Timothy (7 page)

“Sad?”

“That I can't own it if it looks good,” I replied. “I don't see the point in trying on clothing I can't ever afford, or shopping for things I can never buy. It just—it just makes my life seem sad.” I crossed my arms. “And my life isn't sad. I know you probably think it is,” I said hurriedly as he opened his mouth to interrupt, “you've made it clear you don't like Valerie. But I like my job, I like what I do, and I like my life. So, I don't have the time to follow my dreams? Someday I will.”

“You really are something, Church Mouse,” he said, shaking his head. “That Midwestern Kansas common sense is something I wish more people I knew possessed.” He laughed and led me out of the store. “So, why don't you tell me what your dream is? Or is that too personal to share with a stranger?”

I turned my head as we walked down the sidewalk so he couldn't see the sudden tears that filled my eyes. No one had ever asked me before—not my father; no one had ever cared enough about me to ask—and at that moment I felt like I was, indeed, someone to be pitied. I was just a dumb kid from Kansas with a miserable job living in a miserable little apartment with a miserable boss who treated me terribly. I was no closer to making my dreams come true than I had been a year earlier when I first arrived in New York.

“Have I upset you?” he asked, concern in his tone. “I didn't mean to, and I'm sorry. I really did just want to know.”

I took a deep breath and gave him a tentative smile. “No, you didn't upset me. I'm the one who's sorry, Mr. Romaniello. I've taken terrible advantage of your kindness.”

He reached over and brushed a tear away from my right eye. “Now, Church Mouse, why would someone being kind to you make you cry?” He took me by the hands and turned me so that I was facing him, looking up into his brown eyes. “I'm enjoying myself. I'm enjoying your company. I can't remember the last time—” A shadow crossed his face briefly, and I knew what he was remembering. He took a moment to get hold of himself, and went on, “Unfortunately, I have a dinner engagement I can't get out of—but with Valerie sick, you're free now tomorrow, aren't you? Why don't you spend the day with me again? And you can tell me all about your dreams.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “What's your cell phone number?” I gave it to him, and he punched it into his phone. My phone started ringing, and I stored his number.

“Thank you for today,” I said. I was really sorry to have the day end, and realistic enough to know I'd probably never see him again.

He took my hand and pressed it. “It was my pleasure, Church Mouse.” He hailed a cab and waved as it pulled away.

As I walked back to the hotel, I found myself whistling.

I spent the evening in my room and ordered dinner from room service while a series of documentaries on the History Channel played on the television. I wasn't watching, of course—I was sitting up in my bed, with a book open in my lap, replaying the events of the day over and over again with a smile on my face. I remembered the sound of his laugh, the way the corners of his eyes wrinkled up when he was smiling, the way his dark eyes twinkled when he teased me. At one point I did an image search, dragging the images off websites onto my laptop's desktop. He was so handsome—and I would compare his face to Timothy's. Carlo was handsomer than Timothy, I decided, because Carlo's looks were
real.
Carlo looked like a handsome man you might see in a coffee shop, or pass on the street, or see across the room in a restaurant. Timothy, on the other hand, had an almost unreal beauty—almost cold, like some marble statue of a god you'd see in a museum. Remote, distant, and untouchable, there was a quality of almost smug disdain in Timothy's eyes as he posed for the cameras, a sense he was thinking,
Worship me, you mere mortals! You can look but you can never touch, you can dream about me but you will never have me.

I much preferred Carlo's looks.

I allowed myself to indulge in fantasies, fantasies where Carlo fell in love with me and took me away from my life and made me a part of his world—but we were so content with each other that we didn't need parties and play premieres, or to be around other people. We simply basked in each other's company, and I wondered what it would be like for him to hold me in his arms, to feel his lips on mine, on my skin, and to share a bed with him.

And I would catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the room from the bed, and see the reality of my plain looks and undistinguished body.

