The Beginning of Always

by Sophia Mae Todd

  “This is Mr. Blair’s property. Employees don’t stay here when he’s in town.”

  “Well, then, why am I here? I should be going with you guys off-site.”

  Thomas shook his head slowly at me, in an almost incredulous manner. “No. No, you’re not.” He flexed his fingers with an audible of crunch of his leather gloves as he spoke, clearly uncomfortable.

  I didn’t answer. Just stared at him.

  Thomas took tentative steps to the door, then stopped. “Good night, Ms. Reynolds. Mr. Blair will inform you of our schedule when he sees you next.” He opened his mouth as if he wanted to continue his thought, then decided against it, shuttered his lips, nodded smartly, and exited.

  The door shut silently in his wake, and within seconds, their car rumbled down the pebbled drive.

  I stood there, barefooted and dumbfounded. Only Alistair and me in the house? Thoughts and suspicions and worries crashed against the walls of my brain until I was dizzy.

  I sighed. Forget it, I was just going to go to sleep.

  I was halfway back to my bedroom when I realized I wasn’t alone.

  Someone was standing on the far end of the now-deserted great room.

  Alistair.

  He was still wearing that perfectly formed bespoke suit, but his hair was mussed and the hard edge to his face was no longer there. He was no longer playful, no longer coy. He gazed out the floor-to-ceiling windows, the darkness of the rooms allowing him to watch the ocean, but there was enough light to mirror me as I approached him.

  There was just enough light to reflect his eyes following my motions.

  I came to a stop at his side. Soft waves petered out as larger ones rolled in, the water crashing against the side of the cliffs with the tide.

  A lull. We stood there motionless, me watching the water as Alistair watched me.

  “Is it just us?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  I nodded slowly. There was something in the air, something that was in the night. The way Alistair was acting, the way he interacted with me and others … it wasn’t typical.

  I was weary with overanalyzing.

  I wanted to be taken away, for the waves to roll over me and to pull me towards the inevitable.

  I wanted to stop fighting everything.

  “I’m going to bed, I’m pretty tired.”

  “Good night, Florence.”

  “Good night, Alistair.”

  His gaze was on me as I walked out the room, but I resisted every temptation to turn around. Every temptation to go back. Instead, I steeled myself and left.

  Chapter 21

  I awoke with a gasp, falling into reality with the cool misty air of the ocean upon my face and the darkness of a foreign place crushing my being.

  Something woke me. A nightmare? A memory? Strange emotions roiled over my body and I sat up, heaviness strangling my throat.

  I rolled out of bed, and after I used the restroom and splashed water onto my face, a sense of grounding settled in, to my relief. I went into the kitchen for a glass of water, the moonlight filtering into the great room which just hours ago had held a group of people whose cumulative net worth I couldn’t even begin to fathom. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the sliding doors that led to the patio were open, the curtains fluttering softly in the ocean wind.

  “Hello?” I asked as I peeked around the door frame. A faint clinking sound greeted my question.

  Alistair.

  I closed the door quietly behind me and padded barefoot to the plush poolside benches facing the water.

  “Alistair,” I said.

  He came into full view. Alistair was sitting on a massive cushioned outdoor bench. He wore only a pair of dark boxer briefs. His left hand was stretched over the top of the chair, and in it he held a lowball glass, ice knocking against the crystal to produce a clinking sound. The wind combed through his hair slightly and his eyes were trained on the black horizon over the infinity wall.

  He didn’t turn around; my soft question had been lost in the sound of the waves. Alistair appeared … tired. Alistair was always, even when he was younger, a chiseled veneer of determination and aloof apathy. And in all the time we’d been spending together, he now seemed completely torn down for the first time. Vulnerable, even.

  I cleared my throat gently and Alistair finally glanced over, our gazes meeting.

  “Hey,” I said.

