by Olivia Luck
What about you?
Longing returns with brutal force. Keenly aware of how alone I am, both in the physical sense of sitting in a restaurant by myself and in the emotional sense, longing fills me. I grab my purse, toss out our garbage, and head out onto the street toward my car.
As fulfilling as my life is, I can’t help but be burdened by loneliness. As caring and wonderful as Violet is, she can’t meet all my needs for emotional and physical support. There is a reason why everyone pairs off into relationships. Friendships with siblings work only to provide a certain amount of fulfillment. I see how my sister gives Cameron a different side of herself than she does me. Because my parents weren’t a shining example of a healthy, enduring relationship, I didn’t realize what could be derived from a truly loving partner. I’m discovering what a true relationship looks like.
God, I want one of my own. I want a man to love me as deeply as I love him; a partner to call when I have a bad day; a person to call when I have a good day; a shoulder to lean on when I’m feeling insecure. But wanting a relationship doesn’t mean I’ll fall into one. The painful part of this process is learning that just because you dream something doesn’t mean you’ll get it overnight. I have no control over certain variable like attraction and time and willingness to be in a relationship. Despite oodles of attraction and commonalities, Oscar isn’t open to dating exclusively.
At the moment I pull my keys from my purse, my phone vibrates with an incoming call.
Oscar calling.
My mouth falls open in shock. Does this man have a tap into what I’m thinking? Gosh, it’s like his ears were burning.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Iris.” The husky timbre of his voice sends gooseflesh dotting all over my neck.
The car beeps when I press the unlock button. I climb in and lock the doors, then turn the car on to start running the heater. A November chill pushes the mild Indian summer temperature into a thing of the past.
“Isn’t it late for a social call?”
I can almost see Oscar’s unbothered expression. “You left me in a lurch today. We need to talk about the dinner, and with the holidays approaching, everyone’s schedule is filling.”
“Excuse me for having plans,” I mutter.
“Where were you off to in such a hurry?”
I frown at the question. “Oscar, I’m not sure how my plans are any of your business.”
“An innocent question from one friend to another.”
Friend, my bum. We hardly talk. “Look, I’m driving home. Can I call you tomorrow?”
“Call me when you get home so I know you got there safely,” Oscar commands.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re bossy, Oscar?” I’ve gotten used to how relaxed I am around Oscar, how easy it is to speak to him without fear of judgment.
His tone softens. “Knowing you got home in one piece will let me sleep better. Call me when you’re safe inside your house. Drive carefully, Iris.” The line goes dead. How typical. Oscar makes a demand and expects me to fall into line. Well, friends don’t push friends around.
Fifteen short minutes later, I’m stewing in annoyance. Thankfully, the apartment is empty. Violet’s not here because Cameron got back from a week away earlier today.
In my apartment, my hands tremble with unchecked anger. Muttering to myself, I swipe the phone with my thumbs until I get to his number. Oscar answers on the first ring.
“That was–”
“Who do you think you are, Oscar Alexander? You don’t have any right to boss me around. I don’t belong to you.” Adrenaline pumps through my veins, my pulse roars in that spot between my ears. I’m furious, and I’m not entirely sure why.
“I’m sorry; I thought this was Iris Harper on the other line. Who switched Aurora with the wicked sorceress?”
A puff of air is my attempt at a relaxing exhale. “Oscar, stop with the mixed messages. Friends don’t call friends at nearly midnight to check in. Friends don’t poke around in each other’s business. Friends don’t . . . Friends don’t sleep together. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m not comfortable with the late night phone call and you digging into what I’m doing. Unless I missed something, I don’t think our friendship goes that deep.”
Silence reigns. “Seems as though I’m always apologizing to you, Iris,” Oscar says gruffly. My heart jumps into my throat as I wait for him to continue, wondering desperately what he will say next. “It wasn’t my intention to send mixed messages. I genuinely want to be your friend, and I was worried when you said you were driving home by yourself late at night. We live in a dangerous city.” Oscar sighs, and oddly enough, it sounds like he is miserable. “I’m asking for the impossible, but that’s how I got to where I am. Can we put the past behind us and be the kind of friends who care if the other one gets home safely?”
