What We Leave Behind (21 page)

“You make it sound like a business proposition.”

“I’d never be this forthcoming in business.”

This was a sobering moment for me. His hands had found mine on the table, and he was touching them. His fingers were soft; they were strong; they were heating up my entire body. “Do you want to get out of here?” he asked. It was an invitation and a question all rolled into one. “I already called Julio. The car will be waiting for us out front.”

I stood up, because to say yes was admitting how impossible it was for me to say no to him. Grabbing me by the arm, he led me out of the restaurant. Julio was there, as promised, opening the door first for me, and then holding it for Marty, who took the seat beside me. The sun glared in my eyes, and I squinted from the brightness. I was trapped in my head, replaying the conversation again and again.

We didn’t speak as the car drove up the hill toward Los Angeles. The sun was beginning to set and I wished for darkness. Marty reached for my hand, and I allowed his warm, caring fingers to encircle mine. Happy, scared, and caught up, I was a combination of many dangerous sensations.

Julio was driving well above the speed limit, and I felt something unpleasant filling my throat.

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

“No, you’re not,” he said to me reassuringly. “You’ll be fine. Here, put your head on my shoulder.”

I rested my head there where he said, our bodies cozied up to one another across the backseat. I swore to myself I wouldn’t get sick. Partly because he sounded so convincing, I didn’t want to disappoint him, and partly because I didn’t want this to be the way he remembered the night.

“Make this louder,” I heard Marty say to Julio. I grasped onto the tune, the lyrics a rope that grounded me, restraining me with its words. It was a Tesla song. I could tell any song in three notes or less, even when I was drunk, and Tesla was easy with the shrill of their distinct voices. Marty had a penchant for rock bands. It had something to do with this long-haired phase he went through. He was into the rhythm and the noise, and although I enjoyed the music, I was a
word
girl. In business, I could pick a tune better than anyone, but when I was home alone and flipping the stations and listening to demos and there were no pressures to enlist a song to a particular movie, I was all about the words. Words always told a story.

Tesla was singing to me tonight. It always happened that way, it seemed, but then again, there are statistically more songs about love than any other subject on the radio, which means if you’re a love junkie, it’s not hard to find one that mimics your life.

“Did you hear that, pretty darlin’?” He was stroking my hair. My shoulders were sinking into his chest. His arm was wrapped around me. I was falling.

I nodded, because if I opened my mouth, more than just a word would come out.

Being there on Marty’s shoulder, how could I describe it? If I wanted it, I knew he could take care of me forever. This caused me to hyperventilate. Breathe, I said to myself, breathe. I knew if I could just take breaths, I’d be okay. And when I did, the air filled my lungs and bits of Marty were sneaking in. They were the masculine scents, the mix of sweat, cologne, booze, and a cigarette that would remind me of him when I smelled him on my clothes days later.

I must have fallen asleep, because my eyes opened, and we were in front of my apartment in Santa Monica.

“Here, let me help you out,” he said, lifting me up, careful not to let my skirt rise past my thigh. His hand reached inside my bag for the keys, and in one fluid motion, he was inside my apartment; thankfully, my roommates were nowhere to be found.

I pointed to the bedroom, where he laid me on my bed. “Do you want some water? Coffee?” he asked.

“I’m fine.” I looked at the clock. It was either 8:13 or 8:33. I did need to get a new clock.

“You don’t have to come in tomorrow if you’re not up to it.”

“Have faith,” I heard myself say.

He was sitting on the edge of my bed, Marty, in his sexy jeans, white oxford, bloodshot blue eyes. The room seemed smaller. “I’m gonna go now,” he whispered.

“Don’t,” I said, leaning in closer, “Stay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t ask me that, or I’ll change my mind.”

He got up, and I heard the front door open and close. I was glad I didn’t have to see Julio’s face when he told him he was staying. When he returned, he handed me a glass of water and then went into my bathroom in search of some Tylenol.

“Take these. You’ll feel a lot better.”

“Please tell me you didn’t go into my medicine cabinet.”

