by Densie Webb
“Coffee’s ready!” Mack calls from the kitchen. I’m standing at the end of my bed staring at my outfit of choice laid out in front of me when she appears at my bedroom the door. “I’m leaving. Got an early closing today.” She smiles at me.
“Black pencil skirt. Good choice. Let me know how it goes.” She’s about to leave but stops short. “Oh, Chester’s in there. Still sleeping. He’ll let himself out. Just leave him some coffee.” She blows me a kiss and disappears. This Chester thing is more real than I thought. More real than Vincent and me, which I’ve decided is the opposite of real—an unfulfilled fantasy that I need to shake free of.
As the front door closes, everything stills except for the cloud of worry forming overhead. I was brimming with self-confidence the day I was hired, but now I’m just plain nervous. What if Patricia decides she’s made a mistake hiring me? What if my Sushi Today editing skills don’t translate to New York Life? What if I don’t fit in? And most unsettling, why is Vincent breaking into my thoughts— leaving scattered shards of glass, making it difficult for me to focus on what’s important?
As I flash my ID at the security guard, my worry fades and is slowly replaced with excitement again. I take a deep breath before I step off the elevator and reintroduce myself to Shirley, the receptionist. “Welcome to New York Life,” she says with a toothy smile. “I’ll show you to your office.” She places a placard on her desk that says, “Back in 5 minutes,” picks up her Starbuck’s cup, and says, “Follow me.”
We walk to the end of a very long hall, passing Patricia’s office. A couple of doors close as we walk by, others open and faces appear, now strangers, who I hope will soon become friendly and familiar.
“This is yours.” I stick my head in. It’s bigger than I expected and I have a window. “But first, let me introduce you to your assistant.” In the small office next to mine sits a guy with an eager expression, oversized glasses, skinny jeans, and chestnut skin.
“Tyler, this is your boss, Andie Rogé.” He jumps up at the sound of Shirley’s voice and, as he straightens out to his full length, his head barely misses the ceiling.
“Andie, this is Tyler Perry.”
I can’t help but smile.
“No relation,” he says as he extends his hand. “Great to meet you Ms. Rogé. I’m really looking forward to working for you.”
“It’s Andie. And I hope you’ll be working with me.”
He gives a single nod, shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Cool.”
He tells me that this is this first “real” job and that he’s extremely nervous. I lean in and whisper, “That makes two of us.” We’re going to get along just fine.
I spend the morning going over editorial schedules, while Tyler locates the office supplies, the copy machine and the coffee maker. I’m not sure when I’ll be expected to jump in and begin producing, begin editing. I can’t wait to get my hands on copy. People pop in occasionally to check out the new editor and offer advice. I make a mental note of each one.
The morning zooms by and my stomach rumbles.
“How goes it?” It’s Peter, standing in the doorway. “Sorry I haven’t stopped by to welcome you to the club. Working on deadline. I’ve got layout pages for the next issue and I thought you might want to take a look before I send them to Patty—give you an idea of what she expects.”
“Come in. Come in. I’m feeling my way around, trying to figure everything out. Feeling overwhelmed, but I guess that comes with first-day territory.”
He strides in and stands at attention in front of me. He’s dyed his hair blond, and is wearing white-framed glasses, white pants, expensive-looking loafers (Italian is my guess) and a plaid jacket with a V-neck T-shirt underneath.
“You’re looking snappy today.”
He makes a full rotation. “Thank you for noticing. I’m not sure about the hair, though. What do you think?”
“I liked the black, but you’re definitely rockin’ the blond.”
“Well, my natural color is sort of a mousy brown. Trying to settle on something a little more.”
“More what?”
“Just more. Know what I mean?” He barely takes a breath before he says, “Listen, you want to join me for lunch? I’ll tell you all about Zach, my bitch of an ex-boyfriend, my pugs, and my allergies.”
“Sounds fascinating.”
