by Portia Moore
“No, it’s okay. I think I’m just going to stay here and think some things through. Tell her I said hi.”
“Okay, if you need anything, just call my cell,” she tells me, as if I’m a twelve-year-old again.
“I’ll be fine,” I assure her.
“I’ll see you later, honey,” she says, shutting the door.
I suddenly feel exhausted. I strip the big quilt and colorful sheets off the bed, replacing them with some sheets I brought from home. After I’m done, I look around the room, taking a deep breath. This place will take some getting used to again. I crawl into the bed, hugging the pillow as if it’s a stuffed animal.
Chapter 4
May 9th, 2008
“I went to University of Illinois for two years before I transferred to Indiana State, where I played football. Believe it or not, I originally majored in criminology. It’s funny how I jumped from criminology to journalism, because they’re so different from each other. Initially, I only took it in high school because of this girl I had a crush on. Then I changed it because criminology was getting too complicated. I thought it was the best thing I ever did in my life. So when I graduated, I moved back to Chicago. My dad helped me get a job at the Tribune, where my boss assigned me the Entertainment section. Who the hell reads that? But anyway, the point is…”
Jason can’t shut up. I continue to nod and smile, pretending to be interested in what he’s saying. He’s been going on like this for twenty minutes; he hasn’t asked a single question about me except what I wanted to order. He then told me the dish he’s having is better and I should order that. I glance at my watch for the third time. I’ve never been this bored in my life. I don’t know if he’s nervous and just rambling on to cover it up, or if he’s really this self-absorbed. He seemed so different back at the club. Looks can sure be deceiving.
I take a sip of my water. The ice has melted. Looking around, I admire how elegant the restaurant is. The piano is playing softly in the background. I could really enjoy this atmosphere—if Jason would just be quiet for a minute.
“I remember my first piece for Journalism 101. It was on a dean sleeping with a student. I had a lot of fun with that, even though it only received a C. My professor always told me I could do better, and on my last paper, I finally had an A,” he continues. “So what about you?”
I almost choke on my water; the opportunity to talk is unexpected—I thought he’d at least give me a rundown of every article he’d ever written before he asked me a question. “Well, I attend Chicago University. I’m majoring in English and minoring in art history.”
“The art world is a hard world to break into,” he tells me, as if I don’t know.
“That’s why I’m majoring in English,” I tell him, a little annoyed.
“So what kind of work do you do?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I know you’re an art history major, but do you do any artwork?” he asks absentmindedly while signaling the waiter.
I just told him art history was my minor, but whatever. Close enough. “Well, some painting and sculpting, but my passion is drawing.”
“Yes, can you get our check?” he asks the approaching waiter, who nods and walks away. He turns back to me. “I’m sorry… you were saying?”
I shake my head. “It’s not important.” It’s not like he was paying any attention anyway.
“Have you heard about the museum’s anniversary gala?” he asks. Has he already forgotten the art history thing?
“Yes, I have,” I tell him, trying not to sound sarcastic.
“You would probably have a wonderful time there. It’s too bad you can’t get tickets. The Tribune only received three. I was lucky enough to get one of the press passes, since it will be the entertainment event of the season,” he boasts.
Should I tell him I’m going or should I not? Hmm.
“I’ll be sure to have a full report on it for you.” He grins.
I decide not to tell him. I will keep smiling, and maybe he’ll get the hint. My phone begins to vibrate in my purse. I take it out and see it’s Hillary. Oh, I love you, Hillary!
“Excuse me for a minute,” I tell him before walking to the front entrance. “I’ve never been so happy to hear from you,” I say gratefully.
“I take it your date sucks?” she asks excitedly.
“Other than the food, yes. I’ll be home in an hour. Jason is probably the most self-absorbed person I’ve ever met. The whole conversation tonight was all about him. I probably got three sentences in,” I tell her.
“Aw, you poor thing! Well, you can’t strike gold twice.”