My instant response is a hard and fast no. The more I see of Oscar, the more he’ll be on my mind and the less chance I’ll have to mentally distance myself from the man who . . . Who what?
“Okay. Let’s be the type of friends who care if the other gets home safely,” I agree in a voice soft enough to be called a whisper. Darn it. I have no self-control.
“Do you have time in your schedule for lunch tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, I’m taking the afternoon off. I’m going to the Art Institute.”
“Perfect. I’m a member there. Shall we say one?”
I freeze. “How did you manage to assume control of the situation again?”
“It’s a gift.”
“Okay, Oscar. I’ll meet you at the museum at twelve-thirty. Sleep well.” This time, I hang up first, but I can’t negotiate my body to move. Muscles tight, body frozen in place, I stare at the flat-screen of the phone in my palm.
This is a game, and I don’t know the rules. From the beginning, I’ve felt outmatched by Oscar Alexander. The worst part is I am almost willingly conceding power to Oscar because—what—we slept together? That’s certainly a piece of my connection to him, but it’s more than that. Call me crazy, but around Oscar, I feel completely myself. I feel no need to cover any part of my personality. I can’t truly say that with my sister because I don’t have the guts to tell her about Oscar. Equal parts dread and longing fill me when I think of seeing Oscar tomorrow. The idealistic part of my brain, the side that desperately hopes to convince Oscar that he is capable of having a romantic relationship with me, can’t wait to see his roguish grin tomorrow. The realistic part of my brain, the side that takes every single word from Oscar at face value, knows better than to dream big.
The funny thing about reality is it’s all about perception. Whatever part of my brain wins the perception battle dictates how I respond to any given stimuli. When it comes to Oscar Alexander, the hopeful section of my mind takes over perceiving the world. That’s why I go to sleep smiling, thinking of Oscar’s wavy dark hair and the mysteries lurking behind his cinnamon-colored eyes. The date with Bruce becomes such a non-event that it completely disappears from my memory.
The encouraged side wins out.
“Jana Sterling.” Violet collapses into her desk chair once the client safely leaves our office.
“Jana Sterling,” I repeat with equal amounts of weariness. Sitting on the ledge of Violet’s desk, I let my shoulders relax. “What is it about her specifically that is so draining? Jana’s not our only demanding client.”
“No, but she takes top honors.” Violet cracks her knuckles as if to forcibly push the tension from her body. “Come April tenth, we’ll be finished with her and reaping the benefits of throwing the wedding of the decade.”
“Expertly Planned will exceed Jana’s expectations to the point where she won’t use any other party planner in the city.” Mischievous notes twinkle in my voice. “Jana will be around forever.”
“Don’t threaten me,” my sister says with a mock groan. “If that’s the case, it’s on me to set better boundaries. No more weekly meetings unless she wants to pay add
itional costs. Our time is valuable, and with the hour we spend pacifying the same demands over and over, we could be working on other clients, building new business, networking . . . whatever we want.” Violet’s face reddens with each word.
“Take a breath.” I hop off the desk and put a soothing hand on my sister’s shoulder. “You’re worrying me. Is something else bothering you?”
Violet’s brow furrows. Her mouth opens to speak, then it shuts, and she shakes her head. “The usual stuff. The holiday season has us slammed, and I guess I’m just overall tired.”
“If you want me to stick around today, I’ll visit the Art Institute some other time.”
“Absolutely not. We aren’t behind on anything. We’re ahead of schedule with Friday’s Gratitude Dinner and the City Lights fundraiser.” The laptop on the center of her desk jingles with an alert. Violet’s brows draw together as she reads an email. “In fact, I’m on my way to meet a potential client. You sure you don’t want to come to the game tonight? Stella and Blake will be there, too.”
“Thanks but I’m going to pass. Going out two nights in a row is beyond my scope of activity. Especially with a fourteen-hour day looming tomorrow.”