  My lust gave a sudden jump. This was the first time I’d seen Alistair in anything beyond a full suit, and his wide chest sprawled in front of me. With hard muscle bunched under tight tan skin and a dusting of dark hair spreading over his pectorals, Alistair was gorgeous. I kept my eyes trained on his face and tried not to focus on that southern scattering of hair that trailed from chiseled abs to disappear under the waistband of his boxer briefs.

  Alistair didn’t answer me, but his eyes flickered over my face and then slid down my body. I suddenly felt incredibly exposed, what with my mussed hair, tight boy shorts, and thin camisole. My body burned at his blatant perusal, but I resisted the urge to cross my arms defensively. I just ran my fingers through my hair and tried not to think about how my nipples were probably showing.

  Finally Alistair spoke. “Hello.”

  “Aren’t you cold? It’s really windy.” I rubbed my hands over my bare forearms.

  “I’m fine.” Alistair swished the drink in his hand.

  “Well, I’m freezing,” I said, “What are you doing out here?”

  Alistair paused and then brought the alcohol to his lips and shot it down his throat. He set the glass on the floor and then stood up.

  I instinctively took a step back.

  Alistair paused and lightly raised one eyebrow. I gave him a suspicious look back. We remained there, wary of each other for a couple seconds, and then he moved forward, and something large and blue swirled around me.

  I froze in shock and confusion for a moment, but then realized Alistair had dragged a large woolen blanket from the bench and draped it around my shoulders.

  He pulled the corners of the blanket tightly around my collar, and we held eye contact for the space of a moment.

  “Here,” Alistair finally said. “You’re shivering.”

  I nodded and reached up to grip the blanket close to me, our fingers grazing each other as he let go and I grabbed on. Alistair’s jawline tightened and we continued to gaze at each other for a moment. He was the first one to break it and sit back down.

  I lowered myself slowly next to him, bundling the blanket around me like armor. I shifted slightly to the side so that there was a respectable amount of space between us. Alistair ignored me, his body loose, arms slack by his side, choosing to watch the blackened horizon.

  “You drink a lot,” I observed.

  Alistair shrugged. “I suppose. I guess it does make it all easier.”

  “Make what easier?”

  He didn’t answer.

  The night sky spilled before us, white lights blinking faintly above. New York’s light pollution rendered the sky a murky gray in the city, but here we could see the stars ever so faintly. I looked up, fascinated with the lights. They reminded me of the stars back home and the ones I saw abroad. Even though I’d only been back in New York for a short time, I missed the stars.

  Suddenly a bright white streak stretched across the darkness and I gave a small cry of surprise.

  “A shooting star,” I exclaimed. I turned towards Alistair with a grin. “Make a wish.”

  Alistair gave me a blank stare in response and a silence stretched between us. After an uncomfortable minute, my smile faltered and collapsed before I pulled the blanket tighter and slid my eyes away. “Okay. Or not.”

  Alistair exhaled a heavy sigh and then bowed forward to retrieve his glass. He leaned with his elbow on his knees and seized a whiskey bottle from the table in front of us. He poured a generous helping, and for a while, the only sound was the rolling of the surf and the splashing of Alistair’s
drink. His hands then stilled, the bottle held aloft in the air. He gave a small shake of his head as if dislodging a thought from his mind.

  Awkwardness and discomfort crawled across my skin. The ups and downs of our conversations, our meetings, it had been exhausting. Sometimes it was easy and fluid, other times forced and slightly painful. This was one of the latter.

  “Maybe I should go back in.” I swung my knees around and touched my feet down on the cold cement. “I’ll give you some privacy.”

  “No.” Alistair turned his face. “No.”

  Our eyes connected and I stopped in my tracks. Despite the woolen blanket, my body shivered.

  Alistair expression was slightly pained and if I had to guess, I’d say his eyes pleaded with me.

  “Don’t leave,” he said quietly.

  The statement was loaded.

  I nodded slightly. “Okay.”

  He placed his whiskey back on the table, the bottle making a hard, crisp thud upon the glass top. He fell back upon the seat, tumbler clutched in his grasp.