He shows me the pages, explains the basics of the program I’ll be using, and tells me it’s easy, which I seriously doubt. He leaves to get the OK from Patty when my phone rings. It’s Vincent. I hit “decline” and drop it in my purse. No distractions at the office, especially not on my first day. Not from Vincent, or maybe especially not from Vincent.
Be careful.
Peter knocks on the door frame. “Okay, girl, you ready?’
I stand up and as I’m gathering my purse and my jacket, my phone rings again. I pull it out, stare at it, and hesitate before shoving it back in my purse.
“Uh oh,” Peter says, “I know that expression. You can tell me all about it over roasted Brussels sprouts pizza and your beverage of choice. My treat.”
At lunch, I can’t push the pause button. I tell Peter everything. Well, almost everything. He nods along, his eyes wide and, when I’m done, he lets out a luxurious sigh.
“It’s so romantic.” He pauses. “I felt that same thing when I met Zach. It was like swallowing Helium-infused beer.” He sighs again. “I really miss that feeling.”
****
My first day is done and it was better than I could have hoped for. I’m sure I can do this job and I’m looking forward to day two. I gather my things, close my office door and say goodnight to the few late-night stragglers. The elevator doors open, I step in, retreat to the back, and lean against the wall, feeling pretty good about myself. When we reach the lobby, I wait for the elevator to empty before I step off and text Vincent. Just leaving work. Meet you at my place.
I glance up. There he is, right in front of me. A tentative, but somehow still seductive smile spreads across his face. I’m unsure whether I should be flattered or—maybe concerned—that he showed up at my workplace unannounced.
But he looks amazing, simply dressed in jeans, a black T-shirt, a trench coat. Standing close to him my heart rate multiplies by a factor of ten. I stop short and the flow of elevator people divert their exit path to avoid crashing into us.
“You’re here,” I say, stating the obvious.
His presence only serves to highlight the startling contrast between my two worlds. There’s this world, made up of people who, like me, are putting one foot in front of the other as they try to make it through the day. And then there’s this other recently discovered world that revolves around Vincent. It’s disorienting, distracting and—disturbing for a growing number of reasons.
Peter comes up from behind and without hesitation puts his arm around my shoulders and squeezes. “So, I see you survived your first day in the trenches.” His appearance pushes down my negative thoughts. I’m excited to introduce my new work buddy to Vincent, but he seems impatient. He’s making me uncomfortable. Peter wears his gay status proudly and I wonder if Vincent has a problem with that. If so, that would be another mark in the negative column. That and the stalkerish behavior.
And the drinking.
“I survived, thanks to you.”
“Well, the sun’ll come up tomorrow,” he sings, “and we’ll do it all again.” He turns to Vincent and gazes at him in appreciation. “Sooo nice to meet you, Vincent.”
As soon as Peter walks away, I push through the revolving door, place two fingers in my mouth and let out a shrill whistle—something my dad taught me. A couple of days ago, I would have held back, not wanting to appear unfeminine in Vincent’s eyes.
I detest feeling this way—crazy confused, distrustful of my desire and unsure if Vincent is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Or the worst. When David began to change, Mack told me, “Don’t ignore that little voice i
n your head, Andie. It’s usually way smarter than you are.” I didn’t listen then. But I intend to listen now.
A strained silence fills the cab on the ride home. I feel him looking at me “Andie, you seem upset. Did something happen?”
I stare out my window at nothing. The only thing that’s happened is the dawning realization that I can’t do this—and still have a life. That he takes up too much space in my head. That when I’m with him, nothing else exists and when I’m not with him, he’s all I think about. That whatever I’m feeling isn’t sustainable, isn’t healthy. That he called me repeatedly at work and when I didn’t answer, he just showed up at my office.
“No, we just need to talk,” I say as calmly as I can. “But not now. When we get to my place.”
