by Ani Keating
I glare at him. “Get out of my way.”
“No. You’ve said your piece, and what a piece it was. Now you get to hear mine.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Tough. I’m not paying for fucking you. Take it from someone who knows, Elisa. Sex with you would not cost millions. In fact, it wouldn’t—”
I can’t hear any more. “You’re right. It would not. Maybe you can find something cheaper and better somewhere else. It’s my own fault, not yours. What a fool I was! Our entire relationship—if it even deserves that name—started out as a commercial transaction. You paying for me to pose naked. Now paying for the aftermath. What an expensive mistake you must think you made!”
“Enough!” he yells, as the tenuous grip we both had on our emotions all morning—in fact, the past two days—gives out. The air thickens and stills, heavy with the venom, resentment, demons and anger we just dumped on it. His entire frame is shaking with rage.
“I am not. Paying you. For sex.” He punctuates his words. “You’re right about the other things though. Yes, I wanted to fuck you. And I enjoyed it. Tremendously. I would do it again and again. I’d fuck you here. Right now. But it would not change the fact that as we got to know each other, it became painfully obvious that I’m not right for you and you’re not right for me. So, yes, I could have been more direct this morning but despite my realization, I still wanted to make sure you were not in trouble. And frankly, I’m glad I did because, apparently, you do need my overflowing coffers that you so disdain. So I’m trying to help. I can’t be with you but that does not mean that you have to be exiled in some forsaken town surrounded by ghosts.” He stops and he is breathing hard.
I lean against the conference room wall. Each word he spoke—each awful truth—was a blow. So this is his conclusion. He can’t be with me. Even though I knew our days were numbered before we even began, hearing him acknowledge it stabs deeper than I imagined—a lot deeper than I knew I had room to hurt.
Yet worse than all his words are his last ones. Surrounded by ghosts. My ghosts are not coming back, no matter how alive I try to keep them. My throat burns as tears singe my eyes. I notice that his posture changes somehow, but I can’t bring myself to look at him.
“You’re right,” I whisper. “They are ghosts.”
I don’t ask him the questions that are burning in my brain. Why doesn’t he want me? Why does he think we are not right? None of that matters. He just does. Someday, maybe I will figure it out. But not today. Today, I just have to survive.
“Elisa.” There is pain in his voice. The composure is gone for him too. He tries to put his index finger under my chin but I turn my face away. “Elisa, you have to start living your own life. That’s what I’m offering. Will you accept it?”
I think it through as best I can. I don’t have other options. This could fix it all, could remove any uncertainty. I could find a job. Get a home. Work hard. Help the Solises. And maybe one day, even lay my ghosts to rest. I take a deep breath and look up at him. He looks like he is burning—his eyes almost midnight. I have to take the noose off his neck.
“I accept your offer but on one condition.”
“What condition?”
“That you don’t gift the money to me. Despite your motivation, to me it will always feel like a sale price. So, I’d like to strike a bargain with you. Like I tried at my presentation. Will you consider buying my supplement?”
He takes a step back. “You’d sell your father’s supplement to me after all this?” he whispers, dismayed.
“Yes. It’s a fair bargain at arms’ length, since that’s the relationship you want. You’d be overpaying for it at first but if you get it approved and tested, I think you could make money on it. In exchange, I’ll also offer to invest the money you pay in one of your companies. As Bob will tell you, I need to create at least ten American jobs, excluding myself. You wouldn’t have to deal with me, would not lose control and would not be out a dime. And I’d get my green card. It’s a win-win.”
Something like awe spreads over his face. “Would it be a win-win? For something that means so much to you?”
“I’ve had time to adjust to letting it go for this reason. Despite what happened between us today, I trust that you will not misuse it. Your companies are solid and ethical, and they’ll last for a long time. They’ll be a good home for it.”
