I Love My…
Hope
(Nicole’s Story - Part 2)
By Sabrina Lacey
Cover Image of “Mark” © Bikeriderlondon
Cover Image of New York © Songquan Deng
Licensed through Shutterstock.com
© Sabrina Lacey
Lacey Publications
All Right Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.
I LOVE MY HOPE Description
I escaped obsession, ran away from Michael only to find him chasing me, now. There’s a new man Amber's introduced me to...and he's incredible. Too good to be true, maybe. It's been so long since I opened my heart up to hope... to something real. His name is Mark and he's visiting from San Francisco... here alone after being rejected by some girl he met, his last trip to New York. Little do I know that I know her... very, very well.
I LOVE MY HOPE…
Twenty-Eight Minutes After I Left Michael
I dial Amber’s number. As soon as she says hello, I blurt out, my teeth chattering, “Amber. I need help. Can I come over? Is Josh there?”
“What’s wrong? He’s here, but I’ll send him away. Josh! It’s Nico on the phone. She doesn’t sound good. Can we move this to another night?”
She doesn’t know it, but I’m right outside her apartment building holding my jacket around me, standing in these damn heels and this stupid black dress, shivering partly from the cold, partly from overwhelming sorrow. “Thank you,” I whisper as she listens to him get his things together.
“Of course! He’s leaving now. Please come over. I’m so glad you called.” That’s why I came here. Amber has your back in a storm. She’s such a rock that sometimes it’s annoying how solid and pitbull-headed she can be, but those are the exact qualities that beckon you, when you can’t stand on your own.
Josh is going to see me out here when he comes out. Can I hide? I don’t see anywhere I could. So, I confess, “I’m downstairs, Amb,” covering my face against the wind with my hand.
“You’re what??! Get up here! It’s freezing out there! I’ll buzz you in. Why didn’t she tell me…” That last part was mumbled as she hung up the phone. When the security door buzzes loudly, I jump at the noise. I reach out and grab the door before it locks again and hurry in, rubbing my arms and stamping my feet to warm up. Josh runs down the stairs, pulling on his jacket as he approaches.
“Hey!” He looks concerned. I nod to him. I don’t even try to pull up the corners of my mouth.
I look at the ground as I push the elevator button a couple times. “Hey.”
It’s clear he understands I don’t want to talk. “She’s upstairs. Hope you’re okay.”
I watch him retreating as I walk into the elevator. He’s acting like a good guy, respectfully turning away and leaving, but right now I don’t believe in good guys. When I get to Amber’s floor, I walk off the elevator to find her waiting for me in front of her door. She looks worried. I shake my head. She nods like she knows.
I hug her as she asks, quietly, “Hi. You want tea, or something stronger?”
“What do you think?” I answer, bending for the hug, nuzzled in friendship and support. I’m a giant to her in these heels, but she still feels bigger than me.
“You got it.” We pull apart and she walks in, with me following after I shut and lock the door. “Have a seat on the couch. There’s a blanket on it to cover your legs with.”
“Thank you, Amber.” I expected her to scold me for wearing next to nothing, on a night like this.
I slide onto the couch, wiggle out of my shoes and tuck my chilled feet underneath me for warmth. Pulling the squishy-soft blanket over me feels like I’m at Mema’s; like she’s alive and making hot chocolate in the kitchen, and we’re going to watch The Sound of Music for the millionth time. I can see Amber in the kitchen through the window that separates both rooms. She’s deep in concentration and working fast to return to me. The sight makes me feel not so cold anymore.
She walks in and says, “Here. It’s Jameson Irish Whiskey. Josh drinks it. This’ll warm you up. Did you know people used to give whiskey to their children for colds? Or for teething?”
“Or to shut them up.” I sniff the thick aroma. “Woo! That’s something else right there.”
She grimaces, watching me, sitting on the couch, too, and facing me with her back against the arm. “Yeah. I can’t drink it. You want something else?”
I’m not joking as I say, “I’m something else tonight, too, so it’s perfect.” She pulls up her knees to her chest, her teacup held in both her delicate hands as she patiently waits for me to talk. The warm zing makes it hard to drink and surprises my throat on the first sip. I may have just found my new drink. I’m staring at the coffee table, my attention held by a fairy figurine. She’s dressed in purple, her face wistful and sweet. It’s as though she’s looking at me… like she gets it.
“I’m in love.”
Amber stops breathing. Then she exhales and says slowly, “I thought that’s what it had to be.”
I look to her. “It’s Michael. The painter who lets me use his studio.”
“You pay for it, though.”
“Oh I pay for it, alright.”
She says softly, “I meant the studio, Nico.”
My voice wavers and I shake my head. “I pay a fraction of the price he pays for it, only because I needed to pay him… something. He wanted to let me use it for free, but my pride wouldn’t have that. But Amber, how am I going to get my own space? I could never pay half of what he pays. Not monthly! It adds up, you know. What am I going to do?”
