Endless Love

by Nelle L’Amour

  But as challenging as it was, it was the most fun I had in ages. And the labor-intensive work was validating, a feeling that had eluded me for way too long. Most of all, I loved being with Willow and her father’s loyal, good-natured employees—the counter guys, waitresses, cooks, cashiers, and hostesses, who all embraced me like a son. I admit I didn’t know a new pickle from an old one, but for the first time in my life, I felt like I was part of a loving family. Like I belonged.

  I learned from Willow that there was an art to making a sandwich. And Mel’s offered as many varieties of sandwiches as there were books in the New York Public Library. Okay, not that many but still enough to fill an encyclopedia. And they each had their own unique name, some named after sections of New York like The Soho Double Decker, an oversized sandwich made with alternating layers of pastrami, corn beef, and coleslaw, while others were named after famous New York celebrities, many of whom had dined at Mel’s like former Mayor Bloomberg and the late Pearl Bailey. No surprise that no one from my illustrious family was among them…

  …Until one night Willow and I were alone, closing up the restaurant. It was almost midnight.

  “How’s your dad doing?” I asked, wrapping a huge roasted turkey in saran wrap. She’d gone to visit him earlier in the day, something she’d done daily since his heart attack.

  Covering the tray of slaw, she smiled. “He’s doing great. Complaining about the hospital food. They’re going to release him early next week.”

  “Is he going to have to be on bed rest?” What I was really asking: Do you still need me to work here with you?

  “Actually, no. He can resume working, but he’s going to have to take it easy. No lifting heavy things…a definite nap during the day…that kind of stuff.” She straightened up the plastic utensils bin. “Most importantly, he’s going to have to watch his diet and do some exercise.”

  “That shouldn’t be too hard.”

  Willow laughed. “Are you kidding? The doctor said he has to cut out pastrami. That’s like telling a little kid he can’t have candy.”

  I laughed too.

  “And my father’s idea of exercise is going to the bank, which is around the corner.”

  “Maybe I can get him to take up running,” I said, still laughing.

  “Fat chance. No pun intended.” She adjusted her long white apron, bringing attention to her nipped waist. “I told him how helpful you’ve been.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “It’s been fun.” That was an understatement; I loved every minute I’d spent with Willow. I hadn’t felt this close to a woman in years. Or so alive.

  “My father’s really grateful. He wants me to name a new sandwich after you.”

  “Get out.”

  “Seriously. Let’s create it now.”

  “What should we call it?”

  “Duh. The Ryan Madewell.”

  “Thanks for leaving out ‘The Fourth’.”

  “We can add it if you like.”

  “No, please don’t.” I actually hated my pretentious name and the fact that I had to share it with my father and his father before him.

  “Let’s start with the bread. Rye, right?”

  She knew me well. “Yeah, definitely rye bread.” I watched as she reached for a loaf of freshly baked bread and sliced off two even-sized pieces.

  “Watch your fingers,” I urged.

  “Don’t worry. The last thing I want is another trip to the hospital.”

  I couldn’t agree more, I thought as she set the two slices on the counter.

  “Next?”

  “Mayo.”

  “All right, but don’t go overboard with it.” She handed me the plastic mayo bottle. Holding it, I squeezed a generous amount of mayo on both slices of the bread, my cock flexing as I watched the creamy white condiment pour out.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” said Willow, stopping me. A little bit of the mayo dotted the tip of the cap. It reminded me of pre-cum and made my dick grow thicker, especially when Willow wiped it off with her forefinger and sucked it off. Fuck. She was making me horny as sin.

  “So, what’s going into this sandwich, Mr. Madewell?”

  “Let’s keep it healthy in honor of your father. So he can eat it.”

  “No pastrami?”

