Release: Symbols of Love, page 6
Slowly, she tilts her open hand and the money falls unceremoniously onto the ice cream.
"Really?" I ask. My humor starts to flag as I stare at the meal on my plate.
"Really," she returns mockingly, and she leans in toward me. "You bumped into me. You knocked me over, spilled your drink all over and then when I had the audacity to be annoyed, you insulted me and walked off. And then you appeared to seek me out to continue your insults this afternoon at the pool. I'm not sure how you were raised or where you're from. But I'm sure that there's nowhere in the world any of that would be considered anything other than spectacularly rude."
I fish the money out of my food and fix her with a look of dark glower, even though there's a part of me that's actually enjoying it. But I won't let her misconstrue what happened the other night.
"We collided because you weren't looking where you were going. And yes, I thought your reaction was completely disproportionate. You behaved as though I walked up to you, pushed you down and then poured my drink all over you. And I thought it was generous to offer to pay for your dress."
"Generous? You threw money at me when all you really needed to do was apologize." She puts a hand on her hip and cocks her head to the side.
"I said I was sorry," I snap and then look around her, trying to find a server who can take my plate and bring me a new one.
"You didn't mean it then, and you don't mean it now. I'm here to relax. I was doing that until you," she thrusts a finger at me, and I'm tempted to lean forward and bite it, "showed up and tried to ruin it."
"So, you're also a mind reader? I didn't try to ru--"
She cuts me off. "Just stay away from me. This resort is big enough that we can avoid each other without working too hard." I narrow my eyes at her, and a surge of anger propels me to my feet.
Her eyes widen, and she takes a step backward. I swear I see a flash of fear in her eyes, and for a moment I pause. But just as quickly as it was there, it's gone and she steps toward me again.
I pick up my phone and straighten to my full height, giving her the benefit of my haughtiest glare.
"Don't worry about me staying away from you. There's nothing I want more right now than to put distance between us. So, it appears we've finally found something on which we can agree."
I throw my napkin down, push my chair in, and start to leave. She grabs my forearm to stop me. But it’s as if the contact hurts her, and she quickly removes her hand.
"Where are you going?" she demands while taking a step back, as if she's preparing to block my exit.
This time, it's the power of my own surprise that halts me in mid-stride. I can't stop the bark of incredulous laughter her question inspires.
"Sorry? Are you in the grips of some sort of manic episode?" I ask, sincerely wondering what the hell is going on.
Her eyebrows shoot up and her eyes narrow again, then she puts her hands on her hips. "Are you calling me crazy?"
"If the shoe fits," I return, crossing my arms across my chest. "You came in here like a bat out of hell.” He laughs. “Your commitment to all black clothing is actually now really fitting.”
“Are you making fun of my clothes?” she squeaks that last word out. “Are you twelve?”
“You ruined my dessert, told me to stay away from you, and then, when I attempt to comply, you ask where I'm going. So yes, I'm wondering if you're working with a full deck of cards up here." And I tap the side of my forehead for emphasis.
“A full deck?” she asks.
“Yes, you know, playing cards.”
“Cards?” she sputters.
I sigh. "Good God. Listen, maybe while you're busy avoiding me, you should pick up a book. Your vocabulary seems woefully lacking. All you've done tonight is repeat what I've said and rant incoherently."
Her shoulders square, and she reaches into her hair to pull down a pair of sunglasses perched on her head over her eyes.
"You do know that only pretentious people wear sunglasses at night, don't you?" I taunt, knowing I’m being childish, but too annoyed to care.
"Fuck. You," she growls. "I'm sorry I ruined your dessert. I'm also sorry you didn't choke on it. I can’t believe you called me crazy, made fun of my clothes and now you’re acting as if this whole dinner that you practically begged for is my fault," she says, her eyes wide with incredulous anger. She says it slowly and loudly enough that the people at the tables around us have stopped scrolling through their phones and are watching us.