As soon as the cab stops, I don’t wait for his knight-in-shining-armor act and I hand the driver a twenty. I’m on the pavement before Vincent has time to pull out his money clip. I’m running through a script of what I’m going to say. “Your attention, while incredibly flattering, is too much.” I take a deep breath and bite my lower lip to stop the flow of words in my head, but they burst forth anyway. “We need to cool it for a while. I don’t like the way I feel when I’m around you.” But that’s a lie. Being around him feels amazing; he makes me forget everything. And that’s the problem. I can’t afford to let Vincent distract me when I’m finally getting my life on track.
He follows me closely as I walk to the door. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll go inside and lock him out. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that the thought crossed my mind. Again. That should tell me something. Instead, I open the lobby door and hold it until he catches up with me and we walk in together.
“Hey, Joseph.”
“Ms. Rogé. This was your first day, right? How was it?”
“It was good. Thanks for asking.” I’m distracted, speaking in monotones.
He glances at me, then at Vincent and frowns. “Everything okay?”
Joseph is looking out for me, but I need to look out for myself.
“Everything’s fine,” I say, before pressing the “up” button once, twice, three times. With Vincent in my orbit, even this simple act is done under duress. We step into the elevator. He stands off to the side and I position myself inches from the door. The wait for the elevator to rise to the fourth floor is unbearable. Every bump, every cable creak is amplified a thousand times as we slowly make our way upward. The atmosphere in this contained space is electric, and, for the first time, not in a good way.
“This is my floor,” I say without looking at him. I step out, walk down the narrow hall and dig in my purse for my keys. Vincent is standing close, silently watching me fumble. I try the inside zipper, the outside pocket of my purse, skim the bottom and I want to cry in frustration.
“Did you check your coat pocket?” he asks.
I pull them out and dangle them in the air.
“Voila!” he says.
The click of the key is the starting gun for the racing of my heart. I walk in and throw my coat on the ottoman. He’s still standing in the hall, looking—uncomfortable. He’s probably wondering how I can afford this place.
“What are you doing, waiting for an official invitation?” I laugh, though I’m finding his actions irritating right now. “Come in.”
He steps over the threshold and shuts the door behind him.
“You want something to drink?”
“Do you have scotch?”
“I have some vodka in the freezer, maybe rum, and some beer.”
“Vodka, no ice, please,” he says as he settles in on my couch.
I retreat to the kitchen, take a deep breath, and rummage around for a glass. While I’m opening and closing cabinets, I give myself a pep talk. I have to set boundaries. I need to tell him to back off. But, I need to be quick about it. Don’t think, just count to three and rip off the Band-Aid. Say the words. If he can’t handle it, the world will continue to turn on its axis; the sun will shine, the moon will cycle, and I will recover. Eventually.
I find a half-full bottle of Grey Goose in the freezer and catch my reflection in the microwave door. I look exactly how I feel. Stressed out and nauseous. I pour him two fingers of vodka, then take a swig from the bottle before I remember that I hate the taste of vodka straight.
I’m suffocating in stupid, maudlin thoughts, like this could be the last drink we ever share, the first and last time he’ll be in my apartment, and if he walks away, I know I’ll never find anyone who makes me the feel the way he does. I can’t believe I’ve gotten in so deep, so soon. I mean, this shouldn’t be such a big deal; we haven’t even slept together, for chrissake. I can’t help but wonder, once again, if I’m dodging the bullet or losing the love of my life.
I take another swig from the bottle, stand up straighter, shake my hair from my face and march into the living room, where Vincent is sitting on the edge of the sofa, his hands clasped together, elbows on knees. He’s shed his coat. The black T-shirt he’s wearing outlines every muscle, skims his taut stomach, highlights his every move. He’s eyeing me expectantly.
“Here you go,” I say as I refocus on why we’re here, hand him the glass and set the bottle on the table. I’m already putting one foot behind the other to back away, when he gently takes my free hand and sets the glass on the table next to the bottle.
Shit.
“Andie, please, don’t back away from me.”
“Vincent, I, I can’t do this; it doesn’t feel right.”
“You don’t want this? You don’t want us?”
He stands up, as his voice drops to a lusty whisper. “Andie, I want you.” He pulls me close. “Only you.”
