Far From Home

by Lorelie Brown

  Pari leans against the doorjamb. “The usual reason. There’s a nasty, gossipy story that starts in this room and ends in the fountain upstairs.”

  “The one on the other roof?”

  “Yes.”

  I want to be there, suddenly. So I leave the small, heartbreakingly normal room behind and make my way to the fountain’s burbling peace. Except it doesn’t feel as peaceful as it looked from far away. It feels like a reckless place. Like fortunes have been found and lost here. It’s off the music room. Even now, a forgotten violin waits on a stand for a player that will never come.

  “I assume it was the usual story?” I wiggle my toes free from my heels and stand barefoot on the edge of the fountain. “The maid either loved or rebuffed a man who decided to use his power to hurt her. She was ruined and distraught and killed herself here?”

  “You’re partially correct.” Pari takes off her shoes more carefully, slipping them off one by one and lining them up neatly next to the small pile I’d made of mine. But then she stands beside me. “The maid loved a man, a frequent visitor of the estate. For a while, he seemed to love her in return. But then he turned cruel.”

  “Don’t they always in stories like these?” I could see it unfolding. The maid’s perfect curls beneath the peak of her cap. The man would be a financier. He’d have dark hair slicked back from his temples, and he’d look like a god in a tux with tails.

  “She let the little cruelties pass, because she believed that he loved her as she loved him. Until she became pregnant. Then she told him no more, that they should ‘be as one’ and marry for the sake of their child.”

  “I imagine he didn’t run out and buy a ring?”

  “Oh, but he did. Lillian was thrilled for the maid she’d always been fond of. She let them honeymoon in that room.” Pari points across the terrace at a freestanding suite with its own tall teak door. “The first night, everything seemed fine.”

  I shiver. Pari is a born storyteller, no matter what she said about not being creative, pausing long enough for me to feel the claws of tension up my back.

  “It was the second night that he beat her. Beat the baby out of her, according to medical reports. He concentrated almost entirely on her abdomen.”

  “Bastard.” It seemed an extra cruelty to have married her. To have given her hope that everything would be fine and that her life could begin anew, free of working in service.

  “The maid went to the hospital nearby.”

  “I hope Lillian kicked him out on his ear.”

  Pari shook her head. She dipped a toe in the clear water. “She didn’t. She told the man he could stay as long as he wanted, since she was so sure that he must be upset over his wife’s poor health. He stayed another night. The maid died in the hospital that day.”

  “How sad.”

  “The man was dead by morning.” Pari strolls to the far side of the fountain, in front of the door to the music room. There’s a black section of tile there, as if a pie wedge has been sliced out. “Kneeling here, his hands clasped in prayer. But he was dead. Shot. The LA coroner said it was suicide.”

  “It wasn’t, though,” I say with a grim sense of satisfaction.

  “It’s said Lillian did it herself and then danced in the fountain afterwards.” Pari looks up at me from under her thick, raven lashes. “But maybe that part’s just a story, like the ghost.”

  I scoop up the hem of my already-short skirt. My entire legs are bare to the warm breeze. I hop into the water energetically enough that it splashes me too. The water is surprisingly warm. Being only deep enough to go to my knees probably means it held the day’s sunshine. “It’s true. Wouldn’t you dance? If you’d taken revenge on someone who hurt your friend? Someone you cared about?”

  I twirl through the water, holding my skirts as if for an old-fashioned waltz. I hum as I dance, something old and fancy sounding.

  “It would depend on who it was,” Pari says from the edge of the fountain.

  “Come in. The water’s warm.”

  “My dress is longer than yours. I’d get it wet.”

  “Then take it off.”

  I snatch the very air away with my dare. I can’t believe I threw the challenge out there. I nearly gape at myself, though I’m looking at Pari. The throbbing beat of my pulse threatens to swamp the water I stand in.

  Maybe she’ll pass it off as a joke. I’ve seen her in a bikini, after all. This wouldn’t be anything different.

  Except, of course it would be.