He watches me. His eyes change emotion fast but I’m too wiped out to understand them. I look away, exhausted. He steps back abruptly and starts pacing. His posture is odd. Like he is on some invisible tether and would much rather walk a different direction. Eventually, he stops pacing and turns to me.
“I’ll buy your supplement.” He sounds tired, or resigned.
“Then we have a deal. Thank you,” I say and I mean it. Awful though he was today, he is also helping. You can’t force someone to want you. But you can be hurt and pissed. And I’m both but I’ll deal with it on my own.
“Shall we go back to Bob and let him know?” I ask.
He nods but his eyes are far away.
We walk out of the small room to the large conference hall. I’m sure I look like I was crying but I can’t do anything about it. When they see us come in, the lawyers sit back down.
“Elisa, have you made a decision?” Bob addresses me, ignoring the man who is paying his bill.
“Yes, I have. I’ll go with the permanent investment option. Mr. Hale will buy my supplement and I’ll invest the money in one of his businesses.”
“It’s a good option. But I have to warn you that even with this, there is a good chance that the visa won’t come on time. We’ll do our absolute best but I still want you to be prepared that you may have to go to England for a while and then come back.”
“How long would I have to be in England?”
“A few months. If it gets approved. If it does not, you’d be stuck there until a different opportunity presents itself, if one does. So it would be prudent for you to still say your goodbyes and live as if this may not work out. It’s always traumatic when the immigrant has not prepared for the worst. It haunts them for life.” Bob’s voice becomes very quiet, and he leans across the table. “How does that sound, Elisa?”
I smile at the kind man. “It sounds as good as it can.” I can live through a few months in England if it means I’m coming back. True, it’s still an “if” but it will have to do.
“And lastly, dear, you said you’ve modeled for Feign Art sometimes. Does anyone else know about that involvement?”
Javier but there is no way I’m implicating him. That’s a secret even from my lawyer. “Mr. Hale, Feign and my family.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way because if it comes out, it can jeopardize you. After all, it was illegal work. It’s best if you avoid any involvement with Feign Art altogether.”
“I promise. Is there anything else I can do to help the process?”
“Just follow the rules and don’t risk any trouble. Don’t work at the lab now that your student visa is expired. And don’t get into any situations that may cast doubt on your moral character. Fair or unfair, the CIS expects green card applicants to be squeaky clean.”
“I understand—I’ll be careful. I want to spend this time with my family anyway.”
Bob smiles. “Very good. Now, Mr. Hale, you can transfer the money into our client trust account and we’ll hold it until it’s ready to be released.”
Aiden simply nods. His face looks carved in stone.
“On a more personal note, Elisa—” Bob turns to me, “—I’d like to represent you pro bono. You qualify for it and if you were my daughter—no offense, Mr. Hale—I wouldn’t want you tied to the pocket of any man.”
“Bob, that’s very kind of you. Truly. But I can’t—” I start to protest, but Bob waves his hand gently.
“It’s the least we can do fo
r someone so bright. Consider it a service to my own country if that will make the charity easier to accept.”
I can’t refuse him. This is exactly why I want to stay here—because of people like him.
“Thank you, Bob. Very kind.”
“Good. Now, if there’s nothing else, we should adjourn.” He props himself up from his chair and shakes our hands. Then with a final smile he leaves, taking with him the only buffer I had from Aiden’s presence.
Now that it’s just us, the pain returns tenfold. My first goodbye, maybe. Or my last, depending on how this turns out.
“I’ll give you a ride home,” he offers.
I have made it without wailing until now but I don’t have much reserve left.
“No, thank you. I’ll call a taxi.” I smile and extend my hand.
He takes it and holds it instead of shaking it. “You still have a few things at my place. I’ll have Benson drop them off.” His voice is soft.
I try to remember what I left behind—it feels like millennia ago. Just my toiletries. And his gifts, but I couldn’t bear seeing them after this.
“No need, Mr. Hale. I have another toothbrush.”
