A Kiss and a Cuddle

by Sloane, Sophie

  “My parents would be so proud of me! Mum and Dad – look at me clubbing and taking off my clothes!” Derek said, and we laughed hysterically.

  “Oh wait, he only has his dad left now,” I said and felt a twinge of guilt. “Okay, maybe we’ve gone far enough.”

  “Yes, you were still the star of the show last night, Rose,” Derek said, looking into my eyes. “Anyway, I’ve got to head to my studio to record my latest song. It was great to see you today. See you later, Rapunzel.” He gave me a peck on the cheek and got up to leave.

  “Thank you for cheering me up. I think I’ll sit here and finish my soy latte in the sun,” I replied. As Derek walked out, I saw Babs attentively watch him from behind the espresso machine.

  I slowly sipped my soy latte and watched people walk by on the street. The slow-paced Sunday afternoon was the perfect setting to recharge my batteries and to find the right words to finish my final song for the album. I absolutely loved writing lyrics and finding the perfect words to tell the story in the song. If I wasn’t a songstress, I would be a poetess.

  I took out my lyric book, and I began to scribble words down. I was trying to write a love song. I wrote, “You told me that you loved me, and I said me too. There is nothing in this world I wouldn’t do. But your eyes looked away, and I sensed you cooled.” No, no, no, Rose. This was supposed to be a love song. Why did I always turn it into a tragedy? Let’s try this again. “Why do people say they fall in love? I didn’t fall lower, I soared above. What I am trying to say is that I flew in love with you… until you tried to clip my wings and left me with a sting...” Okay, this clearly wasn’t working. And the bird metaphors were a bit much. I scratched a line through the page of lyrics. I would have to try to write the lyrics another day.

  As I took the last, long swig of my soy latte, I could sense a shadow coming over me as I sat on the patio. I glanced behind me, eyes wide, and tucked my lyric book under my bag. All I could see was a backlit shadowy figure. I didn’t know who it was. As he moved out of the sun’s rays, I could recognize the boyish grin from the night before, but somewhat disguised with an American baseball hat and a sports jersey.

  “Well, what a coincidence!” he exclaimed in a high-pitched British accent. I knew that this was, by no means, a coincidence.

  “So you are allowed to walk the streets all by yourself – you know, being royalty and all? Did you know that your bodyguards refer to you as Your Royal Heir?” I asked sharply, looking around for his bodyguards. Just as I thought, there were two bald men sitting on a bench down the road, wearing jeans and t-shirts. They were trying to act nonchalantly, but they kept a keen eye on Rex.

  “Ah, yes, well I can get carried away with titles, but my name, Rex, does mean ‘King’. So you know, I am practically royalty. Also, I need to have bodyguards. You see, when you are in a position such as I am in, you have to…” he started to speak until I cut him off.

  “Oh, I know what position you are in. I know who you are; you don’t need to brag. Actually, I know a bit too much about you, based on your escapades in L.A. a little while ago,” I said looking him up and down with my eyebrows raised. I remembered the online images of Rex being stark naked in his L.A. hotel room a few years ago. It was why I was surprised to see that the Byron Family let Rex visit the USA again with minimal supervision.

  “Ah, I am glad you follow me in the media. I am flattered,” he smirked and squinted his eyes as he gazed up to the sun, trying to strike a pose, I assumed. “Anyway, I wanted to come say hi and to give you this.” He revealed a rose from behind his back and pushed it towards my face. “A rose for a Rose.”

  I scoffed and put the rose on the table. “Do you know how many guys have tried to use that line?” I asked bluntly.

  “But I am not just any guy…”

  “Oh please, spare me the royal introduction. I know you, and you have seemed to mistaken your own shadow for a god, but you are just an heir. You didn’t even work for your money. You just live off of your dad’s artistic talent. I will bet you don’t even like art. Is it too abstract and confusing for you?”

  “I will have you know that I got a B in Fine Art at college.”

  “Which specialty in Fine Art?”

