“Hello, Ethan.” I said, still unsure.
“Laila, I thought I lost you.” He said, oblivious to the double entendre of his words. I didn’t want him to think he could just disappear for two years and call randomly anytime he wanted.
“Why are you calling, Ethan?”
“I didn’t call you. Your purse called me, remember?”
And then, I did remember. He didn’t call me. He didn’t want me back. Red with humiliation, I was thankful he couldn’t see me. “Oh yeah. I’m sorry about that. Well, I’ll let you get back to work then.” Suddenly, curiosity got the best of me. Why did my purse call him? I didn’t call any financial planning firm. “Ethan, you work at information now? What happened to E. Dently Financial Planning?” I blurted, and immediately wished I could get my foot out of my mouth.
“Oh.” He hesitated. “A year and a half ago, I had to dissolve the business. A lot of my clients were having hardships and I lost their relationships.” His low abbreviated tone let me know that I was the last person he ever wanted to know of his downturn. “So, I’m working as an operator part-time until the economy gets better and I can rebuild.”
Who was this downtrodden guy? The Ethan I knew was an eternal optimist when it came to business. There was no such thing as a setback, only new challenges to a better business. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I offered. Surprisingly, I meant it.
“So, Laila, I heard that Lena’s getting married. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“How about you, did you find someone? Any kids?”
I knew he couldn’t resist rubbing it in. He had moved on and I was still where he left me. Whether it was his ego, or not, I couldn’t tell. But somehow, I knew he needed to know whether or not I’d moved on. He knew how important marriage and kids were to me. The fact that he put a major hiccup in my plans, didn’t occur to him—that my plans were attached to him. That self-centered, audacious question, was typical of the man I knew. “No,” I remarked indignantly.
“Oh?” The tone in his voice lightened. It was unmistakably, hopeful. “We should get together. You know, catch up on old times.”
He was nonchalant and unapologetic, but it still wasn’t water under the bridge for me. Frankly, I didn’t know if it ever would be. “Ethan, I can’t do this. I’m sorry my phone redialed you and I’m sorry about your business, but I just can’t. I’m glad you’re all right, but we are not old friends on good terms catching up after a long absence. You were my fiancé and you cheated on me. You took everything away from me, in case you forgot.”
“Laila, I know I screwed up. I’ve dialed your number a million times and hung up. All I want is to apologize to you for the way I hurt you. I’m sorry, for everything.”
My guard dropped—I hadn’t expected an apology. When the tears started running, I realized I’d been waiting for him to acknowledge the hurt he put me through. For only a moment, I allowed the relief to set in.
“Thank you, Ethan. Good-bye.” Before he could say anything to ruin it, I hung up. I’d been carrying him with me for years like a hovering rain cloud and I finally felt free. Everything in me wanted to overanalyze it or nitpick the sincerity, but I was determined to accept it for what it was, closure. Gathering Lena’s book and my food, I locked up and left it there.
All I could do was just sit in the car and breathe. I hadn’t realized it, but I’d been holding my breath—for the last two years. I’d been hoping Ethan would remember the promises we’d made to each other and come running back, full of remorse. I’d never been one to revel in others’ misfortune, but there was something inherently karmic about the fact that the business that took priority over me, let him down. I was the one woman who loved him inside and out, yet he chose the cheap thrills and hollow vows that only a life of greed could dangle out front and fail to deliver. But, the weight of his apology made me feel light and airy, elated. Then, the smile that Mom always knew was lurking beneath the gravel of pain decided to show itself. I laughed aloud. A vibrant, rumbling, funny-to-the-gut, chuckle erupted from somewhere deep in my soul, releasing me. I was tickled pink with joy that was caged by my own self-inflicted wounds.
Floating so high on my cloud, I was tempted to flake on Mom. She had a knack for pointing out the negative, and I didn’t want to be brought down. But, thoughts of the diminishing time left until the wedding, kept me grounded. I needed to get on track with my maid of honor duties.
