Yielding to him, I’ve only doomed myself to pain.
My mistake wasn’t accepting the assignment to write the exposé, it was that I dropped my walls and got close to him to the point where he feels like part of my soul. My mistake was taking his shirt in my hand, and going to his club, and to his yacht, and moving my lips beneath his, and going to his place and begging him to make love to me even after I promised myself it would never happen.
I need to put an end to this, but I can’t rationalize right now. The thought that I need to end it makes me crave to see him all the more.
I impulsively pull out my cell phone and dial. His voice mail answers. He’s probably fucking some other chick, I tell myself negatively. I leave a message: “Hey, it’s me. I guess . . . nothing, really. Call me. Or not. ’Bye.”
I hang up. Then I wipe my tears and get a grip. I had a goal, a chance to write an exposé, to get my name out there, advance my career, reveal the real Saint and not the legend. Maybe I can open a girl’s eyes and avoid one broken heart. Maybe they can realize that Saint won’t love them. Nobody is going to love them except themselves, if they work hard at it. And their friends, if they choose wisely. And their families, if they’re lucky. This is my side of the story—the side of the little girl who grew up wondering what it would be like to live with a man’s love, then grew determined to prove to herself she didn’t need it. I know there are a lot of girls out there like me. Those who didn’t get the guy at seven, at thirteen, at fifteen—they didn’t even get the guy when they were born. Why will we get the guy now, when we’ve grown up already? We don’t need him now.
He calls me back. “Hey. You all right?” he asks.
“I . . .” Something unknots in my stomach at the sound of his voice. I’ve never felt so connected with a guy. Where you can hear the concern in his voice, and you’re sure he can hear the sadness and frustration in yours. How can this be? I wipe the corners of my eyes. Hate, hate, hate crying. “Yes, I’m okay. I just wanted to talk to you.”
I clear my voice, hating that it wavered a little at the end. There’s a tense silence. Way to go, Rachel. Say goodbye to Saint now. Do you think he wants to deal with a crybaby right now?
“Where are you?” he asks.
“I’m at my mom’s. Heading back to my apartment.”
“Otis will be there. Spend the afternoon with me.”
My voice gets shy and I admit, “I’d love that, Malcolm.”
He’s quiet, as if taken aback by how vulnerable I sound. And then he surprises me too, his voice just as low and fiercely husky and tender. “Me too. I’ll see you soon.”
I hang up and stare at my phone, my heart literally in pain inside my chest. Am I in love with him? Why am I so consumed and so confused? It seems like my brain points me in the direction of my logic and my lifetime career dream, but the rest of me doesn’t want to go there if it means having to leave him.
I glance at my mother’s painting and am struck by its raw beauty. It’s like nothing she’s ever painted before, as if all these years what she couldn’t paint just simmered inside her, creating a powerful force that, once set free, fired up and took over the canvas. Even the room itself.
Just like an affair with Saint is taking over me.
25
NEEDING A SAINT
Two hours later I reach the docks, and when I see him waiting for me on the deck of The Toy, I inhale, long and slow. I’m wearing a yellow dress that’s quite informal, because I hadn’t planned to see him today, and I need to flatten my palms to my thighs to keep the dress from going up when the point is for it to fall down.
The wind flaps my hair as I board, also pushes the fabric of his white polo against the planes of his chest. He wears baggy white cargo shorts with that shirt, his legs thick and muscled.
He picks me up and swings me around and onto the deck, then takes my hand and leads me to the top deck. We don’t even say hello. There’s no need. I hadn’t realized we were at that telepathic point I’ve only ever been at with my mother and friends, where you know what the other needs and you say nothing, you just stand there and be there. And that’s exactly what he does for me as he keeps my fingers within his strong ones and brings me to the sitting area. I feel fragile, like if he touches me more, I’ll break. So I pull free, take a seat on the chair across from the couch, and just sit there quietly as the boat engines hum and we head into open water.