Tragic Beauty

by Iris Ann Hunter

  I start walking again, and turn a corner to find myself in the kitchen. I stop when I see Gavin standing at the stove, barefoot, dressed in grey sweats that hang off his hips and a white t-shirt that hugs his frame. My eyes can’t help but linger on the way the fabric stretches across his chest.

  He looks at me, his gaze lingering on my face, then he blinks a couple times and turns back to the stove. “Better,” he says. I guess it’s a compliment, but the sullen tone of his voice has me not so sure.

  I move to the countertop and take a seat opposite on one of the stools, then glance around at the dark lacquer cabinets, the white granite countertops, the stainless steel appliances that look more suited to a restaurant than a private home. It’s all so luxurious. I knew people lived like this, but seeing it in person, being around it, feels intimidating.

  My eyes move to Gavin again. His hair is freshly wet, as though he just showered too, but it’s starting to dry. And while his hair had looked almost black before, under the recessed lighting, I can see it’s really a dark brown with bits of amber and gold. I watch part of it fall across his forehead, but he swipes it back, and shoots me a glance. “Hope you like mac ‘n’ cheese, cause that’s what you’re getting.”

  I nod, and notice the familiar Kraft box sitting on the counter, for which I’m grateful. It’s a favorite. Strange though, it seems out of place in this kitchen.

  His eyes drift to me again while he stirs the pasta, and I look away, feeling awkward. Here I am, with a stranger for the most part, in a strange house, miles away from home. I hadn’t planned on this. Meeting someone in a nightclub and going to a hotel, or even the backseat of a car was all I had envisioned. Nothing so intimate. Nothing so personal.

  “So,” he says, “you want to tell me where you were headed in that…dress?”

  I shake my head, and look down at the counter.

  “Were you meeting someone?” he asks.

  The tightness in his voice, brings my eyes up. I don’t want to answer, but I don’t want to be rude. So I say, “I just…wanted a night out.”

  He turns away and grabs a strainer from a cupboard and places it in the sink. “You’re being vague,” he snaps, giving me a glare as he steps back to the stove.

  I can’t tell him the truth, so I say nothing.

  He moves back to the sink and pours the pasta into the strainer, and I watch his biceps flex while he does it, watch the way the fabric stretches tight around his arms. I’m still watching when he places the noodles back in the pot and adds the cheese, milk, and butter.

  I look back down at the counter and begin tracing one of the gold veins in the granite to help distract me. My body feels tingly again.

  A moment later he places a bowl of warm mac ‘n’ cheese and a spoon in front of me, then leans against the counter, a bowl in hand, and begins eating on his feet.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  He nods.

  I take a bite and close my eyes. It’s good. So good. I’ve made plenty of mac ‘n’ cheese before, but somehow this tastes so much better. Maybe because he made it for me. I can’t remember the last time anyone cooked for me. It would’ve been back when Helen was alive.

  “So you were heading out, huh?” Gavin asks, eyeing me now. “You even old enough to drink?”

  I nod and swallow another bite.

  “Jesus, you don’t say much, do you? Every woman I’ve ever met can’t shut up, but you—I can barely get two words from you.”

  Heat rises in my cheeks and I push the pasta around with my spoon, hoping he can’t see the tremor in my hand. “Just quiet, I guess.”

  I take another bite, chewing slowly, mindful his eyes are still on me.

  When I finally work up the nerve to look his way he’s standing with his arms crossed, his bowl already empty and sitting on the counter. By the way he’s looking at me, I can see he isn’t mad, but he isn’t happy. He seems…frustrated, yet curious.

  I keep eating, while he says nothing more. Maybe that’s his way of punishing me. When I take my last bite, he grabs the bowl, along with his, and moves to the sink. I slide off the stool and quickly walk to where he stands and reach for the scrubber, but he grabs it first.

  “Please,” I say, opening my palm. “Let me.” I want to repay him for all he’s done, and I know it’s not much, but it’s something.