My mind was still roaming as I curved through a second roundabout. Mom and Dad lived on the edge of Summerlin, the most affluent master-planned community in the county. A little too ritzy for my budget. Really it would be cheeky to call the house merely a home. With lush landscapes surrounding several thousand square feet of ruggedly beautiful ledge stone siding, the gorgeous monstrosity was more akin to an estate.
Before, I could even get out of the car, the front door opened and Mom fluttered toward me in her zebra print moo-moo. A tumbleweed of teased black hair and red lipstick—insignia of the drama queen, oozing with Hollywood glamour. With her, it’s always a production. To her, someone is always watching—ever she is the thespian since her debut as Blanche DuBois in the Las Vegas Theatre in the Park rendition of A Streetcar Named Desire.
Feeling playful, I sashayed toward her and swooped her into an Oscar-worthy embrace, “Blanche!”
“As I’ve always said, you’ve missed your calling. Broadway’s waiting for you.” She bragged on me. After all, I was her daughter and therefore perfect in every way.
There was a champagne-colored Impala parked in front of the neighbor’s house, which I figured belonged to the photographer. There wasn’t a person, car, or visitor on the block, she didn’t know or make it her business to find out about. “Is this the photographer’s car?” I asked for the sake of conversation and my own sanity, trying to keep the visit moving along at a timely pace.
“Yes. He’s already here,” she confirmed. Gushing, she continued, “He’s on time and professional. Just another thing I love about him.”
He’s a man, which automatically put him in Mom’s good graces as she tried them on for son-in-law size. I’d imagined the photographer in a sleek black Mercedes S-Class. Something more fitting of a flashy paparazzo who picked up seasoned women in the post office in his spare time. Given the Impala, he could’ve either been a middle-aged Mr. Mom on a break from all his domestic duties or the distinguished gentleman with salt-and-pepper Sir Sean Connery hair. It didn’t mesh. Mom knew my type—tall, dark, and handsome. But what would she do to marry me off and get some grandkids?
Suddenly I was overtaken with curiosity—and nervous. If it were just photography that the mystery man had to offer, she would’ve gladly taken the lead and jumped on the opportunity to take credit for yet another item on Lena’s list. More than anything, she liked being in control—and holding it over our heads. But, her willingness to let me handle “the details,” as she called them, made me worry. She was up to no good for sure. By her own admission, he was allegedly handsome and she would’ve tried to pawn me off on him had Barbie not been waiting on the sidelines. Caution swept over me and I began walking on eggshells, weary about who and what awaited on the inside.
The grand arched foyer of the house was flanked on either side by mahogany-railed winding ivory marble staircases. Shimmering beneath the hand-painted dome ceiling, hung a radiant crystal chandelier above mosaic-tiled floors. The smell of fresh hydrangeas and tulips lured me in with a sweet welcome home. The constant in my life. Time stood still there. My childhood bedroom was up the stairs to the right, untouched and filled to the brim with the milestones of my life. All four yearbooks chronicling my ups and downs of becoming a woman. The letterman jacket with patches from cross-country and tennis, pins from the honor society, and my tennis badge that read, “There’s no love in tennis.” My own wall of fame, featuring my trophies and awards. The shoulder pads that I wore to homecoming to give my b-cup an extra boost—and give Chrissy Hamilton a run for her money. More
than anything else, the timeline of my life up until now, seen through picture collages lining the walls. This house had been my safety net and the reason I could always move forward without worry of falling back. If life got to be too much, there was always somewhere for me to go.
Despite my reservations, it felt good to be home. By the looks of things as I rounded the corner, I could tell Dad was in the den and Mom was exactly where I pictured her, comfortably in her favorite chair, reveling in the latest tittle-tattle. Only, not alone. Looking curiously at the mystery guest and then back at Mom expectantly, I waited for an introduction.
“Laila, this is the photographer I was telling you about. Myles this is my daughter, Laila Smart. She’s the eldest. Not the one that’s getting married,” she expertly executed her meddlesome master plan, oblivious to the dumbstruck look, locking our gaze.