I had been attracted to men before—handsome but vapid male models that drifted through the hallways at
Street Talk
, gorgeous men I saw on the streets or the subway, but this was different. This was more than a physical attraction, and stupid and pointless as it was, I knew I was falling in love with Carlo Romaniello.

Once I admitted it to myself, I laughed at my own foolishness.

He was merely being kind to a church mouse.

“That's fine,” I said to my reflection in the mirror, with a determined tilt to my chin. “I'm glad to be of any use to him.”

But my defiant thoughts were just that, and I knew that I wanted to be more than that to him. I wanted him to care about me—love was too much to ask for. He was used to men like Timothy, men with handsome faces and stunning bodies with sophisticated tastes and senses of humor, men who sparkled in the limelight even if they didn't crave it, and carried it off with aplomb and style. Men who wore designer clothing tailored to fit their bodies perfectly, rather than irregulars with designer labels bought at discount stores by a man who had no grasp of what went with what, who went to discount hair salons and could never duplicate the style again with gels and sprays and products.

The world Carlo Romaniello inhabited might as well have been the moon.

And no matter how much I hoped and prayed, he wasn't going to call me again. What did I have to offer someone like him?

Nothing.

The best I could hope for was he would simply forget about me, rather than remember and laugh about me with his friends over drinks at some glittering party, telling the story of the pathetic young man he spent some time with one afternoon in South Beach.

When I turned off the lights and went to bed, I was resigned to the reality of my life. Tomorrow, I would go to the beach in my cheap blue board shorts—being careful not to burn. I would do whatever Valerie needed me to and just hole up in my room reading books, trying hard not to be miserable and lonely, missing him, and trying not to get my hopes up every time my phone rang.

I dreamed of him that night, a dream so incredibly vivid that when I woke up in the gray hour just before dawn and realized I was still in my hotel room, I almost burst into tears from disappointment.

For the first time in my life, I knew what I was missing. One afternoon with Carlo Romaniello and my life now seemed empty, devoid of everything that made life worth living. I saw my life through his eyes and was overwhelmed by the nothingness of it. It was like the rest of the world was inside at some wonderful party, and I was outside with my face pressed up against the glass, watching them and wishing I could be inside with everyone else instead of outside and miserable.

With Valerie sick and confined to her room, the rest of the week stretched before me like some horribly empty void.

As the sun rose and my room filled with the morning light, I wrapped my arms around my legs and wondered what to do with myself.

I ordered my usual coffee and fruit breakfast from room service, and once again, my head resting on my drawn-up knees, replayed the previous afternoon in my head, trying to view the things he'd said to me and the way he'd acted dispassionately like a disinterested observer rather than a lonely young man who could so easily mistake kindness from a handsome older man as something more than what it actually had been.

No matter how bitterly disappointing it was to admit the truth to myself, I did. I wasn't ever going to hear from Carlo Romaniello ever again.

“I'm truly pathetic—Valerie is so right about me,” I chastised myself, getting out of the bed and going into the bathroom. “He's never going to call me—he was simply being polite and just appreciated a bit of company, that's all it was, nothing more.”

But deep down, I couldn't help but hope that he
would
call me again. As I went through my morning routine, I kept seeing his face in my mind and the way the muscle in his arms moved and his distinctly masculine smell or the sound of the deep hearty laugh when I amused him, which seemed to be every time I opened my mouth.

I turned on the shower and scrubbed my skin until it turned red, washing my hair thoroughly.
You're only twenty-three
, I reminded myself as I scrubbed away,
it's not too late to make changes in my life. No more excuses. Now that I know what I am missing, I can make changes before it's too late. I can start living instead of just going through the motions.

As I toweled dry in the steamy bathroom, I decided I was going to work on my writing. Even if Valerie was as dismissive or insulting or condescending about it as she always was, I would keep pushing her about her promises to let me write for the magazine, even if it was just pieces for the reviews section without a byline, rather than just sitting around waiting for her to give me an assignment. I could spend time writing on my laptop on my lunch hour, and if I spent an hour writing before going to bed every night rather than wasting time reading things on the Internet, I would get that much closer to my goals.