  I look up at him, wondering why he’s suddenly almost a foot taller than me now, then realize I was wearing heels before. Then I realize something else. We’re close. So close I can smell the clean linen scent of his clothes, see the tiny specks of gold nestled in the kelly green of his eyes—eyes that stare down at me, darkening. My throat goes tight and I know no more words are coming, but he still hasn’t yielded. Slowly, I place my hand over his and he drops the scrubber like I’ve burned him.

  “Back in a minute,” he says, then turns away.

  I’m not sure what just happened until I see him discreetly adjust his crotch. There’s no mistaking the hard bulge trying to push through the fabric. He leaves the kitchen as the air leaves my lungs. I turn back to the sink and lean against the counter for balance. When I reach for the scrubber my hand shakes. In a daze, I take the bowl and slowly rinse it out then place it in the dishwasher. I’m on the second bowl when I hear something.

  I turn the water off and wait. I hear it again. A knock. Someone’s at the door. I set the bowl in the dishwasher and walk out of the kitchen, down the hall, and stop in the entryway, where a large metal door looms. Another knock, this one more insistent.

  I hurry to the base of the stairs. “Gavin?” I call out.

  No answer.

  The knocks are growing louder and louder, like it’s urgent.

  Shit, I don’t know what to do. There are lights on in the house, so whoever it is, knows he’s home. Maybe it’s important. Or maybe he’s expecting someone.

  I close my eyes, say a silent prayer, then turn over the lock and open the door.

  On the step is a striking, raven-haired woman with cold, grey eyes, bright red lips, wearing a blue sequin dress that reveals everything and hides nothing. As soon as I watch her expression go from haughty to angry, I know I’ve made a mistake.

  “Who the fuck are you?” she asks.

  She doesn’t wait for an answer, just storms past me into the house, knocking me aside with her shoulder.

  “Where is he?” she demands, turning to glare at me. “Where is the fucker?”

  “It—it’s not like that.”

  Her eyes narrow on me, then drift to the clothes I’m wearing.

  Uh oh.

  Her face turns a livid shade of red. “I should’ve known,” she sneers.

  “Really, my car—”

  “Save it, bitch.”

  She spins and storms towards the stairs when Gavin appears, taking the few last steps, and looking a bit flushed. My eyes can’t help but drift to his crotch, where things have apparently, umm, been taken care of.

  He looks at her, then at me, and his eyes narrow. I look away.

  “What are you doing here, Candace?” he asks coldly.

  “And you said your mom wasn’t well. I should’ve known you skipped out on your award for pussy.” She turns to me. “And underage pussy, by the looks of it. What is she, twelve? You into kids now?”

  Her insult doesn’t even phase me…but…mom not well…and…award?

  I glance over at him. He’s calm, but the anger is there, set deep into his face. For a moment, he meets my guilty gaze. “Ava, will you excuse us, please?”

  I scurry past them and back into the kitchen and begin scrubbing the pot.

  Over the running water I hear Candace screaming words like asshole, lying prick, and child molester. Gavin’s voice, however, is more subdued, so much so that I can’t make out what he’s saying.

  My lower lip trembles, thinking of just how much trouble I’ve caused him. If only I’d minded my own business, stayed in the kitchen, and ignored the door.

  If only I’d stayed h
ome.

  Now I hear Gavin’s voice. “Out!” he bellows.

  There’s more cursing and yelling on her part, including the words bitch and cunt, which I know are referring to me, but I shut my eyes and drown it out. Eventually, I hear the door slam.

  A moment later, Gavin enters the kitchen.

  I don’t look his way. Just scrub the pot that was clean five minutes ago. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’ve caused you nothing but trouble.”

  “No. Trouble’s her job and she’s very good at it.”

  He stands next to me now, which makes my hands shake. I rinse the pot and he takes it from me, a dish towel in hand. Our fingers graze in the exchange and a swoosh fills my lungs.

  “You alright?” he asks.

