He heaves a sigh and drops his hand to his lap. I should tell him about Bastain. I should explain why he needs to go. He’s been so kind. It’s not fair to keep him in the dark like this. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I don’t know if it’s because I am too ashamed to tell him, or if I’m just not ready to admit it out loud. Saying it out loud makes it true. And I’m not ready to deal with that yet.
“Fine. I won’t go in. I’ll wait here,” he says, “I could use a nap anyway.”
Why does he insist on making this so difficult? I should be turning cartwheels because a guy like this is willing to do so much for me. Instead, I’m shoving him off like he’s trying to sell me useless magazine subscriptions. “You’d just be wasting your time.”
His eyes study mine, searching for the lie behind my words. “Is that your final answer?” he asks, unable to hide his disappointment.
“Final answer.”
“Well, I guess there’s no arguing, then.”
I shake my head in response, and he looks away. I climb out of the car and peep my head in through the open window. “See ya,” I say, with a smile. This one isn’t genuine. I have to force it. Because inside I really feel like crying. I might look like a mess on the outside, but for just a short while, for the first time in a long time, I felt peace on the inside. And I’m not ready to let that go.
“See ya,” he returns, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. I turn and walk away as the first of many more teardrops starts to fall.
The look on Bastain’s face when he picked me up from the hospital was one of pure shock. I guess he thought I’d spend the night in Santana’s back yard, broken and bloody, until he decided to come save me. After standing outside debating with myself for what seemed like an hour, I chose to go inside and get checked out. My hero had taken good care of me, according to the doctor. My head is tender where I have knots on my scalp, but there is no orbital fracture due to the impact on the concrete or from the brick wall. I’m lucky, luckier than some, I’m afraid. I don’t need stitches, and I don’t have a concussion. I should be all healed up and back to normal within about four weeks.
I give Bastain the same story I gave mystery man and the doctor about running into a glass door. The look on his face tells me he doesn’t buy it. Then again, I’m not surprised. Deep down he knows the truth just like I do, only neither one of us are prepared to admit it out loud.
“Where were you?” I ask, forcing the knot back down my throat as I speak.
“It was starting to get crowded, so I moved the car to make sure we could get out. When I came back, you were gone.”
Lies. Bullshit. Excuses. He’s had all night to come up with a good story and this is the best he’s got? Now I’m angry.
“You couldn’t find me, so you just left?” I ask, emphasizing the final word as if it were the last thing he should have done.
“I’m sorry, Em. It looked like you were having a good enough time. How was I supposed to know you’d go running into doors and end up at the hospital?”
It looked like I was having a good enough time? So, he was mad that I was dancing. I knew it. And he knew exactly where I’d end up because he’s the one who put me there. It’s a chicken shit answer, but hey- I got an apology out of it so I should be happy, right? Wrong.
I need to learn how to deal with everything I’m feeling inside before I take this conversation any further, so I choose to remain silent the rest of the ride home.
I haven’t slept a full night in almost a week. There’s a thick fog of tension in our home. Some days we wade right through it, going through the motions as if nothing’s happened. Other days, it consumes us, keeping us silent as we try to find our way. Bastain has a hard time looking me in the face. I guess the bruises are an unwelcome reminder.
I can’t stop thinking about bouncy, brown curls, chocolate eyes, and a smile that could open the heavens. Every time I try to brush off the memories of how attentive and caring he was that night, they multiply and show up more vivid than ever, tormenting me. Sometimes I wake up feeling his touch against my cheek, hearing his voice whisper in my ear. He tells me I need to be strong. He reminds me I deserve better.
Then one day, on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, I decide to believe him. I spend the day sprucing up my resume. Bastain has me running errands for his car dealership, but it’s more of a power move than a paying position, a way for him to remind me of the hierarchy. I know if I told him I wanted a job, his immediate reaction would be getting me a position at his business. Living with Bastain and working for Bastain? Having him control my schedule as well as my finances? Hard pass. So for now, I tuck away fifty dollars when I go to the grocery store by getting cash back at the register. If I get any hits back on my resume, I’ll figure out what to tell him then.