  We both know it, and we don’t have to speak a word. The fountain seems to speak for us, burbling into the air in an eternal declaration. I wonder if it has ever been turned off. If it felt given up on after the lady of the house was gone.

  Pari takes my dare.

  She slides down the zipper that starts under her arm. Her gaze never leaves me, but she can’t seem to manage to stay locked on my eyes. She looks at my hair, my legs, all of me. I try not to notice. I don’t want to become aware of my body. Not when there’s something sparkling and new coming my way.

  She unveils herself with a strangely balanced calm and tension. She would delve into me given the slightest hint of welcome. But more than that, she knows who she is.

  With a coil of her shoulders, she wriggles free of her dress. It catches first on her sublime bosom before she peels it down to her waist. She wears a creation of lace and satin that looks like some sort of cross between a bra and a short corset. It lifts her breasts like gifts.

  She twists the silk of her dress past her waist and hips in one motion, and then she’s bending over as she steps out of it, so I can’t quite get the whole picture of her. Pari turns away to toss her clothes toward a teak bench. Full silk panties cover and cup a generous ass. The center seam is ruched to make her round globes seem even perkier.

  She looks back over her shoulder and catches me ogling her bum.

  I pretend like I’m not embarrassed. “I wish my ass looked like yours.”

  She turns slowly, knowing that I’m taking in every inch of her like a starving woman. I haven’t felt true hunger in so long, I almost don’t understand its reappearance. Her waist is beautiful. Her hips swell out solely to display that tiny waist and the magic in its rich shaping.

  “I don’t think that’s true.”

  It takes me a minute to remember what she’s talking about. I’ve been gobsmacked by the perfection of her hourglass. Oh. Yes. That I wished my ass looked like hers. That I wished I had all of her. That I want to live inside her skin.

  But she’s right, in a way. On her, I can see the beauty of her lushness. On me, I’d be ashamed. I’d see the inches of each thigh like a demonstration of my lack of control. Pari’s stomach is soft and gentle, and I want to lay my head on her bare flesh and feel her breaths with mine. On me, that stomach would be gross.

  I’m shaking. I’m not as well as I thought I was. I want to hold her. I want to be held. I don’t know how to ask for either.

  Pari sees me. She sees my need and my dilemma. She comes close enough that she can toy with the feathery end of my braid. I’m still clothed, though my dress barely covers more of me than her undergarments do. Despite that, she’s the stronger one of us.

  With a single finger, she traces the inside of my wrist and all the way up to my elbow. I watch the movement, silently begging her to stop. Silently begging her to go farther. To touch me in more places.

  She doesn’t. She reverses her course, trailing her fingernail down the inside of my forearm. “Do you have any tattoos, Rachel?”

  “None. Didn’t you see on the beach?”

  “I was trying to be respectful. I couldn’t look at you as much as I wanted to.” She toys with the hem of my skirt. It’s practically the same as touching my thighs when the thin material transfers the sensation. “I think you should show me now.”

  I don’t want to be naked. I don’t want to be seen undressed by anyone, much less Pari. “I think you should kiss me.”

  Her mouth cu
rves into one of the most beautiful smiles I’ve ever seen. The white hint of her teeth between her pretty, dark-pink lips is so lovely. “Now? When we’re both sober?”

  I swallow past the tightness in my throat, but it doesn’t do anything to help the tightness between my legs. It’s not just my thighs. It’s my pussy squeezing itself into something new. “Please. I want to try again.”

  “Is that what I am, Rachel? An experiment?” There’s snap to her words, bite. I try not to flinch. “If that’s it, I’ve been here before. I don’t want to do it again.”

  She might be a lifeline. She might be something more than that. I don’t know, and I refuse to think about all the possibilities, so I lean forward and put my lips to hers.

  It’s what I’ve done with boyfriends before, and it’s always been enough. Given that hint, they have always taken over from there, like marauders who’ve found a chink in armor. Then I only have to hang on for the ride and let them do what they want.

  Not Pari. She’s different.

  She’s patient.

