17. Cory
Chapter seventeen
Cory
Noah
Noah: Hey, bro! I've got an extra ticket to tonight's premiere. There's an after-party that's sure to be your brand of fuckery. You in?
I look down at my phone and chuckle. As a partner at a talent agency that was recently named "one to watch" by Variety, partying with potential clients like a freshman on Spring Break in Cancun is practically Noah's job. For years, I've been his default +1, bedding more than my share of beautiful actresses and models. Since restarting things with Denise a few weeks ago, though, I've been screening his texts.
The Monday after I first volunteered at the center, she texted me a block from my house. Someone at Bailey Maxwell ordered the wrong material for her design prototype, setting her back another week, and she needed to work out her frustration. She'd slipped her panties off in the elevator and attacked my face with her lips as soon as I opened the door.
The next day, I was so distracted by flashbacks of her mouth all over me I had to double-check my simulation for a VIP client twice before sending. I showed up on her doorstep that night with a bottle of rosé, a bag of hot wings, and a mission to drive her as crazy as she'd had me all day. I had to leave for work straight from her place the next morning after accidentally falling asleep.
I promised myself I wouldn't text her on Wednesday. Not because I didn't want to, but because she would probably figure out I was slowly becoming obsessed if we hooked up every day. By Thursday, however, I wanted her so badly I was itching under my shirt. Thank fuck she texted to meet at my place later that night before I caved.
When I showed up to volunteer with her again the following Saturday, not only did we spend the entire night afterwards in bed, but we also stopped pretending we weren't addicted to each other. Since then, we've been hooking up four times a week,— minimum —and I've upped my volunteering game so much, her girl Tiffany asked if I wanted to join the center part-time. I'm still mulling that over.
Even sticking to late nights and weekends, my family is starting to catch on. Adam mentioned I've been MIA in the group chat, and Damon complained I missed the last flag football game. Excuse me for skipping one game. He misses them the entire basketball season!
Noah, in particular, has been salty about my absence.
Noah
Sorry, man. No can do. I've already got a hot date tonight. ;-)
One I'm currently speed-walking to so the fudge brownie ice cream I bought doesn't melt before I can lick it off her body. I harden in my pants just thinking about it. Our booty calls aren't technically dates , but Noah doesn't need to know that.
My phone vibrates again.
Noah
Noah: What gives, bro? You missed football, drinks with the bros, AND opening night of the New York Film Festival. Now you're turning down another chance to act a fool on the red carpet?
I sigh and nod to Mike on my way through the lobby. Even he mentioned "seeing a lot of Ms. Jeffries" last week before I politely, but firmly, asked him to mind his damn business.
Noah
My bad, man. But if you saw this woman, you would understand.
A minute passes before he responds.
Noah
Noah: WOMAN? As in SINGULAR? I figured you were just cycling through your roster, but you're telling me ONE woman has you tangled up like this?
My shoulders bunch under my shirt. Shit. That was a hell of a slip. I unlock my door and drop my keys on the counter before putting the sweating ice cream into the freezer.
Noah
"Tangled up" is too strong. We're just enjoying each other's company…
4 to 6 times a week. ;-)
The three dots indicating Noah is typing pop up immediately.
Noah
Noah: Hooking up with the same woman more than twice a week is WAY past a booty call. Does Cory Park, the most unrepentant womanizer in the Upper West Side, have a GIRLFRIEND?
Fuck. If Noah figured it out with one text, D is probably seconds from figuring it out too. Will she be cool with it?
We've done more than just hook up these past few weeks. She's talked to me about her friends. I've told her about my family. We have dinner most nights, too. Will she ice me out once she realizes we're getting too personal?
My palms start to sweat.
Noah
Of course not. She's just the best pussy I've ever had BY FAR. I gotta do the Park name proud.
I seriously worry about my bodily fluids with this woman. ;-)
I wince at my callous words, knowing there's way more than just sex between us, at least for me . When she talks, I actually listen. Cory from a month ago tuned out any woman who wasn't Mom. But with Denise, I'm sending Times articles on fashion trends just in case they might help with her job. I have it bad.
Noah
Noah: If you say so, bro. But the Park bachelors are dropping like flies.
Noah: You're the last person I thought would end up pussy whipped.
God, is that how I sound when I talk about women? No wonder my brothers think I'm a douche.
Noah
Chill out, man. It's not that serious. I promise.
I lock my phone and place it face down on the counter, uninterested in defending myself, or in thinking about feelings I'm still grappling with myself. A knock on my door interrupts my swirling thoughts. The look on Denise's face when I open it is like a punch to the chest.