I smile, thinking about my date with Cal, which makes this seem like an appointment with a dentist.
“So does he have anything else planned after dinner?” she asks.
“I don’t know, but I can’t take any more of this.”
“Remember the guy I met at the party you didn’t want to go to last week? Jinere or Johnae—I’ll never be able to say it right. Anyway, something foreign, and he’s ridiculously hot. I’m making him dinner and I may be his dessert…” she warns with a hint of excitement.
“Have fun, Hillary,” I say. At least one of us will be having a good time tonight.
“Want me to wait up for you?”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, night, hun,” she says, and I hang up the phone.
I look at my watch; it’s only 9:12 p.m. This night is going way too slow. I walk back into the restaurant and see that Jason isn’t at the table. I suppose he’s gone to the restroom. Thank goodness. It’ll be quiet for a few minutes.
“Excuse me, miss?” asks a small voice from behind me.
I turn around to see the hostess who seated us when we arrived.
“The gentleman with you had an important call and had to leave, but he’s called you a cab,” she informs me.
He’s ditched me? He’s ditched me. After an hour and a half of talking about his boring job and attendance history in class, he leaves me? I sigh and notice that the hostess is waiting for my response.
“Thank you,” I say, smiling to hide my annoyance.
She nods and walks away. I take my jacket from the back of my chair and put it on. Who would have thought at the beginning of this evening that I would end up sitting in the lounge alone, waiting for a taxi to take me home because my date ditched me?
I stare at the blank canvas in front of me and see… a blank canvas. I have no inspiration. I see nothing. I move the easel back to the wall and grab my sketchbook off my desk. I have to flip all the way to the back to find an empty page.
I make a light mark with a pencil in the middle of the paper. All of my drawings start off this way, then I go with what I feel. Painting isn’t that easy; you have to have your colors mapped out, your setting, and you can’t paint stray marks and wait until they turn into something.
That’s why I love to draw; it’s therapeutic. My thoughts drift to the anniversary of the museum tomorrow. I feel butterflies starting to play in my stomach. Since it’s the anniversary, I know they’re going to have all types of new collections flown in just for the night, even though they will probably already have new pieces I haven’t seen. It’s been forever since I was there. I’ve always enjoyed being there alone, in my own world. Tomorrow will be the first time I’ll actually go with another person outside of school. I’ve always kept art as a private reward for myself.
I wonder if Cal is into art. He didn’t seem too excited about the event, but most people wouldn’t be. He does get credit for actually suggesting a date based on my interests, aside from the fact that he had tickets to an event that would be difficult for an average person to get.
I put down my sketchbook and go to the closet to pull out the dress I’m planning on wearing tomorrow. Angela was kind enough to let me borrow it, since this is probably the only time I’ll ever need something for an occasion like this. I admire it again, along with the six-inch black heels t
hat Hillary contributed. They’ll murder my feet, but they match perfectly, and it will all be worth it.
Any artist in Chicago would die to be there, and I get to dress up for something other than work. Oh, and Cal isn’t too bad of a perk either.
I laugh at myself and hang the dress back up. Cal… I really don’t know what to think about him. I thought I had him all figured out the first time I met him, that he was either a suave businessman or some rich playboy. I couldn’t have been more wrong. He’s neither of those, but even though I can say what he isn’t, I still don’t know what he is. I know less about him now than when we first met, which is intriguing and scary. He’s invited me to this party because he could guess how much I’d love to go, so I know he’s got at least that chapter of my autobiography, yet here I barely have a snippet of his birth certificate.