My mouth malfunctioned and I couldn’t talk, but hers worked just fine. She went on bragging about him being a war hero. Just a few of his many great qualities that she continued to list. He was a photojournalist for the Air Force and his photos had been featured in the New York Times, People, and National Geographic. She might as well have been his publicist, the way she raved about his accolades.
When she finally noticed that she was the only one talking, Mom turned to see our faces. He must’ve been as shocked as I was, because both of our mouths hung agape, waiting for the words that refused to come. Eventually, she recognized the looks on our faces as recognition.
“You two know each other,” she stated as if she was the last to be let in on an inside joke.
“Ah…no. I don’t think so,” he muttered, but the inflection in his voice was more of a question. He didn’t look away. “Although, you do look awfully familiar. Have we met?”
He could play coy all he wanted, but I was just waiting for the lightbulb to go on. “Not officially,” I said, with contempt dripping from each word, like wax from a burning candle. Though, my reaction seemed to make him even more confused. Scratching his head, he looked into the distance, bewildered, scrolling through images to place me.
“I’d like to think I’d remember, but can’t manage to place you.”
As much as I should’ve scorned him, I couldn’t stay focused. My eyes kept drifting toward his full lips, which continued to curl with perplexity. He was rough around the edges. Two days of stubble climbed his jagged jaw, but all I could see was the smoke billowing from his steamy eyes. They were different, flecked with silvery dust and jade—changing with the whims of his mood. I was tempted to believe in the innate niceness exuding from them, but I was cautious not be misled, again. “You are Myles Donovan, Correct? The Myles Donovan that lives at 4316 Sparrow Lane?”
“I am,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Well, I don’t know if I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but it is nice to put a face to a name.”
I’d definitely crossed Mom’s fine line between being direct and being just plain tasteless. The disciplinarian kicked in. “Now that’s enough. Laila, I want you to apologize to Myles this minute. I don’t know what’s going on between you two or how you know each other, but you were raised with manners and that type of behavior will not stand in this house.”
Without flinching, I said, “Mom, why don’t you ask…Mr. Donovan, is it?” I added for dramatic flair, knowing very well what his name was. “Ask Mr. Donovan what his phone number is.”
“Okay…Now I’m really confused. Do you mind filling me in on what you think it is that I’ve done to you because I’m in the dark here.”
“Yes. Laila, let’s get to the bottom of this right now.”
“Go on. Tell me your phone number.” I looked him square in his eyes to let him know I meant business.
“No clue what you’re after, but if you must know, it’s 5-5-5-2-3 -7-4.”
The thinly veiled smug grin on my face, disappeared immediately. At first, I thought I’d heard him wrong, but it was no mistake. Our numbers were nearly the same, except his ended with a four and mine with a nine. I was so confused. I distinctly heard my phone number at the bridal shop. “But I heard Betty confirm the number you gave her?”
“Betty? I don’t know a Betty.”
“Well, that may not have been her name, but I did hear you confirm your phone number to be 5-5-5-2-3-7-9 at the bridal shop. And that’s my number.” As if I’d been fully exonerated with that explanation, I pointed my finger stubbornly. “You see, Mom.” Although, I acted more like my shoe size than my age, it was worth it for vindication.
“See what?” Raising his hands up in frustration. “You did not hear me confirm your phone number. If you would have eavesdropped a little longer, you would have heard me tell the woman that the last number was a four and not a nine.”
“The fact of the matter, Mr. Donovan, is that you are a crook. You have been terrorizing me for what seems like eternity and it’s about time for it to stop. Every day, some collection company or telemarketer is calling me asking for Mr. Myles Donovan. Asking for you. Meanwhile, you’re out all over town at restaurants and bridal salons passing my phone number out to random people, like it’s a winning lottery ticket. You have the audacity—”
“It was you!” he interrupted me mid-sentence. “The dress store. That was you at the counter.”