  “In Visual Art, but you can also tell I am skilled at the fine art of flirting,” he announced proudly.

  “Oh gosh, aren’t you proud of yourself for making a joke that not only hints at your womanizing ways, but also makes me gag at the same time.”

  “You are a feisty one, aren’t you?” he asked playfully. It seemed like he was enjoying my rude comments. How could you make someone go away when they loved being insulted? He jumped the small patio fence to take a seat next to me. He was actually physically bigger than I always imagined him. He was tall with broad shoulders and a solid body.

  I hastily jumped out of my chair and grabbed my bag. I was not about to sit with him over a pleasant cup of tea. “I was just leaving. Next time you want to be the center of attention, don’t come to my gig,” I said coolly, but I couldn’t completely mask the pain in my voice.

  “Rose, I am sorry. I didn’t know about your gig,” he pleaded. “Will you meet me here tomorrow at 2PM, so I can make it up to you?”

  I was already walking away from the table as I replied, “Sorry, no.” I exited the café and didn’t look back.

  I had no idea what type of games he was trying to play with me, but I would not be involved in his next American scandal.

  SEVEN

  I was six years old when my father left. I don’t remember much about him, but I do remember the day that he left with painful detail.

  I was sitting on the floor of our living room in our house in San Antonio. It was February, so I was inside playing with my favorite pony figurines after school. My mom was sitting on the couch next to me, watching TV. It was a normal day, except it was Valentine’s Day. For me, that meant that I made half a dozen heart-shaped crafts at school. For my parents, it meant something else.

  As usual, around 5PM, we heard the truck engine in the driveway roar and shut off. My mom stood up and walked over to meet him at the door.

  “Come on, sweetie, Dad is home!” my mother said, and I ran towards the door with my blue skirt rustling against my body.

  He opened the door and stepped into the house. He was carrying flowers and handed them to my mother as he said, “Happy Valentine’s Day, dear.”

  “Oh, honey, thank you!” my mom exclaimed as they hugged.

  “And I can’t forget this…” he said, as he pulled a blue envelope from behind his back and held it out towards my mom.

  I could feel the mood in the room change, as she looked down at the envelope and back up at him. Her face was empty, as he continued to hold it in front of her.

  “Well, aren’t you going to open it?” he asked, smiling.

  “Rose, go up to your bedroom and put on your cassette tapes and headphones,” my mom said sternly, not taking her gaze off of the envelope.

  I ran upstairs to my bedroom and put my headphones on. I pressed play and listened to the music while lying on my bed. My stomach was in knots, and I could sense that something was very wrong. I soon heard yelling, and I ripped my headphones and sat up in my bed, with my eyes wide and my heart pounding. There was silence for a long time, until I heard a door slam. I heard the truck engine start up, roar, and fade into nothing. Then all that was left was the sound of the gears of my cassette player earnestly turning and the faint sound of Elton John leaking through my headphones. That was the last time I saw him.

  That day, all I was left with was my music, and I dived even further in. Music became my escape, and singing became my release. I did not dare ask my mother about what happened that day. We did not talk about him when I was growing up. A couple of years ago, when I was home from Denver for Christmas, my mom finally told me what happened. We were sitting on the floor in the living room, under the Christmas tree. I supposed that the warmth of my smile, the red glow coming from the Chri
stmas lights, and the hushed sounds of wind blowing outside created a soft place for my mother’s words to land.

  She was cleaning my father’s den earlier in the week when a Valentine’s Day card fell out from one of his books. She knew that it would spoil the surprise, but she opened it up to read the card. She recognized my father’s writing inside and smiled at his romantic words. She discreetly put it back into the book and left it to look untouched. This card, however, was in a red envelope, not blue. He didn’t write it for her. He wrote it for someone else.

  My mom explained that when I was four years old, she was pregnant with another baby girl but had lost it after five months. Losing the baby put a terrible strain on their relationship. They were both devastated, but weren’t able to share the pain with the other. Instead, it became something that they didn’t talk about, and it slowly ate away at the relationship, until there wasn’t one. My mom took comfort by spending more time with me, and my dad took comfort by spending time with another woman.

