24. Nora
CHAPTER 24
NORA
It takes me longer than I want to admit to get over my hangover from the Paradise Lost party, and there are stains and claw marks on my dress I’ll never get out. I don’t resent a single one of them.
There was a magic to last night. I felt alive around the idea of real men and sex, when it’s not just in my head, but right there in front of me. West kissed me again, and I liked it.
It wasn’t just pleasant or nice. It was amazing.
I talk to Zeina about it over video call, and despite her professional tone, she’s amused by the whole thing. Especially by West’s insistence that I practice dropping the mask. How did that make you feel? she asked me. Do you think he’s right?
It was a leading question, because of course he is. It’s something Zeina herself has told me over and over again. I people-please too close to the sun, making people like an image of me. Not actually me , with my truth and my flaws.
I never thought West Calloway would be the person to see it so clearly. He was raised in a world that prides itself on surface, on legacy, on appearances. And yet he seems to be obsessed with getting to the truth of things.
My truth, at any length.
When I’ve made myself come in the past, it’s never been to a real guy. It’s been to some vague fantasy, to an idea of a man, but not someone I know. That has always felt too intense. They’re too clearly another person with wants and needs that might clash with my own.
But last night, beneath the covers, I imagined West and his lips against mine. His voice in my ear telling me how good I’m doing. Thought about how hard he had been against me. All the fantasies I’ve ever had came roaring to life with him in the starring role.
I came twice and fell into a dead sleep.
He isn’t in the house the next day. I know this time, because I ask, and I find out he left Fairhaven on business.
It’s just me and the staff, a bustling crew that I’m getting to know more with each passing day. Melissa in the kitchen is talkative and funny, and I take to eating my breakfast at the island so we can chat while she bakes bread or meal preps. She always has a crossword on the center island and the radio playing.
“The cat?” she says when I ask her. “I’ve tried to catch him for weeks!”
“I saw him in the library. He let me pet him, but I didn’t feel a chip.” I grin at her. “We should get some cat food.”
“Do you know who he belongs to?”
“Fairhaven,” I say. Despite West’s protestations, the cat has looked supremely at home here every time I’ve seen him.
Ernest is a harder nut to crack. I get the sense that he walks through the estate like a captain of a ship, checking and double-checking that everything is up to his exacting standards.
I throw myself into my work for the rest of the day. Half of my pieces are already done, but I’m trying a new design for a skirt and blazer set, and I can’t get the pattern quite right. It takes me all day to cut and measure and perfect the patterns.
By the time the sun sets, my shoulders ache from sitting hunched over, and there’s a faint headache at my temples. There are also two texts waiting for me on my neglected phone. I shouldn’t get excited at the name, but I do anyway, remembering the press of his lips against mine.
West
Out of town for work. Will only be gone until tomorrow evening. Stay with your security detail at all times. I’d prefer it if you don’t leave Fairhaven, but I know I can’t convince you of that.
The phrasing makes me smile. No, he knows I don’t respond well to orders. Even if the idea that the stalker is out there, combined with the sprawling beauty of Fairhaven, makes me more than happy to stay on the grounds.
The house feels like a living entity, history carved into every wall. It holds secrets to West. And he is so loath to share any of his own.
Funny, how I thought this place would feel like a prison, and instead it’s become a sanctuary.
There’s a second text sent a few hours later.
West
I know you’re home. I remember that texting with men was on your list of things to practice.
Nerves simmer in my stomach. He’s right, it was. The plans, the conversations, the asks. It all takes so much energy.
Nora
Do you have the list memorized?
West
I have it in my wallet.
Nora
Do you read it daily?
West
Of course.
Nora
I’m not surprised. You feel like an overachiever.
His response is quick.
West
Takes one to know one, gorgeous.
My eyes zero in on the word. He’s pretending. I know he is, and still, I can almost hear the compliment in his low, warm voice.
My phone buzzes, signaling an incoming call, and his name flashes across the screen.
“Hello?” I say.
“Hey.” His voice is familiar in my ear, and I close my eyes at the deepness of it. There’s faint music in the background and the chatter of voices. “I’m glad you answered.”
I swallow. “Yeah. I was just… working.”
“Designing? How is it going?”
“It’s… going. I’m struggling with a pattern, but I think I finally solved it.”
“Of course you did,” he says. “You’re talented.”
The praise, said so matter-of-factly, makes my stomach tighten. “Thank you. Where are you?”
“Boston.”
“Having fun?”
He scoffs. “Not even a little bit. I’m in constant communication with the security team too. You’re safe.”
“I know,” I say. “Thank you. Are you out somewhere?”
“Yes. An executive corporate retreat for Calloway Holdings. I had to make an appearance.” He sounds annoyed by that fact, and my smile widens.
“Maybe you should practice boundary-setting,” I tell him sweetly, “and learn how to ask for what you want.”
He’s quiet for a beat, and then he laughs. It’s a low, warm sound that skitters across my skin. “Is the student becoming the teacher?”
“I can handle a little role-play from time to time.”
“Can you? Interesting.” His voice is suggestive, and my stomach tightens again. “Go out with me tomorrow, trouble.”
His voice is a low slide over my skin, demanding, soothing. “Tomorrow?”
“You’re free,” he tells me. “I’ll pick you up. We’ll have fun.”
I take a deep breath. “Okay.”
“No. You’re supposed to push back. Tell me you can’t but would love to go out another day. Tell me you want to drive yourself.”
“But that’s hard.”
“I know it is. That’s why we’ll practice,” he says. “I’m picking you up tomorrow. Wear something pretty.”
I close my eyes. “Thank you, that’s a very nice offer, but I’m busy tomorrow night. How about Sunday?”
“You’re being too nice.”
