Actresses in town shooting the latest movie, athletes showing off their championship swagger, bankers and CEOs who needed to talk about how much they're worth, the few remaining old Boston socialites.
And me.
I didn't have any Hollywood producers in my phone book, but I folded right in each time. It helped that I knew the architects who worked on The Liberty's restoration and could speak fluently about the process of transforming it from a decommissioned jail to high-end hotel.
Everyone loved that shit.
I was self-aware enough to acknowledge that seeing and being seen offered a degree of validation that I craved. Any kid who was systematically relegated to humiliating daily taunts or dismissed by pretty girls would relish an evening spent chatting with the Celtics' point guard.
To the best of my knowledge, none of the dickheads I knew from school enjoyed anything like this.
Mondays were slow nights, and I watched a group of guys who seemed to be reciting scenes from Swingers while I nursed my drink. Women approached, and some were bold enough to sit beside me and attempt a conversation. It should have been enough to pull me out of my head tonight, but it wasn't.
My funk, my gorge, my black hole…whatever it was, I was falling further.
Most women moved on when I didn't reciprocate their interest, but one didn't get the hint. I could have excused myself; I did have an early meeting back at the Turlan property.
Instead, she rattled on about her work (ignored that part), her friends (bitches—all of them—but she'd find one for a threesome if I wanted), her Twitter followers (quite a few, apparently), and I just wanted her to shut the fuck up.
It got as far as letting her pull my cock out in the coat check room before my skin was crawling, and it wasn't from an impending anxiety attack.
Isn't that why you're willing to accept quick, emotionless sex from women who expect nothing from you? Isn't it your way of repossessing some youthful irresponsibility?
It was Tiel. I couldn't stomach the idea of anyone else touching me.
Without a word, I zipped up and all but ran home.
Once my front door was closed behind me, I dropped to the ground and pulled out my phone. It wasn't drunkenness or depression. The polished concrete just seemed like the best spot to hate myself.
I scrolled through my texts and missed calls, hoping I'd see something from Tiel. There was nothing, and though I didn't know what time it was, it felt like the right time to call her. This needed fixing, and if she tore my beating heart out of my chest and sliced it like pastrami, at least I wouldn't have to live with the regret of not trying.
I started thinking about how to explain what happened on Friday when I realized she was talking to me.
"Sam, I can hear you breathing. If this is a butt dial at one in the morning, I'm going to be epically pissed. You know I have studio time at six every Tuesday."
"You're fun," I laughed. "You're my Sunshine."
"You're drunk."
Was I? No. Not as much as I should be. "Quite hardly," I said. "You really are fun, Tiel. I enjoy your company."
"Uh-huh."
"When are we going out again?" I heard her yawn and glanced to my watch. It was after one in the morning. "We can go to another filthy music house if that's what you want, but I think you'd like The Liberty. You'd find it adequately strange."
"Sam," she sighed. It was a long, elaborate sound, and it landed somewhere between annoyed and fire-breathing. "Do you remember Friday night?"
"I do," I said slowly. "I think I might have been an asshole."
Tiel laughed, and as it rang in my ear, I realized I was smiling.
"You were just being yourself, honey. Don't beat yourself up about it," she said.
"That was the sweetest insult I've ever heard," I chuckled. "I'd take your abuse any day. But seriously, when are we going out next? I'm beginning to tolerate hillbilly music, but I'd listen to anything if it meant I could kiss you again."
"Hillbilly music," she repeated, her voice bubbling with laughter.
"Can I tell you a secret?"
"How drunk are you?" she said.
I wasn't acknowledging the drunk comment. I didn't care if she thought alcohol was greasing the words. "I'm in a weird place right now, like a funk. It reminds me of the last time I was camping near the bottom of Quechee Gorge in Vermont except I'm stuck there, in the canyon. But when I'm with you, I don't feel stuck."
