“Will we stop at Joanna’s for chocolate croissants first?” Her words kill me a little more. Sara didn’t raise her children, but she somehow managed to pass along all her idiosyncrasies. I wish Juliet knew how the woman whose blood she has running though her body, Sara, could practically live on chocolate croissants just like her.
I swallow down years of memories in an attempt to block them out and compose myself. “Yes, first croissants then school, but please be good and don’t give Grandpa and Grandma a hard time, okay? And don’t forget to help Jacob pick an outfit for school just like Mommy used to. I promise I’ll be there very soon. I love you.” Juliet loves to baby her brother. He’s older by a few minutes, but that doesn’t stop her from pretending that she’s his babysitter half the time.
I say a few words to my dad that all is well and that I should be on my way back home soon, before I hang up and go locate Kali. I need to try and explain why I have to leave and put our conversation on pause for now.
I find her in the middle of her living room. It’s the first room we entered last night, the small room that was littered with at least ten different musical instruments. I also observe the lack of a couch or a TV, just a few pillows dispersed on a big rug. Kali sits on the floor at the center of a vibrant floral carpet facing the window with her long black hair up and bare legs spread open around scattered sheets of paper between them. She has her back to me, and I now understand why she couldn’t hear me calling her earlier. She’s wearing headphones plugged into an electric violin. She’s clearly zoned out while animatedly playing a few soundless cords and then writes something down.
I watch her from afar, transfixed, not daring to interrupt her. I’m completely captivated by her. She reminds me of an untamed animal or an exotic creature that needs to be left wild and untouched. The way her fingers methodically move across the strings is spellbinding. I can’t hear a single sound, but the way her body sways I can only imagine the melody being dramatically sublime. She’s wearing a colorful cloth around her body tied over her breasts like a dress, and the image of her under me last night comes into perfect view. She looks like a beautifully tragic gypsy right out of a Victor Hugo novel, and I wish I could watch this passionate woman in her element all day. But I can’t. I need to go home.
I wonder how long I could stand here without her noticing me? But, I don’t have the luxury to play this game, and therefore, I come and sit on the floor beside her. She instantly removes her headphones, puts down her violin, and attempts to cover herself.
“Whoever invented the soundless violin is a fucking genius.” That was the stupidest thing I could possibly say. It’s a proven fact that this girl makes me stupid.
“I did make you and your ears a promise,” she quickly counters, no doubt silently agreeing with my internal diagnosis of my stupidity.
“I don’t know why I say the silliest things around you. You make me nervous.” Which is the whole truth, so help me God. I either offend her, jump her bones, or say the most inappropriate comments around her. You’d think I was a kid and not a thirty-nine-year-old widowed father of two.
“Well, your eyes do silly things to my stomach, so I guess we’re even.”
She’s already off the floor, creating distance and walking toward the kitchen. The material tied around her body is some kind of scarf, and I’m pretty sure she’s completely naked under it. I adjust my dick that just sprang to life again and refocus. I have to remind myself that I need to get the fuck out, go home to my kids, and leave this poor girl alone.
“My eyes usually make people uncomfortable. They want to stare, but you know, it’s not polite to stare, so they try to look away, unsuccessfully,” I offer small talk when I should just tell her that I need to go.
“I’ve never met anyone with two different eye colors like you. I didn’t even know such a thing exists.” She smiles, which makes her even more attractive.
She makes us coffee and slices a loaf of bread, glancing my way every couple of minutes.
I grunt inwardly. How am I supposed to just leave when she’s making us breakfast? I promised her we’d talk. Fuck. Instead of telling her that I need to go, I keep talking as if everything is going as planned and I’m not about to run back home. “What I have is called complete heterochromia, it’s a hereditary gene mutation where one iris is a different color from the other. I was born with it, which made for a fun childhood.” I cringe recalling my tortured youth.
“It’s very sexy, in a freaky-can’t-explain-it kind of way,” she tells me, still smiling while giggling to herself.
God, I’m fucked.
“Don’t be upset with me, but I need to leave soon. I just spoke to my daughter and I promised I’d come back home before tomorrow morning.”
Her carefree smile vanishes and she begins to nod her head frantically while buttering the toasted slice of bread with more force than required, pretending to agree with my decision to go. “Okay, yeah, yeah, you should definitely go back to your kids.”
I wish I could split myself in two and be in multiple places simultaneously, but history already proved that is not my goddamn forte. However, thanks to my occupation and the countless clients I’ve encountered as an attorney, I do specialize in body language, and I can write a book on this girl—power blinking, lip chewing, loss of eye contact, murdering the toast with butter, shifting weight from leg to leg.
She’s livid.
She hates me.
“Kali,” I say, but she’s giving the toast her undivided attention and won’t look at me. I have this feeling she’s about to cry, and I don’t fucking need that. I have enough shit to dig through. “Kali, just look at me,” I beg her and she complies. I was right, she’s seconds away from crying, and my numb heart just went from existing in my chest to roaring back to life with petulant pounding against my ribs and is about to burst. I walk over to stand behind her. I probably shouldn’t escalate this by touching her, but I think she’s already crying by the ever so slight movement of her shoulders.
