Page 74 of When There Was You
I’ve traveled that path before, where I held up my heart on a platter, experienced a truthful, potent connection…and the loss of it fractured me, damaged me, obliterated me.
I’m not sure it’s possible to experience a love like that again…if I can or should. Or how much of me is truly left to give.
Don summonsme to the lobby at noon, and we make small talk on the elevator ride. He stands too close but keeps a reasonable distance as we walk the few blocks to the restaurant. I tug my coat closer from the nip in the air and ponder whether I have enough cold-weather clothes in my wardrobe. Having lived in California my entire life, I’m not used to temperatures below fifty degrees or sure what a Virginia winter promises.
We arrive and Don holds the door open, a blast of warmth hitting me when I step though. The place reeks of old money and business deals, with booths crafted of rich cherry and brass accents, Tiffany-style pendant lamps suspended overhead.
Our hostess seats us in a booth toward the back, and a waiter arrives for our drink orders.
“I’ll take a martini, shaken, dry. Shall I make it two, Jacqueline?”
I hide my surprise. Is this a test? I’ve never had a martini, nor do I plan to start in the middle of a workday. “A Coke is fine, thank you.”
Once he’s out of earshot, Don asks, “Did you hear the one about a young guy who went to his doctor for a routine checkup?”
I brace myself for another crude joke and he plows ahead, not really waiting for an answer.
“When he came in for the results, the doctor said gravely, ‘Jerry, I’ve got some good news and some bad news. You’ve got cancer. It’s spreading at an unbelievably rapid rate, is totally inoperable, and you’ve got about three weeks to live.’”
Maybe this isn’t another dirty joke.
“The guy says, ‘Jesus. What’s the good news?’
“‘You know that cute receptionist out in the front office...the one with the big tits and the cute little ass?’” Don’s hands lift to his chest, forming the universal sign for breasts,his gold wedding band gleaming in the lamplight. “‘I’m fucking her!’”
Don cackles, and that goddamned traitorous nervous laugh of mine bubbles forth, even while a part of me withers.
Our drinks arrive, and we review the untouched menus. The faster we order, the faster this mandated appointment reaches its fucking conclusion.
After our waiter takes our selections, Don pulls out my article and slides it across the table. His scribbles pepper the margins, the volume of red slashes and circled and underlined words and sentences making it appear murdered.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, a smile lifting one side of his mouth. “You’ve got a natural talent for this work. It merely required a little polish. You captured Gus nicely.” He grins, as if he shares an inside joke with his old pal.
I sift through his notes, finally glancing back at him. “Thank you for taking the time to review it. I appreciate your input.”
“You know, I could be a tremendous help to you, Jacqueline. A mentor. Someone to guide you and ensure you’re awarded assignments that tailor to your talents.” His gaze drops to my chest.
My heart thuds so hard I want to press my hand against it.
“You’re a beautiful young woman—and predators abound in our profession. That’s another benefit to being under my wing.”
Or under your sweaty body.I nod weakly, images of sordid casting couch stories projecting in my head, the kind where actresses are forced to their knees—or worse—to secure movie roles. I’m thoroughly grossed out, yet unsure how to respond. The threat of losing my job is glaringly front and center. This man holds all the cards. He’s got a royal flush, and I’ve got jack shit.
I catch him staring hard at my mouth and realizeI’ve unconsciously sucked in my lower lip and am actively biting it.Fuck.
“Think about it,” he says with a wink.
Our food arrives, and despite my roiling gut, I eat, desperate to end this lunch.
My boss prattles on about his golf game, and what a maddening sport it is—“his nemesis,” he calls it.
And you’re mine, buddy.
Thirty-Nine
When Butch picks me up on Sunday morning, our mouths meet with such intensity—heady chemistry and longing churned together—that it’s a struggle to get out the door.
“If we don’t leave now, I’m going to keep you holed up in here all day.” He grips the back of my neck. I arch into him.
