The Thirst Within (10 page)

“Say you love me.
Please
,” Thierry says
unexpectedly, his voice full of emotion. Like he’s about to cry.

Holy shit.

Please
? I couldn’t say no, even if this
is only the fourth time that I see him. Even if I don’t know anything about
him. It
feels
like I know him; like I’ve known him all my life.

“I love you, Thierry,” I say, and it hurts to
admit it. Something in my chest burns, and it wants to cave in, embarrassed; but
what was I supposed to do? If this man asked me to admit I killed JFK, I would.
And he said
please
. “I do,” I repeat, closing my eyes; it really does
hurt. I want to disappear.

I feel his lips on mine.

Ahh
. Every worry, every doubt, every
heartache I felt, it all dissolves away as his lips fuse with mine. He presses
me against his body. I return the kiss greedily, rejoicing in the feeling and
the way my body responds, as though it recognizes him. And at that moment I don’t
care that he knows how I feel; I’m ridiculously happy for the first time in almost
four weeks. I throw back my head in abandon, feeling an honest grin on my face
as I come up for air.

Thierry’s lips trace my cheek, my jaw, and land
on my neck. I feel his tongue on my skin, and I suddenly want him to… to kiss
me? No, I had the distinct impression that I wanted him to give me a hickey. To
suck on my neck. As if we were in junior high.

He pulls back, and his gray eyes are full of
wonder. He presses his forehead against mine. “I love you, Tori. You’ve no
idea,” he whispers, and I shiver in his arms.
He loves me
. He says he
loves me.

***

“They’re okay,” Thierry says, trying to comfort
me as we walk to his apartment, a short time later. I’ve been constantly looking
over my shoulder in the direction of the bar in which I abandoned my friend. Kerin
hasn’t answered my texts. I’m still tipsy.

“I just wish I knew for sure. Why won’t she
answer my texts?”

“She probably can’t hear her phone, is all.”

As we get farther away from the parades and
closer to his apartment, I get more anxious. Not only I feel like a traitor for
having left my friends in the middle of a brawl, and Kerin by herself, but I’m
also afraid. I dread what awaits me in his apartment. I haven’t asked Thierry
about Corben.

He sees that I’m still nervous and takes
another stab at it. “By the way, Tori… my brother’s gone.”

“Gone? Where, to Illinois?”

“Probably. I’m not sure where. He wants me to
be happy, and… I told him how I feel about you.”

“I still don’t understand why he—”

“No, shh, Tori. Please,” he interrupts me,
almost pleadingly. “I just got you back.”

My heart likes his last words.
He just got
me back
. As if it sucked as much for him to be away from me. But then…. If
that’s the case, what was it that Corben said that made Thierry leave me in the
first place?

I look at him questioningly. “What happens if
you tell me? I run away, screaming?”

“Maybe. So you first have to love me so much
that you can’t live without me.”

How do you know I’m not there now?
I
want to ask him. But I don’t, because that would be unwise and clingy of me.
Instead, I say, “You’ll explain everything to me, though, right? Someday at
least?”

“Maybe.”

“
Maybe
?”

“Yes… maybe. But for the time being, why don’t
you believe what you want to believe? I warn you, though; you’re going to be
wrong.”

“Am I?” I ask dubiously.

“Oh yeah,” he says, and he’s almost smiling.

We walk to his apartment and I’m having a hard
time keeping my heart from bursting through my glittery purple shirt. I’m playing
steamy scenarios in my head as we get closer and closer to his empty apartment,
on a day I have all the time I could ask for, and accompanied by my newly
admitted love. Also, the alcohol is not helping.

What if he asked me to have sex with him? My
first thought is to say no. But the problem is coming up with reasons justify
the denial. I’m too young? No,
pff
. I’m seventeen. Girls in my old
school started doing it at sixteen, some at fifteen. I’m underage? Right. Like
turning eighteen this October is going to make a difference in my maturity
level.

But how about the fact that I haven’t really
dated him? That I know there are things about him which I don’t know? I think
it through but I don’t have an answer. If only I didn’t have these
unconvincing, questionable preconceptions associating sex with something you
don’t just do with anyone.

I’m spared the internal struggle because when
we reach the courtyard, right as we pass the hot tub and I’m imagining myself
in it, Thierry turns to me and tells me in so many words that we won’t remove a
single item of clothing.