“The good news is we don’t need to be at the venue until ten. Cameron will drop me off at our place around nine, and we will leave our place by nine thirty.”
The command scrapes across my nerves like pointy nails digging into my shoulder blades. I’m sure Violet doesn’t intend to be condescending with her patronizing remarks. Nevertheless, my tolerance level continues to deplete. In a rush to ignore the uncomfortable feelings, I begin gathering my phone and toss it into my tote bag. I shrug into my jacket and twist an infinity scarf around my neck. Tightening my ponytail, I assess my sister with what I hope is a neutral expression. “I’ll be ready. Text me and let me know how the meeting goes.” Halfway to the door, I stop. “Oh! Wish Cameron good luck from me.”
Violet’s fingertips fly across her keyboard; she’s obviously deep in thought responding to an email. “I will. Enjoy the Impressionists. Love you sister, sister.”
The nickname never fails to soften my heart. We’ve been calling each other that since we used to hide in the living room and watch the television show at a low volume so our parents wouldn’t hear. Even though we were always nervous we would get caught, it is a fond memory. The niggling resentment fades. “Love you back.” I leave the loft with a flourish, thrilled to have an afternoon to myself.
By the time I reach the museum, I build a strong wall of resolve around me. The reasonable part of my brain reigns supreme today. I know what I have to do.
To my surprise, Oscar waits on the marble steps outside the museum when I arrive right on time. In dark jeans, an oatmeal Henley, and a well-tailored open black peacoat, he looks like he stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. His unruly dark hair is pushed off his face, though one irreverent curl falls on his forehead. As if he senses my arrival, Oscar turns toward me. Instantly, his lips hitch upward in a grin. From down here, I swear his eyes light up.
No! That’s your optimistic side trying to control the situation. Brushing aside the fantasy that my appearance causes Oscar to illuminate with pleasure, I jog up the steps, glad for my flat ankle boots.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
“Only a few a minutes. I walked from Mariposa. Shall we?” Oscar extends a hand toward the museum entrance, indicating I should walk ahead of him. Like on our date, his fingertips press into the small of my back, sending shivers up the length of my spine. I go rigid. Pause.
“Something wrong?”
Courage wells in my chest. Advocate for yourself.
“Oscar, I have male friends, and they don’t touch me when we’re together unless it’s a casual hug. This is a possessive gesture, and you’re confusing me. Aren’t we just friends?” Frustration laces my words. I’m upset that I need to be the voice of reason, that I can’t indulge in the dream that this is our second date.
“This is me, Iris. Get used to it.”
I grit my teeth. “Tell me why you insist on pursuing this friendship.”
Oscar moves to stand directly in front of me, and his hands clasp my shoulders tightly. I lift my gaze, instantly drowning in the warmth of his eyes. Don’t lose yourself in him. You’re just friends. Just friends.
“Iris, the bulk of my life is consumed by business. The people I work with aren’t my friends; they are my associates. Around you, I don’t have to talk construction schedules, menus, VIPs, investors, or whatever else is at the forefront of my mind. I don’t have much free time, if any, to devote to a woman or my parents or steady friendships. When I’m with you, I can check out of my business life and relax. I can be myself, unwind. That’s what friends are for, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” I agree grudgingly.
“Friendship is all I have to give, Iris. I know it’s not much, but I’m asking you from the bottom of my heart to accept me as I am.”
Fudge. The line between rationality and romance blurs dangerously. I’m losing the battle to remain logical. Friends, friends, friends, I chant inwardly.
I find that my breath comes out shallowly. Without Oscar’s steadying hands, I might stumble. “Strictly friends.”
Oscar’s lips flirt with a smile. “Chivalrous friends. That means I may touch your back occasionally. Can you handle that?”
Grounded by the humor, I dip out of his clutches. “Consider it handled. Ready for the arts?” Oscar jogs up the final steps to move ahead of me and open the door.