  I was sad to hear of the loss of my sister that I had never known and will never know. It was another tragedy that I would have to try to stop myself from thinking about for the rest of my life, along with being abandoned by my father. The pain was too much for one girl to cope with.

  We cried and hugged silently afterwards. We were all the other needed in the world. And more than ever before, I wanted to make her proud of me, so that she knew the sacrifices she made for me were worth it.

  EIGHT

  The next morning, I was awoken by the frenzied buzz of my cell phone once again. The sun naturally lit up my entire room. I looked at the clock and it was 12:30PM. I was shocked that I slept in this late again. What was wrong with me? Was I depressed? I quickly grabbed my phone from my bedside table to make the incessant buzzing stop. I could see the words “MOM” flashing on my screen along with our picture.

  “Good morning, Mom,” I whispered into the phone sleepily.

  “Why are you whispering, darling? And it is the afternoon, not the morning!” she proclaimed. “Why are you still sleeping? Are you depressed or something?”

  “No, Mom, that’s crazy. I have just been doing a lot of work for my album release,” I replied. “And there is this guy who keeps trying to get my attention, but he is just getting on my nerves.”

  “Oooh, a guy? Tell Mama more.”

  “He is just a spoiled brat who tries to steal the spotlight. I don’t really want to talk about him.”

  “But honey, you never want to talk about them. I think it would be good if you had a man who treated you nicely, but you never seem to give them a chance. I want to know that my daughter is being taken care of while she’s so far away.”

  “I know, Ma. I treat myself nicely and take care of myself though. Besides, this guy is trouble.”

  “Well honey, stories of love usually start as tales of war,” she said enthusiastically. After all she had been through in her life, she was still a hopeless romantic. I admired that about her.

  “Oh, Mom. Not this one!” I laughed. “Those words do sound pretty profound though. Do you mind if I use them as song lyrics?”

  “You can definitely quote me. That is a Mama original!” she replied. “And when it is a big hit, you can pay me back with hugs and kisses… and lots of grandchildren.”

  “Sounds good, Ma,” I said, reaching in my bag to grab my lyric book. My hand kept searching in the empty bag. Oh my goodness. It wasn’t in there. I replayed my memory to where I last had it. It was last at the café! “Ma, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later. Love you!” I said and hung up the phone. I jumped out of bed in my pajamas and started to scramble around my bedroom for clothes and a hairbrush.

  I must have been in such a rush to leave that I left it at the café table. With Rex! The situation was getting worse and worse. I could imagine him reading through all of my private lyrics and poetry. I had to get my book back!

  NINE

  It was 1:45PM, and I was eagerly sitting on the café patio. The mid-afternoon sun was prudently beating down on me, and I couldn’t tell if I was sweating due to the heat or my nerves. My hands were nervously playing on the table, and my feet were bobbing up and down to an imaginary beat. I had never been so early to meet a guy before. It was embarrassing. What if he didn’t even show up?

  “Well, well, what do we have here?” an enthusiastic voice said from behind me. Rex jumped over the patio fence again with ease and sat down next to me. He was sporting another American disguise, with a baseball cap, a plain t-shirt, and long shorts. He definitely had no qualms about wearing man-jewellery; his wrists were wrapped in multiple bracelets and watches, and he wore a black string necklace. Sure enough, I looked down the road, and I saw his two bodyguards on the bench.

  “This isn’t what it looks like. I forgot my….” I started to say.

  “Why, this is such a surprise. You are actually here. This may be the best day of my life, except for the day I met the Spice Girls, of course,” he bumbled on, unaware of my sense of urgency. “What did you forget, love?”

  “I left my notebook here. It is really important. Did you find it?” I asked quickly.

  “No, I didn’t find a notebook,” he replied plainly.

  “Oh no…” I trailed off, getting up from my chair to search around.

