I tossed my mail and keys onto the entryway table and heeled the door closed behind me, leaving my boots somewhere in its wake. My unit was a two-bedroom, two-bath with vaulted ceilings. The wall across from the door was exposed brick, with three large bay windows that if I was home at a reasonable hour would showcase the sunset over English Bay. The kitchen to the right was a cook’s marvel, though I never used it except to reheat takeout or bake frozen pizza, the extent of my cooking skills.
Dropping my purse, laptop, and files onto the breakfast bar, I continued down the hall, pulling my sweater over my head as I went. I passed the guest bedroom and bath, which were almost never in use, and unbuckled my jeans, shimmying out of them at the entrance to my master suite. The room was dominated by a king-sized bed, two side tables, and a blue chaise that sat flanking the two smaller walk-in closets. I discarded my bra to the hardwood floor as I padded into the bathroom. It was modern with a vintage flare, just like the guest bath, and lavender towels hung from the hooks on the wall. I turned on the glass shower, moving back to the antiqued vanity and relieving my hair from the chignon.
In the time it took the water to heat, I stripped the remainder of my clothes and settled under the spray. My evening showers were a ritual habit and quick, an added step to the nightly routine of cleansing and lotion application. Lazily towel drying my hair, I slid into the pale pink kimono hanging on the back of the bathroom door and moseyed back out of the room.
My kitchen was barren, though I did manage to find a pad Thai in the back that still looked edible and a Diet Coke that wasn’t flat, and brought them to the seating area along with my laptop.
The living room had one large, white sofa with an array of throw pillows that sat across from an out-dated flat screen television, and on either side were two elegantly mismatched armchairs. Positioning my dinner on the old trunk that substituted as a coffee table, I flipped open the mail app on my laptop and scrolled through.
Among the unread messages was an email from Beau’s assistant, which I skimmed while devouring the cold noodles with a fork (chop sticks weren’t my forte). It was the usual standard request for signage, seating arrangement, and press release information. However, attached to it was security plan and subsequent exit strategy that was thorough and a bit intimidating. I fired back a response to her that I’d have the requests taken care of by Wednesday afternoon and forward the security specs to Tom for assistance in coordinating with Beau’s security team.
Taking a pull from the pop can, I switched on the news and settled in for the ten o’clock recap of the day’s events.
Weather and sports were first, which I listened to half-heartedly while finalizing the catering agreement, but the election news perked my interest.
“In other news, Beau Callaway is leading the polls against his opposition Michael Danes by…”
The mail notification sounded from my computer distracted me, and I pulled the laptop back across the couch, closer to me.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Forgive Me
I look forward to Saturday.
Please forgive me for not getting your number.
Mine is attached. Text me.
Beau
Smiling, I stood from the sofa, taking my dinner to the trash and fishing my phone out from the disaster that was my purse.
Reading the numbers off the e-mail, I punched them into the iMessage screen and then saved it in my contacts.
Me: You’re forgiven.
Grabbing a blanket off the armchair, I sat cross-legged next to my laptop again, when my text alert went off surprisingly quickly.
Beau: Lucky me. What are you doing?
Pausing the television, I took a picture and attached it to my response.
Me: Watching the news, which happens to be you. Ears burning?
Beau: Always.
I had a short attention span and wildly craved new experiences, something I hoped a man like Beau could understand. I’d chosen a career where no day was the same, but yet lived a life where I constantly drove forth the need for something more, a higher high that only ever left me unsatisfied.
The entirety of me was a living juxtaposition.
I both wanted to be loved desperately and yet fought against it with abandon.
My heart was doomed forever in love’s purgatory.
I found a picture of him on the internet and was saving it to his contact info, just as the alert sounded in my hands.
Beau: Sleep well, Charleston.
I didn’t answer, even though I wanted too. I didn’t answer, because it gave me more power not to answer, or at least I thought it did, and I needed the upper hand in all my romantic connections.
Beau, the great and beautiful political dreamboat, would be no different.
So, I was probably crazy, but weren’t we all?
Normal wouldn’t make for a good story, would it?
Saturday, the Fourth Annual Halo Foundation Masquerade Gala
“Henry?” I called out to the empty hallway.
Nothing.
“Henry?” My voice broke at a higher pitch this time, searching the kitchen frantically, and still, nothing.
My legs tore through the house, searching room after room. “Henry?”
I hit redial on the flip phone.
Calling Henry…
The sound of Frank Sinatra’s “Come Fly With Me” played from a distance, echoing through the walls.
My limbs worked harder, faster.