Melt for You

by J. T. Geissinger

  It’s Wednesday. I’m at my desk at work, doing what I do best.

  Obsessing.

  I title the sonnet I’ve just composed “Hunger,” save it to the computer’s hard drive, and close out of the word processing program. Then I do the thing I’ve been wrestling with my conscience about for the past several hours and google Cameron McGregor.

  I’m staggered when the search produces more than forty-five million results.

  There’s his Wikipedia page, his social media feeds, countless news articles, interviews, and photos. It’s jarring seeing the photos of him in action on the rugby field because he looks nothing like the man I’ve come to know.

  He looks feral. Ferocious. Frightening. Like he’s released from a maximum security prison on short-term leave only for his games. There isn’t a single photograph of him smiling.

  Off the field, or pitch, as I learn it’s called, the situation is even worse. He must be followed relentlessly by paparazzi when he’s in Europe, because his every move has been documented on film. He scowls into the camera from all angles, whether staggering out of a pub or swaggering into an expensive car.

  Then there are the women.

  Universally young, buxom, and beautiful, they’re draped over him in photo after photo. At parties, news events, the sidelines of a game, he’s almost always covered in women like he’s a glue trap and they’re flies.

  It makes me a little ill, until I realize that he’s not smiling in any of those photos, either. And he’s never photographed with the same woman twice.

  One and done, huh, prancer? I browse thoughtfully through the pictures, becoming more certain with each passing minute that I’m viewing a montage of a profoundly unhappy life. Even when surrounded by an adoring crowd, he looks angry and alone. Our conversation in my kitchen comes back to haunt me.

  Is life easier, being beautiful?

  My life has never been easy.

  For you the world is just one big banquet of choices.

  Is it?

  If I were going on all the photographs as evidence, I’d have to concede what I think is a banquet seems to him like a wake.

  I click on his Wikipedia page and read through his list of career achievements and awards and honors, then skip down to the section titled Early Life.

  Born into poverty to a teenage single mother in Edinburgh, Scotland, Cameron Christopher McGregor faced grave odds from the start. Nine weeks premature due to a savage beating his mother suffered at the hands of his father, Duncan, he weighed only three pounds, six ounces at birth. As his lungs were immature, he required supplemental oxygen but quickly developed retrolental fibroplasia from the oxygen therapy, resulting in retinal detachment and subsequent surgery to correct the condition.

  “Oh my God,” I whisper, horrified, my hand to my throat. I read on, growing more upset with every word.

  Sentenced to eight years in prison for the attack on his pregnant girlfriend, Duncan McGregor hung himself in his cell after serving only ten days. For the first few years of Cameron’s life, his mother subsisted on only £180 per month from the government. Due to his premature birth and his mother’s drug use during pregnancy, Cameron was plagued by health problems during childhood, including slow physical development, difficulty learning and communicating, and attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (also called ADHD).

  In interviews he has described how viciously he was bullied at school for his small size and learning disability. One such event landed him in the hospital with a broken jaw and severe internal bleeding after being beaten into unconsciousness by a gang of older boys.

  I start blinking hard to clear the water from my vision. It doesn’t work, so I take a few of the napkins from my top drawer and dab at the corners of my eyes until I can see again.

  When he was twelve, Cameron’s mother found a job through a government program aimed at putting able-bodied citizens on the dole back to work. She obtained a position as a live-in housekeeper for Sir Francis Gladstone, a member of Parliament. Sir Gladstone had three sons between the ages of fifteen and twenty, all of whom were highly regarded amateur rugby players. It was through their influence that Cameron was first introduced to the sport.

  Cameron and his mother lived with Sir Gladstone until her suicide when Cameron was eighteen, the same year he was recruited to the Red Devils. Sir Gladstone and Catherine McGregor were rumored to be romantically involved at the time of her death, but he denied the reports.

  I stare at the screen in shock.

  Both his parents killed themselves. He was an orphan by the age of eighteen. He was poor, weak, beaten, and bullied, utterly disadvantaged, yet somehow managed to find the strength to become one of the world’s foremost athletes.

