Interlude [Book 2] Page 8

  My eyes water as I wait for him to say more. He hesitates for a few seconds before admitting, “I was a teen but I would never have asked her to end her pregnancy.”

  I take both of his hands, and his admission relieves me, and it also makes my heart ache.

  “After Astrid confessed she had an abortion, reality had set in. I was a fucked up kid fucking his stepmum. I hated myself. And I hated her.” He tilts his head to the side, his eyes focused on the floor. “Father knew she wasn’t faithful to him. He’s not an idiot. She’s been carrying on with Alistair for years. And father−” His voice trails off.

  “Julian, listen to me. Your father will always love you. Always.”

  “But what I did with Astrid−I get sick whenever I’m near her.”

  “Don’t be surprised if I bitch slap her the next time I see her.”

  His eyes widen. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Don’t bet on it.” I’d love to do more than bitch slap the woman who took advantage of a lonely teenager.

  I stare at the man who shared something intimate with me. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. And when he opens them, the pain in his eyes reveals more undisclosed secrets.

  I believe there’s more to it than just sleeping with his stepmother and the abortion that keep him away from his home. His eyes bare so much more yet it’s obvious he doesn’t want to continue the conversation. Desolation looms over him, and he isn’t ready to offer more. Somewhere deep down, buried under all this anger and hurt, is something else inside that he wants to reveal. Without any words, I take his hand and squeeze it. It’s the only way to reassure him that things didn’t change between us. If anything, sharing his affair, no matter how horrid, intensifies my growing love for him. He shared something with me tonight.

  He’s broken. He’s not perfect. And I still want him.

  Suddenly, I cry myself a river−tears that can flood a room.

  Astrid and Julian’s child. That woman was blessed to carry his child.

  Julian releases my legs and is now kneeling beside the couch, stroking my hair. “Lina, what’s wrong?”

  I sob between hiccups. “It’s … it’s that … all I have ever wanted was a child of my own. And to know that woman was carrying one … yours …”

  I hiccup.

  Taking my hand, he strokes it gently. “You’ve always loved children. Why are you on the pill?”

  I look up at him. “I started taking the pill recently to regulate my body.” I ponder before revealing my situation. “A few years ago, Andrew … he can’t have kids.”

  He raises my chin, kissing one of the tears falling down my cheek. “Does this mean you’ve given up? There’s no reason to. You’re no longer with him.”

  Peeking from behind my lashes, I notice there’s something in Julian’s eyes I have never seen before, and I can’t seem to define it.

  I don’t have an answer for the man before me. Just a few months ago, I had a fiancé−someone I believed was the person I would spend my life with. The dream of having a child−gone. I loved Andrew, and I didn’t push for an adoption, with the hope he would eventually change his mind. But in the past few weeks, the foolish woman in me has dreamed of the possibility of having a child with Julian. I know our time together is temporary, but the idea of carrying his child, having a part of him pulls at my heart.

  A few minutes pass. Julian’s attention is on me as he waits for an answer. “I … I don’t know. Maybe, I can adopt,” I say solemnly. Or you can give me a baby.

  Grasping my hand tightly, he offers, “Lina, I have no doubt you’ll make a wonderful mother. You have such a loving heart.” He rises from his kneeling position and sits next to me. I slowly rest my head on his shoulder as his thumb rubs circles inside my palm.

  We sit in silence, slowly drinking our wine. We don’t watch Netflix. We remain seated on the sofa, I believe, both shocked at our revealed secrets. Nothing more needs to be said. It’s the past. By the time we head to bed, he takes my hand and leads me to my bedroom. We both lie in bed staring at the ceiling with my head placed on his chest. Listening to the beating of his heart calms me. Kissing the top of my head, with such certainty as if he could see the future, his next words move me. “Lina, one day, you’re going to have a child, and that child will be the most loved child ever. Ever.” Rather than make love, he holds me the entire night as I gently weep for a child I long for.

