Chasing Stars (22 page)

I pull a chair to her, and switch the iPod on. It plays the same music from the day we met.

“God, I love this playlist, it will never get old,” she purrs, her voice is longing, and for a moment, a fear this is good-bye.

“I added it to your iPhone earlier today.” I grin.

“Thank you, Will.” She reaches across the table, searching for my hand.

The waiter I hired interrupts us.

“Good evening, my name Is Jorge, I will serve you tonight. Would you like to start with something to drink?” he inquires.

“Yes, please,” I say, my eyes fixed on Portia.

He pours chilled wine and water, then discreetly disappears into the house.

Portia glances at my wineglass. “Is this OK? I mean, I know you don’t drink.”

“As a general rule, I don’t drink. But there is no harm on drinking a glass of wine with my girl.” Her concern is cute and, at the same time, profound.

Portia flushes, her lips curve into a pure smile that is beyond beautiful. It does things to me. I know at this moment what I have known all along. I will do anything for this unbelievable woman before me.

I ponder on the months we have spent together. Life with Portia is a wild ride. But once you’re in, you better buckle up, because hopping out is not an option. Once you experiment with her, there is no turning away. I guess that’s the trait that makes her so captivating to her fans. Except in my case, this is personal.

I would do anything for this woman, and I don’t know what her feelings for me are. Portia remains a mystery. At times, I catch a glimpse of someone hidden behind the persona the world sees. But all her real emotions are tucked under a carefully crafted shell. I wonder, just how much of her true self she allows me to touch.

I raise my glass, “To a successful premiere and a quick return to New York.” She silently raises her glass, clinking mine. Savoring our dinner, we watch the sun set. Portia slips her hands into mine at every chance she has, but her silence is bothersome.

After lighting the fire bowl, I sit next to her on a blanket along with dozens of fluffy pillows. Jorge brings us dessert and retreats.

“I can’t believe you remembered my favorite dessert.” She looks at the vanilla ice cream topped with jellybeans and candy corn. She smiles, scoops a spoonful of the dessert and slides a spoon into my mouth. I smile at her and, before I swallow it, she straddles me and her mouth crashes mine.

Her lips are soft and warm. The ice cream melts inside my mouth. She licks my lips, stirring my body to life. I inhale her sweet scent, my hand fists her hair, the other arm finds her waist and I pull her closer. My teeth graze along her jawline, my tongue caresses her skin and samples her erotic taste. My lips skim the delicate skin of her neck, sucking on her throbbing pulse. I tighten my grip of her hips and she thrusts her pelvis against me. Oh, fuck. I clench my teeth and my body stiffens.

Portia notes my tension. Still on my lap, she straightens herself. Her gaze meets mine and I see in the depth of her eyes fire…and need. She rests her forehead on mine, giving me time to cool off.

For a moment, I reevaluate my values. The ring on my finger kept me grounded during crucial years after I quit drugs. In a sense, it freed me. Why then, in this moment, does it burn my skin? More than anything else, I want to make love to Portia. Well, except for violating the vow I’ve taken. I fear that Portia will lose interest in me, due to my unorthodox beliefs.

Even she realizes it is getting hard for me, to restrain myself. She slides off my lap, sits next to me, and snuggles against my chest. We remain silent for a long time.

I can’t help but to look at her under the flickering flames and realize the truth: I am in deep with this adorable woman and it scares the hell out of me.

“Dance with me?” I stand, and reach down to her.

Portia’s arms wrap around my neck, her face rests on my chest. A Cold Play song flows, muffling the sound of the waves. I inhale the intoxicating scent of her hair and get lost in the sway of her hips as they move against mine.

“Yellow is one of my favorite songs,” she says quietly. Needless to say, I already knew, and therefore included the song.

“Will, this is the best date I have ever had. Thanks.”

“Is my girl thanking me for a date?” I ask playfully. “Why does that have the wrong ring to it?” I ask, and I look down at Portia, seeking her eyes.

She bites her lower lip. “I’m sorry, I guess that came across wrong.” She inhales, “I’m just not used to this. I have had incredible dates, Will, but they were all inane compared to this. I guess what I am trying to say is, this is so different from everything before.” She gazes at me, and for the first time since we met, her eyes are lost.

I swallow hard. Unsure, I say, “What you mean, Portia?” I frown, pulling her tighter against me. My heart is throbbing with a desperate need to erase the sadness I see in her expression.

“You.” She wrenches her eyes away, staring at a distant point in the ocean. “You make it special, and I am afraid, that you are going to see me for who I am, and be done with me.”

My hand finds her chin and I gently force her to face me. The wind tousles her hair and she looks stunning. But in her eyes, I find insecurity that matches my own fear of the wonder of her.