  I shook my head. Nope, no pastrami as much as I loved it too. About a year ago, I’d gone to California to meet with potential movie producers and recalled a delicious sandwich I’d eaten at a chic restaurant. It was filled with hummus, hand carved turkey breast, provolone cheese, avocado, and arugula. I was almost sorry I’d spread the mayo, but I thought it would still work. While I knew the turkey breast and hummus were available, I asked Willow if the kitchen stocked the other ingredients. Happily, I learned it did, but they were used mostly by the short order cook for omelets. While I unwrapped the turkey, Willow went to the kitchen to retrieve the other ingredients. In no time, she returned, her hands full. About to carve the turkey, I helped her set the remaining ingredients on the counter.

  Her face was lit up, her expression inquisitive. “Ry-man, what do you have in mind?”

  Fuck. I loved when she called me Ry-man. No one had ever called me that before. While it was close to my real name, it was different enough.

  I tugged at her fiery red hair, which tonight was fixed in a long, loose braid. “Can you cut the avocado into slices?” I had no clue how to handle the green testicle-shaped fruit. My sister and I grew up with cooks, and with Allee, I ordered in most of the time.

  “Of course,” she replied with a sexy smile.

  As I sliced thick pieces of the turkey, she cut the avocado. We were side by side. Totally in sync. Was this what sex with her would be like?

  My cock twitching, I sneaked a piece of the turkey and then went back to slicing it. In a few minutes, we finished creating our culinary masterpiece.

  “Let’s try it,” insisted Willow.

  “Okay. You take the first bite.”

  I watched as her lips clamped down on the thick sandwich, wondering what they would feel like around my cock. I could feel my cock flex as she swallowed.

  “Mmm,” she moaned, the sound of her sensuous hum, turning me on more. “It’s so good.” Is that what she would say about my cock?

  “Okay, your turn,” she said, interrupting my dirty thoughts as she fed me the sandwich. I took a big bite. “Fuck, this is amazing. Even better than the one I had in California.”

  A big smile lit up Willow’s face. “It’s going to become our new bestseller.”

  Alternating bites, we devoured the sandwich. On my last bite, I closed my eyes and wondered: what would it be like to eat her? Savor her sweet pussy? Taste her on my tongue? It took all my willpower not to strip her of all her clothes and haul her onto the counter. I longed to kiss her again, too, but feared I wouldn’t be able to stop there. My conscience told me to take things slowly, but my body didn’t believe a single word. With my cock at full attention, I helped her clean up and then forced myself to go back to my loft. My only compensation—a delicious fantasy to get off on.

  By the end of the next day, The Ryan Madewell Special was by far the most popular item on the menu. We couldn’t stop making them.

  “Everyone wants a taste of Ryan Madewell,” Willow said flirtatiously as she loaded yet another sandwich onto a plate.

  I chuckled. I, on the other hand, wanted a taste of only one woman. The beautiful and beguiling Willow Rosenthal.

  THIRTEEN

  Willow

  Pop came home late Monday afternoon. His faithful staff and I had agreed to close the deli early—Monday night’s were typically slow anyway—and give him a small welcome back party complete with balloons and a banner. My father was thrilled to be home, and I was thrilled that he was well on his way to a complete recovery. He’d even lost a little weight while in the hospital and I planned to make sure that more pounds would come off.

  “This is some sandwich,” he commented
as he chomped into the new Ryan Madewell sandwich.

  Ryan smiled proudly. “And it’s totally healthy.”

  “Just don’t eat three of them,” I jumped in, knowing damn well my father could easily do that.

  “One and a half?” No holds barred, my father reached for another half of sandwich. “They starved me in that damn hospital!”

  “NO! Put it back.” Stopping him with my hand, I watched my father make the face of a reprimanded child as he reluctantly put the overstuffed sandwich back down on the platter.

  He looked to Ryan for moral support, but Ryan shrugged sheepishly.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “She’s a tough cookie, my daughter.”

  Ryan laughed his adorable laugh. “Yeah, but I’ve gotten her to crumble a couple of times.”

  Oh, had he! In fact, right now, he was melting me with his presence. But with my father back home, I wasn’t sure where things were going.