  I nod, trying to swallow down the question that forms, while I grab the sponge and wipe down the sink, but it comes out anyway. “Was she…your girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  I have no right to be relieved, but I am. Then there’s another question I have to ask. “And your mom—is she okay?”

  He turns to put the pot away. “Time will tell.”

  I can tell by the tone of his voice he isn’t liking where this is headed, so I let the questions go. It’s none of my business anyway.

  And then it hits me. Familiar face. Gavin. Award. I set the sponge down and turn to him. “You’re Gavin West, the actor.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Gavin leans against the counter and there’s no mistaking the disappointment in his face.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I only just put it together.”

  He shrugs and looks away. “I was kind of liking the anonymity.”

  His voice is sad and I wonder what it must be like for him. His movies are big right now. Really big.

  He stands there, just staring at the ground, his jaw tight, his mood dark, almost like he’s waiting for something. Maybe for me to ask for an autograph, or throw myself at him, or go on and on about how much I love his films. He’s only done a few, but I have seen them. They’re good. Really good. His main role—his breakout role—was the lead in the first of a spy trilogy, based on a set of books. The second one came out not too long ago and was one of the last my father and I watched together. Then he did another action movie, separate of those, and that one was good too. I only know all this because my father had liked his movies because they have good fight scenes. He apparently does most of his own stunts, and has some sort of background with mixed martial arts. His hair had been dyed blonde then, and was longer, and I think he was wearing blue contacts too, to match the character in the book. I wonder if that’s why I didn’t recognize him. Or maybe I just couldn’t imagine a world where he and I would actually meet, especially the way we did.

  Then the dark-haired woman comes to mind, and I realize—she’s his co-star in the trilogy. There had been a rumored romance between the two, something I’d picked up watching Entertainment Tonight. And there’d also been rumors that he was difficult, temperamental, sort of like that guy I met back on the freeway. But I’ve also seen a different sort of man. The man who came back for me.

  I watch Gavin look up and cross his arms, irritation etched into his face. If he’s expecting me to go crazy over him, he’s wrong.

  “My clothes, upstairs, are wet,” I say. “Can I use your dryer?”

  “Uh…sure.”

  I leave him in the kitchen, looking a little confused, and fetch my clothes, knowing I’ll need them to wear home tomorrow.

  When I walk back down the stairs, he’s waiting for me. I follow him down another hallway off to the side, when he stops at a door, opens it and switches on the light to a laundry room with the biggest washer and dryer I’ve ever seen.

  I walk past him and toss my clothes in, careful to keep my underwear out of sight. It takes me a minute to sort through all the settings just to figure out how to start it. I wonder if he’ll step in and help, but he doesn’t. Eventually though, I get it sorted out and the tumble starts.

  When I turn, Gavin’s leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, like I’ve done something wrong. I freeze and look back at the dryer, wondering if maybe I set it to detonate or something.

  When I look back at him, not understanding, he shrugs. “I’m just surprised is all. Most women would’ve gone ape-shit. So I’m just wondering…”

  I tilt my head, waiting.

  “Wondering if you’re not impressed…or perhaps…don’t like my movies.”

  I have an urge to smile, but hold it back. “They’re alright,” I say, and move past him.

  I walk back down the hall and hear his voice behind me. “Just alright?”

  There’s feigned hurt in his voice, but there’s no mistaking the smile too.

  I nod, as though bored, but having more fun than I’ve had in a while. When I enter the living room, I stop. I’d noticed the oversized sliders when I walked by before, but had somehow missed what was just beyond. Maybe because I was too distracted with the wall-to-wall fireplace, still burning quietly off to the side.

  The floor is cool beneath my bare feet as I walk over to the glass and stare out at a pool that ends where the lights of Santa Barbara begin. It’s still raining, not as hard as before, but enough that I can see the drops falling into turquoise water that seems to glow from within. A vapor rises from the surface and disappears into the night. I stare at it, mesmerized.

  Gavin walks up and stands at my side. “You want to go for a dip?” he asks. “It’s heated.”

