Chapter 3 #5
And what are the chances of him being fluent?
The ground disappeared beneath my feet when he casually asked me what my name was, as if signing to me at that moment was not a major thing, as if he had not just offered me the comfort of my own territory while I stood so far out of my depth in this polished, intimidating business setting.
For a minute, as he read my name on my fingers, I could have sworn a current passed between us, almost as if we were recognizing each other from a past life.
I hope he took my shyness for what it was, and not for me trying to fight back tears, which I hope I managed to disguise well enough.
Between his gravelly voice hitting me right in the stomach and the butterflies that seemed to have taken permanent residence there while I was in his office, I also felt the absurd urge to exhale and rush into his arms, so that I could hide in the crook of his neck and cry.
Surely it cannot be a normal reaction to retrieving a bag.
And why did he spend so much time with me?
Doesn’t he have better things to do? I clutch my bag against my chest like a shield.
He seemed taller than yesterday, his green pupils lethal, with something dark shining in the back.
I couldn’t keep my eyes off his suit, or the undeniable muscles underneath, betraying the body of a fighter.
His short brown hair shone with caramel highlights, and an energy emanated from his hands as he moved them, speaking to me in sign language.
The veins were visible beneath the thick, rough skin of his hands, his jaw clenching and unclenching, his eyes on me, rendering me a deer before a lion.
Why did he take care of my bag when it was so far beneath his position? Ronny wasn’t there when I arrived. It was another concierge, younger and more outgoing. He scanned me with a frown and called the desk upstairs while eyeing me as if I was about to rob the place.
I gathered all my courage to step onto this floor, so different from last night, when I had it all to myself, empty of judgment. Looking down, I walked toward the desk in front of his office, where the concierge had told me a certain Kathy Smith would guide me.
Although she did not have the sort of style I expected from people working here, she remained perfectly amiable and told me to wait until his appointment was over.
I stood beside the door, wishing I could disappear in the middle of all those expensive suits and business dresses, fast steps and typing crowding my ability to hear myself think.
When I came out, his assistant offered me a sort of smile, as if she had understood I could not talk either.
Most people just think I am shy or rude.
Somehow, I feel like she picked up on my mutism.
Some people really do have a sixth sense.
I guess that is why she is in this position. She must have great instincts.
Once I am back in the elevator, alone, I let out a deep exhale, freedom echoing against the four metallic walls, containing my nerves and sensitivity as I hear my own heart beating behind my temples.
Tristan Ashford.
A man who evolves in spheres I could not even grasp, making decisions that impact hundreds of thousands of people, pulling power over this city. I have never been interested in business, but you would have to be deaf not to know the Ashford name.
His name towers over dozens of buildings in the city, diversified into hospitals, care facilities, real estate, and companies I probably do not even know about.
I may not know him or his family, but I know he is powerful.
Even Mara uses their name as a pillar of what is supposed to be the highest rank anyone could hope for.
Don’t break the crystal glasses, Ella. You think we’re as rich as the Ashfords?
Think, Ella, think! Those were her words just two days ago, as I polished her favorite champagne glasses.
I make my way out of the building, nodding to the nice concierge, who lifts his cap slightly in answer.
People are not as terrifying as I thought they would be here.
Somehow, I spent the night picturing an army of suits looking at me like an ant meant to be crushed beneath their polished shoes, but no. It was not like that at all.
Droplets of rain fall on my cheekbones, and I sigh, looking for the nearest shelter.
I need to go home. I came to retrieve my bag, and I did, all while keeping my job, but our conversation felt like a double-edged sword.
It was surprisingly smooth, and my mother’s words resonated inside me.
He wanted honesty, searching my eyes for a lie as if he were waiting for it to confirm his beliefs.
Only I did not give him one.
Brave, humble, kind.
Mom taught me, in every situation, to seek the truth, and I tried, even here, when he could have laughed at me for trying to see through him, past the armor and the bones and the flesh made of things I do not know, but that seem to keep his heart shielded from the world.
