Page 10 of Stay Awake
“You have gorgeous hair,” she enthuses, running her fingers through my wet strands. She asks how I want my hair cut.
I describe my usual style. For years, I’ve worn it in a short chic cut that brings out the green in my hazel eyes and accentuates my wide cheekbones.
The first clump of hair drops to the floor with a snip of her scissors. More hair follows, until the white floor tiles by my feet are covered and the hair dryer roars in my ears.
I panic at the cash register when I realize I don’t have my credit card on me. Fortunately, I find a roll of money in my pocket so I pay with cash.
As I open the glass door to leave the salon, I almost collide with a man in a charcoal suit striding along the sidewalk like he’s in a rush. My heart skips a beat. He looks like Marco. He has a chiseled face and jet-black hair, and he walks with the same cocky self-assurance.
“Sorry,” he says, stepping around me.
He’s not Marco. For a moment I can’t breathe as sadness crushes me.
Chapter
Seven
Two Years Earlier
“Liv. Liv. Wake up.”
I wake, blinking blindly until the fuzzy blur leaning over me morphs into Marco. His chocolate eyes look down at my sleepy face as he gently shakes my shoulders. I stare up at him; too paralyzed to say a word. My eyes are open. The rest of me is fast asleep.
“Liv. It’s time to get up,” Marco tells me. I nod and drift off for a second before forcing myself to wake.
“What’s the time?” I mutter sleepily.
“It’s just after eleven.”
“You have to be kidding!” I pull myself up and lean groggily against a pillow behind me. “Marco, you were supposed to wake me an hour ago.”
“I tried. Believe me. I’ve never seen anyone so exhausted before in my life.”
Marco opens the window shades with a long tug of a cord. I cover my face with my arm as sunshine streams into the bedroom.
“Marco, close the shades. The sun is killing me.” I throw the covers over my head to block the blinding light.
In response, Marco disappears into the kitchen. He returns with a steaming mug of extra-strong coffee. I drink it and sink back onto the pillow, immune to the caffeine surging through my body as I drift off again.
There’s no pick-me-up on this planet that could possibly wake me. Not after the party that Marco threw for me last night. I haven’t stayed up this late since college. Nor have I drunk this much champagne since I drowned my sorrows at my mother’s third wedding when I was seventeen. It must have been a portent of what was to come. She was killed a couple of years later when the bastard she married drove into a semitrailer while he was blind drunk.
Maybe that’s why I hate drinking champagne, although I didn’t tell Marco that last night when he produced a bottle of Bollinger. We were celebrating my promotion to senior staff writer at the magazine. I’ll be writing features and other assignments, but mostly I’ll be writing about food. My editor says that food is the new pop culture.
My promotion was a long time coming. I’ve been working atCultura Magazinefor six years. I joined the magazine right after I left teaching after a year of hell at my first school. I was lucky to get a temporary job atCulturaediting copy. Over the past six years, the temp job became permanent. Now, I’ve finally been promoted. I savor my new title. It might not sound like much, but I’ve worked my ass off to get it. I drift off, vaguely aware of a violent crash of water as Marco showers in the en suite.
“You still haven’t gotten up!” His amused comment jolts me awake.
I open my eyes to see Marco walking across the bedroom with a white bath towel slung around his waist. He puts on blue chinos and a fitted casual shirt with gray hexagons, which he buttons up before disappearing into the bathroom again. When he comes out, his jet-black hair is neatly brushed. His cologne smells like ocean spray.
“Looks like you’re getting ready for a hot date!” I joke.
“I’m off the dating scene. I have a girlfriend.”
“Really? Do I know her?”
He leans in to kiss me. I try to unbalance him so that he’ll fall on top of me, my fingers working at his top button. “God, I wish we could, but I’m going to need to take a rain check.” He gently removes my hands from his shirt.
Marco and I have been dating for almost three months. He’s different from my other boyfriends. Maybe it’s because he’s European in nationality and sensibility. He has a way of making me feel cared for that I haven’t experienced before. I can’t remember when I’ve been this in love. The downside is that I’m not sure if Marco feels the same way. I think he does, but I sure as heck am not going to ask him. I’ve learned from experience that asking too many questions is the perfect way to ruin a relationship.
