Authors: Sigal Ehrlich
Tags: #romance, #Romantic Comedy, #New Adult & College, #Contemporary, #Literature & Fiction
“Out loud,” he says, in that same clipped, cold tone, though now I sense some kind of internal battle waging within him.
What the hell is going on?
“What is it?” I ask.
He rubs his face with both hands, throwing a flinty look my way, then snaps, “Could you read the god damn thing already?”
I swallow hard and my hands start to shake. I skim through the first paragraph and when I reach the second I ask in total disbelief, “What? What is this? Where did you get it?”
“Are you going to read it for fuck’s sake or should I?” he asks, detached and impatient.
I start reading in a shaky voice, “Daniel Stark has made a name for himself as one of the business industry’s most private tycoons, and at the age of thirty-four, with millions cushioning his bank account, he is one of the most mysterious and eligible bachelors on the market. Mr. Stark is an intriguing enigma, hoping to be solved by a vast number of single women.”
My blood at once drains from my face as I read the next sentence. I halt to stabilize my voice and try to inhale.
“To our luck …” I choke. “To our luck the SF born multi-millionaire stud is now in a relationship with a less reserved sweetheart. Disturbing facts were revealed today as Stark’s current beau conceded some juicy details about the magnate which made yours truly understand Stark’s persistent preservation of privacy.
“Rejections, hookers, abundance and neglect were some of the words used to illustrate Stark’s past and his now-questionable way of life.”
I can’t continue. My voice breaks. Cold sweat covers me head to toe.
“What is this?” I question, shaken to my bones. He disregards my question, the frozen depths in his eyes directing chilled tremors up my body, making the hair on the nape of my neck slightly rise.
“Did you or did you not say these things about me?” he seethes, in a deadly voice. I try to breathe in and find it extremely hard for the air to actually flow.
“Yes. No,” my words break again.
“There’s only one simple answer here. Yes or No.” He tries to stay composed but I can see in his eyes the commotion transpiring within him.
“Yes,” I say as tears prick my eyes and the hugest lump forms rapidly in my throat. “Yes, but not like that, not to, to a …”
“Stop!” His voice is harsh and loud. Though there is something else in his stare that make me ache terribly inside, there is a mixture of disappointment and pain in these eyes, caused somehow by me.
“Daniel, don’t let this thing turn into something it’s really not,” I beg as I start to comprehend the implication of this insanity. The reason he broke up with his previous girlfriend sinks threateningly into my consciousness.
“I don’t want to hear you,” he says firmly, clenching his fists. He sizes me up for a few seconds more with a new look, a look that bring to my mind an unpleasant thought of loathing.
“Daniel,” I try again, feeling both contrite and wounded.
“Let’s take some time apart for both our sakes.”
No …
His voice is rigid. He then glimpses hastily right in my eyes and without further ado, turns to the driver side of the car.
Panicked, I call after him. He turns back for a brief moment and the only thing that comes to my mouth, dreading the moment that he’ll leave, is, “Daniel, don’t let this be the last thing we ever say to each other.” I am regarded with a look of pure desolation. Shaken, torn, and in a daze, I watch him drive away. Tears fill my eyes and the sharpest pain spurs in my stomach. Breathing is not an option; my lungs are void.
As the car’s rear disappears in the distance I slide till I meet the hard asphalt, and lean against the building’s rough brick wall. My legs are too weak to hold me. Utterly shattered at the deliriously surreal event, I try to reread the piece in an attempt to make sense of it. A dark thought creeps into my paralyzed mind.
What must he think of me now?
And that look of hurt before he left plays before my eyes.
The Stark Truth
Daniel Stark has made a name for himself as one of the business industry’s most private tycoons, and at the age of thirty-four, with millions cushioning his bank account, he is one of the most mysterious and eligible bachelors on the market. Mr. Stark is an intriguing enigma, hoping to be solved by a vast number of single women.
To our luck the SF born multi-millionaire stud is now in a relationship with a less reserved sweetheart. Disturbing facts were revealed today as Stark’s current beau conceded some juicy details about the magnate which made yours truly understand Stark’s persistent preservation of privacy.