He laughed. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

He sat beside me taking my hand into his, touching each finger. “The alcohol hasn’t spoiled your judgment, I hope.”

I shook my head.  “I don’t know why it was so easy to give myself to someone who only wanted part of me. Here you are, everything a girl could want, and I’m struggling with letting you in, letting you close.”

He watched me and didn’t say a word. He squeezed my hand even harder. That’s how I knew what he was thinking, by the strong, careful grip of his hand.

“You make me want to be that person,” I continued. “That person you think I am, that person who’s like you, in search of that one great love, but I don’t know if I’m her. I’m scared.”

He moved toward me in slow motion, or it just seemed like that because I was in sluggish, tequila time. He gathered me in his arms and hugged me. It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t friendly either. It was meaningful and kind, and I knew I wanted to hug him back, really, really hug him back. We sat like that for a few minutes. He, stroking my hair, rocking me in his arms; me, lapping it up like a lovesick puppy.

He pulled away first, brushing my cheek with his palm. I leaned into him, feeling the smoothness of his fingers across my face. I wanted to curl my whole body into his hand.

“I want you to trust me,” he said, just as a barrage of thunder resounded throughout the room. Within twenty seconds, it was pouring rain, the hammering sounds drowning out the swelling in my heart.

I nodded, resting my head against his hand, listening to the swells accumulate outside my window, wanting to tell him more.

“Trust hasn’t always come easy to me,” I said. “Not when I lost my father at such a young age.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That explains a lot.”

“It was eighteen years ago.”

“That’s a tough thing for any kid to deal with.”

“He was leaving work early to be home for birthday cake. It was a perfectly beautiful June day. I was playing in the yard when clouds had hovered overhead and a stretch of rain was ready to unleash itself from the sky. It wasn’t ominous at the time, but when I think back to that afternoon, there was something chilling about the way the wind swept in, hugging my hair and neck, wrapping itself around my dress and shoes.

“My mother called me in, and at first, I hesitated because I always loved the sky before the rain fell, the moment before the water leaked from the clouds, the way they were thick and full. And I always tried to catch the first drop in my mouth, closing my eyes and stretching my neck back, feeling the rain on my cheek or on my forehead. And I remember being so happy that afternoon, so free, so light. I had to catch just one in my mouth. Only one.

“He died that afternoon. The rain on my tongue—because I did get that drop in my mouth—was the same liquid that stole my father from me. I was eyeing the cake and the pink frosting when the officers arrived at the house. I didn’t see them, but I heard my mother’s wails in the kitchen and knew. “It was
me
, Marty,” I said, searching his eyes to make sure he heard me correctly, understood how deep were my wounds.

“What was you?” he asked.

“It was
my
fault,” I said, the power of my words appearing before me, words I’d never said to anyone, not my mother, not Jonas, not Adam, none of them. “It was me. He was rushing home for me, my fourth birthday, and it’s my fault he got killed.”

Marty was no longer looking at a twenty-two-year-old, but a small child, frightened and ashamed. Taking my face forcefully into his hands, he said, “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was,” I said, turning away from him, realizing what I’d done. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry to unload this on you.” I noticed how my voice had changed. Either I had aged many years or the tequila was wearing off.

He didn’t say anything else. He just reached forward, pulling me close to him again and I squeezed him hard, clinging to his outstretched arms and ridding myself of the guilt that had paralyzed me most of my life.

“I won’t leave you,” he whispered in my ear, kissing me lightly there with his lips. I believed him because it’s what I hoped, and all the things I’d been warned against seemed so meaningless. His kisses found my cheeks, then my lips, covering my mouth with his own. I didn’t hesitate, even with the stale taste of tequila on my breath. I didn’t pull back. I gave in to Marty’s tenderness. It’s what I wanted, what I waited patiently for, and what I rightfully deserved.

Once I’d given in to his kiss, his hands found the rest of me, touching me, holding me, sweeping the fingers across a body that was ready to be explored.

“I won’t leave you,” he said again, this time staring into my eyes to be sure that I felt what he was trying to say.

“Hold me,” I said.

“I’ll hold you all night.”

