happy to have my little apartment when you…”

  “No, Amber, never!” James shakes his head, his beautiful eyes wide and earnest. He takes me by the arms. “Your life – your apartment - sounds great. I mean that. Yeah, sure, this place is expensive, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the beauty of other things. When you told me about your life I was thrilled that it was going so well.”

  I make a face.

  “I’d like to see your place one day…if you wouldn’t mind,” he admits.
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  “Really? I…God, why?”

  “Because it’s where you live,” he replies. “I want to know everything about you. I…” he swallows, his thumbs stroking my upper arms. “I never got over you, Amber.”

  Time stands still. My mind races: did I fall asleep at some point without realizing? Am I dreaming?

  “You…am I dreaming right now?” I ask faintly.

  James chuckles and pinches my arm without warning.

  “Ow!!” I squeak and slap him lightly. “Jerk! Okay, okay. Not dreaming.” I can feel an enormous grin spreading across my face. It’s so big I’m surprised my whole head isn’t splitting in half. “I never got over you either,” I say. Suddenly the words are tumbling out of me. “God, James, I’ve felt so bad all these years for the things I said to you that day in the forest. I didn’t mean them. I was just upset and stupid. I’ve missed you ever since. God, I’m so sorry I was so dumb. I’m so sorry I caused you pain.”