“Now Tori, you don’t have to worry about
anything. I know there are things we haven’t talked through, but I assure you,
we won’t be doing anything wrong. I do love you,” he says. I’m guessing he
thinks I’m worried about us being alone, which is why he’s trying to assuage my
fears.

“I trust you, Thierry,” I say, hoping to convey
a little bit that I’m willing to be open minded about
everything
.

But he just smiles and kisses me softly on the
lips. We climb the stairs to his apartment while I can’t figure out how I feel
or what I want. In the end we just end up watching a TV show while I drink a
lot of water to compensate for the slight dehydration caused by my three beers.
I lie on the couch with him drinking my water, waiting for my buzz to subside
and for Kerin to text me back. It feels great to be so close to him and not
have to worry about anything for now. I should worry about the future, but I don’t.

The past is a different story, though. The
memory of the last time we sat on this couch is in the back of my mind,
bothering me. But when he kisses me, everything disappears. The present is so
much sweeter.

A week later I’m still in dreamland. At home I
haven’t exactly said that I’m seeing an older guy. I’m not sure what the
Harrises’ reaction would be. Fiona’s not my best pal so I don’t trust her to
defend my rights, and even worse, she’s been mad at me all week. I’m assuming
it’s because she suspects I got her and her friends kicked out of their
privileged spot in the coveted bar balcony. The only time she’s gone out of her
way to talk to me was when I came home later that Saturday.

“Who was the guy you left with?” Fiona asked
that night. She came to my room, one of those rare visits.

Since I didn’t remember seeing her when Thierry
showed up, I assumed she got the information from Kerin. “Oh, that guy. He’s the
guy that broke the fight at the bar,” I answered, which was totally the
opposite; Thierry
started
the fight by punching Trent. “I left with him
but then I met up with the rest of the group I was with.”

“Well, we got kicked out right afterwards,
thanks to that Trent guy. But the next bar was better anyway,” she said.

She didn’t bring up my defection again, and
didn’t bother to ask me what I did afterwards. She also didn’t stop to think
that it’s weird that I would go back to the group I was with and leave Kerin by
herself, but bless her self-centered heart, she believed me.

And ever since then she’s barely spoken to me.

I don’t really know why I lied to her. I could just
tell her the truth; what would she care? But I wonder if she’d make a motion to
ban all boyfriends and afterschool shenanigans. I’m only afraid because I can
tell she’s a little competitive with her friends in school; she’s the prettiest,
she always has to have the cutest guy, and she has to be the most popular one.
If she were ever to set eyes on Thierry she’d probably feel like I won some
battle she didn’t even realize she had with me. After all, I’m just the orphan
that lives in her house. I’m not a threat. I don’t have hotter boyfriends than
she does.

So I’m torn between wanting Fiona to know and
wanting to keep her in the dark. I feel like sharing this victory, but then, I
see June demanding, as my guardian’s wife, to meet Thierry. And then she’d convince
Uncle Roland that he’s too old for me, and tell me I can never see him again.
I’d of course rebel like the problem orphan child that I am and move out to Thierry’s
apartment in the French Quarter. June would try to have him jailed for
statutory rape, even though we haven’t even gotten to second base. And then I see
Fiona coming to my room, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, a smug look on her
face.
No one has hotter boyfriends than I
.

No, thank you.

The only person I really talk to is Kerin. Lynn
too, sometimes, but I have a feeling that Kerin and Lynn aren’t as close as
they used to be. Not because of me, though. Lynn’s just in a different world.
They are, in fact, so different that I wonder how they became friends in the
first place. Other than the color of their eyes, hair and skin, they’re
opposites: Lynn’s short and plump while Kerin’s tall and lithe. Kerin likes to
take chances and have fun; Lynn’s a little more conservative and reserved.
Lynn’s extremely applied in school while Kerin’s more of a slacker like me.
Sure, we do our homework, but if the difference between a good grade and an
okay grade is extra sleep, guess what, we’ll both choose the extra sleep.

Because we’re similar in more than a few ways,
Kerin and I have bonded more than I thought we would. So of course she asked me
every single detail about the guy she saw me with, and I told her it was
the
guy
, Thierry. She was half excited to have seen him and half angry that she
didn’t get a better look. But from the bit that she did see, she agrees that
he’s really striking.