Rejections, hookers, abundance and neglect were some of the words used to illustrate Stark’s past and his now-questionable way of life.
Was it his father’s malice and abandonment at an early age, the violence, or was it his mother being consumed by a lethal disease when he was but a tot that led Stark to a licentious adult lifestyle of countless encounters with top of the line highly paid call girls? Is this the inscrutable millionaire’s way of dealing with his past? Is he just a frightened boy fighting his entrenched demons?
And here’s just a personal note to Mr. Stark from yours truly.
There’s improvement to be sought in the girlfriend department. We expect nothing but the best for you, so why settle for mediocrity? I’m available. Gossip Fairy.
A representative for Mr. Stark could not be reached for comment.
The bitter aftertaste of guilt fills my mouth when I am done.
I’m not sure how I get home but evidently I do somehow. It feels like I’m caught in a nightmare I can’t wake up from.
“Hales, is that you?”
I can’t even manage to find the words or the strength to answer.
“Hales?” Tasha steps closer. The concern on her face manifests exactly what I feel.
“What’s wrong?” A question entwined with panic.
Everything
. I just hand her the paper and drop to the sofa. I concentrate on breathing as my chest hardly lets the air through. I feel like the walls are closing in on me.
Is this what a panic attack feels like?
Tasha sits next to me, and her expression of dismay tells me she read the article.
“Hales, did Daniel see it?” she asks apprehensively, her small voice tinted with worry. I nod, still not able to form words.
“He was the one who gave it to me,” I finally whisper and the tears erupt, flowing uncontrollably down my face.
“This is our entire conversation taken brutally out of context.” She articulates what I’ve been thinking since the minute I read the article.
“What did he say?” A compassionate emerald stare caresses me.
“He didn’t want to hear me out, Tash,” I mumble between sobs.
Tasha lets out a quiet sigh.
It hurts so much, and all I want is him
. I lie down, staring at the ceiling for what seems like a lifetime.
“I’m going to bed,” I mutter wearily, eventually standing up, at first unsteady.
“You want me to come with you, Hales?”
“No, I want to be alone.”
Once in bed I try to call Daniel, but he doesn’t answer. Weeping, I fall asleep, entirely drained, an empty soul that only a few hours ago used to be me.
~~~
I wake up sweaty and confused, and I quickly realize yesterday’s nightmare wasn’t a dream as I see the worn piece of paper laying accusing and affirming on my night stand, reminding me of my new reality. With a dry, sore throat from excessive crying, I head to the kitchen for some much needed water.
“Hales.” Tasha’s velvety voice welcomes me as I step into the kitchen. “You look terrible,” she says, trying to smile.
“Thanks,” I murmur. All humor left me, a day ago.
“Are you going to work?” she asks as I take a sip of the cold water.
Shaking my head, I say, in a weary voice, “I am not able to physically do that.”
She nods sympathetically. “You want me to stay with you?” Concern is reflected in her delicate features.
“No, I want to be by myself. I just want to sleep it off.”
“Okay, if that’s what you want.” She sighs in surrender, letting out another prolonged breath then nearing to hug me into her comforting embrace. The floodgates of my eyes open again with the kind gesture, letting out a fresh batch of tears.
“Would you like me to call your boss?” she asks after a while. Once I respond that I’ll do it, she lets me be.
When she leaves, I call Josh. As soon as he hears my voice he asks me whether I am ill which makes it easier to excuse myself from coming in. With that done I drag myself back to bed.
Sitting under the protection of my blanket, absentminded, I fetch my sketchbook from its hiding place in the first drawer of my nightstand. With the blank paper resting on my thighs, my thoughts turned inward, I doodle aimlessly, letting the charcoal pencil lead me. As I sketch, my attention is drawn to the unintended force of my strokes. My sketching leaves deep marks in the pad while I bring my morbid imagination to paper. I try to distract my mind with sketching rather than thinking, but without much luck. I carry on till my fatigue conquers me.
I sleep all through the rest of the day between rare waking moments and it is a comfort. It’s like being dead which is exactly how I feel, though, without the actual liability to the eternity crap.