And I would make myself go out to gay clubs more often, to try to get more comfortable in those environments. I needed to make friends, I needed to find a lover—even if it was just a casual fling that meant nothing. I needed to lose my virginity, and to do that I had to overcome my shyness.

I could do it.

I had just finished putting on a pair of cargo-style shorts and a T-shirt when there was a knock on my door—undoubtedly my breakfast.
No time like the present to start being more outgoing
, I decided as I crossed the room and pulled the door open.

It was indeed the room service waiter, with a black garment bag with the Versace logo on it draped over his arm. He smiled, inclining his head as he pushed the cart into the room, placing the garment bag over a chair.

Curiosity pushed all thoughts of friendliness out of my head.

“What's that?” I asked, indicating the garment bag.

“It was delivered for you last night, sir—the concierge asked me to bring it up with your breakfast,” he replied respectfully as he placed a tray containing a covered plate, a coffee urn, a small pitcher of cream, and silverware wrapped in a linen napkin on the small table next to the chair. With a flourish, he presented me with the check inside a leather portfolio, which I signed. He bowed and shut the door behind him.

I poured a cup of coffee and sipped it, pondering the garment bag. Surely, it couldn't be…but what else could it be?

There was a small envelope affixed to the zipper of the bag.

I removed it, and used my finger to tear open the flap. There was a folded piece of heavy stock paper inside. I unfolded it.

Church Mouse,

I hope you'll forgive me for taking the liberty to buy these few things for you. I saw how much you liked them, and it seemed silly that you should have to do without them when I can afford to pay for them. It's the least I can do after you so graciously kept a lonely old man company yesterday. I believe your kindness should be repaid with more kindness.

I look forward to getting to know you ever better,

Carlo Romaniello

I almost burst into happy tears.

He wasn't just being nice—he really
did
like me!

Unable to stand the suspense any longer, I unzipped the bag. It contained both suits—the charcoal and the black. I took them out of the bag and examined them carefully—the material felt incredible against my skin, and I hung them up in the closet. There were also several shirts in the bag, linen shirts in vibrant colors with matching ties wrapped around the hanger. There was an electric blue shirt with a dark red tie, a dark red one with a blue tie, and a beige shirt with a red-and-blue striped tie. I held each up against me in turn so I could see how they looked in the mirror, and again my eyes filled with tears. I had never before owned anything so beautiful. I hung the shirts up next to the suits and folded the garment bag and placed it on the shelf. I couldn't stop staring at my beautiful new clothes.

I took a cup of coffee out onto the balcony and sat down.

Of course, I didn't have anywhere to wear these clothes—they were far too nice to wear to the office, and while I sometimes got to trail along behind Valerie at posh events, I wasn't sure how she'd feel about me wearing clothes that made me look like an invited guest rather than her lackey.

As I sat there sipping my hot coffee, beads of sweat breaking out on my upper lip and my forehead, I wondered with a start if it was okay to accept the clothes.

In any number of novels I'd read, women weren't allowed to accept expensive gifts from men who were interested in them—such gifts were inappropriate. The proper thing to do was to return them with an air of being insulted.

But that also presumed that Carlo was interested in me romantically—and I wasn't sure he was. He hadn't done anything untoward—he'd never touched me except in passing or to get my attention, and when he had, his touch hadn't lingered. He hadn't tried to kiss me or to get me up to his suite—and, I remembered with a smile, I still didn't know which hotel it was at.

So I couldn't return the clothes to him even if I wanted to—all I could do was return them to the Versace store.

I bit my lower lip. Even if I never had the chance to wear them, I didn't want to part with them. I didn't care if it meant something bad. I wasn't going to get rid of them. Period.