“Does this fall within the scope of our friendship?” Oscar’s eyes twinkle with mirth. In response, I tilt my nose toward the sky, hearing Oscar’s chuckles as I stride ahead of him. Oscar ushers me past the ticket line and to the docent collecting tickets. He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and reveals a card to the collector who allows us to enter without incident.
“Fancy,” I murmur teasingly.
“Can’t take credit for my stewardship of the Art Institute. I maintain the membership to keep my mother happy. She’s on the board.”
At the mention of his mother, heat rushes to my cheeks. The image of the beautiful, regal blonde is burned into my memory. Oscar notices I’ve fallen silent.
“As you must have gleaned, my mother is elegant, well-mannered, and not a fan of her son behaving like an asshole. My words, not hers.” He smiles ruefully. Even that is breathtakingly handsome. Dang him and his unending gorgeousness. “Don’t give it another thought. If you ever come upon her again, she will be the epitome of kindness. As far as she’s concerned, you’re a saint and I’m the sinner. That’s a pretty accurate description, wouldn’t you say?”
That he has such a low opinion of himself makes my heart clench painfully.
While we talk, we ascend the staircase to the second level and walk into a room of Renaissance triptychs.
I don’t want him dwelling on negative thoughts, so I take on a light tone. “Nice try distracting me. From my brief interaction with Elizabeth, she was kind. Obviously not all of her lessons sunk in with her son.” I elbow Oscar in the side gently and toss a grin in his direction. I move to one wall to study the three-paneled painting. We don’t talk much as we make our way through the twisting hallways of different art periods except for mentioning what we do and don’t find appealing.
Nearly two hours later, Oscar and I are sitting at a table in the museum café. Feeling relaxed in his presence, I speak without censure. “You know what I like most about living the city?”
Oscar swallows an espresso shot. “Tell me.”
“All the different people and their emotions. There’s an incredible amount of free positivity.”
“How do you figure?”
Spearing a piece of salad with my fork, I wave the utensil around the room. “Mostly, I mean when I’m walking down a block or shopping in a grocery store, and I see someone smiling to themselves. They’re alone and wearing unfettered happiness. Gosh, even if I’m in t
he darkest mood, I can’t help but smile back at them. That’s the gift of all this anonymity. Even when we’re by ourselves, there’s a connection to be had with someone else.” I shrug with a bit of self-confidence, realizing Oscar is staring at me intently. “Although I’m sure others say you can find crippling sadness wherever you look—poverty, loneliness, tears . . . With the good comes the bad.” I slip the metal fork into my mouth, chewing my bite.
“Iris Harper, you’re one of a kind.”
Pausing mid-chew, I blink at him in wonder. A reverent note in this tone doesn’t escape me. Quickly, I finish and swallow the bit of chopped salad.
Uncomfortable with his silent but rigorous contemplation of my explanation, I change the subject. “What’s your favorite part of living in the city?”
Oscar glances over my shoulder. “I’m don’t know what aspect of Chicago I enjoy most anymore. I don’t get to partake in the benefits of urban living as much as I used to, and frankly, I’m not sure that I want to much longer.”
“You want to leave Chicago?” I ask in surprise. “What about your restaurants?”
“Ah, you’ve nailed down my dilemma. But my restaurants aren’t so much mine anymore. I’m not directing the kitchen in the traditional sense. Successfully running restaurants from a business perspective may be a talent of mine, but it’s not a passion. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t wish I could be working in the back of the house instead of the front.” Oscar grimaces. “Here I am, grumbling about my success. Not a very attractive trait, I’m afraid, but it’s the truth.”
“Sometimes, the truth is ugly.” I try to inject understanding, not pity, into my response.
Oscar’s scowl deepens when he pulls his vibrating cell phone from his pocket. “Forgive me, business calls.” Abruptly, he leaves the table to take the call. I sit there alone, contemplating what he revealed. Oscar sounds unhappy. To think this wildly successful man is not pleased with his successes makes my chest hurt. Then, when I put in his obvious loneliness, I swear my heart cracks a little. I resolve to be Oscar’s friends—to give him the kind of relationship he asked for and not let my pesky romantic notions get in the way.