  I feel as if I’ve been flattened by a steamroller. Everything I assumed about Cameron McGregor is wrong.

  “Joellen.”

  I start at the sound of Cam’s voice, thinking I must be going insane. But when I swing around, he’s standing there in the entrance to my cubicle, the receptionist hovering nervously a few feet behind him.

  “This gentleman said you were expecting him, Joellen?” says the receptionist, Kim, a sweet girl with a nervous tic in her left eyelid. She always looks like she’s sending a conspiratorial wink.

  “Don’t tell me you forgot our lunch date,” Cam drawls when I sit frozen, mystified by his presence.

  “Lunch date?” I repeat blankly. When I see Kim’s eyes widen in alarm, I quickly backtrack. “Oh! Yes! Sorry, I was just so absorbed in work I lost track of time!”

  Cam’s gaze cuts to my computer screen.

  I leap to my feet like my chair is on fire and hit the power button so hard I almost knock the screen over. Then I turn breathlessly to Cam and Kim. I’m grinning maniacally like a circus clown. “Okay! All set!”

  Kim drifts away with a confused smile, while Cam just stands there, taking up all the space in the room.

  From my peripheral vision, I see the top of Shasta’s head begin to creep over the cubicle wall. Whispers are starting up all around us because Cameron McGregor is huge, handsome, and impossible not to notice. His shoulders are almost as wide as my desk.

  With my crazed smile plastered firmly in place, I say between my teeth, “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing, lass.” His smile is almost as absurd as mine, but while mine is hysterical, his is smug.

  He totally caught me googling him. Life as I know it is over.

  He’s more dressed up than I’ve ever seen him, which only means he put on a black sport jacket over his jeans and T-shirt. Paired with his scruffy jaw and boots, the overall effect is one of effortless cool. He looks great, and he knows it.

  So do all the females on the floor, who are collectively soiling their panties. Shasta’s eyes above the lip of the cubicle wall are like saucers.

  Then the worst thing that could possibly happen, does.

  “Well, this is certainly a surprise. I recognize you from the tabloids. Cameron McGregor, am I correct?”

  Cam and I turn our attention to Michael, who’s stopped in the hallway a few feet away. He’s gazing at Cam like he’s a bug he’d like to smash under the sole of his calfskin Hermès loafer.

  Cam jerks his chin at Michael and sends him one of his signature shit-eating grins. “Aye. You’ll be wantin’ an autograph, I’m sure, but you’ll have to excuse me, mate. I’m just’ leavin’ for lunch with Joellen.”

  Michael—resplendent in a couture Brioni suit the color of Cam’s eyes when he’s particularly mad—sets his shoulders. “I wasn’t asking for an autograph.”

  They gaze at each other as I fight the urge to dive under my desk and curl into a ball until all the chest beating is over. I can tell Cam recognizes Michael, too, but he’s pretending like he has no clue who he is—just another fan dazzled by his presence.

  If he wanted to piss Michael off, he picked the perfect way to do it. Michael’s neck has flushed a deep, angry red.

  I know
exactly what makes pretty rich boys tick, Cam told me. Here’s an unmistakable bit of proof.

  Things take a turn toward the melodramatic when Portia appears behind Michael, slinking up like a fox past the henhouse door. She looks Cam up and down, her foxy nose twitching at the scent of fresh meat. “Oh. Pardon me,” she purrs. “Am I interrupting?”

  God, between the three of them I feel like I’m in the Bermuda Triangle. I blurt nervously, “We were just leaving for lunch!”

  Portia’s gaze slides toward me. I’m surprised to see curiosity in her eyes, not the usual hostility. She looks at Michael, then at Cam, then back at me, but doesn’t respond.

  Michael says stiffly, “It’s a bit early for lunch, isn’t it? It’s barely past eleven o’clock.”

  Cam responds with a knowing chuckle. “Joellen couldn’t wait. Called and asked me to come sooner.”