“Okay. Well, let’s not talk about the studio. What about him? Does he know how you feel? And…” She stops herself, takes a sip of tea to slow down.
“I can take it, Amber…hearing your questions. You don’t have to tiptoe. Frankly, they’re helping me pull out the pieces, see them one at a time.” I sip the whiskey again and this time it’s not as strong. Funny how we get used to hard things.
“Good. Good. Sometimes I can be a little…” she trails off. We both know what she means.
I look back to the fairy. “He feels the same way I do. I saw it tonight.”
“That’s not a good thing?”
“He’s married.”
Her hand flies to her mouth and she moans, “Oh no. You didn’t know?”
“No.”
“Oh God.”
I nod and we stare at each other, understanding all of the pain of what that means. The impossibility of it. The heartbreak. The woman on the other end. The lie. The time spent. The bond formed. The tearing apart of that bond, because there is no other option that I could live with. I can’t see him again. That’s how it has to be.
“I met his wife.”
Amber gasps. “Is that how you found out?”
I nod. “She came by the studio. I told her we’ve never slept together.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
I know exactly what she’s thinking.
“No! I swear to you I wasn’t lying. We’ve never done anything. Not that I haven’t tried. He never would. I practically begged him to, some nights. That was before I knew he was married, of course. Oh God. Why is this so painful?” The tear
s come now. I cover my face with the glass as I sob, holding it with both hands to hide behind it, my back bent with grief. Amber puts her cup down and comes to me, takes the glass from my hands and sets it on the table. She pulls me into her arms. I roll into the fetal position, my head on her lap, staring at the little figurine through my tears as she strokes my hair, one arm wrapped around me.
“It’s okay,” she whispers. “Let it all out.”
I do. My body aches with sadness until finally something shuts off in me and the tears stop, like someone switched the channel, saying you’ve had enough. Rest.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I whisper.
“Well, it’s a good thing I have one,” she says lightly, and I hear the tender smile in her voice.
I lift myself up and drag myself in that direction. “Thank you, Amber.”
She stands and says, “I’m going to make you some tea and we’ll fix this whole thing.”
Fix it. She loves to fix things. Is it possible to fix a beaten heart? I see hardened eyes looking back from my reflection in the bathroom mirror. This is not who I want to be. I don’t like this person looking back at me.
I return to the couch to find ginger tea waiting there. Amber pats the couch and I crawl under the blanket facing her. We discuss options, and she convinces me that I can paint in my apartment if I get rid of the couch and coffee table. “Do you ever really use them anyway? I mean, you told me you don’t have a television.”
“That’s true. They’re mostly there to collect dust. Sometimes I read on the couch.”
“How often?”
“Not often. I read more on the subways… on my phone.”
“Like the rest of the world. So, there you go. You can clear out that space and put it to use until you can afford your own studio. Which will happen sooner than you think.”
“You think so, huh. I’m not convinced.”
“Use my faith until you have your own,” she says, taking a sip of tea.
I nod and stare off. “I don’t want to see him. That means I can’t pick up the paintings I’ve left there.”
“I could get them for you?”
Thinking about it, I sip the tea, feel it soothe me as best it can. “I think that would show that I’m not strong enough to face him on my own.”
“Oh.” She understands that all too well. No one tries to be as strong as Amber.
I look up and ask the heavens, “Why didn’t he tell me he was married when I met him???!”
Amber shakes her head at the unfairness. “Said a million women everywhere.”
“Right?! I can’t believe I’m now a statistic. Falling in love with a married man.” I pick up the Jameson, double-fisting it now. I take turns drinking from both as Amber smiles at me. I’m sure I do look pretty funny. “I’m very dehydrated.”
“Aren’t we all?” She chuckles. “I have to admit, I’m bummed I can’t go to the studio for you. I want to see this guy.”
“He’s beautiful. Not your type, though. You like good guys like Josh.”
“I like a good bad boy like the best of them! Remember Jake Lombardi?”
“Oh yeah! But that wasn’t love, that was a fuck-fest.”
She gets wistful, staring off into the memory. “Yeah…”
“Josh is an actor. Does he know Jake?”
This pulls her back to reality, fast. “God, I hope not.”
“I have to never see him again. Never, Amber. Not even one more time.”
She stares at me, bites her lip. “Well, let’s hope New York City doesn’t conspire to throw you guys back together.”
I shiver at the thought. “Can I ask a favor of you?”
“Of course.”
“Can you never ask me about him? Never bring him up?” I search her face, looking for a promise.
She nods. “You just want to put it behind you, huh?”
“Yes. I need that.”
“I can do that. I won’t even talk to Jess about it, or Josh, if you don’t want me to.”
I stretch to her and she meets me halfway, for a hug.
“Thank you. Really. Thank you.”
We pull apart and she says, “Oh you’ve got one of my hairs on you.” She picks it off. It’s this small action that makes me remember something.
“Amber, since we’re talking about things that will never be talked about again…” I begin cautiously.