I engulf her from behind, which only causes her to cry harder. There is no way I’m leaving this girl in this kind of state after spending a night with her, but I need to go. “I need to get back home, but it doesn’t mean we won’t talk again. How about every day after I drive my kids to school I call you? If it’s okay with you, the hour from eight to nine every morning will be Kali o’clock. I won’t schedule anything, and you and I can talk a little every day. I’ll tell you everything and you’ll listen and tell me things about you as well. I want to know about your life. This isn’t the end, it’s a kind of a beginning.” I hold my breath as I wait for her verdict. I don’t want my actions to hurt anybody. Why can’t it be simple for me? Why is it always like this?
“You don’t need to worry about me. Your children should be your first and only priority. I’m sorry. I wasn’t crying because you were leaving, it’s because I feel guilty and horrible for keeping you away from your enfants—ta famille,” she cries out.
If every time I open my mouth around her only stupid shit comes out, this woman is the complete opposite. Every word that leaves her lovely mouth is perfect. I could listen to her speak French forever.
I turn her around to face me and kiss those puffy, over-chewed lips. I can’t help but want to be wrapped and tangled inside her again. I hope every man that touches her knows how perfect she is. I play my thoughts back, and I hate the feeling of ownership and entitlement that blooms inside me like the plague. I can’t possibly presume that this young woman, the one I just met and fucked last night, can actually be anything more than just that. And yet, the thought of another man touching her, the way I touched her last night, makes me want to scream. I’m emotionally and mentally unstable.
“Did you imagine my face when you were buttering that toast?” I question my gorgeous, angry host.
She snorts out a laugh and brings the over-buttered piece of bread to my mouth for a bite. I oblige and allow her to feed me—another intimacy that’s be
en long forgotten. She kisses my lips clean between bites, and I wish she knew how every kiss fucks me up more and more. I wish I was fifteen years younger and that I didn’t have to go and be a responsible adult and recklessly lose myself in her company.
“You’re very pretty. I don’t even know how old you are. I should probably ask you about your past relationships, and I’m assuming you’re not seeing anyone, since we, you know—together in your bed.” It’s none of my business, but she’s becoming my business with every kiss, and my brain demands some answers before I leave her.
“I’m twenty-five and I’m just fucking some guy I met last night, so I’m not sure how to answer that.” She winks and releases herself from under my hold.
“Lucky guy.” I really am lucky, maybe too lucky, and that could be a problem. I don’t deserve the women that make up—or used to make up—my world.
I follow her around the house like a lost puppy and she leads us back to her bedroom. I collect my few belongings and look around before exiting.
I hand her my phone to input her contact information. She punches in her number and then takes a selfie of herself, a non-smiling, sad one.
“When will you call me?” she inquires while handing my cell back.
“I can call you tomorrow, or the day after—you call the shots.” There’s a flash of disappointment in her stare following my words. I’m not sure if she trusts that I’ll call her at all.
I hate goodbyes. Every night I had to sneak away from one life to go join another, therefore I don’t do goodbyes, I just leave.
“Thank you for the last twenty-four hours. You may have unintentionally saved my sanity. I can’t wait for Kali o’clock. I have no doubt it will become my favorite time of day.”
She nods her head while forcing a fake smile, which I can already detect, and holds the door open for me to leave.
“Au Revoir.” The French words roll effortlessly off her tongue.
I scan her face like a painter committing features to memory for later use. I need to go quickly before I change my mind because my heart is waging a campaign; it’s demanding more time with her. I’m a fool … don’t you dare say another word to her. I can’t be trusted to speak to this woman with my wavering feelings. I offer her instead a forced smile and against my better judgment, I lower my head to kiss her cheek. The moment I inhale her scent I take hold of her face and kiss her lips as if for the last time. As if by kissing her I could take a part of her home with me to help keep me hanging on. She doesn’t protest and wraps her arms around my waist.
God, I don’t want to go. This feels like goodbye forever.
“Only The Lonely” by The Motels
I’ve been in a depressive haze that can only be described as a kind of emotional unconsciousness, since Jeff left me yesterday. I thought of nothing but him all day and even dreamt of him at night. I have new questions that keep stacking up in my head with no one who can offer me any kind of answers. I’ve checked my phone six thousand times and I still haven’t received as much as a text from the man who’s kidnapped my sanity and made me question every single aspect of my life.
After Joella’s sudden death, I was completely lost and alone. The only real family I have left is in France—thousands of miles away. Besides Lauren and the bar, I have nothing left here in Rhode Island. I even contemplated selling the bar and the rest of the buildings that Joella left me in the will and starting over, maybe even go back home to Cassis to recharge for a bit and then travel the world, meet people, and try to find myself. Perhaps I would find a place where I belong. But forty-eight hours ago, I crashed into an iceberg known as Jeffery Rossi, and now I feel myself capsized and drowning, slowly allowing the feeling of solitude to pull me under. He doesn’t owe me anything, and just because we slept together I can’t pretend I know him or expect for him to call me and keep his word.