  FOURTEEN

  Ryan

  At the end of the week, Willow and I finally went on our movie date, with her father’s urging and blessing. At six p.m., I picked her up at the deli. While she was nervous about leaving her dad alone for the first time since his return, Mel assured us both he would be okay and the staff promised they would watch him like hawks… making sure he didn’t snitch any pastrami—not even a schnitzel—and that he went to sleep early. Mel was getting stronger and thinner each day.

  It had been a really long time since I’d been on a movie date with a girl. Well, except for my four-year-old niece Violet, whom I’d taken to some animated movies, but that really didn’t count. I couldn’t help but think of my first movie date with Allee. I’d taken her to see Camille, which little did I know at that time foreshadowed her untimely death. The movie had reduced her to tears, and that night we made love for the first time in my loft. I was a little nervous, but whatever tonight’s outcome, I didn’t think Willow would sleep with me. I wasn’t ready for that yet. And I still wondered—would I ever be?

  “What are we seeing?” asked Willow as we headed west by foot to Ludlow Street. The early October air was crisp and we walked briskly, holding hands.

  “It’s a surprise.” Knowing she was a ballerina, I’d fortuitously found a dance movie festival at the nearby Metrograph theater. The popular cinema was renowned for playing Hollywood classics. Among the movies playing were Black Swan, The Turning Point, Flashdance, Shall We Dance, and An American in Paris, definitely not a flick I could stomach. Plus the one that was playing tonight.

  “The Red Shoes?” asked Willow, when we arrived at the theater, which was housed in a former brick warehouse. Her voice sounded tenuous.

  “Yes, I thought you’d like it.” The photos in her bedroom along with her toe shoes flashed into my head.

  She drew in a sharp breath. “Cool…” Her voice trailed off as we entered the theater and I handed the ticket-taker the reserved-seat tickets I’d purchased online. As we walked through the lobby, I was a little anxious. I thought she’d be way more enthusiastic about my movie choice.

  “Willow…we don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. We can just go out for dinner somewhere.”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I loved this movie when I was a kid. I watched it with my mother on TV.”

  Oh, so that was the connection. Now, I understood her reservation.

  “Have you ever seen it?” she asked.

  “No.” In fact, I knew little about the movie except that it was inspired by the Hans Christian Anderson fairy tale of the same name. I’d foolishly not taken the time to read the movie description online. For all I knew, it was a comedy.

  “It’s considered the best ballet movie ever made,” she said.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing it.” Maybe it would give me more insight into Willow, who was still very closed-mouth about her past. “Do you want something to eat or drink?” The theater housed a top-notch gourmet restaurant as well as a bar in the lobby.

  “How ’bout some wine and popcorn?”

  “Perfect.”

  Five minutes later, we were in our seats toward the back, each with a glass of red wine, a Cab for Willow and a Pinot Noir for me. We were sharing a large bag of popcorn, which I set on the tray table between us.

  A geeky-looking attendant took center stage in the small but elegant theater, welcoming us to the film festival before going into some history of the movie. It had originally been released in l948, almost seventy years ago, and garnered two Academy Awards—one for Best Original Score and the other for Best Art Direction. Without further ado, the lights dimmed, the red velvet theater curtain rose, and the opening credits began to roll on the screen.

  It didn’t take long for me to discover that this wasn’t a comedy. It was an intense drama about a young, rising ballerina named Vicky, caught in the age-old battle between her career and love. Dominating the story was a heated love triangle between her Russian ballet master, Lermontov, and her lover, Julian, the composer of the ballet she was starring in—The Red Shoes.

  Throughout the movie, especially the dance scenes, Willow breathed heavily. She stopped eating popcorn and drinking her wine.

  “Are you okay?” I whispered as the beautifully filmed Red Shoes ballet sequence culminated with Vicky, under the spell of the evil Shoemaker and unable to stop dancing, nearing death from exhaustion. As a priest removed the cursed red shoes and Vicky took her last breath, Willow gasped.