"Oh, Sam—"
"Don't do that, Tiel. Yell at me for being a dick, give me shit for ordering cucumbers in my gin, but don't talk to me like I'm a three-legged dog." I slid farther down, pillowing an arm under my head as I stared at the ductwork on the ceiling. "I want to see you."
"I don't think that's good for me," she said.
"Come out with me on Friday," I said. "I'm getting an award for something. We can do that, and then go wherever you want. I want to see you."
"I don't know, Sam. I want to see you too, but…"
"There's nothing to deliberate," I said. "I'm a lonely perv without you."
She sighed, and I realized I should have gone after her. I should have followed her home and explained the web of crazy in my head, all of it, and if I had done that, I wouldn't be sprawled on the cold concrete floor right now, alone.
"What's the award for?" she asked.
"I built something and people liked it," I said. "I'm pretty great like that."
Tiel burst out laughing, and I let the sound unravel all my twisted misery. With each of her gasping breaths, I felt lighter, freer, and if it was possible, happier.
"I'm going to tell you what I'm thinking from now on," I said. I heard the slur in my voice but hoped she didn't notice. This was honesty, not inebriation. "All the time. Total honesty. If I'd said what I was thinking last week, I wouldn't have hurt you and you wouldn't be mad at me now. I don't always say what I want to say."
"Oh, I know that," she laughed. "You have entire conversations with yourself that no one else is invited to."
I closed my eyes, smiled, and convinced myself to just fucking say it. "I'm picking you up at seven on Friday. Wear something that gives me a decent view of your tits. I need to keep myself entertained around these crusty old architects, and there's nothing on this planet I enjoy more than your breasts. You have no idea how much I want to taste them. I had the first wet dream I've had in years this week, and it was because of those tits. I didn't even mind waking up in a fucking puddle."
"What the fuck are you doing on the floor? And who are you talking to? You know I can fucking hear you all the way upstairs, right?" I turned my head and saw Riley standing over me. He grabbed my elbow and hauled me up. "Get your ass into bed, son. We have a meeting with clients at eight."
"Is that Riley?" Tiel giggled. "Are you in trouble?"
"You have five minutes to be asleep or I'm taking your phone," Riley said as he pushed me in the direction of my room.
"I'd rather be sleeping with you." I groaned and shuffled toward my bed. "Actually, I'd rather fuck you then sleep with you."
"Now I know you're really drunk," she mumbled.
"The world makes sense when you let me hold you, and I can only imagine holding you naked would bear similar, if not better, results." Tiel didn't respond, and I checked my battery before saying, "Was that the wrong thing?"
"No," she said. "No. Keep saying exactly what you're thinking. I'll see you on Friday."
"Tiel?" She yawned in response. "Thanks for sorting me out. Again."
"Of course, Sam. Always. Sleep well."
I fell face-first onto my bed, and slept until the alarm on my glucose monitor started vibrating against my hip before dawn. I couldn't keep doing this to myself. Drinking, not eating, exercising like crazy. My body had no idea what was going on from one minute to the next, and it showed in these violent blood sugar swings.
One of these mornings, I wasn't going to wake up.
Nauseous, numb, cold-sweat shivering, head throbbing, and mouth d
rier than Death Valley, I blindly scrolled through this morning's Boston Globe while choking down some glucose tablets and promising myself I wouldn't let this happen again. I hated these hypoglycemic fogs with a passion, and it took my body hours to truly recover.
The highlight, by far, was a text from Tiel.
Tiel: In case you forgot, you called me last night. I suspect you were very drunk and will be very hungover when you read this.
Sam: I didn't forget. I'll pick you up at 7 on Friday. I'm spending the night with you and we're watching The Boondock Saints.
Sam: (Thank you for writing in actual words. My retinas would bleed if I had to read text speak)
Tiel: You're welcome but you're rude. RUDE.
Sam: Because I said I'm staying with you?
Tiel: No. You can always stay with me but how do you know I want to watch that movie? Maybe I want to watch Pitch Perfect.
Sam: We'll watch whatever you want. Just let me take your clothes off and spend the night with you.