His eyes still but he nods. Perhaps he understands I don’t want his gifts. “I’ll call you with the business details. I’m aiming for Thursday. Does that work for you?” He is still holding my hand.
“Thursday is fine—thank you. Goodbye, Mr. Hale.” I pull my hand back and walk out of the conference room, past the reception desk, and to the elevators. When the doors close behind me, I break.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Last Rites
I half-sit, half-stretch in the only armchair in our living room, staring at the mess before me. Reagan is passed out on the couch in her KEEP CALM AND MARRY HARRY pajamas and emerald-green pillbox hat. Two wine bottles, leftover pizza, crumpled Kleenex tissues and dirty dishes litter the coffee table. Lana Del Rey is singing quietly in the background—“This Is What Makes Us Girls”. On the floor, there is a crude voodoo doll Reagan made out of old socks. The name Aiden Hale and a litany of words that range from sex god to pervy wanker are written in black Sharpie across its body. Now, even though it’s only 8:00 p.m., my faithful guardian is down for the count, having emptied the wine bottles herself.
In the silence—without Reagan’s voice crooning “it will be okay” or screeching “that evil tosser”—all the questions resurface. Louder, as though furious at being ignored. How could I have let this happen? Why did he change? Did he change? Or is this his true nature? Why? Does he need saving even more than I do? What the hell do I do about that? What the hell do I do about anything?
I clench my teeth together and shove back every question. I focus only on the answer I know: I have to get over him, and soon. If it hurts this much after two nights, I can’t imagine what it would have been like if we had kept going.
I move for the first time in the last several hours. My joints creak at the sudden motion but I welcome it. At least this pain I can understand. I stumble to Reagan and take off her hat, brushing her red curls away from her face.
“Fuckin’ asshole,” she mumbles and goes back to snoring.
“I brought it on myself,” I whisper, throwing her favorite shearling blanket over her. My eyes flit to the clock on the wall, as they have done every hour or so. Not waiting for Aiden to call but for Javier to get off work. He will be worried about me. And my news—my good news—will make him happy. At 8:05, I amble to the kitchen and dial.
“Hello?” Javier answers on the first ring.
“Hey, Javier, it’s me.” My voice is hoarse.
“Isa? What’s wrong?”
I clear my throat. He doesn’t need any more worries after a sixteen-hour day. Or ever. “Actually, something is right for once,” I say, evading the question. “Well, maybe. I don’t want to jinx it.” I knock on the wooden kitchen table as I say the words.
“Oh yeah? What?” He sounds like he is smiling.
“I think I may have found a way to stay.” I smile too.
There is a short moment of silence, and then a loud gasp. “Holy crap! What? How?” He is shouting now. I bet he is pacing as far as the phone cord in the kitchen will let him.
“I have a deal to sell my supplement,” I answer.
The line goes quiet except his breathing.
“He’s going to buy it from you?” Javier sounds awed.
“Yes.”
More silence. Then a low whistle. “I can’t say that I understand the dude. But for this, I’ll always owe him,” Javier says. I have a sudden urge to run across town and hug him. No matter what his feelings are about the world, they always come second to his family’s happiness.
“Yes, we’ll both owe him. But don’t jinx me, Javier, please. The lawyers can’t guarantee it and they say I may still have to go back.”
Javier laughs. “Okay, okay. Aren’t you supposed to be a scientist—rational and all that?” I can hear him knocking on wood, probably the kitchen cabinets.
“Not for this,” I say firmly, finding nothing funny and rubbing my knuckles raw against the kitchen table. He laughs again, and I hear him talking to Maria. He speaks Spanish but after four years with them, I understand. Mom, it’s Isa. She thinks she’s figured out a way to stay. Maria squeals, drowned in seconds by a chorus of the girls. Antonio supplies the baritone to the cacophony. They all get on the line and talk at the same time.