  Thirteen

  I walk around his living area surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows and head out to the wraparound terrace. Although the noise in this bustling city can be deafening, the rooftop is silent. As I sit on one of the lounge chairs with a glass of iced tea in hand, I think of Andrew.

  It’s been over a month and still not a word from my former fiancé. I had believed I’d be depressed without him. And although I am far from miserable, I miss Andrew. He was in my life for so long, and I can’t imagine not having him in it. I brace myself, confronting the truth. I’ve managed to move on. If I had not been so wrapped up in this romantic fling with Julian, would I be at my loft in tears? Would I have begged my way back to Andrew? Returning to a man, who although loves me, no longer desires me? I haven’t received a call from his mother, so he must be okay. Our last conversation was unsettling, and I know, at some point, I need to contact him. I also need to make arrangements to get my belongings.

  Alone in this oasis. Alone in my thoughts. Julian is out at the moment, and I am left alone questioning our relationship. What exactly do I have with him?

  An interlude, Lina. Just an interlude.

  The conversation from a few nights ago vexes me although it shouldn’t. It’s obvious my lover can easily come in and out of any woman’s life without any regrets. A few weeks ago, I was one of his victims. When our romantic liaison is over, I will be a victim again. And I’m the fool who silently accepted Julian’s terms.

  Bracing myself, I realize that if it were to end at this moment, I would be heartbroken but I would have no regrets. Yes, I would be utterly devastated, but like life, I know I will move on.

  Sauntering back inside, I head toward the main living area. Everything about him surrounds me. It’s not only because this is where he lives. Everything−the furniture, the artwork− is all Julian. Nothing seems contrived. Every piece has a story.

  The main room is large and yet sparse. It is simply decorated with mid-century classics designed by Eames and Miller as well as custom designed pieces by Helena Emerson and students from Parsons School of Design and Pratt Institute. Artwork covers the white expansive wall spaces. I have never seen most of them before with the exception of one that surprises me. How is it possible I haven’t noticed it until now? The framed canvas sits on the floor in the corner by his grand piano. I bend down, and as I get a closer look at the painting, it can’t possibly be?

  How long has he had this?

  While in college, I took a part-time job assisting the curator at the school’s small art gallery. My mother had been an artist, and although I didn’t inherit her ability to create something on canvas, I did inherit a love for art.

  It was during my sophomore year when the world-renowned painter, Derek Baldwin, approached me to be the subject of his new artwork. I learned that he was not only an alumnus, but had attended San Francisco Art Institute with my mother. As soon as school ended, I spent three weeks with Derek and his family. While he painted my portrait, I played the piano in his studio. I also remember the recounted stories he shared of my mom, and I’m grateful for them.

  Art critics are unaware of the Derek Baldwin painting that he loaned to the school. I haven’t been back to the gallery in years so I didn’t realize it had been sold. I have been in touch with the Baldwins over the years, yet Derek never mentioned selling the portrait, and as I admire the painting, familiar footsteps interrupt my thoughts. I turn around and my breath hitches in my throat.

  My lover is drop-dead gorgeous, I think to myself. He’s dressed in a navy blue button-down shirt and lig
ht gray slacks. The colors remind me of his eyes, eyes that never fail to capture me. And then I remember the painting. “How? When?” I point at the image of me playing the piano.

  “I saw it a few years ago while I was visiting the college. I knew you had graduated from there but I can’t tell you what it was like to see the painting of you up in the gallery. It was astonishing.”

  “Why were you even there?”

  “It’s difficult to explain. We had been apart for so many years, and I … I just wanted to feel and see your past without me.”

  “Julian, have you heard of a phone? All you had to do was call me. Write a damn letter. Even email me. Answer my calls. I’m trying to understand,” I say, realizing I can barely catch my breath.

  He bites the middle of his bottom lip for a few seconds before he says, “I promise I’ll tell you soon. But just know you have always been on my mind.”

  Always on his mind.