“You can,” I whispered back at him. “It’s still early.”

And his arms were around me again.

Sunflowers. I love sunflowers. Their name precisely describes the sunshine, and their strong, sturdy stems and colorful petals make me smile. Friday morning a big bouquet of them appeared magically on my desk. The card read,
I miss you already
. I surveyed the offices to see if anyone had noticed, if anyone knew who sent them, if anyone could see that I was lit up from within like a firefly.

A week had gone by since that night, and I could still feel Marty’s hands on my body. We hadn’t slept together, but there are tender moments far more intimate than sex that left me feeling as if we had.

The morning after, as he so eloquently termed it, reduced my office demeanor from professional to absurd. Marty was much better at the love game than I was. He was cool and reserved when we were around other people, while attentive and boyish when we were alone.

The flowers arrived as he boarded a flight to New York. When I brought them home to my new apartment in Century City, I watched as the petals fell one by one onto the table, leaving me to question their meaning and what was going on in my life. Reaching for the yellow pages, I located a Dr. Norton, Dr. Deborah Norton. Her office was in the valley, a child psychologist. Could it have been the same woman? Dr. Norton obviously had a profound effect on me, this woman who both irritated me and enthralled me. She did. She was consistent. I could always count on our Fridays at three.

The phone rang, dispelling any thoughts I had about calling the number. It was eight o’clock.

“Hi, Beth,” I said, knowing who it was because she always called when the rates went down on the East Coast.

“Hi, darling,” he surprised me.

I was so happy to hear from him. I was sure he could feel the vibrations through the phone.

“I missed you today.”

“I missed you too,” I said, fingering the yellow petals in my hand. “How are you?”

“Busy, lonely. We just finished dinner, and we’re heading to a club for a showcase. I’ll try to call you to say good night.”

“Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

“I’m not worried,” he said, “I want to hear your voice. How’s the new place coming along?”

“I like the quiet, the privacy.”

“You should’ve moved in with me.”

I smiled inside, letting the suggestive offer warm me up. Music was playing loudly in the background. He said, “They’re playing our song.”

“What’s that?”

“DaVinyls, ‘Touch Myself.’”

“You’re twisted,” I laughed. “Sick and perverted.”

“You like that.”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.”

“Then I’ll call you later and we can talk about it.”

“Good-bye, Marty.”

“Bye, beautiful.”

The book was there on the table, the page opened to where I’d left it. I picked up the phone again and dialed the number. It was late, so the likelihood of her being there was slim. I should have been unloading the boxes from the move the day before, but decided this was more important.

“Hello.”

“Hello,” I said, if not by complete accident.

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I must have the wrong number.” It was her. I would recognize that nasal voice anywhere.

“Sorry,” I said again, hanging up the phone, hoping she didn’t have some modern mechanism that enabled her to see who was calling.

I stared at the phone, now my enemy, when it started to ring. Please don’t be her.

“Hello.”

“You sound disappointed it’s me,” said Beth.

“No, I’m actually relieved.”

“What’s going on? I haven’t heard from you all week. How was the move?”

“Fine,” I said, her voice a temporary relief. “What’s up with you?”

“I’m a freshman all over again, the low man on the totem pole.”

“You’re at one of the top law schools in the country; there’s no such thing as a low man. I bet you can find the loophole in my artist’s contract quicker than our in-house guys.”

“Another licensing headache?” she asked.

“The worst kind.”

Then she laughed.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“You. I love to hear you talk like a grown-up, your own apartment, a high-powered job with clearances and deadlines and legal jargon, serious stuff. Why don’t you come out here and visit before the leaves have fallen?”

“You can actually see trees from your window?”

“No, but we’ll go to the park. You’ll love it. Besides, all your record labels are out here, and you can combine it with a business trip.” Beth had been beckoning me to visit her in New York for a while now. New York was close to Boston, and since the entire Northeast had always been an area occupied by Jonas, it was one which I deliberately avoided. Only because he had once loomed so large was it possible that he might stretch across the entire eastern seaboard. Now he appeared smaller, a bleak spot on a map. Maybe it was time to take a trip.