“Stay away from me.” I don't respond to her last barb. And before I can recover my wits to speak, she twirls, the dark scarf she’s wearing around her billowing as she moves like a dark thunder cloud.
“With pleasure,” I say to her retreating form. I don’t care how pretty she is, I won’t go near her again unless my life depends on it.
6
Lilly
Porsha is insane. When I caught up with them last night, she and Kojo were kissing like it was going out of style, right in the middle of the lobby. She brought him back to our house, and I had to put on my headphones to block out the noise. Every time I tried to turn onto my side to get comfortable, my stupidly big headphones prevented me. So, I lay on my back and cursed all of them for my misery. Then I remembered Harry’s taunting “don’t you have earbuds?” that afternoon, and I’d almost cried at the unfairness of everything.
Porsha is also shameless. This morning, she’d informed me that Kojo was the best lover she’d ever had and that she’d be spending as much time with him as she could until it was time for us to head back to Accra.
So tonight, it’s dinner for one. I'm sitting at the bar by the outdoor area they use for their nightly entertainment at the resort. I can hear the waves crashing into the beach, the moon is fat and low tonight, and the weather spectacular. I'm having a drink called an Old Jamaican. The bitters and champagne make for a potent combination, and I’m swaying to the music that irritated me when I'd first gotten here. I should be happy. Instead, as I watch the dance floor full of drunk revelers, I’m envious of their ability to cut loose and be happy. Oh, just wait, I think scornfully as I watch them. The aftermaths of nights like this are usually full of headaches, stomach aches, and plenty of regret. But not me, not anymore. And that’s how I need it to stay.
I'm glad I'm rid of him. He's so presumptuous. Thinks he knows me. Judges me. Excites me, my traitorous mind sings at me.
I finish my drink and contemplate ordering another one. I am on vacation, even if it’s all going straight to hell. I feel a hand tap my shoulder. Annoyance and disappointment rise in my chest because I know, at once, that it’s not him.
I would have felt it before he touched me. I fix a smile on my face before I turn around to see who's decided to give me a try.
It's the man from breakfast the other day. Porsha had sent him scampering off when he told us he was on a college trip and not in town for business. "Go away, peasant. We're busy," she'd snapped, and he’d scrammed.
"Hey," I say with a casual grin that is so false that I know he's got to be completely drunk to not see that I'm not in the least bit glad to see him.
"Hey yourself, sexy." He grins sloppily. He's a nondescript guy. Brown hair, decent tan, if somewhat uneven, average height, average build, and drips with self-confidence that he, in a just and equal world, shouldn’t possess. But the world isn’t just, and even basic idiots like him feel like they run shit.
"What's up?" I ask, not bothering to hide my boredom because I know he won't notice anyway.
"Your friend's not here." He waves a finger in my face, leering at me and shaking his head in mock disapproval. "She's not nice. But you are, aren't you? Where've you been hiding?" His slurred speech annoys me, and I decide to shut him up.
"You've found me now, right?" I signal to the bartender to bring me another drink. He nods and turns around to mix it for me.
"I sure have." He plops down on the seat next to me, elbows resting on the bar for support as he gives me what I'm sure he thinks is a flirtatious wink. It’s more of an awkward blink.
If I fucked him, he'd go in my journal as Mr. Mediocre. Right behind Mr. Just Fine and Mr. Adequate, Mr. Forgettable. I don't remember their names. I hardly remember their touches since none of them made me actually feel anything. Sex is a transaction, an exchange of fleeting release.
I don't really need them - I always make myself cum anyway. With one hand gripping the blanket to anchor me and the fingers of my other hand working my clit or my nipples. I didn't have a fantasy to recall or an image of a man I'd rather have on top of me. I focus on the feel of my hand taking control of my pleasure. Their cocks are only there as a reminder that I still have the power to choose who enters my body.
Nothing more.