  The flush in Michael’s neck creeps up toward his ears, but, more interestingly, the curiosity in Portia’s gaze turns into something different. Relief? No, that wouldn’t make sense. But I don’t have time to think on it because she blows me away by smiling.

  “How nice! You work so hard, Joellen. You deserve to take a long lunch. I’ll speak to you later this afternoon. I just wanted to go over your current workload with you. It can wait. Gentlemen.” She nods at Michael, then at Cam, then leaves with a spring in her step.

  I gape at her retreating back, convinced I’ve suffered a recent traumatic brain injury. There’s no way that just happened.

  “C’mon, lass. I know how you get when you’re hungry.” Cam’s voice holds an undertone of familiarity that makes Michael’s mouth take on a ruthless slant. It’s an odd reaction and one I don’t like. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen his face be anything but beautiful.

  Michael catches me looking at him, and the hardness in his mouth disappears as quickly as it came. He smiles. It’s so sweet I wonder if I didn’t imagine the whole thing.

  “Have a great lunch. See you later. Mr. McGregor”—he turns to Cam with the same genteel smile—“it was a real treat to meet you.”

  I hear the undertone of sarcasm, but if Cam does, he doesn’t acknowledge it. His grin is wide and bright. “I get that a lot.”

  Michael straightens his tie, obviously wishing it were on Cam’s neck instead of his own, with the loose end knotted around a tree branch. He turns and strides away.

  I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Holy hell, McGregor,” I say shakily, watching Michael go. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Cam watches Michael go, too. “Sure I do. I’m wagin’ war.”

  When I look at him, he winks. “If that prissy little peacock wasn’t in love with you before, he definitely is now. There’s nothin’ his kind hates more than a lower-class grunt gettin’ uppity and poachin’ his property.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, McGregor. Michael doesn’t think I’m his property.”

  “Aye, lass, he does. The question is whether or not you’re gonna enjoy it when you find out what bein’ the property of a man like him is like.”

  He grabs my handbag from my desk, slings it over his shoulder, and saunters away down the hall, leaving me no choice but to follow.

  I ignore Shasta’s desperate hiss of, “Bitch, what the hell?” as I go.

  We go to a little Italian place I’ve been dying to try that’s owned by a couple who met on a blind date and fell instantly in love. When we’re seated at the table, I sigh in happiness, looking around at the cozy, comfortable interior, a perfect replica of the Italian place the couple went to the night they met.

  I find the whole story incredibly romantic. Tales of fated lovers are my Kryptonite.

  “I love Italian food,” I tell Cam, petting the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth.

  “I know.” He snaps a white linen napkin over his lap. When I look at him in surprise, he adds, “Mrs. Dinwiddle told me it’s your favorite.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, I’m always trying to get her to try my lasagna, but whenever I suggest it, she looks at me as if I’ve farted in church.”

  “The British aren’t exactly known for being adventurous eaters.”

  “I’d hardly call noodles and tomato sauce adventurous.”

  Cam smiles. “You’re not British.”

  “You’ve got me there.”

  “But pretty boy certainly is. He’d give the Prince of Wales a run for his money in the silk-pocket-square-and-stuffiness department.”

  I smile at Cam’s dry assessment. “He’s just reserved.”

  “Repressed, you mean.”

  I roll my eyes and stuff a fluffy piece of bread, still warm from the oven, into my mouth. I moan at how delicious it is. It’s the first piece of bread I’ve had in what feels like forever. “Carbs are proof that God loves us, don’t you think?”

  “I think Benjamin Franklin said that about wine.”

  He watches me eat for a moment, until I become uncomfortable. “You’re staring.”

  “I like watchin’ you eat. Your enjoyment of food is obvious. It’s not often a woman allows herself that pleasure in public.”

  My cheeks heat. I swallow the bread as daintily as I can, fearing I look like some kind of farm animal at the trough.

  Cam laughs at the look on my face. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s sexy.”

  I’m filled with gratitude for the waiter, who appears at our table at that moment, allowing me to escape having to formulate a response to Cameron McGregor calling me sexy again. I doubt my brain has enough cells to tackle that one.