  Alistair wore no shirt, his tight muscles on display. Against the dark tan of his chest, a scroll of black text stretched across his left rib. By my angle, whatever was written seemed to be in unintelligible script.

  “I see you got a tattoo,” I said in hopes of redirecting the conversation. “Does it mean anything?”

  Alistair leaned his head back over the edge of the bench and gazed at the stars. When he answered, it was towards the heavens. “Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate.”

  The words flowed around me, fluid and seductive.

  “What does this translate to?”

  “It’s Italian. Dante.”

  “Divine Comedy Dante? Inferno?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does it mean?”

  Alistair paused to consider his answer. Then he said, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

  I gave a laugh, incredulous. “A bit clichéd, no?”

  Alistair returned me a small crooked grin and straightened up in the seat. He raised his drink to his lips. “Yeah, well, I got it when I first moved to New York. Crazy drunk idea.” He took a swig of whiskey. “Twenty-two-year-olds are not known for their killer wit and intellect.”

  I stretched a finger and placed it lightly against the smooth skin. I faintly detected a shivering reaction from Alistair. “Is it … backwards? How come?”

  “So I can read it in the mirror, that was my logic.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “I forget, but I’m sure it did, needle right on my ribs. But I’ve been through worse.”

  I trailed my fingers from the top edge of the tattoo to the bottom, reading Alistair’s hard muscle and ribs underneath the skin. I drew small circles and followed the script, transfixed by the curves and angles.

  “It’s beautiful,” I murmured. The contrast of his tan skin and the deep black ink mesmerized me. I flattened my palm against it and tilted my head, trying to imagine what it was like in its readable reflection.

  “Beautiful …” I said in a distracted tone. Alistair shifted closer to me and pressed his body against my hand. He rested his deep, dark enigmatic eyes on me and spoke low and even.

  “‘Turn, Beatrice, o your holy eyes upon your faithful one, who, that he might see you, has come so far.’”

  Alistair leaned into me, until his lips almost brushed mine. He was so close I could count his individual lashes, the pulsation of his pupils, each blink and brush of his eyelids.

  “Out of your grace, do us this grace; unveil your lips to him, so that he may discern the second beauty you have kept concealed.”

  The last syllable hung in the air, restless and uncertain. Alistair continued to gaze at me even after he was done speaking.

  I pulled my fingers off him slowly.

  “That was amazing.”

  “That’s for you.” Alistair broke our tenuous connection and settled back onto his side of the couch to take another deep draw of his drink. “That line always reminded me of you. I reread Divine Comedy a couple years ago and I couldn’t help but remember Beatrice.”

  “Since when did you read medieval Italian poetry?”

  “Since Mrs. Peterson got on my case about senior English.”

  I gave a small smile. “Epic Italian poetry, I guess some things haven’t changed.”

  Alistair returned me the barest of grins. “I suppose not.”

  “It’s very beautiful.”

  “Yes,” Alistair agreed. “Beautiful.”

  Silence stretched between us, but it wasn’t awkward anymore. Instead, a sense of ease flowed over me. I settled into the cushions and wrapped the blanket closer to me. I made a mental note to check out Divine Comedy when I had time.

  “You have any tattoos?” Alistair asked suddenly.

  “Hm.” I teased him, rocking my head back and forth. “Who knows?”

  Alistair chuckled. “I’m not a betting man, but I’d guess you do.”

  “Well, if you were a sober man, you’d remember you walked in on me naked. Not much of a way to hide there.”

  Then, Alistair broke into loud laughter. He threw his head back and his entire body shook with amusement. His laughs hit with ease and mirth, and I smiled at the sound of it.

  Alistair shook his head and leaned forward on his knees with his drink in his hand. He chuckled and tilted his head slightly in my direction. “Now that you mention it, I didn’t spot any tattoos. Although I have to admit I was a bit distracted.”

  I pushed his shoulder. “Typical male, just looking at boobs.”