Men like him are the only ones I can handle. And maybe all I really deserve. If I can’t give more than my body, then I shouldn’t have anything more in return. Besides, there’s no danger in being hurt, becoming attached. I can get back to my life when it’s over. Not like Harry. I know he’d want more. He’d demand things.
I look back at Mr. Mediocre and realize I'd almost forgotten he was even there. "So, you trying to get laid?" I ask, and his eyes widen and his mouth drops open in a shocked but pleased laugh. What an idiot.
"Hell yeah. I mean, I was gonna buy you a drink or something and then see if you were down, but fuck it. I like a girl who gets right down to business."
I can smell the tequila on his breath from here, and I have a feeling he won't even be able to get it up. I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. I throw back the rest of my drink. I don't fuck sober.
Mediocre leans in toward me, his eyes hooded, his hand coming up as if to grab the back of my neck.
"Uh, yeah. No kissing, bud."
He harrumphs, but retreats.
“Do you want to know my name?” he asks sullenly.
“No,” I say, knowing he won’t protest. He doesn’t. He just shrugs.
"Well, I want to know yours,” he says with a smile I’m sure he thinks is charming. It’s dumb.
"Mary." I wince a little at using my mother's name, but I doubt he'll remember long enough to call it out when he comes.
"Well, Mary, you want to go to my room?"
“Why not?” I shrug my indifference. I slide off my stool to head toward the lobby. I don't bother to look behind me to see if he's following me. They always follow. I'm a sure thing. Most men pretend they like a chase, but they’re lying. At least if it’s just sex they’re after.
I'm already planning what I'll do when he’s done and gone, and I remember the book that my sister's best friend, Cara, sent me. She's a rabid romance reader and is trying to convert the rest of us. I only like the novels where someone dies. It's the only time I can cry and have a reason that's not my own.
I chuckle to myself as I'm stepping into the cool, air-conditioned lobby when every single one of the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. And it's not the cold that's done it. He's behind us. I don't stop walking, but I close my eyes to make sure they're full of indifference when I look over my shoulder.
"Hey, which floor is your room--" I start to say to Mr. Mediocre. Only, he's nowhere to be seen. And in his place stands Harry. His handsome face is a mask of rage, and the dimly lit lobby makes him seem diabolical.
"Your friend is gone," he says as I turn to fully to face him. I look around him, and indeed, Mr. M is gone.
I return his glare with a confidence I don't feel. I'm less angry than afraid and confused.
"I told you to stay away from me. Are you stalking me?" I hate how the quaver in my voice betrays my weakness.
"No, I'm not stalking you, Emma. And you can tell me whatever you want, I don't have to do it. It's a small resort. I was coming in from the beach, and I saw you and your companion," he puts an ugly emphasis on the word that makes me feel something I haven't felt in a long time - shame, "walking into the building. He looked like he was about to fall over, so I helped him to a seat and let him know he should not, under any circumstances, get up. He didn't protest much, and in fact, I'd be shocked if he wasn't already asleep. And since you didn't seem to notice that he wasn't behind you any longer, I doubt you mind too much either."
He shakes his head and looks at me with an undisguised disappointment he has no right to feel.
"What?" I ask, my fear now tinged with a defensiveness that I don't understand. I don't owe this man a thing.
"Nothing. I misjudged you," he says, his tone distant and cold. His eyes are on the floor of the lobby, studying his sneaker clad feet.
"What do you mean?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, and then he looks up at me, raising his head slowly, like he'd rather not but has no choice. When I see the sadness in his eyes, I feel a small tinge of fear.
"Harry?" I prod when he doesn't say anything.
He takes a step toward me, his hand out, and time slows. His hand comes up to my face, and a swarm of butterflies takes flight inside of me. Their wings beat my ribcage so hard that I'm surprised that I can't hear the reverberations. His hand hovers over my cheek, his eyes searching mine, for what I don’t know. His hand cups my face, my eyes close, and all of the breath leaves my lungs. His touch feels like…relief. And I am rocked with a feeling of happiness, so surprising and acute that it stings.