If I could hold on to her, I'd be okay.
12
Tiel
I held a black sheath dress over my body and inspected myself in the mirror. I'd worn that one to an audition. Too boring, and not particularly forgiving when it came to my hips.
"And then the venue crew misplaced the good Strat and all the fiddles," Ellie said. "Needless to say, we spent a bloody hour going through the vans, calling the last venue, and basically losing our fucking minds. And they were backstage the entire time. I've never been so ready to punch someone in the throat as I was at that moment."
I grabbed a purple sweater dress and rubbed the fabric between my fingers. Too heavy. I'd be a greasy sweatball before we left the apartment.
"Maybe I shouldn't go," I murmured.
Sam and I talked throughout the week and continued texting each other first thing in the mornings, and while he frequently referenced wanting to get naked and spend the night with me, I needed more time to sort this out. I was still bruised over last Friday, and that rejection didn't dissolve because he got drunk and unloaded everything on his mind.
"Oh, lawd. I don't understand why we've had this exact conversation every day this week. He called. He apologized. He was a typical Neanderthal man. Get dressed and go to the damn event!" She swore under her breath. "You're still into him, yeah?"
I dumped three gray dresses—more audition and formal performance wear—on the bed. They would work for the occasion, or at least from the limited information I was able to extract from Sam, but I hated them with the fire of a thousand suns.
Throw in some black tights and I was my grandmother on her way to Friday evening mass.
"He's the right combination of cool and nerdy," I said. "He's secretly precious."
I flung two maxi dresses on the bed—too summery, and with a thin layer of icy snow on the ground, it definitely wasn't summer anymore—and a floaty pink thing I wore to a rustic wedding last spring. Too fairy princess.
"You like hanging out with him?"
I stared at a red dress edged with white cherries. Too quirky.
"Yeah," I said.
This was the first time in months that we hadn't gone out during the week, and it was odd not seeing him. Even with his commitment to stream of consciousness honesty, talking or texting wasn't the same as being with him. I thought about inviting him out on several occasions, but tonight was different from our usual music, drinks, and movies routine.
This ventured into date territory, and I didn't want to muddy those waters with a mid-week hop for some R&B in Roxbury.
I threw four more dresses to the bed, all printed with random objects—pineapples, cats, bicycles, dragonflies—and sighed. They were perfect for teaching music therapy classes, or sessions with my little buddies, but they weren't even close to appropriate for an Official Work Event.
"Stop analyzing. Don't be that analyzer girl," she said. "We don't like Analyzer Girl because she spends her whole life reading into everything guys say when she should be kicking ass."
I glanced at my near-empty closet. Maybe I could get by with jeans and an Abbey Road t-shirt.
"I'm not being Analyzer Girl, really. I'm not. I want Sam like fat kids want cake—and I was a fat kid so I know—but he's a player who didn't want to play with me. There's really no other way for me to interpret that one," I said. "How many guys do you know who turn down a BJ?"
"I can think of a ton of reasons why he'd turn down a beej in the back room at Hermit Crab," Ellie said. "But I'm a little shocked you'd be game for something like that. Think about it. At best you're friends with limited benefits. At worst, you're weirdos who occasionally have sofa sleepovers."
I held up and then discarded another dress. "He said it himself. He's been in a funk. I'm funkified enough to get him out of it, and when I do, he'll add me to his discard pile."
I settled onto an empty corner of the bed and polished off the iced cappuccino I picked up on my way home from my lesson with Seraphina. She wasn't talking yet, but now she looked at me and occasionally offered a nod to indicate she wanted to play 'More Than This' again. And again. And again.
"Hey, Analyzer Girl? Can you put Tiel back on? You're annoying." She said something to one of her bandmates and laughed. "Do you need my permission to cancel on him? If you honestly don't want to go, say it. I'll call and tell him you moved to Copenhagen."
"I want to go," I said. "I just can't find anything to wear."