"What's wrong, baby?" I ask, ushering her into my apartment and onto the couch. Her eyes are bloodshot and her face is puffy. I gingerly sit next to her and slowly pull her into an embrace. When she doesn't shrug me off, I let out a sigh of relief.
"Cynthia," she sniffs, "the lead seamstress for my outfits." She stops, gathering her composure before continuing.
"She didn't show up for work today. When the front desk called her phone, her mom picked up and…and apparently…she killed herself last night!" She says the last words on a wail before burying her face in my chest.
"What?!" I exclaim. I keep rubbing her back in comfort as I process the news. She's mentioned Cynthia more than once, excited to work with someone who has experience with curvy fashion. Denise wipes her face and looks up at me with glassy eyes.
"Her mom didn't give many details; she was too upset. But a few of her friends in the tailoring department said she had been dealing with depression for a while." She sniffs. "Why the fuck does depression have to take everyone ?!"
She's crying so hard, her body is shaking. I have no clue what to say, so I just keep holding her.
"You go to therapy. You take your meds. You try to live your fucking life! And they still decide to end it all? There's nothing anyone can do?!"
Denise is nearly shrieking at this point, tears streaming down her face. Curled in my arms, she looks so fragile right now. So frail. Something tells me this is about more than her seamstress.
"Do you…Has this happened to you…before? Losing someone?" I tread carefully, worried one wrong word will shatter her.
After a few more sniffles, she nods.
"My brother. Andre." I squeeze her tighter, but stay silent. "He was bipolar. For years, he went weeks, even months, without a low. Meds and therapy kept things manageable for high school and most of college."
I stop rubbing her back, stunned in place by her revelation. All this time, I thought Denise was an only child. She never mentioned any family; it was always only her girls. And now I find out she has a brother? Had a brother. I can't imagine the loss.
"But the summer before his senior year, something changed. His lows got longer and more frequent. First semester felt like one long low, complete with missing classes and self harm. His roommates tried to help out, setting alarms and showing up to walk him to class. They even called me asking what else they could do, but I had no idea," she scoffs.
"I was in college, too. I'd just started my sophomore year, and I threw myself into my classes rather than think about my brother falling apart."
She stops for a moment, staring blankly ahead as tears continue to flow. She even doesn't bother wiping them now.
"Eventually, he stopped answering everyone's calls; his roommates', mine, our parents. He stopped answering his door when anyone came by. Stopped going to classes altogether. The dean had no choice but to recommend he withdraw."
She swallows audibly.
"After he first attempted…" She looks down, unable to say the word. Hearing the pain in her voice makes my throat feel like it's closing.
"Afterwards, my parents had him involuntarily committed. Every time I visited, he looked like a zombie. Just a shell of the fun, outgoing guy I grew up with."
Another tear slides down her face, and the punch to my chest becomes a kick.
"I'm so sorry, Denise." It's not enough. It won't fix anything. But it's all I have to give her.
She sniffles again and snuggles further into me, like maybe my body can shield her from what must be a terrible memory.
"When he got out, he came home instead of going back to school, and it seemed like things were evening out. He started a new medication, and we all figured things would resolve without the stress of school." She shakes her head. "Two weeks later, he tried again. That time he was successful."
The last word is a whisper, and my heart actually breaks.
"How long ago did it happen?" I croak, my throat thick with emotion.
"It'll be five years in January. Don't worry," she tries to put on a breezy tone, "I go to therapy and have a blend of healthy and unhealthy coping mechanisms when this stuff gets to me. I don't really know why I'm crying like this."
"Grief is weird like that. And it doesn't surprise me that losing Cynthia in the same way stirred up those old feelings."
She sighs and settles back against me.
"I guess you're right. I just feel so stupid. Like, why can't I move past this?"
"Because he was your brother," I answer a bit too adamantly. "I don't know what I would do if I lost one of my brothers, even though they can be a pain in my ass."
The corner of her mouth tilts up, but it's not a smile. Inside of this strong, beautiful woman is a sister still grieving her brother's death. I might not have the words, but I can make her feel better. I jump up and rush to the freezer, returning with the fudge brownie ice cream and two spoons.
"Ice cream makes everything better." Her sad smile becomes a small giggle, and the vice around my heart loosens. I pull up Netflix and put on my go-to feel-good movie. "'Mortal Kombat' makes it great ."
She smiles her first real smile since she arrived an hour ago, and I would literally trade my bonus to keep this feeling. As we settle in for a "Netflix and chill"— sans sex this time—I stop fighting it. I'm falling for this woman. Hard. Now I just have to show her there's more between us than "friends with benefits".