Getting out of yoga class for the next four weeks wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. I told Kylee that Bastain’s receptionist was sick and he needed me to work days at the dealership. She bought it without asking a bunch of questions, thank God.
It’s been almost two weeks now since that night at the party, and I’ve walked past the boxing gym at least six times. Every time I think I’ve worked up the nerve to go inside, my insecurities get the best of me, and I end up at the coffee shop around the corner instead. The closeness of the two locations explains why he was there that day. Sometimes I find myself sitting at that table in the corner, hoping he’ll happen to walk in. He doesn’t.
“How are you sleeping these days?”
Dr. Sandra Owen isn’t the typical therapist. Her office is in the back room of a book store, for starters. She calls her practice The Kitchen Table, because, according to her, that’s where families normally sit and talk about their day. She sits on a sofa across from the one I sit on, because she doesn’t have a desk. In the far corner of the room is an actual dining table. The walls aren’t lined with degrees and licenses, although I know she has them. Instead, the room reminds me more of a studio apartment than any type of office. I look around at the pictures of her children playing football and family vacations to Disney World, and I feel at home. I suppose that’s the point, to make patients more comfortable.
I settle into the cushions of the comfortable sofa. “The nightmares are gone,” I reply.
She analyzes my facial features as I answer her questions. Dr. Owen is an attractive, middle-aged brunette with the kindest blue eyes. “Has something happened to cause this change?”
I’ve been having the same nightmare for six years. It plays so vividly in my mind, I wake up trembling and soaked in sweat. It’s always the same, always with the same ending. It’s dark, and I’m standing on the side of a deserted road. It’s cold and starting to rain. I’m afraid. A car is coming. I’m relieved to see the headlights. It feels like I’ve been stranded alone on this road for days. The car doesn’t slow down as it approaches. I scream and scream as it gets closer, but it still comes at me full speed. It’s going to hit me, and I can’t stop it. I start to run, but I hear a yell coming from the woods behind me. Someone is calling for help. If I stop running to find out where the scream is coming from, the car will hit me. But the voice sounds so familiar, I am drawn to it. I have to stop. I have to help. I stop running, and the last sound I hear before waking is the sound of screeching brakes.
I focus on her question. What’s changed? When did the nightmares stop? The day at the coffee shop. Him. He’s why they stopped. He has to be. I can’t tell her that. I can’t say it out loud.
As if she’s reading my mind, she interrupts my thoughts. “I can’t help you if you aren’t honest.”
“I met someone. A man.” Oh my God. I said it. “I met someone.” Those are words someone would say to their girlfriends explaining why their smile is a little bit brighter these days. That’s something you’d tell your parents when they’ve been hounding you about being single. It’s not something you say when you’re in a committed relationship with another man. Her eyes light up. She’s curious.
<
br /> “And you feel this man is the reason the nightmares have stopped?”
“Yes.” She nods and scribbles something in her notebook.
“Do you want to tell me about the bruises? What caused them?”
I knew this would come up sooner or later. Dr. Owens knows about Bastain’s possessive nature and sometimes erratic behavior, but this is a surprise to both of us. I don’t answer with words. My eyes fall to the multicolored wool rug. I pull my feet up on the sofa and tuck them under my butt.
“Emma, I can see this is difficult for you to talk about.” She sets her notebook on the cushion next to her and leans forward. “I want you to start keeping a journal. You don’t have to write in it every day. Just when you’re feeling things you can’t say out loud. Write it down. Almost like writing a letter to yourself. Can you do that?”
A journal. I can do that. “Okay. Thank you, Dr. Owen.” I give her a hug, and set my next appointment for two weeks.
Alex
“So, this is where you run off to when you’re in a hurry to leave the office?” Chase stands at the front counter of the gym, trying to decide whether to go with black hand wraps or yellow. I quit shadow boxing and walk up to him. Jake tosses me a white, cotton towel from behind the counter. I use the corner to wipe the sweat from my forehead then sling it over my shoulder.