~~~
“Hales.”
I sense Tasha’s body mass pressing onto the mattress as she scoots next to me into the bed. I hear her but do not physically react. I finally turn my stare from the TV.
I’m not even sure what’s on right now
.
“Poor little princess. Which book is this drawing for? Bleeding Beauty?”
I can’t help the thin smile curving on my lips as I see the drawing in my sketchbook that is in Tasha’s hands. The curly princess’s guts spill out from an open, bloody wound; the teeth of a werewolf with furious eyes dig deeply into her flesh.
“A picture worth a thousand psychological analyses,” Tasha comments dryly. “Twisted Missy at her very best,” she adds, shaking her head.
She takes my hand in hers. “Hales, it’s been three days.” I turn to look at her, regarded in return by a motherly, tender response.
Have three days actually gone by? Did I sleep three whole days, lost in my colossal gloom?
As though sensing my inner dismay she adds, “Time to get back to the real world.”
“Tash, three days. He didn’t even call. It’s over,” I say, feeling as though I’m under heavy sedation.
“You need to get back up on your feet and when you are strong and clear enough you should try to talk to him, but not now, not like this.”
“What’s the time?”
“Half past seven.”
“Let me sleep just a little more.”
She sighs.
“Hayley, seven thirty
p.m.
. You slept through the entire day.”
“Just a bit more,” I murmur.
Left alone, I fall asleep again.
I lose track of time. I’m not sure how much Tasha has let me sleep but after a while she wakes me up again. Ungluing my heavy eyes I discover her smiling at me from her place at my doorframe.
Hey, smiling hasn’t yet been declared a legitimate, allowed gesture at this stage.
“Instead of following what the doctor prescribed I decided to just bring the doctor instead,” she declares, cheerfully. Once Ian’s handsome face lights the entrance I can’t help but give in to smiling.
“Ian,” I call weakly, happily sniffing at his presence.
“Now gorgeous, the first thing we do is get your supreme body bathed.”
Tasha giggles at Ian taking control of the Hayley situation.
“Up, girl. Or do you want me to carry you there?”
Yet another smile escapes my lips.
“You’re not getting in with me,” I scold, shutting the bathroom door on his intruding shoe.
“Like there’s anything I’d like in there. Whatevs, Hales, just get sanitized so I can hug you.”
An actual giggle bursts out of my exhausted mouth.
Bathed, cleaned and in a somewhat better mood I join Ian and Tasha on the living room sofa.
“Oh, much better. Now let me have some of you.”
I surrender completely to his fond embrace; Tasha joins and hugs us both.
What would I do without these two?
“Gorgeous, you lost too much weight, not good.” He shakes his head. “Generally, I’m into heroin-chic, but not on you.” He twists his mouth.
“Nurse, the medicine please,” Ian says to Tasha.
I look at them both, amused.
“Is this one of those ‘bring the tray with the goods, nurse and I’ll let you play with my tools’ scenes?” Tasha asks, and we all chuckle.
“Don’t get frisky with me,” Ian scolds her with dancing eyes.
Tasha obediently heads to the kitchen. After some clattering noises and opening and closing of the freezer door, she comes back carrying a tray.
“Here you go Dr. Tamura. Anything else?” She presents Ian with the tray, cooperating with his nonsense, as we always do.
“Yes, Nurse Taylor. Get your royal butt next to the patient.”
I am so elated by the show they’re putting on for me, knowing they’d do anything to make me feel better.
“So, Miss Grace, you must have at least ten full spoons of this. Nurse Taylor here told me you haven’t eaten for three days now,” Ian declares, absorbed in his act, looking stern. He digs a spoon inside the Ben and Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk container.
“Eat up,” he commands as he puts the spoon in front of my mouth and I obey, like the good patient I am. Savoring my favorite ice cream, I realize that I am starving and nauseated at the same time.
By my third spoonful Ian sighs, looking thoughtful, taking a moment to watch both Tasha and me he utters, with an authoritative tone, “Now, as your physician and informal therapist, I’ll allow five minutes Daniel talking.”