  “But…” he quickly interjected. “I did happen to come across a collection of love poems written for me,” he said while revealing my lyric book from behind his back. He flipped through the pages dramatically. “I just love the way you described my luscious coiffed hair and icy blue eyes. Do you really think I’m the most handsome man in the world?” he asked as he dropped my book on the table.

  “There it is!” I grabbed the book and breathed a sigh of relief as I sat back down. “I don’t know what you were reading in here, but I definitely didn’t write that.”

  “Ahem… check out the last page, Rose.”

  I turned to the very last page to see his messy boy-writing all over it, with words of adoration for himself and heart doodles. “Oh, yuck.” I said in disgust. “You scribbled all over my book!”

  “Save it. You can probably sell it for millions one day,” he jested. “I am only kidding, my dear. Actually, there was one lyric in your book that really struck me. Apart from your bizarre bird metaphors, that is. There was something about how you can never become poor from giving.”

  “Yes, I wrote that. And I believe it. Why do you care about it?”

  “It just reminds me of something someone very dear to me would say. It is very beautiful,” he said softly.

  “Oh, well, thank you.” I replied. He actually sounded sincere. “And thank you for returning my book. That means a lot to me… ummm… Rex? Your Royal Heir? What should I call you, exactly?”

  “Rex shall suffice. My first name is actually Rexford, but you can only call me that when I have been a really naughty boy,” he grinned.

  I rolled my eyes and smiled. I wondered if he ever stopped with his boyish antics.

  “Besides, I am something far more important than an heir,” he continued.

  “And what is that?” I challenged. Talking to him was more like sparring or fencing, but I could definitely keep up and keep him on his toes.

  “I am a Virgo,” he said proudly.

  “Ohhh, so that explains the quick wit, flirty nature, and… your big ego,” I quipped.

  “Oh, is that right? And what is your sign, if I may ask?”

  “Aquarius.”

  “Well then, that explains your independence, creativity, and…” he paused for dramatic effect. “Your stubbornness.”

  “My stubbornness? If I am so terrible, I must know – why are you following me and accidentally bumping into me all the time?”

  “I told you, Rose. Your singing is mesmerizing. I was completely blown away that night,” he said. “Besides, I am intrigued by you. You and your feisty attitude.”

  It all made since then. He was interested in me because I wasn’t fal
ling at his feet. As if I ever would!

  “You barely know me,” I challenged.

  “That’s all part of the mystery,” he replied.

  “Ah, that is your problem. You know, what people don’t know about someone, they fill in with perfection. Mystery can be dangerous. I could be a psycho for all you know.”

  “I am willing to take that risk,” he winked.

  “Oh my, you are spreading the charm on quite thickly, aren’t you?” I replied, in an unimpressed tone. He wasn’t going to break me down with his relentless flirting.

  Just then, we were interrupted by Babs who asked if we would like to order anything. She looked surprised to see me there with another boy. She was probably happy because that meant I wasn’t Derek’s girlfriend. She didn’t recognize Rex; that was for sure. She really did only have eyes for Derek. I was about to excuse myself to leave, when Rex insisted that we share a pot of tea. It was the least I owed him, apparently. I couldn’t really say no after he had saved my lyric book, so I agreed to one cup of tea and a scone.

  “So please, tell me all about yourself. Seeing as you know all about me from the articles you’ve read in gossip magazines. You know that they always tell the truth, right?” he said playfully.

  “Why, of course. The truth and nothing but the truth.” I laughed. “Besides, pictures can’t lie… and there have been a lot of pictures, Rex!”

  “Pictures can definitely lie. Anyway, the media has created an image of me that sells. And I, along with other members of my family, know how to put on a good show. I suppose there are worse things to be known for besides someone who knows how to have a laugh.”

  “Okay, okay, I will give you the benefit of the doubt. But keep your clothes on from now on, will you?”

  Just then, Babs returned with a large pot of tea, cream, scones, and whip cream. Scones topped with whip cream was a British tradition for afternoon tea, apparently. I reached for the pot to pour myself a cup.