He’s not going to call. My brain keeps taunting my heart, proving that it’s always right, while my silly heart is always wrong.
I go back to a routine I’ve called my life for the past five years. I go through the motions, I make conversation, I pretend to be busy though I spend most of the day hiding like a leper in the kitchen, because who am I kidding? I’m not me anymore. As the day progresses, I grow agitated and bitter, snapping at the busboys for no reason. Why do people make promises if they have no intentions of honoring them?
Lauren has already asked me twice today if I feel sick because I look like shit. If I look even half as bad as I feel, I must look like death. I try to recall Jeff’s exact words. Did he say he would call me today or tomorrow? Maybe I typed in the wrong number into his phone by accident. Why didn’t I take his number? Thank God I don’t have his number or I’d be in even deeper shit. At least the choice to call or not to call is all his.
The day continues to drag on painfully and I can’t wait to close the bar and go upstairs, take a long hot shower before I crash into bed—the bed that, without a doubt, still smells of him and me.
It’s way past midnight when I enter my empty apartment. I look around my couch-less living room and smile the moment I notice my instruments. When life takes things away, you learn to love things that cannot be taken from you. My music is everything. It has always consistently been there for me, good or bad, and it stays with me. It’s a part of me.
My maman had a thing for mushy eighties songs. She hated French music and her car was littered with cassette tapes that reminded her of her youth. She would only speak to me in English, and I was only allowed to watch American cartoons and listen to English songs, which probably explains why I speak English without an accent—it was, after all, my first language. People are usually shocked when I tell them I’m French and not American. I remove my locket to look at my favorite tiny reminder of the person I love most in the world. She was perfect, too perfect, and the water took her from me. In a moment of weakness, my tears roll down my cheeks as I see through blurred tear-filled eyes that my phone is flashing with a text. I look at my watch and it’s one thirty in the morning. I know it’s him—who else would dare text me in the middle of the night.
-I thought of nothing but you for the last 24hrs. I want every hour to be Kali o’clock-
I smile as I let out a loud cry of relief. I’m still sobbing, but his words have just calmed my doubting mind, allowing hope to bloom again. My fingers shake as I attempt to type back a reply.
-I didn’t think I would ever hear from you again-
It’s the truth and I’m not embarrassed for him to know that I have very little faith in him.
-My son has a nasty cold. I had to take him to the doctor and spend most of the day begging him to take medication. I wanted to call you the second I drove away, but I’m also trying to give you some space and a chance to change your mind about talking to me. I still don’t understand what happened between us-
I’m not a big texter, since I don’t have too many people I speak to on a daily basis. I usually want to hear someone’s voice, like when I miss my papa and some of my friends back in Cassis. Therefore, I’m a bit surprised at how easy it is to just communicate with him through text. I can picture his face and his smile as if he’s actually saying those things to my face. I think I can probably type anything as opposed to having the nerve to say it out loud.
-Are we going to talk only through texting?-
I need to hear his voice, make sure it wasn’t all a dream.
-No, I’ll call you in the morning. I’ve been dying to hear your voice. I’d call you now but I have Jacob sleeping in my bed tonight-
I like the image of him nursing his child back to health. I actually like him a little more than I did before he texted me.
-I hope Jacob feels better. Goodnight, Jeff-
I’m about to put my phone away when I hear another message coming in. I look at the screen to see that he sent me a picture. It’s a dark photo, obviously taken at night, of me, with his hand stroking my cheek while I sleep.
-This picture make
s me smile. You make me smile. I haven’t had anything to smile about in a very long time-
I beam as I read over his message. I wish I could hear his voice. I put my phone away and finally give my overworked, beaten mind a chance to shut down. Kali o’clock can’t come fast enough.
I wake up with a smile that quickly morphs into a frown, once I glace over at my watch and see that it’s half past nine. He didn’t call? I find my phone under my pillow and it’s completely dead. I can’t believe I forgot to charge it! I jump out of bed and plug the damn thing in and wait impatiently for it to spring to life. Fuck. He must’ve called and got my message. He probably thinks I don’t want to speak to him. Fuck. My retched phone finally illuminates back to life but shows zero missed calls, zero messages, and zero texts.
Is this really happening, again?
“If You Were Here” by Thompson Twins
I’m disoriented when I see a nurse hovering over me. It takes me a few minutes to realize I’m at the hospital. I blink away the grogginess and sit up, only to have the whole room spin out of control, forcing me to lie back down again.
“Stay down, Mr. Rossi.”
The familiar voice of my favorite nurse helps me recall my location and the reason for my visit. I’m giving blood, like I have every fifty-six days for the last six months.
“They don’t want you donating blood as often as you do. It’s not good for anybody if you blackout on us.”
I nod my head. I don’t care what the doctors think anyway. I will give blood as long as I’m alive and I have blood to give. I close my eyes as I try to take deep, long breaths and calm the lightheadedness.
“Why do you do this to yourself?” Nurse Lily questions me.
Lost In Rewind (Audio Fools #3) Page 11
