Chapter 19
JANE
PLAYLIST: NEW HOUSE – JOSIE EDWARDS
“You have to come,” she says as she rolls over to me with her chair.
“I can’t attend a student’s party,” I say, “It’s violating all sorts of rules at the same time.”
“No other students will be there,” she says. But I know how fast rumors can travel, from personal experience, and I will not risk everything for a party I don’t want to attend.
“It would be the perfect chance to spread your wings,” she says.
“I don’t have wings,” I say dismissively.
“Figure of speech. The wings your parents clipped to make you fit the expectations they had of you.”
I stop typing.
The wings your parents clipped to make you fit the expectations they had of you.
“Think about it,” she says and pushes herself off my desk to slide back to hers. “I just thought it would be nice.”
“Okay,” I say. I can’t tell what exactly made me say it, maybe her underlying attempt to connect, maybe a part of me wanting to be around her outside of work. As wrong as it is. But things have already happened. A past that can’t be changed. So what does it matter now? Rules were already broken.
“Okay, as in yes?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “If you agree to join me as Louise for my mother’s brunch invitation next week, she will stop nagging me.”
“Is she doing that every week?”
“Every second week when she’s not on call.”
“Oh,” she says.
“She doesn’t stop talking about you,” I add. “You might be her new favorite daughter, at least she tells me so daily.”
“Do you speak to her daily?” she asks, as if it were something bad. It isn’t, is it?
“Yes, of course,” I say, observing her reaction.
“Why would you talk daily to someone who doesn’t value you?” she asks, and my body straightens without my control.
“It’s not that—“ I begin.
“It is exactly that,” she says. “The way she talks to you, about you. It’s like you’re willingly putting your hand into open fire every day.”
I open my mouth to contradict her because she implies I am codependent on my mother, and I am not.
I am not.
Am I not?
I close my mouth again.
“Friday, 7 pm, my studio,” she says and goes back to her work.
“Wear something casual chic, maybe that outfit you wore in the Tuesday lecture two weeks ago, with the silken blouse. You don’t need to bring anything, but El loves the brownies from Ramini if you want to give her something for her birthday. ”
“You don’t need to tell me what to wear,” I say with slightly pursed lips.
“Oh, so you wouldn’t have a complete freakout on Friday afternoon because the dress code wasn’t specific enough?”
“I wouldn’t,” I say defensively, knowing very well she is completely right, but it scares the hell out of me how well she knows me by now. So I lie. She made me become a liar.
“Uh-huh,” she hums out, slaps the huge book in front of her shut, and gets up.
“Wear the outfit, it makes you look like a goddess,” she says with a smirk, and leaves.
“You don’t tell me what to wear!” I shout after her.
“See you on Friday,” she says knowingly without looking back.
It enrages me.
Why is it always her walking out? Leaving me with all sorts of emotions and thoughts to deal with?
Friday comes, and I stand in front of my wardrobe. I will most certainly not wear the outfit she told me to wear, but I also don’t know what to wear instead.
What do they even mean by casual chic? It’s either casual or chic. The blouse is chic. Maybe business. Not casual.
“Urgh,” I say, because I hate socializing.
I glance at my watch. It’s already too late. And I can’t be too late. I eye the blouse.
“Why do I have to win this?” I ask myself out loud.”She told you you looked good in it. So why not wear it?”
“Because I will not have another person tell me what to do,” I answer my own question.
And with that, I choose a buttoned midi dress and pair it with boots.
I love the dress very much because it is a shirt-and-dress-in-one that enhances my curves beautifully while hiding the parts I am most insecure about.
I take a coat, a mini bag, pack the essentials, grab the gift bag with the brownies, and then rush out to the subway.
It is exactly one minute to seven when I arrive at the door without a bell. I look up at the camera, and the door opens.
I ride the elevator upstairs.
The door to the studio is open.
Do I walk in?
Wait here?
Urgh, this is all so awkward. I shouldn’t be here.
At that moment, Amelie appears at the door, barefoot, wearing a very short, tight silver dress that is both impressive and simple.
No shoes.
“Hi,” she says, smiling widely.
“Hi,” I say, and allow a smirk to appear on my face. She is excited I am here.
There is an awkward moment where we just stand in front of each other.
“Can I touch you?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “And, you do not have to ask every time. I love that you do it—“
Her shoulders twitch in the tiniest possible movement, and if I am not entirely wrong, she straightened slightly the moment I used the word love.
And then she grasps my face with both hands and kisses me. A kiss, causing me to relax in her touch. All the nervousness falls from me.
Her body is so close. So close, my useless hands touch her chest. She smiles against my lips, trails with her lips to my ear, and says, “I’m glad you didn’t listen to me with the outfit choice,” and lets go of me.
Wait, what?
“Why would you be glad I didn’t listen to what you told me to do?” I ask her.
She chuckles.
“Because I want you to learn to do what you want, not what anyone tells you to,” she says cheerfully, snips with her finger over my nose, and turns to go inside, holding out a hand for me to take.
“You know too much about me,” I say.
“I know just enough,” she answers. “Are you coming or not?”
I look at her for one moment. The way she stands there, waiting for me with her outstretched arm, barefoot, grounded, calm, and yet excited. No pigeonhole big enough for her to fit in.
I smile.
“Coming,” I say, and take her hand.
What I enter into blows my mind. I mean, I am aware she has money by now, but this studio?
Brick walls, a steel staircase leading to a gallery and a terrace, a massive black kitchen area, a leather couch that looks like it must have cost what I earn in a year, and a window front with a view of the One World.