  As l stare at the portrait of myself, I am still dumbfounded. “How do you have this? It wasn’t for sale.”

  “It wasn’t the first time I visited,” he says matter-of-factly.

  My head jerks back. “What do you mean it wasn’t the first time you visited?” I gawk at the man who baffles me.

  He stands there before me, his hands in his pockets, as if purchasing a portrait of his childhood friend is an every day occurrence.

  “The first time I visited, I couldn’t afford it. And after I sold my first startup, I went back and made an offer that Derek Baldwin and the school couldn’t refuse.”

  “My God, Julian. You’re the reason the new art studio bears his name.”

  “No, you are.”

  His admission catches me off guard, and I’m beside myself.

  “Lina,” he says softly.

  Raising my palm, I shake my head as I try to find the right words. But they’re not coming anytime soon. “Julian, please. I don’t know what to think right now.”

  Lina, gather your thoughts.

  Rather than confront him, I focus my attention on the artwork. I’m amazed by what stares back at me; a girl shrouded in loneliness as she plays the piano. She’s someone who I used to know. As I remember that time in my life, strong arms circle my waist. And although a part of me wants to disentangle from him and ask more from him, a greater part relishes his warmth and knowing this will have to do for now.

  Don’t push him. Wait for him to open up.

  “I’d analyze your portrait for hours at a time. I’d sit back and I’d look into those bewitching emerald eyes and wonder why there was so much sadness there.”

  “That was so long ago, Julian. It was a time in my life where I felt alone. I missed everyone I lost.”

  “Unfortunately, I know that feeling all too well.” With his arms still firmly placed around me, I feel him sigh. “Lina, I need to know.”

  I turn my head slightly. “What?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me to fuck off when I invited you to Father’s birthday celebration?”

  I think back to the Thursday morning I heard his voice after fourteen years. Shock. Sadness. Anger. Hope. They all surfaced. But death has a way of allowing us to forgive. We don’t know how much time we have in this life, and I didn’t want to waste another moment being angry, being hurt. I have lost so many loved ones, and I didn’t want to lose him again. The man holding me right now was the boy I thought of daily. The boy who left an empty space in my heart−until his return. The boy, who morphed into a man, I find myself loving in a completely different way.

  “Because I missed you and that’s all that mattered. I was mad as hell. And a small part of me was ready to hang up. But you and I … I missed our friendship.”

  He places a soft kiss on my cheek. I close my eyes briefly and although there’s so much I long to know, I’ll wait for him to open up. “I’m not going to push right now. But at some point, you’re going to explain why you stayed away so long.”

  “I know,” he says, nodding.

  A few beats of silence greets us and my eyes are glued to the artwork when I ask, “Why is it on the floor?”

  “I just had it reframed,” he offers with hesitation as he places his chin on the top of my head. “Please understand that even when we were apart, you were always on my mind. Always.” He kisses my shoulder tenderly, whispering, “Always,” again and I am left in awe and with so many unanswered thoughts.

  Fourteen

  The next few weeks go by quickly. We’ve fallen into a wonderful routine. Julian wakes up at around five for his morning run around our downtown neighborhood. How he manages to run at such an ungodly hour continues to baffle me. One morning, after his run, he gave me an answer as to why he ran so early. “There’s nothing better than the city in the early morning ... right before the chaos begins. Running while the city is asleep allows me to clear my head.” He kissed me before taking a shower, and I went back to bed with Mugpie.

  After our daily breakfast together, Julian and Mugpie usually leave for his office by nine-thirty. Located in the Astor Place neighborhood, his office shares the same address as some of the biggest media and tech companies in Silicon Alley. I teased him when he had told me the location of his office. His intentions were not to be with the other companies. He simply wanted office space walkable from his home. Julian loves the pedestrian lifestyle afforded by living in the city. Mugpie, being a bulldog, not so much. There were times when Mugpie wouldn’t budge on the walk back home and Julian would have to carry him or hail a cab. Yeah, Mugpie is a bit lazy.