The only thing I really know about him is that he’s mysterious, outspoken, and incredibly sexy. I still can’t believe I wanted so much more after that kiss. Usually I never even let a guy approach my lips, pulling the old kiss on the cheek or awkward hug move. Letting a guy slip his tongue into my mouth is sacrilege in the “Code of Lauren Brooks,” but I’ve broken a few codes already when it comes to Cal. By now I’d usually know his age, what he does for a living, how many siblings he has, and what his first pet was, but it occurs to me that I didn’t ask him a single question about any of those things. Well, his smile and eyes kept distracting me. They draw you in and make you stay there…
May 5th 2011
I wipe the steam off the mirror and crack the bathroom door open to let in some air. One shower and the room is up to 105 degrees. I wrap myself in the plush bath towel and slip into the flip-flops I left by the tub. I yawn a little, even though I shouldn’t be tired at all. I woke up at ten at night, and I couldn’t believe I had slept the day away. But I guess sleep is the best thing to relieve stress, and I had tons of relieving to do.
I know I shouldn’t feel like this, but I can’t help wondering why Cal hasn’t called me back yet. I check the phone for messages, even though I know he probably wouldn’t leave one, especially on Raven’s voice mail. I flick a piece of wet hair off my face. I should blow-dry, but I’m way too irritated to do that right now. On the way down the hall back to my room, I notice Raven has gone to bed, so I back up to turn off the light illuminating the tiny hall. As I walk into my bedroom, a slight breeze blows in through an open window, so I walk over to close it. A hand touches my lower back.
I shriek, spinning around and backing up at the same time. Cal is standing in front of me. He grasps my arm to keep me from falling over. What the hell is he doing here? My impulse is to wrap my arms around him, then I remember I’m pissed at him, so I retreat to the other side of the room.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, shocked, still out of breath, and a tiny bit happy he’s here. This is the last thing I expected. He hadn’t even called me back.
“Oh, come on. No ‘hello’ or ‘nice to see you, honey’?” he teases.
The moonlight reflects off of his chiseled face, and he brushes past me to sit on my bed. I inhale his scent. It lures me to him. It’s the cologne I bought for him last month, and it makes me want to… dammit, snap out of it, Lauren!
“Maybe, if I was in the mood to say it. But I’m not.” I mean to be short, but I’m not sure it has the effect I was going for since he’s caught me off guard.
He looks at me, and his eyes drift down from my face, reminding me I’m naked under the towel. I cross my arms tightly to show that I’m determined to keep it on. He smirks at me and picks up a plastic pig that I won at a carnival in high school. I snatch it out of his hand.
“Careful! You wouldn’t want that towel to fall off,” he whispers, and he starts to work his hand up my leg.
I step away quickly and tell myself to ignore the chills that shoot up my spine. “What are you doing here?” I ask again sternly.
“You’re here, so I take it I should be here too.” He seems genuine, but who knows with him.
“Really? Because forty-eight hours ago, it wasn’t at all important for you to be where I was,” I tell him bitterly.
He stands and walks toward me. “I’m sorry,” he says, looking me straight in the eye.
I quickly look away; I hate when he does this. I swear he can see straight through me and read my thoughts. “That’s what you say.”
He rests his hands on my waist. “That’s what I mean,” he says, stepping closer and leaning into me.
I shake my head and step away from him. “Well, how am I supposed to know?” I say quietly to myself as if I’m trying to wake up from a bad dream. “I’m tired of not knowing, Cal!” I say louder.
“Have I ever said anything to you and not meant it?” he reiterates.
Cal has done some pretty mean shit to me. He’ll ignore me, avoid my questions, or leave me without a warning, but he’s not a liar. I’m trying to think, but I get distracted as he starts to run his fingers through my damp hair, massaging my scalp. How am I supposed to think while he’s doing that? I need to think. His lips softly glide across my neck, and he pulls me against his chest. I’m trying to figure out how to respond to this. I’m mad, and I have the right to be. Whatever I want to do, I need to do it fast, before he gets me all the way over to the bed. Say something! Say it now!
“W-we can’t,” I tell him breathlessly as the towel drops to the floor.