“Talk shit all you want. At least I’m running.” I pat his rock-hard stomach and throw him a wink. True to form, Chase lifts his shirt, revealing a hard-earned, chiseled set of abs. He’s a gym rat but definitely not a cardio guy. One look at his biceps, and it’s obvious most of his time is spent on free weights.
“Pppssshh. The only cardio I do is between the sheets. Which you’d probably get a lot more of if you weren’t so broody.”
“Broody? I’m not broody.” Fucking dick. Who says “broody” anyway?
He runs his hands across the top of my head, ruffling my hair. “Please. You’ve got that whole -I’m incredibly handsome and fit with a great job, but my heart’s been broken so stay away, ladies- vibe,” he says in a high-pitched voice, then gives my curls a tug. “And what’s up with this?”
“Back off. Chicks dig the curls. You heard the girl at the bar.” I wiggle my eyebrows at him, and he shoots me a one-finger salute.
“Oh, I guess they dig these too?” he asks, motioning his hands up and down the length of my arms, regarding my tattoos.
“If you had a few, you might get more cardio.”
He rolls his eyes. “Okay, pretty boy. You up for a challenge?”
A challenge? This could be interesting. “I’m always up for a challenge.”
“Me and you. One-on-one. I win- you lose the curls. You win- I get a tattoo.”
One-on-one? He wants to spar? Does he have any idea who he’s up against? I got into the martial arts circuit when I was nine years old. I’ve been teaching kickboxing classes for the past eight years. He can’t even decide on hand wraps. And he wants to go one-on-one? I hold out my hand for us to shake on it. “Just a little heads up- The needle only hurts in the beginning.”
He bumps my shoulder and we both start laughing. I have a feeling my curls are safe for now.
Basketball. That sneaky mother fucker meant basketball. I should have known better than to think he’d make it easy. I just figured he was bluffing about not knowing anything about boxing. I haven’t played basketball since college, and even then I wasn’t very good.
Our shoes squeak and squeal against the hardwood floor of the rec center he rented. Our audience of six cheers us on as they watch the ball switch from his hands to mine, then again as it swishes through the net. We agreed to go to 21, trying not to make it too easy. Chase makes two 3-pointers right off the bat, leaving me a lot of ground to cover. After the first few shots, I lose my shirt, tossing it to the side of the court. Malone grabs it, feigning fandom as he waves it around in the air as if he’s claimed a rare prize.
Since the day I started working at Beckford, Wright, and McCoy, I’ve always thought that was just his name. It wasn’t until recently that I found out that, like me, Malone goes by his last name. Although, his reasons don’t involve having an overbearing father with the same name, a father that I refuse to be anything like. He goes by his last name because his first name is Leslie, which I’m currently mouthing at him in exaggeration. “I love you, Leslie,” I silently profess. He brings my shirt to his face and pretends to cry, a loud, obnoxious sound. Then, he pulls the sweaty material over his bald head.
“I’m never taking it off,” he yells. I laugh to myself. For a bunch of lawyers, these guys are serious dumbasses.
Just for show, I snatch the ball from Chase and take a 3-foot vertical to land a slam dunk. Then I lick my index finger and draw an imaginary tick mark in the air. Two more points for me.
“What is it now? 19-19?” I say to my opponent as the ball bounces out of bounds.
Chase rests his hands on his knees while he catches his breath. I grab the ball from Riley, another one of our senior associates who came to watch, and start to dribble. Chase comes out of nowhere, steals the ball, then does a 360 and dunks. So, not only does he have to beat me, but he’s got to make a production of the whole thing.
I run my hands through my curls, now flat and drenched in sweat, for the last time.