  Her lips are soft and bigger than mine. Our mouths are both dry. Our skin more tender than I would have thought possible. Her eyes flutter shut, but I keep mine open. I want to see the individual hairs of her dark lashes. I want to know how the knot between her brows loosens as she sighs into my mouth.

  So I kiss her harder. I push her lips apart with mine. I take her breath. We’re sweetness, and sweetness turning into ruthlessness. The tips of my breasts tighten to the point of pain. Goose bumps wash across her flesh, and I love it. I love that she’s vulnerable for me.

  Her hands find home at my hips. Her thumbs cast circles over my skin, the thin material only a ghost between us. I hold her face between both my palms and bury my fingers in her heavy hair. It’s too thick for me to find her scalp. Lacework set to trap me. And Christ, but I don’t care at all.

  I could be caught in her web for a thousand years, and it wouldn’t be enough.

  We breathe together as one, lean in and then out again. We’re something new. I hardly know the fountain water that slips around our knees. It only matters when I try to squeeze closer to her and can’t find safe footing. I think I make a sad, impatient little noise.

  Pari pulls away. Her grip on my hips tightens when I try to seek her mouth.

  “But, please,” I whisper.

  She sets a finger on my lips. I dart my tongue out and lick her. She hisses a breath. Her breathing comes fast and hard, which makes me realize mine is too. Good. That’s what’s supposed to happen. This is how we’re supposed to be.

  “This isn’t smart,” Pari warns me. Her voice shakes though.

  “I don’t care.” I’d follow these feelings into a lava crater. They feel like they’d immolate me all on their own, after all. Why not let nature do the job as well?

  “We have at least two years together.”

  “Let’s make it better.”

  She pulls far enough away that cold air spills between us. I want to trace the bottom hem of her corselet. It’s a track over her skin that marks her curves like a railroad marks a mountain’s highest peaks.

  “This is a mistake.”

  She means it. Oh God. This isn’t just some “we should, but we shouldn’t” sort of foreplay. I curl my hands in on themselves. They feel twice as empty for lack of touching her. My stomach flips. I turn half-away.

  I’m not right for her. Of course. That’s why she’d thought it would be fine to enter this facade together, that we play at being married. “Oh. Okay.”

  “Rachel, are you okay?” She touches my shoulder.

  I’m cold, I realize. With the sun down, the water can’t hold the heat forever. I step out of the fountain, one foot in the black section and one on the orange, Spanish-style. I take a fast, deep breath before looking at Pari. “Fine, honey. Just fine. You’re totally right. We have a bargain. Screwing it up would be a stupid mess.”

  She holds her palms out to me, helpless. I like looking down on her. She doesn’t seem so calm, so collected now. I want to tousle her up. “We’re getting married in a month, and then I can submit my paperwork. If we have a relationship and it goes south but in less than two years, and DHS is already involved …”

  “Who says it’s going to go south?”

  “You’ve never even been with a woman before.” Her throat works as she swallows. “I … can’t bear it again.”

  “Taneisha?”

  She nods. “She was married to a right bastard. I helped her when she left him. We were friends. While they were separated, she and I became more. And then when she was bored, she went back to her husband.”

  I don’t want to hurt her. Just like I know she doesn’t want to hurt me. “A mess. You’re right. So you might want to get dressed.” I make myself nod, and it’s almost scary how easily the smile comes in its wake.

  She hesitates a moment, looking up at me with her green eyes so wide they catch twinkles of light from the music room. But then she steps out of the pool and scoops up her dress. To put it on, she pulls it over her head. Stepping out of it must have been an act for me. “It’s Amma’s fault. She’s the one who insisted we go out on a date.”

  “I’ll make myself scarce over the next few weeks, while you guys get things ready.” I hop down. I’m not crying. I’m not shaky. I don’t even feel the lust anymore. I’ve packed it all away into a little cube that I don’t want to look at. “I’ll be like a real groom. Leave all the decisions up to you.”

  “Are you sure?” She sweeps the ends of her thick hair out of her neckline before zipping up. “Is that okay with you?”