I wasn't giving voice to the thoughts pinging through my mind: was he still hooking up every night? Was he fucking club girls only to call me five minutes later and ask about my day?
I wanted to be that girl who could roll with rooftop kisses and sex-free sleepovers and then some, and considering I initiated it all, I should have been able to handle it. But I wasn't built that way.
Not anymore. Maybe not ever.
"What about that navyish dress? The lacy one?"
Frowning, I thumbed through the closet one more time until landing on the sleeveless flared skirt dress. The sapphire color seemed mature without being boring, and the eyelet embroidery pattern was cute and eclectic.
"Yeah," I murmured. "Maybe."
"I have to run. It's chow time and these boys are under the impression their beards entitle them to more food. But listen, whatever you're working yourself up about? Use your words. Tell him what you want and what you don't want. Big girl panties."
I turned up my Taylor Swift playlist and packed the dresses back into my closet, then set to finding shoes. Ellie mentioned her beige heels, but I didn't understand why anyone would wear beige. I wasn't designed for heels, either. I wobbled too much, and never managed the elegant strut of women who knew their way around some stilettos.
The dress paired perfectly with a fuchsia cardigan, and the flat iron brought some order to my hair while a crème treatment tended to my girlstache. Thankfully, the fine whiskers weren't multiplying in length or quantity, but like clockwork, they switched back to black within a couple weeks of bleaching. I was nearly finished with my eyeliner when I heard a knock.
He was facing down the hallway and adjusting his cuffs when I opened the door, and he pivoted, giving me a slow motion view of his charcoal gray three-piece suit.
Oh, holy Moses.
I'd heard the phrase suit porn before but never saw the interest until Sam Walsh. It helped that he was standing in my doorway with a lopsided grin, and I knew what he hid under all those fine fabrics.
I mean, mostly. There were a few lingering mysteries that I was, ahem, curious about.
"Hi," he said. His eyes moved over me, and his smile fell into a scowl. "Are you wearing that to piss me off?"
I looked down at my dress and gold ballet flats, and back up at Sam. There was often commentary about my clothing, but it was playful, not scowly. "What?"
"How is this any fun for me?" He gestured to the lace that covered my chest and shoulders. "What did I do that took your tits away from me?"
"You ra
n screaming from me like I was a fucking zombie trying to suck your brains out through your dick," I said. I crossed my arms over my chest, annoyed that I'd spent an hour rummaging through every scrap of clothing in this apartment only to meet with his dissatisfaction. As far as I was concerned, he'd lost the right to cleavage-viewing. "And when you finally called me, it was one o'clock in the morning."
Sam stepped inside and closed the door behind him, his eyes rolling when he turned to me. "No. That's not what happened. Not even close."
He rubbed his brow, and his cufflinks caught my attention. They looked like real emeralds, and somehow they matched his pink paisley tie and silver pocket square beautifully.
"Then tell me what happened," I said.
He shoved his hands in his pockets with a sigh before meeting my eyes. "I didn't want you sucking me off in some back room like any of those…you know what? It doesn't matter what I did before. Blowjobs are a lot like cheeseburgers. Just because I can get one anywhere doesn't mean that's what I want."
"Since when do you eat cheeseburgers?"
Yeah, I liked to focus on the core issues like that.
"I don't. That's not the point, Tiel."
He laughed and held out his hand to me, but I didn't budge. I could let go, I could forgive and forget, but it took me a little longer to get there than most. My sister always said I held grudges, though I didn't see it that way. My feelings just moved at their own speed, some faster than others.
"I know your name. You're not one of them. You're different. I don't want it to be like it was before…before you."
"Oh…" I hadn't considered that option.
"I'm sorry about everything. I'm a douche waffle," he said.
I was softening. I could feel it in the way my arms refused to stay rigid across my chest and my mouth wiggled into a smile. "I'm not familiar with douche waffles."
"That's a technical term. Riley taught me that. It's reserved for epically poor decision-making." He moved closer and ran his fingers down my arm to my hand. "Please? I can't stand being close but not touching you."
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