“If you don’t close your mouth,” she says, “I might put my tongue into it.”
I look at her while I close my mouth. This studio must have cost millions upon millions. The mere size of it!
“You are like rich-rich,” I say.
“And hopefully the example you needed to understand that not all rich people are bad.”
“Not so sure about that,” I say dryly.
She laughs.
“Who knows,” she says. “Come, let’s find the birthday girl.”
She leads me up the staircase to the gallery, where two walls are covered ceiling-high with bookshelves. I tilt my head to read some of the titles.
“Won’t help you with anything,” she says. “El redecorated everything here.”
“She did?” I asks.
“Yes, it looked like a princess exploded in here before. She made it fit who she thinks I am.”
“And is this you?” I ask, curiosity piqued, because it was an explicitly strange word choice.
“A solid closer call,” she says.
“What’s the least you?”
She sniggers.
“That lamp,” she says, and points at a lamp that looks like some birds lost their feathers for it. “I hate it, but El loves it. So it stayed.”
“So you two are roommates?”
“El lives here most of the time,” she says cryptically and pulls me outside.
I am pulled onto a glass-enclosed landscaped roof terrace with a huge sitting area, fireplace, and a perfect view of the Empire State Building.
“Mouth,” she says, as if I were her toddler that need reminding not to lick people.
“El, she’s here!” calls Amelie, and the extremely beautiful blonde lurks around a corner from a barbecue area.
She is so beautiful, she frightens me. Not forgetting the encounter we had in the bathroom, but I am rendered speechless by her.
“She won’t eat you,” says Amelie, and I drew myself up the very moment. Not because of what she said, but because I won’t have a nineteen-year-old intimidate me.
From the corner of my eye, I see a smirk on her face, and I know I have been played yet again.
El walks over to us.
She wears a short summer dress with a blue floral print that perfectly complements her eye color. Her wavy, long blonde hair bounces slightly as she walks up to us. How is it that some women are blessed with such breathtaking beauty?
“Hi,” says El in almost the same way Amelie does it. “I’m a hugger,” she says very differently from the encounter we had in front of the bathroom once. “Can I hug you?”
It’s one glance I give Amelie. She has prepared El.
“Yeah, sure,” I say.
Hair and a fresh breeze of perfume wash over me as her hands grasp around me.
I place my hand softly around her because I am squeezed, and it leaves me no other choice. Somehow it’s not that bad. As far as hugs go, at least.
“Thank you for coming,” she says and lets go of me. “I was so excited to meet you.”
I smile and say, “Happy Birthday,” holding out the gift bag with the brownies.
She takes it with a wide smile, showing off her perfectly white teeth.
“Ohhh, Ramini’s!” she says, excited, fiddling in the bag and getting out a brownie.
“Thank you so much,” she says and takes a bite. “They’re the best.” El holds the brownie for Amelie to try.
She takes a tiny bite from it.
“It is really good,” Amelie says, forcing a smile on her face.
“You and your salty tongue fuck off,” says El.
I watch them interact, and it’s like they are one unit. I feel like an intruder in something very personal.
I aim to take a step back.
I need distance. But Amelie pulls me back close. It is as if I am an open book to her, as if she can read my every thought, feel my every emotion.
“So where are the other guests?” I ask.
“No others,” says Amelie. “Just us.”
I feel how I retract more.
I am an intruder.
“You said you wanted privacy,” Amelies says. “An El here wanted to meet you.”
“It’s awkward,” I say.
“It’s not. You’ll see,” says Amelie.
“Sit down there, I’m getting us something to drink.”
I stand, with El, in exactly the awkward silence.
“What’s your favorite song?” she asks me.
“Partita No. 1 for Solo Violin in B Minor,” I say.
El laughs.
“Hang on,” she says and walks back to where she was when we came here. A minute later, my favorite Bach piece resounds through the speaker, and it calms me immediately.
Amelie returns with three glasses and a bottle of champagne from the table.
“Are we in the lab today?” she asks with a chuckle. She, of course, recognizes the song I have always played.
I have to snigger a bit.
“Here,” she says and hands me and the returning El a glass of champagne.
“A toast to the girl who lives her life from now on,” says Amelie with a wink at El.
“To the girl who chooses freedom,” says El.
“To the birthday girl,” I say. I still feel like an intruder.
Half an hour later, I don’t.
Half an hour later, I laugh hard because El is by far the funniest person I have ever met. Not in a fake way, but with her utterly dry humor. She also knows how to take the edge off someone. She has wit. She laughs richly and affectingly. And I can see why Amelie is so fond of her.
“O. M. G. I love this song,” she says, getting up to dance in front of Amelie and me, dancing to Enjoy The Silence by Anberlin.
“Come on, let’s join her,” says Amelie, get up, and hold out her hand.
I hesitate one moment before I take it to let myself get into dancing.
No one here judges. No one cares. It’s just us girls.
So I dance.
We dance.
We drink.
At some point, Amelie dances so close to me, grabs around me, and opens my ponytail. Grasps my face, kisses me, and I bring one arm around her back. We kiss more. So close. And I feel so good. So, so good as we dance with our hands exploring our bodies.
More alcohol.
More dancing.
I close my eyes as I just take in the sensation of freedom. My body feels light rather than the typical tension. I feel so much and yet nothing at all.
Amelie has her arms around me. I lean slightly into her touch while I dance; she is holding me. And I trust her to do so.
Suddenly, a touch behind me. El.
Her hands wander around me as we dance. One wanders around my throat as she pushes my head back into her.
And I let her.
Because I have never felt any better in my life.