  “I’ll go dress shopping.” There’s no way I’m giving up control of my personal appearance to someone else. They wouldn’t know how I need certain cuts that hide the softness of my midsection and cap sleeves to conceal the pudge of my inside arm. “Everything else, we’ll let your mom lead. It’s fine. It’ll make her happy. You’ll have lots of paperwork and documentation for immigration.”

  And maybe, just maybe, it won’t make me miserable.

  It’s surprisingly easy to avoid Pari, despite living in the same apartment. Even when we’re sharing the same bed. Pari gets up early with her mom. I sleep in—or I at least try to—and ignore the mouthwatering scents that waft from the kitchen. Denial, my old friend, is back. But I rationalize that it isn’t as if I’m denying myself food in general. I eat. I sweep up handfuls of fruit to take to work with me, or I stop at diners and have eggs. I just don’t eat in the kitchen. That isn’t a warning sign, I tell myself.

  It’s surprisingly easy to sleep in Pari’s bed. She’s always asleep by the time I get in, or still working to make up the time that she’s putting in with her mom. I brush my teeth and slip into the bed as if it’s a hotel bed. I’m happy it’s clean and soft. We don’t wake up piled on top of each other anymore.

  I’m great at compartmentalizing things. It’s a gift. Or maybe a curse. I don’t know, but it serves me well.

  I make nice with Niharika every time I see her. It’s here that Pari catches me, in the living room with her mother. Niharika has the TV muted, and she’s talking to me about the wedding plans.

  I let it go in one ear and out the other. This is none of my concern. This is what makes Niharika happy, and in turn, Pari. That’s fine.

  That’s all fine.

  Pari is beautiful. She comes out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a dishcloth. I wonder what she’s cooking. Maybe if there are leftovers, I can sneak a little and take a Tupperware to work tomorrow.

  “Tomorrow evening is wedding-dress shopping,” Niharika tells me. She pats my hand. “You’ll come for that, yes? I know Pari tells me you’re busy clearing up a big project before the wedding so you’ll have time off for the honeymoon, but there’s certain things we cannot do without you.”

  My hand clenches on the back of the couch. “I don’t know. Tomorrow?” I’m buying time as I try to figure out what I’m doing. I can’t not be involved in buying a dress I have
to wear in front of that many people. I bite my lip.

  “I’m sure Julian will understand,” Pari supplies.

  Julian is my boss, and the supposed project I’ve been pouring my time into is his. But it’s not as big a deal as Pari seems to be making it to Niharika. It’s Richard’s twenty-minute short film, the one he’s using to get back on his feet after cleaning up his heroin habit. I’m only supposed to be your average girl Friday on the project. But Julian is out of patience with the guy, so he’s putting in the minimum possible effort. I can’t blame him. I’ve added a few lines here and there, maybe cleaned up a character’s motivation, and Richard isn’t accepting changes easily.

  But I have a lot of time on my hands. Patience has made him easier to deal with. Turns out—how surprising—that a man who used to be ridiculously famous loves having someone listen to him for hours and hours.

  “We made the appointment as late as we could manage,” Niharika says. “Four o’clock.”

  I swallow the helium balloon that seems to be pushing out my lungs. “I’ll be there.”

  Then I run away. I stay at work, rewriting the script for the fifth time because Richard wants to be able to emote more. I get some sushi and sit in a booth alone, reading on my Kindle. Then I go to the gym. I spend close to three hours between the treadmill, elliptical, and weight machines. By the time I shower, it’s late enough that I go home to a nearly dark apartment.

  Pari left the light on over the stove for me, and it’s just bright enough to get me through the apartment. I slip my shoes off at the door to walk silently. I drop my gym bag on the couch.

  Pari is asleep in the huge bed. She’s wearing a silken pajama tank top. She clings to the edge of the bed, literally, with one hand wrapped around the corner of the mattress. The other is shoved under her pillow.

  I can’t believe I made that much of an idiot of myself at the fountain. I shouldn’t have started anything. We’d been having a great night until I took it too far.

  I want to wake her up and apologize, but that seems even stupider. I’m not sure how I’d string together the words of an apology. It wasn’t as if she’s been reluctant to put her tongue in my mouth.