“Isa, amorcita, happy, happy—”
“Oh, how? Who?—”
“When?—”
“Come over here, linda—”
“Mom’s making carnitas—”
“Carnitas? Forget carnitas. I’m making tres leches cake. Javier, go get her. Dora, put on some music.”
“Mom, Anamelia is up.”
“Oh, that’s okay, she likes the music.”
Finally, Javier’s deep voice rises above the rest in English. “Will you all stop? It’s not for sure yet. Don’t jinx it for her.”
In unison, I hear more knocking on wood and more laughter. The girls break into a song that has only one line. She’s staying, she’s staying, la la la, she’s staying.
“¡Basta!” Javier yells and it’s finally quiet. I choke at their joy.
“So, everything else okay?” Javier tries to sound casual but I know what he is really asking: how did it go with Aiden? I swallow a few times. How many answers are there to this question in a dichotomous key?
“Oh, you know, the usual. ICE chasing me, rich men wanting to buy my invention, dwindling supply of chocolate.” I try to joke as convincingly as I can.
“Isa, cut the crap. What happened?” he demands.
But I cannot tell him. He will worry himself bald. That’s bad enough. But he will also hate Aiden. And somehow, that’s even worse. I swallow hard again and give him another explanation, which is still true and saves everyone.
“You were right all along, Javier. It’s better not to get attached. Especially since I still don’t know if I’m staying or going.”
He cannot argue with me. But he stays on the line, sensing that I’m hurting.
“Can I come to work with you tomorrow?” I ask. This is how I was planning on spending my last days before Aiden turned everything upside down. One day with Javier, one day with Reagan.
He chuckles. “Isa, sweetheart, I’m painting a house tomorrow. I have to be there at six in the morning. It won’t be fun for you. Sleep in. I’ll come over after work, okay?”
“I don’t mind getting up early. I’ll be up anyway. And I can help with the yard stuff.”
We’ve done this before. He works so much that sometimes, he takes me to work with him or we would never see each other.
He sighs. “All right, you win. I’ll come get you at five forty-five. You’re so nuts, Isa. Go, get some sleep.”
�
��Yay,” I squeal and clap my hands.
He laughs his deep throaty laugh. “Noches,” he says but waits for me to hang up. He never hangs up first.
“Good night, Javier.”
The moment I’m plunged into silence, Aiden invades all my senses. I can still smell him on my skin and feel him when I move. The burn of his stubble on my neck, the sting of his bites on my breasts, the ache of his thrusts between my legs. And the void of his absence between my lungs.
Hydrogen, I think instinctively, then stop. Strangely, I don’t want to numb any part of this. That’s why I didn’t help Reagan drain the wine bottles tonight. I want to know the full extent of the damage. My dad had this theory. When I was running a low fever, he wouldn’t give me drugs right away. He’d say, let your immune system fight it, it will make you stronger. Same thing now. If I can live through tonight, then I can make it. Irrevocably altered but, in substance, still me.
I leave a glass of water and some Advil for Reagan and trudge to my room. I take off my mum’s dress, trying not to think of how Aiden slipped it off last night. It seems like it happened a hundred years ago. When I unclasp my bra, his shirt button falls out and rolls dismally on the floor. I chase it under my desk, pick it up and put in on the nightstand. But it calls to me in a pea-in-the-mattress way so I tuck in my knickers drawer. Fresh sobs build in my chest, and I make a decision: I have to wash him off. It’s healthier this way even though my skin contracts at the mere thought, as if to hold on to his scent a little longer.
It’s the longest shower I have taken. The loofah stings, as does the hot water. With each scrub, Aiden’s lips, his tongue, his fingers go down the drain. When I am rinsed clean, despite using Reagan’s blueberry scrub, I don’t glow. All the light has gone out of my skin. I think wildly of a dying firefly. Suddenly, I’m afraid. What if I never work right again? What if I never respond to another man? Losing it now, after knowing what it feels like, would be cruel.