For a second, I saw him above that chess set, a version of him I was not sure was known to the people around him.
Rain falls on my sweater. I run to the bus station.
Who am I to think I could see behind the mask of a stranger?
What do I know about men, or powerful ones?
Nothing. I am just a maid, a girl who cannot be loved in her own family for a reason I cannot grasp, my soul rotten enough to push away the very people who should love me.
Mara and my stepsisters barely tolerate me.
Mom died.
And Dad…
My own family would rather be away from me than with me.
I am trying, I really am, but I need to realize that some people on earth are not meant to be loved.
I will love people, and it is okay if I am not loved back.
As long as I keep trying, I can still look in the mirror and know that my mother would be proud of the woman I am becoming.
“Aren’t you cold, honey?” a beautiful old lady asks, seated on the bench in a white raincoat, her grey hair tucked neatly beneath the translucent hood.
I shake my head, mouthing, “I’m okay.” Am I?
I slide the bag onto my shoulder, heat pulsing in my nape.
Why am I still so hot? It was that damn office, wasn’t it?
His heater must have been broken because my body is responding as if I have been sunburned.
A picture of him sizing me up as he handed me the bag, our fingers accidentally brushing, comes back to me.
The jolt of electricity. The lack of air.
His office was large, but it could have been a cupboard for all I could think.
My sweater is damp with rain, and I have a sudden urge to go back inside the building, take the elevator, and tell him…
Tell him about the rain, the dance of taxis and people running around to take shelter.
To describe how much I enjoy looking at strangers holding hands and why I always crave pastries on rainy days.
I want to tell him all those things with the silly expectation that he'll listen.
The bus arrives, and I step inside, silently chiding myself for such childish thoughts.
Why would a man like him listen to random thoughts of a girl like me?
Raindrops race down the window, a slight fog covering the spot where I’m resting my forehead against the glass.
As unsettling as the exchange was, Tristan Ashford is the most handsome man I have ever had the privilege, or the misfortune, to talk with.
All at once, he managed to make me feel cherished and sliced in two, like a surgeon digging into my flesh and sewing me back together as if I were his own creation.
Conversing with him was easy, which is a miracle, given my inability to talk.
I was born this way, unable to use my vocal cords, but with excellent hearing, which I am still grateful for.
Yet I had never spoken to a man of his status, let alone argued with one about the right strategy to adopt in a chess game, or matters of the heart. Of his heart.
Perhaps he thought me naive and too sensitive.
Perhaps he only wanted to distract himself for five minutes before returning to his world of mergers and acquisitions.
I just wish I could have stayed, even from far away, only so I could have looked at him more closely, studying his walk, his movements, the way his suit creased at the fold of his biceps, and how his eyelids grew heavy with something foreign and dangerous when he commanded me to sit.
I left abruptly, because it was not my place, and I should simply be grateful I kept my job.
With my bag on my lap, I clutch it with one arm. At least I still have a job. Thank God.
This means my second year at university is still very much a dream I can catch if I stay focused and healthy enough to handle Mara’s work during the day, along with my evenings in the city.
For once, I do not use my earphones, listening instead to the buzz of the bus motor and the rumble of cars in traffic.
Once I get out at my station, I walk fifteen minutes to the house, its impeccable, massive appearance reflecting how small and insignificant I am.
Hydrangeas are in bloom.
Mom would have loved them.
It’s eight thirty. Not too bad. Unlocking the front door, I tiptoe to my father’s room, which is barely open.
Peeking inside, I notice him sleeping, his face relaxed like a child’s, someone who can dream because nothing in the world is allowed to worry him anymore.
I stay a minute longer, holding my breath, checking if he is breathing.
The gentle movement of the cover reassures me.
I read somewhere that mothers do that to their newborns.
Check their pulse. Life has a strange sense of humor, since it is now my turn to do that for my father’s well-being.