“No, I’m using affirmative boundary-setting! It’s a tool my therapist and I have been working on.”
“What did you call it?”
“Affirmative boundary-setting, and I know you heard me the first time.”
He chuckles again. I like the sound more than I should. “I did. See, that’s good. You calling me out. And you don’t need to affirm someone before drawing a boundary.”
“Sometimes I do. It’s very helpful, actually, especially with people I care about.” I take a step forward, looking out the window. The ocean is calm today. A perfectly shiny surface. “It makes me feel less awful.”
He’s quiet for a beat. “Right. But do you care about a random guy asking you out?”
“Maybe,” I say. “But maybe… I just want to make sure he doesn’t get too disappointed. Or mad at me.”
“Do they get mad?” His voice drops, and there’s an undercurrent of irritation in it. “Have you ever experienced that?”
“Once or twice. I mean, not angry angry, but yeah.”
“Fuck them,” he says. “If being kind when you refuse makes you feel better, then do that. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to. You don’t owe me anything, all right? I’m just an asshole you’ve been on a single date with, who’s annoying you to get you to say yes. We’ll go again.”
We do it three more times, and each time he asks, I tell him what I’d like to do instead. No, I don’t want to go out to dinner. Let’s go for a walk next weekend instead. It’s a constant negotiation. And on the final attempt, I tell him that I’m only interested in being friends.
West chuckles. “Even then, you can’t help yourself, can you?”
“What? I turned you down completely! I’m good at that!”
“Yes, but you still offered friendship. Do you want to be friends with me?”
“You you, or fake you?”
“Fake me,” he says.
“No.”
“Right. So don’t offer anything. You’ve told me you worry about living up to expectations. But you can also be the one to set them.”
I close my eyes. “Right. If I’m brave enough.”
“You are brave.” Another nugget of praise. I tuck it away, fold it into the warmth of my chest. There’s a voice behind him, closer than the background noise. It sounds urgent. “Damn. I have to go.”
“Your adoring fans are calling.”
“I have to give a speech.”
“Do you have that memorized, too?”
“I’m going to wing it,” he says with the perfect confidence I so envy. “And Nora?”
“Yes?”
“I am picking you up tomorrow night. We’re practicing another date. Our last one was…”
“I failed at it. I know.”
“You didn’t fail. It wasn’t a test, but it was informative,” he says. “We’ll do it again.”
“Okay.”
He hesitates for a second. “Stay safe.”
“Isn’t that your job?” I tease.
He chuckles again. “Yes. It is.”
“Have fun,” I say. “Good luck with your speech.”
“Thank you, trouble.”
The conversation stays with me for hours afterward. Even as I talk to my mother, as I do every day, and she urges me toward a new modeling job, all I hear is West’s voice. You can be the one to set those expectations.
My mother did push me into modeling. But I’ve never explicitly said I didn’t want it, either. I’ve placated and smiled and demurred and quietly tried to pull out of engagements. Maybe that was okay then. I was younger. I was doing the best I could.
But I’m older now, and it’s my life.
* * *
The next day, I’m sitting in the kitchen with Melissa when I hear the front door open. It’s large enough that the sound echoes through the immediate rooms downstairs.
People come and go often here. Ernest. The security guards. The head housekeeper, the gardeners, Melissa herself. I don’t react much, focusing on solving the six-down for mercurial we’ve been stuck on.
But footsteps echo on the marble floor to the kitchen.
Ernest appears. His face is half hidden behind a giant bouquet of spring flowers. It’s an explosion of green and pink.
He sets it on the counter and places a small wrapped box next to it. “There’s a delivery for you,” he says.
“Oh my god. For me?” I slide off the chair and then pause. “It’s not from…” I let my words trail off, a tightness in my chest. I don’t like saying the word. Stalker makes it feel so real, somehow, and so predatory. I’m trying not to think about whoever it is.
“No. It’s not from him .” Ernest says the word with barely concealed distaste. “Don’t worry.”
“Thanks.”
His eyes meet mine. “I’m sorry about your situation.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate that.”
He nods and says hello to Melissa before leaving the kitchen.
I stare at the giant bouquet. The dazzling array of lilies and baby’s breath and peonies. Practice getting gifts. That was on my list. It always increases the pressure for me. When guys bring flowers or chocolates.
When I was nineteen, I was walking shows in Milan for the spring/summer collections. A man in his forties, and a friend of the designer, wouldn’t stop giving me gifts. They’d show up at my makeup station between shows.
Giant, ostentatious things that made saying no to him all the more hard, because now I felt like I owed him gratitude too.
I reach for the card attached to the bouquet and turn it over with careful fingers. There, in sprawling masculine handwriting, is a single sentence. I’m picking you up at seven.
Anticipation makes me smile. He sent me flowers. West sent me flowers.
Melissa makes a small whistling sound. “Look at that! That’s gorgeous.”
“It really is, isn’t it?” I reach out for the small wrapped box. “And it came in a vase.”
“He knows how to spoil a girl,” she says and turns back to the dough she’s kneading.
“Oh, we’re not… that is… we’re not dating,” I tell her.
“Of course you’re not,” she says so quickly that I know she’s humoring me. “No need to explain anything to me.”
“Thanks.”
“You should know, though,” she says, “that I’ve worked here for years, and he never has women staying here.”
“Oh. That’s… good.”
She nods a little and starts humming to herself as she works on the bread. She makes the best rolls; I’ve praised her so often that she rolls her eyes at my compliments now.
I undo the small package that was delivered alongside the beautiful flowers and carefully open the lid. Inside, wrapped in black silky paper, is a card game. Unopened. Newly bought.
On the front is an illustrated pair of fuzzy handcuffs. Beneath it is the text Naughty Conversations for Couples in a pink font.
And I know this date will be nothing like our last.