With her I talk freely and constantly about
Thierry. Or rather, I’ll mention something I did with Thierry and she will ask
for details. I have a feeling that she doesn’t quite believe me, but that’s
okay with me. The less she believes, the less likely she is to spread the news
that I’m seeing someone. Even though she saw Thierry briefly with her own eyes,
she acts like she doesn’t fully believe me, and will sometimes laugh at
something I say and accuse me of making it up. I don’t blame her. Even
I
don’t believe the stuff that comes out of my mouth when I think of the
description of the guy I’m talking about.

Thierry himself has been so wonderful. I see
him every day, at least for an hour. If nowhere else, at least I’ll see him
when he comes by after work; he takes me home every night. I’ve come up with a
bunch of favorite ways to kiss him. I’m getting pretty good at it, since that’s
all we do. He won’t touch me, and even when kissing he’s been a little guarded.
But I’ll take any amount of Thierry that Providence will allow me. I just wish
he was more open with me. About what’s been bothering him, and about what
happened with his brother.

I’m tired of not knowing.

The weekend comes by, but I’m not excited at
all. I have to work both days. Normally that wouldn’t be so bad; even though
working both days is tiring, I get to see Thierry after work. But this weekend Thierry’s
gone. I was looking forward to spending every one of my breaks with him, but no;
he’s supposed to be in Chicago from Friday through Monday. I asked him about
school and he shrugged, like college is something he can do in his sleep.

He said he’s working some estate thing, figuring
out a financial deal with Corben. He acts all grown up. I suspect that it has
something to do with being an orphan; as if not having parents to tell you what
to do would make you wiser. Then I remember me, living with my uncle, and how I
can’t take care of myself. Nobody expects me to.

No, being all grownup is a Thierry thing.

Whatever the case, I miss him and I can’t wait
for Monday. It’s Saturday and I’m at work with John. We have the morning shift,
so work is slow, and John and I are looking for ways to entertain ourselves.

John has kept good with his promise of being
friends. Every now and then he’ll joke about it, but he doesn’t sound miserable.
He’s as over me as I’m over him, I hope, which makes me wonder why we even
considered dating. Well, me, I guess I liked him. I’d still like him… in a
world where Thierry didn’t exist. But Thierry
does
exist, even when he
was ignoring me, so it could’ve never worked out with John.

What John’s reason is for our relationship not
working, I don’t know. But we’re friends, which is good enough for me.

In fact, presently, we’re looking at apartments
online during the gaps between the occasional patrons. I told him I’ve dreamed
of having my own place, because my situation with the foster parents is not
stellar. He says he’s thought of moving out, too, because he’s not happy at
home. We both know that neither of us can move out. We’re minors, in high school,
and anyway we can’t afford anything decent. Still, it’s fun to see what’s out
there.

So we fake-shop for apartments, looking for studios
or one-bedrooms for each of us, and sometimes drooling over a two-bedroom. He
says when we go to college we can share a two-bedroom, that it’d be cheaper to
be roommates. I tell him there’s no way I’m going to be roommates with him.

“Why not?” John asks, and he looks like he’s
wondering if he should be offended.

“Because. First of all, if we learned anything
from reality TV is that guys and girls living together is always awkward. And
second, in this case, it’s worse, ’cause it’s you and I.”

“Oh, come on,” he protests. “You can’t even
count that. It’s not like we dated… it wasn’t even a thing, what we had, that
one
day.”

“Day or week, John, once you take that step you
can’t un-take it. So you and I are not living together.”

“Fine. I didn’t want to live with you,
anyways,” he says, but he’s joking. “I hear girls like to clean all the time
and decorate with lemons.”

“What?” I laugh at his inanity. “Who told you
that?”

“TV,” he says with a shrug.

“Oh! Then it must be true,” I say mockingly,
and turn my attention back to the screen, continuing to look at apartments.

All the ones we can potentially afford are awful.
They’re mostly in what John describes as bad neighborhoods. They don’t even
show pictures in most of them.

This exercise has been good in one thing at
least. It has made us realize that we can put up with a little bit of extra
drama in our homes.

Having accepted our fates, we look at the
pricier section, just for the fun of it. This is for people who work full time
and make decent money. We look at this section to drool over what we’re
missing.

An address catches my eye.

“Man, this looks so nice,” John says.

“Pricey,” I say, looking at the rent. But I’m
more interested in the street name. It’s Thierry’s street. I read the
description, and the place sounds heavenly: a two-bedroom apartment on a second
floor on a secluded French Quarter street, walking distance from Jackson
Square. That’s near Thierry’s building. Wait. No—it
is
Thierry’s
building. This is one of the front apartments he rents.