It’s too late. He lowers me onto the bed. His weight covers me, as do his lips. I need to talk with him, not sleep with him. This always happens when he touches me: the shivers up my spine, the heat between my thighs, then I get lightheaded and forget my thoughts. He’s casting some kind of spell over me. What else could this be?
“C-Cal, stop,” I say so softly that I can barely hear myself as his fingers trail down my body.
“Do you want me to?” He’s beginning to nibble on my ear.
“I don’t know what I want anymore,” I say honestly, trying to catch my breath. I turn my head to the window. It’s still open, and a soft breeze is blowing in.
“This isn’t what you want?” he says huskily before deepening his kiss.
It takes all my strength, but I break it and gently hold his chin. He looks at me, surprised and somewhat curious.
I stare into the eyes that I usually try to avoid. I look into them for answers about what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. The light from the moon beams down on us through my window. I can’t read them. I can’t see what’s behind them; they’re smoke-covered glass. I can’t see anything more than he wants me to.
“I don’t know anymore, Cal,” I whisper, trying to hold in the hot tears, and I let go of his face.
The wide grin on it softens. He sweeps a piece of stray hair off my forehead and looks into my eyes for what seems like an eternity, but in reality, it’s only a minute.
In an instant, he lifts his body off of me and out of the bed. I maneuver myself to one side and rest my head so I can see what he’s doing. It’s cold, so I slip underneath the covers. Resting my head on my hands, I watch him grab his jacket and get something out of it. I sigh and turn my body so I’m not facing him anymore.
A few minutes later, he’s in bed beside me, his bare skin against mine. Kisses cover my shoulders, and he pulls me toward him. This time, I avoid eye contact. I don’t know what to think or what to feel; I don’t want to get lost in him. I don’t want to keep falling for him, caving in to whatever manipulation this is.
“Lauren,” he beckons quietly.
He takes my hand, bringing it to his face and caressing it. I still don’t answer him. Hot tears sting my cheeks. He hasn’t seen my tears flow like this in a long time; my facade of anger and vindictiveness is usually perfect for camouflaging them. Tonight, I’m too exhausted for any of it. He wipes them from my face and gently kisses my cheek.
“I’m so tired. I can’t. I can’t keep doing this; it-it’s destroying me,” I whimper. My voice is choked up, and I look away from him.
He cups my chin, making me look up at him. “Lauren. I’m here.”
I look away from him. “But how am I…” I can’t finish; my voice caves in.
“I’m here, gorgeous.” His voice is unrecognizable and almost pleading.
I can’t look away from him after that. His gray eyes are showing that faint hint of green. He squeezes my hand, which is tiny in comparison to his. He brings his other hand into view and shows me what it was he was looking for in his jacket a minute ago. Slowly and deliberately, he slides the wedding band down my ring finger, restoring it to its rightful place. I begin to cry harder because tonight, I’m so confused. I wrap my arms around his neck and he holds me close.
I have a lot of confusion about his love for me, but what I have never been confused about is my love for him. I love Cal. That’s it. There’s nothing I’ve been able to do to stop loving him yet. No matter how angry or how frustrated I get. He knows the exact moment, the exact thing to do to make me fall in love with him all over again.
I close my eyes, feeling at peace in this instant. For this moment, I’ve gone back in time to when I used to lie in his arms, when he made me feel as if it was just the two of us in the world and nothing stood between us.
While I have this moment—this peace—I’ll sleep and worry about the rest tomorrow. I finally feel myself drifting to sleep, wrapped in Cal’s arms. And at least for this night, the couple in the picture that I turned down earlier doesn’t feel so far away.
Why do I stay? It’s a simple question really. Why don’t I just leave? I have no children with him. We’re married, but divorce is so easy and common these days. Why do I care so much?
These questions run through my mind as I stare at the ceiling. The same ceiling I used to look at every night when I was a little girl. The teenaged dreamer is now a woman. I glance at the ring on my finger and it commands my attention, not because of the gorgeous princess-cut yellow diamond, but what it once stood for.