  Since I have been spending the night at Julian’s for the past few weeks, I usually head back to my place and compose until it is time for me to meet up with him. Today, after breakfast, I decide to stay at the penthouse rather than go back to my loft. The weather has been hot and humid, encouraging me to do morning laps around the pool. Fortunately, I don’t have a set work schedule. After my swim, I change into one of my wrap dresses and head to the living area.

  Completely inspired by Julian, I sit at his grand piano. Closing my eyes, flashbacks from last night appear.

  After dinner at our favorite Spanish restaurant, Degustation, where we devoured a seven-course chef’s tasting menu, we walked hand in hand around the East Village. The weather was simply perfect. Warm yet cool on the skin.

  And like most of our nights together, once we arrived at his place, he would start a luxurious bath for us. With my back leaning against his chest, we simply enjoyed our cocoon. In comfortable silence, I reveled in that moment with him. I didn’t think about the past. I didn’t think about how long this interlude would last.

  I turned my body slightly to face him. Gazing into his eyes, a future with him flashed before me. I saw him cradling a baby in his arms. Our baby. My heart constricted because I knew, without a doubt, that I not only loved him, but I was also in love for the first time in my life. How could I tell? It was the first time my heart felt like it would explode. Every minute away from him was torture. I had never felt the need to be so close to someone before. There was this need to divulge every single thought to him. He continued to look into my eyes as a tear made its way down my cheek. “What’s wrong?”

  Although the time with him was temporary, I confessed, “Julian … you make me feel as if this is my first time.”

  It was my first time falling in love.

  A slow smile formed along his lips before capturing mine.

  I touch my lips at the memory of us heading to the bedroom before making love all night.

  Music is therapeutic for me. After I lost my father, it was the only thing that kept me going. Music became an outlet when words were difficult to express, and I was too shy to share my thoughts with anyone.

  The first notes of my new composition immediately appear. The melody is simple, the ballad done in a tempo reminiscent of a Bolero. Nothing can hold back the creativity as it flows effortlessly.

  I usually compose alone in my studio. After years of being with Andrew, I learned to write in
solitude because music disturbed his concentration. Moreover, as the years progressed, I found I enjoyed writing after dark with no distractions. However, with only a short window to compose the score for Disappear, I have to write as much as possible. Yet I’m not thinking about the movie I should be scoring, but rather, I only have thoughts of Julian, and the way he makes me feel.

  Hours go by without interruption. Miss Pendleton is out of sight. Mugpie is at the office with his dad. My phone remains off the entire day.

  As my fingers continue to touch the ivory keys, I can feel my lover’s presence. I don’t know if it’s because he is the one inciting this creativity, or if he is actually in the room. I stop and whirl around.

  Sitting on the gray U-shaped sofa is the man who inspires me. He looks completely relaxed in a striped light gray buttoned-down shirt and dark jeans. His feet are bare. Holding a glass of whiskey in his hands. “That’s a new composition, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. How long have you been here listening?” I ask with nervous apprehension. Although I compose for a living, music is nevertheless the most private part of myself.

  “I’d say a good hour.” He grins and continues to sip his glass of whiskey.

  As I proceed to close the top, Julian interrupts me, “Please don’t stop.”

  “Julian, it’s not anywhere near done. I’ll finish it another time.”

  “Baby, please continue.” He leans slightly forward. “One of my favorite memories is of you playing the piano hours on end. After all this time, I’m still in awe by your ability to create something so thoughtful …”

  Ovaries, do not explode.

  I work up the courage to continue. With my fingers on the piano keys, I begin to play the first few bars of my composition. It is slow and sensual, reminiscent of the feelings stirring inside me. The music motif that had evaded me for weeks appears effortlessly. The last note is played, and I exhale. With my back facing him, I close my eyes for a brief second. This is the most intimate musical moment I’ve ever had.