  We give the waiter our drink orders. When he’s gone, Cam says, “So.”

  “So.”

  His smile comes on slow and heated. “D’you wanna talk about your little internet research project first, or pretty boy?”

  I stuff another piece of bread into my mouth.

  “Okay. Pretty boy it is. No, wait, first tell me who the woman was who stopped by your desk?”

  “That was Portia.”

  He lifts his brows. “She didn’t seem nearly as bad as you’ve made her out to be.”

  “I know. It’s weird. She almost seemed human for a minute there.” I shrug, knowing I’ll never solve that particular mystery. “She was probably just dazed into acting like a person and not a witch because her brain was taking a nice warm dopamine bath brought on by standing three feet away from you.”

  Cam’s eyes sparkle with laughter. “Oh? Is that what happens to females when I walk into a room?”

  I wave a hand at him. “Oh, please, McGregor. You know the effect you have on women. It’s like you’re one of those magicians who does mass hypnosis tricks, making everyone in the audience crow like roosters.”

  He gazes at me for a beat. “Not everyone.”

  The waiter returns with our drinks: a water for me and a beer for Cam. He takes our food order and leaves, then Cam mercifully changes the subject.

  “Pretty boy’s gonna ask you what the deal is with us, first thing he can.”

  “I’ve already told him we’re just friends.”

  “You’re gonna have to tell him again. But don’t get drawn into a long discussion about it. Wave your hand like you just did at me, and change the subject. If he insists, tell him that I’m not your type.” His voice darkens. “It won’t take much convincin’ for him to believe it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Cam takes a long swig of his beer, then looks out the window. “Because no matter how much money I have, I’m still just a jobby to him.”

  “Jobby?”

  “Trash. Unworthy to even be in his presence, much less earn the attention of a woman he fancies.”

  I wonder how much of his opinion of Michael is due to his own experience living in Sir Gladstone’s home. I wonder how it was for him, growing up without a father. Knowing his father killed himself, knowing he beat his mother so badly she went into premature labor.

  Whatever my parents’ faults, I always felt safe. Maybe not unde
rstood or completely accepted, but safe. Cared for. Wanted. I can’t imagine the kind of demons Cam has had to live with his entire life.

  “Spit it out, lass.”

  I glance up and find Cam watching me closely.

  When I squirm a little under his intense gaze, he says softly, “I already told you, you can ask me anything.”

  I busy myself with fiddling with the edge of the tablecloth because it feels too nosy to look at him. Or maybe I’m just a coward. It’s difficult for me to witness other people’s pain, and I think the conversation is about to take a very personal turn.

  “I owe you an apology for assuming your life was all butterflies and rainbows. It makes me feel crappy that you probably get that a lot. Assumptions about who you are. Judgments.”

  Cam’s fingers drum the tablecloth. “Thank you. But that wasn’t a question.”

  How does he know I want to ask him something? Probably the same way he knows most other things: he’s observant.

  I want to ask him if he’s happy. I want to ask him if he has any real friends. If that’s what he meant when he said we’d never be friends—because everyone wants something from him, including me.

  How can I honestly claim to want to be his friend? A true friendship isn’t based on what you think you can get out of it. It’s based on respecting someone enough to let him be who he really is. A true friend is someone who says “I’m here for you” and proves it.

  It dawns on me that Cam is probably the best friend I’ve ever had.

  Cam says sharply, “Lass.”

  My eyes sting. I shake my head, drawing a deep breath in an attempt to calm my emotions. “Give me a minute,” I croak, and take a long drink from my water glass. After a few moments of rapid eye blinking and air gulping, I find the strength to meet his worried gaze. If only my voice had the decency not to wobble.

  “I think you’re an amazing person. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. This whole Michael project . . . it means a lot. I don’t take your help for granted. And I’m sorry for all the stupid things I’ve said to you, all the times I’ve been sarcastic or flippant. I wasn’t trying to be mean. I was just . . .”