No one has touched me like this in such a long time. The tenderness loosens the knot I keep tied around my heart. It’s so sweet and feels so good that I close my eyes and savor it. A tear runs down my cheek before I realize I’m crying. don't understand what's happening - my mind is completely blank - but I never want it to stop. He cups my cheek, and I choke back a sob at how right it feels to have his hands on me.
"Harry?" I whisper, my eyes still closed as emotions, memories, and feelings I haven't allowed myself to feel start to seep through cracks that I thought were tightly sealed.
"Why were you going with him?” he asks me. The softness is gone. He’s angry. My eyes fly open, and my tears stop flowing.
"What do you mean?”
"Were you going to sleep with him?" He's watching me so intently, that I can almost see myself reflected in his eyes. I can see the desperation for answers, the hope that maybe he’s wrong.
"Yes,” I whisper.
His hands drop from my face like it's a scalding hot stone, and he takes a step back. His normally expressive eyes are veiled with the shadow of disappointment.
He looks past me, as if I'm not even there anymore. "Have a good rest of your vacation, Emma."
He says “Emma” as if it's an obscenity. And then, like I don’t matter, he steps around me and walks away.
7
Lilly
When I catch up to him, he's standing in front of the elevator, scrolling through his phone. He looks like he doesn't have a care in the world. Well, I'm about to change that.
"Hey, Harry," I call out as I approach.
He looks up, and when he sees me, he actually rolls his eyes at me and sighs wearily before he looks back at his phone. His dismissal stings something fierce. Without looking at me, he says, “Listen, if you're quick, you can get back to your fuckboy. He's sleeping on a chair right next to the bar."
"So, you're back to insulting me?" I snarl up at him. He doesn't bat an eye in the face of my fury.
"Just returning the favor, Emma." His tone is bored, but he's flushed, his eyes glinting like two flinty pieces of dark topaz as he looks me up and down.
He's angry. Good. I take a step closer to him so we are almost toe to toe.
"So, I was going to fuck him. So what? Why does it even matter? We're strangers! You don't know me, and I don't know you." My voice is raised, but I can't help it. My ears are ringing, my eyes hurt from holding back the tears that want to run free.
He doesn’t take his eyes off his phone.
"Oh, you can tell yourself that. I’m not sure that I even care anymore.”
I suck a breath as words hit me like a slap in the face. He finally looks at me, the anger in his eyes, fading when he takes in my expression. “You intrigue me,” he says. His voice is pained, like it’s the worst thing that could have happened to him. “In the rare moments where you let your guard fall, I see someone I’m desperate to talk to. I keep thinking, there’s a conversation we’re meant to have.” His laugh is dry and humorless. He rubs the back of his neck in agitation,
“You’re so goddam beautiful. I mean, at least to me you are. I can’t say what everyone else sees when they see you. But if they saw what I saw when I looked at you, they wouldn’t think you were an easy, forgettable fuck. I don't understand why you were prepared to take that drunk, barely coherent idiot to bed. I don't know why you would disrespect yourself like that. I don't know anything." He’s almost shouting now, and hasn’t paused to take a breath as all of this pours out of him. He pauses to take a breath. His anger and his candor render me speechless.
"I won’t involve myself with someone who doesn’t value honesty and who thinks sex is cheap. And since that seems to be your default, I'm done.”
My heart stops and I still can’t find words. But it doesn’t matter. He’s not finished.
He turns away from me and presses the elevator call button. “This is probably for the best. The more I get to know you, the less I like you.”
His back, the indifference in his voice, his dismissal, the truth of his words all rush at me, and I erupt.
"You don’t get to act like I’m a dirty whore just because I don’t think the act of fucking has to be some sort of emotional exchange. It’s a physical act. You can turn your nose up at me as much as you’d like. But we both know that you would fuck me the instant you though I’d let you.” I shout at his back.