“I see you for who you are, Portia.” I caress her cheek and cup her face. The music shifts to the deep and melodic voice of The Verve as they sing “Sonnet.” “And it fascinates me.” I kiss her lips, tasting her, searching for her, because my own need of her is urgent and painful. I cannot bring myself to tell Portia the depth of my feelings, but I want her to understand through the pulsing of my body, my deep-seated need of her.

I know I will never be able to give up this woman. I know I am hers, for as long as she will have me. Pulling her even closer to me, I feel her body trembling under my hold. I revel, realizing that I do shake her a bit. She definitely rocks my world.

We spend the night on the blanket, by the fire. Portia is uncommonly quiet. I don’t push her. But inside me, fear stings through the night. And I wonder if this starlit sky is the witness to our last night together.

I have to consider, the most viable solution for me, is to join the “Detox Will in Twelve-Steps” program.’ Yep, I am
that
addicted to everything Will and his absence is an unbearable torture. Since I am being honest, I need to say that the withdrawal symptoms are only worsening.

Pain grips my heart. It’s been over two weeks since I left Will behind. The last night we spent together replays in my head for the hundredth—maybe millionth—time. True, my mind seems like a broken record. In a way, I am broken too.

The date he planned was simple, tasteful, thoughtful, and unsurpassable. It was then that I realized how incompatible we are. That night, I would have given away my right hand to make love to Will. An overwhelming desire seized me. And guess what, I loathe myself for wanting to blemish his beautiful character. Will is perfect, and I am unworthy of him.

What I fail to understand when I decided to rupture him from my life, is that I have become codependent on him. I miss his bright smile, his brooding eyes, his smell, and most of all I miss his comforting embrace surrounding me. I am bereft without him.

I haven’t called or answered Will’s calls since I left New York. Awful, I know, but here is the deal. I had hoped that after being away for a few days, I would forget him. To my dismay, I obsessively think of him.

With my shoulders hunched from the exhaustive weight of the past weeks, I stand by the door leading to the terrace at the hotel. Traveling in and out of countries sounds exciting on the news, but the reality is that I constantly need a reminder of which country I am in so that I don’t make the gaffe of relating to the wrong place. The process is draining. Nursing a broken heart makes the matter worse. I simply do what I do best: I place myself on automatic, fulfill my duties, and hide my true emotions from the entire world.

We finally arrive in London and I will get a day’s break before Paris, which is my last stop. I check the time and do a quick mental calculation for the time zone difference. In London, we are five hours ahead of New York.

I stare at my cell seemingly burning the palm of my hand. The need to connect with Will unsettles me. God, I miss him so much. My fingers feebly tap the keys of my cell.

Me:
Hi.

I tap my feet impatiently as I have seen Will doing so many times. After thirty seconds, I hear a ping. It quickens my heartbeat and I anxiously glance at the screen.

Will:
Hi.

I pause, unsure on what to type. He must be pissed at me for ignoring him, rightfully so.

Me:
How’s are you?

Will:
How am I doing??? Why didn’t you call me or answered any of my calls?

Oh-ho, I am in trouble, and Will is not taking any hostages.

Me:
Sorry, in and out of planes, interviews, photo shoots. Extremely busy.

Will:
Really? Fine. Got to go.

Me:
Will?

But there is no reply. That did not go well. I managed to screw things up, big time. I have placed a huge obstacle between us.

I toss my cell away from me and sprawl over my king-size bed. This is for the best. Why delay the inevitable? Obviously, I am not meant to be with anybody.

I close my eyes and Will’s deep, green eyes haunt me. Seemingly, I can’t get away from the thought of him and it fucking hurts. Once again, I am lost and lonely, and I have no one but myself to blame for it. Damn it.

I want to forgo my obligations, be miserable by myself, and have a self-pity party. I’m not suicidal, really. But tonight, like many nights before I met Will, all I want is to stay in bed and fantasize how it would be if I died. Certainly the media would be in a frenzy with reports of how good I was—even though it isn’t true—and whether or not I should be canonized. Yep. I said canonized. I am, after all a frivolous and famous actress. People eat this up. The sad part is, other than sensationalizing the news of my death, no one would give a crap. And that stings a tiny part of me.

I have always believed I was going to die young. Maybe the silly list that Niki wrote provoked a stupid idealization of death. When I was little, I was terrified to die. Not so much today, although I guess I still have a bit of that fear. During times like today, I question if death would rid the deep emptiness inside me. I wonder if it would remove the crushing weight of this oppressive blanket of numbness that envelops and sucks the air and life out of me. Will eliminated my lonely thoughts. I single-handedly destroyed what we had only to return to my lonesomeness.

A gentle knock at my door drags me away from my pity party. I hoist myself out of bed and stroll to the door, already knowing it is Tarry.

“Hey, baby.” He kisses my cheek.

“Don’t fucking call me that.” I scowl. After Will, I don’t think I can stand the endearment, not even from Tarry.