With all the stifled fury of that day in the boutique, I couldn’t chicken out a second time. “Yes. And I lost my nerve to say anything to you that day, when I heard the saleswomen say your name, but I knew I’d get the chance again one day even if I had to wait a lifetime to tell you that you are the bane of my existence.”
“You followed me there,” he stated accusingly.
“No, I was there for Lena. What are you talking about?” I turned away from his knowing eyes, piercing through me. “I overheard the saleswoman say your name.”
“Then, how’d you know my address?”
“It was on the counter,” I folded under pressure, guilty on all counts.
“So, you admit to stalking me then, if you stole my information from the shop?” A smug look passed across Myles’ face. The inching smirk, evidence of his rapidly inflating ego. He thought he won his case and I just wanted to yell, “You can’t handle the truth,” but I stuck to my guns and held on to my last shred of dignity.
“Let’s not get things twisted here. This is my phone number that you’re giving out. You can try to change your story here to save face, but I heard you.” Weak, but the only effective point.
“You’re whacko. For the second time, we do not have the same number despite the similarity. So, you want to crucify me because I have messy handwriting. Come on! Forever, people have been mistaking my fours for nines, because they curve a little bit, so sue me.”
We went back and forth for a little less than half an hour, until Mom finally mediated the whole thing. Once we finally got down to the bottom of things, I actually felt guilty. After all, it wasn’t Myles’ fault. When he originally got the number, the phone company even mistook his numbers. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed because I was revved up and ready to take out my rage on him.
By the polite gestures and remorse lingering in the air more than anything, we both knew an unspoken truce had been reached. Still, I apologized at every chance. And every chance he got, he let me know that it was unnecessary, given the circumstances. Luckily, we actually had business to discuss. He pulled out the photography samples and packages and we awkwardly discussed the wedding. It was too late for me, though. I couldn’t help noticing the light peering through the sheer curtains flickering in his eyes. How could I concentrate on engagement photos and poses, when I was more interested in him than his work. Being mad at him was…easier. Easier than memorizing the curves of his cheekbone and the swaying in the waves of his lush mane. Professional, but casual in straight-leg dark jeans, a blue and white pin-striped button-down collared shirt and navy blazer, Myles was distinguished and sexy. He must’ve felt the weight of my eyes on him because the co
rners of his mouth turned up and then we were locked in another gaze. The same gaze that we shared in the bridal salon, and my dream. The surrealism of sitting this close to him made me want to pinch myself to wake up.
“Are you sure this is what you want?”
“Yes. No. Wait, I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
“Are you sure the formal shots are all you want?” He hesitated. “From just the brief meeting, your family seems to be full of color and passion, to say the least. You don’t strike me as the type to be so cut and dry…if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Oh, no. You’re right. We’re a tad traditional, but the photojournalistic candid shots and a mix of the formals will be best. You haven’t met Lena yet. Let me just tell you, if you got that from just the two of us, you’re in for a big surprise. I’m tame compared to Lena.”
“Sure she’s just as great as you are.” I knew it was meant for Lena, but I indulged in the flattery nonetheless.
Another apology rose in my throat, and before I could do anything to stop it, “Myles. Really, I’m so—” but he wouldn’t let another one slide.
“Don’t even try it. Listen, maybe we started off on the wrong foot. What do you say, we go outside for a walk to let the air clear and we’ll start over.”
My head hung low, embarrassed, I acquiesced to the stroll. I rose to head for the door, but he stood up like a flash and rushed ahead. “Myles?” Mom and I exchanged a baffled look and shrugged it off. The security alarm chimed. “Myles?” I called out.
I reached the foyer just as the front door closed. Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Confused, I just stood there wondering if I should answer it or not. Through the peephole, a distorted caricature-like image of Myles waiting almost impatiently made me laugh. His oversized nose and eyes looked back at me. “Myles, what are you doing? You’ve already been welcomed into the house.”
Loud and muffled, he pleaded, “Just answer it, as if I hadn’t been here already.”
It's Got A Ring To It Page 8