  “I’ll be right back,” she murmured, leaping up from her seat before I could say another word. Jesus. What had gotten into her? It was only make-believe. A movie about a fairy-tale inspired ballet.

  A few minutes later, Willow returned.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah,” she rasped.

  Trying hard to believe her, I took her hand as the movie continued. It felt cold and clammy. A big part of me wanted to split, but Willow insisted we stay. Her eyes stayed glued on the big screen as the plot thickened with Vicky choosing her career over her lover after marrying him. Returning to the company to dance in a revival of The Red Shoes, she encounters Julian on opening night. Again torn between her love for him and her need to dance, she can’t decide what to do. Poor Julian, realizing that he has lost his true love, departs for the railroad station. Just as she’s about to take the stage, Vicky, wearing the red shoes, decides to pursue him and rushes out of the theater. At the train station, Julian spots her and runs toward her. But not fast enough. To his horror, Vicky jumps from the balcony and falls in front of an approaching train. Even I gasped at the dramatic turn of events.

  While sniffles abounded around me, Willow began to sob. So loudly I could barely hear Lermontov deliver his final line before the performance: “Miss Page is unable to dance tonight—nor indeed any other night.” Willow’s sobs grew louder as the movie culminated with the dance company performing The Red Shoes, a spotlight on the empty space where Vicky would have been, and then cutting back to the train station where a battered Vicky, lying close to death on a stretcher, asks her beloved, distraught Julian to remove the red shoes, just as in the end of the ballet.

  While the teary-eyed audience exited the movie theater, Willow stayed in her seat, paralyzed and sobbing. A sickening sense of déjà vu washed over me. It was almost as if I were reliving Allee’s hysterical reaction to the tragic ending of Camille. An ending that paralleled her own tragic one. Fuck. What had I done? Why did I have to pick this movie? Was it some sign that I was destined to lose Willow? My stomach twisted as this dark thought lodged in my brain and morbid fear seeped through my veins.

  After the credits rolled, the lights came up. We were the only two moviegoers left.

  “C’mon, baby. We should go.”

  Her face soaked with her tears, her eyes red and swollen, Willow staggered to her feet. I gave her a helping hand and then wrapped an arm around her.

  “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered, swipi
ng at her tears.

  “It’s okay. Do you want to talk about it?” I asked softly.

  She shook her head as tears continued to fall. “Ryan, I don’t feel well. I need to go home.”

  “Sure.” I didn’t feel well either. Fate was a bitch. And she was fucking with me. Willow Rosenthal was hiding something, and deep inside my heart, I knew it was going to be my undoing. A chill ripped through me. It frightened me.

  FIFTEEN

  Willow

  Following the movie, I didn’t see Ryan all weekend. Having given him my cell phone number, he texted me on Saturday, but I told him I was still feeling ill. I lied saying it was some kind of bug, but I knew better. The movie had aroused in me my great need to dance, something I’d managed to suppress since I’d come back home. It also rekindled my great fear of going back to the thing I loved most. The world of ballet. The all-consuming world that had made every molecule of my being feel alive but had almost destroyed me. My insides felt shredded, my crippling anxiety gnawing at me. My father, God bless him, let me stay in bed all weekend, and believed I actually had come down with something since I spent a good deal of time in the bathroom on account of my upset stomach. The homemade chicken soup he kept bringing me did nothing for my aching soul. Though he was getting stronger every day, he was the last person with whom I wanted to share my condition. There was only one person I wanted to talk to.

  Dr. Goodman. On Monday, I had my standing appointment with him and dragged myself out of bed, trying to make myself look as presentable as possible. Even after a hot shower, my reflection in the bathroom mirror looked gaunt and haggard. Dark circles orbited my eyes and my complexion was pasty. Tossing and turning at night, I hadn’t slept much and the sleep deprivation only added to my malaise.

  “So, what’s been going on?” asked my therapist as I fidgeted in a chair facing him. I’d decided to sit in a chair rather than lay down on the couch because I feared I might conk out.