Seventeen #2
miss out on the fun dinner conversation with Noah and Lucy; I would miss out on Noah playing the guitar softly into the night.
I love Jerome, but I need the stability of home tonight.
That’s what I tell Jerome.
That’s what I tell myself.
I am about to climb the stairs of our apartment when the downstairs door opens. Gus lets Cressie out, who runs straight up
to me and jumps up for kisses.
“If it isn’t the CEO of ipryy,” Gus says. “You poor girl. What a terrifying thing to take on. How is your father? We saw some pictures yesterday in the paper. Is he doing okay?”
I shrug. The only people to know about my father’s diagnosis are his family, and a handful of people at work.
I saw those pictures as well, secretly taken with a long lens camera, while my father was going for a walk at the center in
Switzerland.
I am gratified that he looked good. Tanned, fit, exactly as he always has, only thinner. He has lost weight, which I suspect
is the result of existing on nothing other than organic juices.
Nevertheless, Marty Cooke on death’s door! screamed one of the headlines. They have written features on the clinic, describing it as five-star luxury, the St. Regis
of health clinics. They have inflated the cost of staying there, but it’s still a fortune.
I pick up Cressie, who snuggles into my shoulder. “I don’t know too much. He isn’t allowed to be near any technology so I
haven’t spoken to him at all. Scarlett’s allowed on a computer for about five minutes a day, so I get an occasional email.”
I brandish the paper bag I’m holding. “Look! Old-fashioned paper and pen! I’m going to start writing to him.”
“Good.” Gus nods. “There’s nothing like a handwritten letter to raise the spirits. Speaking of raising the spirits—” he glances
up the stairs “—who is the delicious young man who appears to have moved in to your apartment?”
He is delicious. I force myself to replace the image of Noah with his shirt off, an image I haven’t been able to get out of my
head since I saw it, with an image of Jerome from earlier today, his hands on my breasts, his mouth on my neck, moving inside
me. But no. It’s not Jerome’s face I see, but Noah’s. A shudder of lust moves through me.
“You okay?” I quickly regain my composure as Gus grins.
“I must say, he’s been having the same effect on Keith and me.
Who does he belong to? We can’t decide if he’s Lucy’s new boyfriend or yours.
Either way, can you please keep him around forever?
Catching a glimpse of that man is the new highlight of our week. ”
“He’s not a boyfriend,” I explain. “That’s Noah, Lucy’s brother.”
Gus puts a hand on his heart. “Lucy’s brother? Good God! How did that happen? Lucy’s a lithe blonde and he’s all dark and
menacing sex appeal.”
I can’t stop smiling. “He’s not menacing. He’s very, very nice.”
“Well, of course he’s very, very nice. How on earth are you managing, sharing an apartment with such a specimen?”
“Oh, stop!” I playfully slap Gus on the arm. “Not only do I have Jerome, I’ve also got more important things to think about.
Anyway, he’s like a brother to me. I’ve known him practically my whole life.”
“Okay, well, can you please invite us up for a drink so we can salivate close up?”
“Oh God, what a horrible thought!”
“I was kidding. But wait! I do have something for you.” He turns, disappears for a couple of minutes, then comes back with
a foil-wrapped casserole dish. “I was going to leave this on your doorstep. Keith says it’s morbid to cook you a casserole,
because that’s what you do when someone dies, but I told him he’s wrong. You’ve been thrust into this god-awful situation,
and someone needs to make sure you’re taking care of yourself properly. Here.”
I hand him Cressie and he hands me the dish and I feel tears springing into my eyes. “Thank you. This means so much.”
“It’s my moussaka that you love. Enjoy. And send Lucy’s brother down with the empty casserole dish when you’re done.” He winks
at me, blows me a kiss, and closes the door.
I crack the door open as the smell of onions, garlic, and butter washes over me, making me instantly hungry.
Down the hall I hear Noah crooning softly.
He keeps playing the same chords over and over, and doesn’t see me standing in the doorway, watching him.
I am fascinated by the creative process.
He has a notepad in front of him and each time he stops, he scribbles something down.
“Strong and fearless, a wounded heart. Let me be the one to kiss your scar,” he croons, leaning down to write something else.
I stand still, my fingers automatically lifting to my face, feeling the faint lines of the scar on my lip. Could this be about
me?
Noah looks up and sees me, concentration replaced by a large smile.
“Hey!”
“Hey.”
There isn’t a hint of embarrassment on his face. I must be wrong. It is just a coincidence. Who am I to think that he would
ever write a song about me?
“Where’s Lucy?” I look around the apartment.
“She had an unexpected work emergency. It’s just you and me tonight.”
I grimace as if disappointed, then quickly turn so Noah doesn’t see the smile I am unable to wipe off my face.