  Alistair’s eyes crinkled, his dimples flashing. “Can you blame me? Your breasts have just gotten more beautiful with age. Like a fine wine.”

  I groaned loudly. “That’s so cheesy and sleazy all at the same time.”

  “What can I say? Cheesy sleaze is an art.” Alistair downed his glass, and then placed it on the table before falling back amongst the cushions. He stretched his long arms above him and those hard muscles rippled and contorted underneath his skin. He gave an audible exhale and sprawled his left arm against the back of the bench. His fingers inched towards my hair and he wound several strands through his hand.

  “They are beautiful.” He combed his fingers down my hair. “You are beautiful. Back then and now.”

  “Um … thank you.” It was awkward hearing his words but, deep down, completely exhilarating.

  “So beautiful. It hurts to look at you sometimes,” he murmured so quietly I had to strain to hear him over the waves.

  “Are you drunk?” I peered at Alistair’s face. It was impassive as ever but I could sense a thinning of his veneer of apathy and coolness. His eyes were softer and held a tone of … longing?

  Alistair smiled softly at my question and ran his fingers deeper through my hair.

  “Most definitely.”

  “You don’t have to drink so much.”

  “I know,” he said quietly. His fingers gently caressed me and the scene shifted, surreal.

  I sat quietly, unmoving as he continued to work through my sleep-produced tangles. His hands gradually worked down until he rested his palm against my neck, massaging gently. I gave an involuntary groan of satisfaction and my head fell forward.

  “Alistair, what are you doing?” I asked. His fingers pressed into the back of my neck and circled around my shoulders.

  “I just want to touch you.” Alistair pulled me closer into an embrace and despite my mind screaming warnings, I allowed it. “Can’t I?”

  I was growing distracted and overheated with the sensation of Alistair’s hands. “Can’t you what?”

  “Touch you. Just touch you,” Alistair arms tightened and I tucked my face on his shoulder. He turned to look at me and we stayed like this, our eyes connecting to each other as Alistair moved his hands slowly over me, taking in my form through the blanket.

  I inhaled deeply, the smell of his essence assaulting me. This wasn’t … this couldn’t …

  �
��Alistair … you’re drunk,” I said even as my body softened and molded into his. I had always been amazed at how well we fit together. All other men … it was always two puzzle pieces just wrong for each other.

  “So?” Alistair rested his face in my hair and his breath blew hot against my ear.

  “So … you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Florence.” I shuddered as his words vibrated my skin, his voice was so close they melded into me. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

  I pulled back. Alistair loosened his arms and I shook my head. “We can’t …”

  “Why? It’s just me. It’s just me.”

  “Alistair … I need to understand, I need to know what’s going on between us.”

  He sighed.

  “It’s hard. I don’t even know myself. I’m fighting this need, trying and trying. But I keep losing to myself.” Alistair leaned until his lips barely grazed mine. “There have been so many things I’ve wanted to tell you over the years.”

  His essence enveloped me, the smell of whiskey on his breath familiar yet foreign all at once. This Alistair sitting before me was someone so different, pronouncedly changed from the boy I once loved. Before me was a man, and despite his achingly nostalgic face and his familiar scent that both soothed and numbed my every sense, he was a stranger.

  I might want to deny that, might be able to fool myself into thinking I wasn’t in dangerous territory. But I was. I was treading water against the tide, and soon, I would drown. The scary part was that a part of me, a considerable part, wanted that.

  He’d always be drowning and I’d always want to save him or doom myself alongside with him.

  My eyelids fluttered slowly, lowering. I breathed in Alistair, the entirety of him, here, with me. His lips hovered in the space between us and everything went numb except the rapid beating of my heart. It throbbed in my chest and sent its echoes down every crevice of my body, until my fingertips hummed with anticipation.

  “I have really missed you.” Alistair leaned in that sliver of an inch and made contact. The feel of his skin against mine picked up and ravaged me; it turned down all the noise in my head, yet ramped up every single twisted sensation in my heart.