My hands clench the arms of the chair as the sound of clippers buzzing rings in my ears. The barber asked if I wanted to face away from the mirror. I said no. I’ll watch.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had ridiculously boyish hair, curly and chaotic. It’s always been a part of my identity. It’s helped define me, set me apart, and I wasn’t kidding when I told Chase the chicks dig it. It was like a magnet for their fingertips, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t going to miss it. The last woman to run her fingers through my hair was a beautiful blonde who orders nonfat lattes without giving her name and runs from monsters in the night. I wonder what she’ll think of me now. That’s assuming I ever see her again.
I’ve been to the coffee shop where we first met, at least a dozen times over the past three weeks, hoping to find her, with her mouth poised in that sexy little “o” as she blows softly through the tiny hole in her lid. She’s never there. I run eight blocks off my normal path around my neighborhood, thinking I might bump into her. There has to be a reason she was in Brickell that night. Maybe it’s the same reason she was in a coffee shop that day. I was meant to find her. I have to see her again. I won’t stop until I do.
I’ve never used my job title to get special favors. I’ve never used it to gain access to places or things I wouldn’t otherwise be able to. But I have come within inches of walking into that hospital and demanding her files on more than one occasion. I tell myself I just want to check on her, to follow up, to make sure she’s okay. That’s a lie. What I really want is to hold her again, to see her smile, hear her voice. I want to tell her she never has to be hurt like that again. She can defend herself. I can show her how. All she has to do is let me.
I run my hand over the top of my head before I even look at the pile on the floor at my feet. The soft fuzz grazes my palm, but falls right back into place as my hand moves past. Unruly strands don’t get tangled in my fingers, stopping me halfway through. It feels foreign, like it doesn’t belong to me anymore. I haven’t looked up yet. I don’t know if I’m ready to meet the new me. Why the fuck did I let Chase talk me into this?
The barber pulls apart the velcro holding the apron around my neck, then shakes the extra hair onto the floor. I stand, cutting eyes at Chase, who is speechless for the first time in his life I’m sure. “Damn, dude. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were a badass,” he teases with a smirk.
I turn to face the man in the mirror, and I don’t recognize the person staring back at me. My tattoos spill from the tight sleeves of my black, v-neck tee-shirt, continuing all the way down both arms. Black athletic shorts hang loose on my hips. I narrow my eyes at the reflection. The boyish charm is
gone, replaced by an intimidating man. I like this new man, the one who can call your bullshit with just a look. The minute I smile, the boy returns. The dimples are still there. The smile still warms my eyes. And I decide I like this man, too.
Emma
A familiar sensation washes over me as I slide the nude colored Jimmy Choo over my left heel. Confidence. A feeling I haven’t felt in as long as I can remember. I hope I haven’t forgotten how to walk in these things. Walking into a job interview and falling flat on your face doesn’t exactly make the best first impression. Unless you’re Anastasia Steele, which I am not. You’ve got this, Emma. It’s like riding a bike. Except I’m not riding. I’m walking. In 4-inch heels. It’ll be fine. Just focus.
I smooth the fabric of my black pencil skirt then straighten the shoulders on my blush colored, silk top. I stand in front of the full-length mirror in our bedroom and size up the woman in front of me. Her long blonde hair is pulled up in a French twist and pearl earrings paired with a light pink shirt give her a feminine softness while the heels and pencil skirt tell the world she’s confident in her skin. Even though she’s anything but that. My eyes lock with hers and for a split second they begin to water. No messing up the mascara, Emma. This woman, the one who dares to venture out of the house in something other than yoga pants and a t-shirt, is a stranger to me now. She’s been gone for so long I didn’t even realize I missed her anymore until now.
My heart pounds against my ribs, blood pulsing loud in my ears. Oh, God. I don’t know if I can do this. I need to pee. What if my voice cracks? Or I start to stutter? I haven’t been on a job interview in six years, and at that time I was fresh out of college, ready to take the world by its balls. I knew what I wanted and I wasn’t afraid to go get it. But over the past five years this house has become my safe haven. Inside it I know what to expect and how to deal with it. Its foundation holds my secrets, and its walls hide my pain. Outside of its threshold, I don’t know who I am.
The Perfect Gentleman Page 5