Her head tilts to the side. “Yes?”
“When I saw she was blonde – his wife - I thought of course he chose a white woman over me. Isn’t that terrible? Why did I think that?”
Amber frowns. “I think a lot of those things come into our heads simply out of habit.”
I think about it. “Or it’s stuck in my blood cells somewhere…from my ancestors.”
“Could be. But you know, I was aware you were black when we first met, but then you were just Nicole and color went away. And now –just now – when you said blonde, it didn’t occur to me that that meant white. I was just thinking it was a hair color.” She smiles.
“Yeah! I think things are changing. Because I didn’t even think when I met his wife that you were blonde and therefore white. To me, you’re just Amber, too.”
“Exactly,” she says,
“Maybe I was just looking for a way to make sense of it.”
“Maybe it was just the anger looking to find more things to be angry about. My brain does that sometimes. Let me get you a better pillow and another blanket. I’ll loan you some shorts because my sweats would be floods on you.”
I smile at her. “I guess I’m staying over?”
“Yes, and don’t argue.”
“Yes, sir!”
She laughs. “Oh shut up.”
I wait as she goes off to care for me. I know there’ll be no insomnia tonight. The secret I’ve been hiding has been expunged.
Decisions have been made.
Plans set.
Tears shed.
Now I can rest… and get ready for a new chapter in my life.
The one where Michael… no longer exists.
The Next Afternoon
SoHo Art Materials on Wooster is getting pillaged like it’s France and I’m a Viking. No table is left un-scavenged. I’ve stacked up double the quantities of everything I need. Eight brushes? Make it sixteen. Twenty-five yards of canvas needed gets actualized into fifty yards. Hell, make it seventy-five. Every color of paint is coming with me, two tubes each. Make it three, no four. I grab yards upon yards of unprimed canvas, inspired with an idea of what I want to do.
I haven’t had a cigarette all day. Haven’t even thought about it.
“You taking a cab?” the guy behind the counter asks, prompted by the surplus. His voice and eyes are flat and emotionless.
I look at the pile. “I guess so.”
He rings up item after item. “Just starting out?”
I pick up a brush to touch its soft potential. “You could say that.”
“I’ll call a cab for you,” he offers, dead-toned.
I lay the brush down, surprised. “You don’t have to do that.”
Still there is no emotion in his voice. “I want to.”
“Umm… Okay.”
When the cabbie arrives, he runs in and – miracles of miracles – helps me carry my many things to the car. This never happens. Cabbies who go out of their way to help you are as rare as a cable man showing up on time.
“So, you’re an artist?” he says, smiling jovially into the rearview as we take off.
I smile back, excited. “I am.”
He holds a finger in the air like he’s a cartoon character about to announce an idea. “Looks like you’re ready!”
I laugh. “From your mouth to God’s ears, my friend.”
“Yes. Yes!” His head bobs about twenty times.
“You’re very sweet.”
He waves off the compliment and focuses on the road.
I pull my phone out to answer a text that comes through and when I
see who it’s from, a digital knife slices my psyche, killing my mood.
“You okay? Miss?” the cabbie asks, looking from his rearview mirror. I’m too busy reading Michael’s text to hear him.
Michael: I want to talk.
“Miss?” the cabbie asks, louder this time.
“I don’t know,” I say, above a whisper as I type the one word I could not say if he were right in front of me.
I stare at the phone, caught in suspense, dying to know what he’ll say to the word ‘no.’ Has he ever heard that word before? Have I ever said it to him? Has any woman, ever?
Michael: Please.
The cab hits a pothole and my phone flies through the air to land on the floor. Another text comes through and I scramble to get it, angry at my haste and desperation, but unable to be strong.
Michael: Don’t be like this.
Me: You did this. Not me. Leave me alone.
I shut my phone off with great difficulty…one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.
I look up. “I’m fine. Just get me home, please.”
He nods. I stare out the window – silent.
When we get to my apartment, he helps me bring my bounty in, but everything feels heavier to me now, the thrill lessened. He doesn’t mention that there isn’t much space, but it’s what I’m thinking. I should have bought less. All of this stuff is making my studio look pitifully insufficient.
When we’re done, I give him a fat tip.
“You are very generous. Thank you.”
“It’s the least I can do. I needed a little help today.” Just as he’s about to close my front door, I call after him, “Hey!” He turns, eyes wide and waiting. “Thank you. Really.”
“Why am I not here on Earth, but to help good people?” He grins, and I see that one of his back teeth is missing. When he shuts the door it occurs to me that there are angels walking among us, and he – this humble, earnest human being – just might be one of them.
Alone now, I begin to move things around and organize. There is only one antique table remaining as the only piece of furniture in this room. I push it flush against a wall, thinking that it will serve as my storage space for the brushes, oils and acrylics. Piling them onto it, I sort them out into piles.
I Love My Hope (Nicole's Erotic Romance) Page 1