  I shake my head, still staring out the slider.

  “Why not?”

  I’m embarrassed to say it, so stay quiet.

  “What’s the matter, can’t swim?” he jokes.

  By the way I turn sharply to look at him, he knows he called it.

  “It’s no biggie,” he says gently. “There’s a shallow area.”

  My eyes flick back out the slider, then to him again. “But…now?”

  He nods and grins, looking like a little boy who wants to play his favorite game. I haven’t seen him smile like that before. The heat comes up in my skin and I turn back to the pool. It’s a long, narrow rectangle, with a carved out triangle in the middle, that looks like the shallow area, with steps leading down—steps that seem to tug at my feet.

  Truth is, I want to go in, desperately.

  I look down at my clothes and realize I wouldn’t have anything to wear anyway.

  Gavin turns and heads for the stairs. “Be right back.”

  Moments later, I hear his steps and turn around to see him walking up to me in nothing but black swim trucks. I blink, and can’t stop staring. Can’t stop my eyes from wandering over the carved out muscles, the rippled abs, the narrow hips and strong shoulders. When our eyes meet, he wears a small smile that tugs at the corner of his lips. I look away as fire explodes across my cheeks.

  It isn’t until he extends his arm out that I realize he has clothes in one hand and towels in the other.

  “Here,” he says, handing me the clothes.

  I take them with a shaky hand. It’s black boxer briefs and a wife-beater tank top. I should be distracted at the thought of holding Gavin West’s underwear, but all I can do is focus on the white tank top.

  “It’s all I had that would be small enough,” he says.

  I look up and see the mischievous smile in his eyes, then turn around, back to the pool. It beckons, taunting me with its beauty and magic.

  “I’ll be a gentleman, I swear,” he whispers, close to my ear.

  My pulse spikes at the sound of his voice.

  The air shifts and he’s standing beside me, gazing out at the pool too. “Come on. Swim in the rain with me, Ava.”

  My name on his tongue catches me off guard and I look at him, wanting him to say it a thousand more times. Gavin turns to me and our eyes meet. “You’re safe with me, I promise.” By the sincerity in his voice, I know he means it. “And besides, if you can go out wearing that scrap of a dress, then you can wear that. Now
go change.”

  I look down at the clothes, back to the pool, then turn and go to my room. After I change, I look at myself in the mirror, wondering how bad it is. My breasts, not big, but somewhat large for my small frame, push through the fabric, my nipples just barely visible, but I know that will change the moment I get wet. His boxer briefs hug my boyish hips but still feel a little loose so I’ll need to be careful when they get wet. I turn around, and look at my backside, then face front again, and frown. I look almost childlike, compared to that woman, Candace. Maybe I’m thinking that way because of what she said, but I know she’s right. I look young for my age. And I don’t have the shapely hips, or the crazy cleavage, or the long legs like her…but…I think I look alright. At least, I hope I do anyway.

  I keep staring at my reflection, when the face of my mother appears in the mirror. It’s eerie how much I look like her. We have the same high cheekbones, the same bow-shaped lips, the same cream colored skin that turns golden in summertime. But perhaps what’s most similar, are the big almond shaped eyes, the ‘color of blue diamonds’ my mom used to say, with thick dark lashes that make it look like I’m constantly wearing eyeliner. I’ve always thought it was strange, that they should be so dark, when my hair is such a pale blonde. And she had the same hair too, but while I always kept mine long and all one length, like now—because that’s been easiest—she kept hers cut short, because she liked to do it up all the time, like Marilyn Monroe, who she renamed herself after, once she turned eighteen. She named me after Ava Gardner. She even tried once to get me to dye my hair black, when I was eight. She got me cornered in the bathroom and almost tried to force it on me because I wouldn’t do it. I was just scared is all, because I thought it’d stay that way forever. She said it wouldn’t, but I thought it was a trick. She’d do that sometimes. She was good at tricks. And she kept at it, getting so mad, but when I got to crying, she gave up.

  Maybe that’s why she really left.