His words turn my insides into a warm, gooey fondue. I look into his eyes and I hate myself as all the promises I just made to myself evaporate in a wisp, all my resolve to take control of what’s been happening between us.
I feel a catch in my breath and I close my eyes.
I want to make him leave.
But I can’t.
I need him to stay.
He slips his hand onto the nape of my neck, runs his long fingers through my tangles and gently kisses my forehead.
I close my eyes. “I’m in so much trouble here,” I mumble. But I don’t have the wherewithal to resist as he presses his determined lips to mine. He pulls away and sweeps my hair behind my shoulders. “Vodka?” he whispers. “Was it good?”
I pick up his glass from the coffee table and hand it to him.
He downs the vodka and quickly sets the empty glass on the table before pulling me closer, sliding his hand under my blouse and running his cool fingers across my bare skin. The current that runs between us is stronger than ever, my breathing erratic. Despite his cool touch, I’m on fire.
The name I’ve rejected my whole life transforms into something beautifully seductive as he utters it. Antoinette. He pulls his T-shirt over his head, revealing an air-brushed version of what I imagined lay underneath—the sleek, taut body of a swimmer. I run my fingers over his impossibly perfect chest. He shudders.
He slowly unbuttons my blouse, tosses it on the couch and reaches around to unclasp my bra. As the straps slip from my shoulders and it falls to the floor, he whispers, “You’re exquisite.” And in that moment, I feel exquisite, desirable—perfect, like him. He caresses my breasts, traces my neck with his tongue, tightens his hold on my waist and I feel him hard against me.
“My room—" I have to stop to take a breath, “down the hall,” I say, as I nod in that direction. He effortlessly sweeps me up in his arms and carries me toward my room. He’s looking straight ahead, focused, intense, his eyelids heavy with desire.
As he lays me on the bed, I whisper his name like a mantra. He unzips my skirt and slides it down my thighs, my legs, and stops to stare at my black lace thong, rubbing the back of his hand across his lips. He closes his eyes—for too long.
“Vincent? Vincent are you okay?”
When he opens them, a fierceness material
izes that wasn’t there before. He quickly undresses, eases onto the bed, and with a single move, rips the last bit of flimsy cloth from my hips. The anticipation is too much; the air in the room too thin. I can’t breathe.
As he covers me with his body, he whispers the most seductive words I’ve ever heard, “Antoinette, tu es á moi et je suis á toi.”
I’m no longer sure where I end and he begins.
Chapter 19
Vincent
I lay still beside Andie, my arm draped across her slender waist, waiting for her to fall asleep. More than anything I want to be there for her in the morning, make love to her once more, bring her coffee in bed, talk about the day ahead, like lovers do. But with her body so close and the scent of sex in the air, on the bed linens, the need is too strong.
The moment she drifts off, I reluctantly extricate myself from our entanglement, careful not to wake her, ease out of bed and dress. For a few precious moments, I stand at the end of her bed and gaze down at her naked body.
She was innocent in her wanting me. Unaware that she will no longer be able to stay away, to love any other man. There will be only me. The touch of her skin was the conduit for our fate. There will be no going back. I carefully cover her with the down comforter, as if that will keep her safe.
She is my salvation.
And I am her damnation.
She would have run in horror to learn that as I embraced her, I was engaged in a furious battle with my natural instinct, the instinct to sink into her flesh and consume her. The release, though glorious, would have lasted mere seconds, but the tortuous guilt and blinding self-hatred would have lasted until the end of time. It’s a battle of my human-like need and desire vs. the “other.” A battle I cannot afford to lose.
I had closed my eyes as I incrementally reclaimed control. Her voice brought me back to the room, to what she needed. She kissed me with abandon, her lips liquid, washing away the darkness in me. She surrendered herself to me completely and I wanted the moment to never end, to savor it, preserve it. For a short time, I was a man again, a man with the woman he loved, desired above all else. But the passion we shared has intensified the craving. I must go, so I quietly slip away.