Oh my God. I have to see it.

I can’t pass up this opportunity. Opportunity
for what, I don’t know. All I know is I’m suddenly nervous, and don’t want to
look at apartments anymore. John asks me if I’m okay—he catches on to the fact
that I’m acting weird—and I pretend like there’s nothing going on. However, the
second he’s looking the other way I google the listing again. I look at the
picture closely. Yes. It’s Thierry’s building. From the picture of the front I
can even see the wrought iron gate off to the right, the one that leads to Thierry’s
courtyard.

I spend the rest of my shift coming up with lines
to say to the listing agent, a woman named Lucy Park. I finally call her when
I’m on the bus on the way home. I think I make a fool out of myself, but I
manage to set up an appointment for the next day, Sunday. I have to work until
6:00 PM, so I set the appointment at 6:30 PM.

The next day I’m a mess while working. I keep
missing what patrons say, and getting questioning looks from John, but I can’t
even respond graciously to him. I’m absolutely nervous. Why? I’m only going to
see Thierry’s apartment that he rents. It doesn’t mean anything.

Finally, my shift ends, and I walk to the
apartment finders’ service office, trembling. I try to get a grip on myself. The
agent, Lucy, is a little reserved when she meets me, which is a change from
yesterday on the phone when she was all chipper and assured me I was going to
love it. Maybe she thinks I’m too young, and can’t possibly make enough money
to rent the apartment.

Which is totally true. However, I have a rich
boyfriend, who I’m sure would be able to afford this apartment, if it weren’t
for the fact that he already owns it.

So, to pacify her fears, I pull out my phone
and pretend to text said rich boyfriend, showing off my phone in the process. I
make sure to mention that my boyfriend bought it for me. Then I excuse myself out
loud, explaining that I’m texting him about dinner at Galatoire’s, which I once
heard June say is a fancy restaurant. Lucy gushes over how amazing the restaurant
is. I fear she’s going to ask me about a dish, so I say it’s my first time
going there. She tells me I
have
to get the banana bread pudding. I say
I’ll make sure to do that.

I think my crappy plan must have worked because
after that, Lucy is significantly warmer towards me. At least, she’s not as
reserved as she was before.

As we make it to Thierry’s building, we pass
his gate and I look in, wistfully. Lucy takes me to the front of the building
which I’ve never really noticed before. But now that I see it, the front of the
building is lovely. The apartments have a first floor porch that wraps around
to the left side of the building, opposite from the courtyard leading into
Thierry’s apartment.

The apartment that is being rented is on the
second story, and it is accessed from stairs off the side porch. As we get
there Lucy explains little details about the building, including tidbits about
the first floor apartment, but doesn’t mention the courtyard or the apartments
towards the back. Or the dashing young landlord.

At the top of the stairs, I notice she only
unlocks the door but not the dead bolt to get inside. Which could mean she’s
tired of locking and unlocking multiple times per day.

That gives me an idea.

We walk inside, and the apartment is indeed a
dream. It’s spacious like Thierry’s, and has much of that same antique feel
with the high ceilings and wide crown and base moldings, and details revealing
French and Spanish influence. I’m not into architecture but I do appreciate the
old buildings here, since I grew up in flat Iowa.

This apartment is something else. You can tell
it’s professionally maintained. The ceilings are ten-foot high and the windows
are tall, covered with white curtains made of a thin fabric that lets light in
and bathes the apartment in the remnants of the afternoon light.

The kitchen has updated appliances, beautiful
wood cabinets and stone countertops. The hardwood floors almost shine, they’re
so finely polished. The bedrooms are both enormous, and the bathrooms are
spacious and bright, with neutral colors and stone floors. The smaller bedroom
faces the brick alley that leads to Thierry’s courtyard; the master bedroom the
opposite way, facing the porch roof. The master bath includes a shower and a
freaking clawfoot bathtub.

This is too much. I have never been in
Thierry’s bathroom, but I know his bedroom is the master bedroom. I wonder if
it also has a clawfoot tub…. I’m instantly curious.

I thank Lucy and babble about how fantastic and
perfect it is, and how I can’t wait to tell my boyfriend. She tells me to act
quickly because this gem is not going to be available for long. I agree with
her and tell her she will hear back from me, as we head back to the door.