24 1/2 Kisses (A Bashir Family Romance) (2 page)

T
he tea kettle screamed as I packed up the last box and set it in top of the others near the front door. I was cutting it close—the movers would be here tomorrow morning and in between wrapping up loose ends with my job at the
Seattle Times
and finishing signing copies of my first book, I didn’t have much time to think about moving.

As I quickly scuttled to the kitchen to pour myself another cup of chai with milk—my caffeine-infused fuel of choice—I took a quick glance out the window.

I would miss this view!

The skyline of Seattle was bathed in a gray mist, and if I stood in just the right spot, I had a peek of melancholy Puget Sound beyond.  I would miss sipping tea inside my cozy little apartment and pounding away at the keys sheltered from the near constant rain. It was a writer’s paradise.

I sat down with my steaming mug and wondered what it would be like to write in New York City.

The last time I was there…

The memory forced its way into my mind like it always did.

After I had returned my engagement ring to Dev that cold, winter morning three years before, I promised I wouldn’t go back. But this job offer was a dream come true—a staff writer for
Time Magazine
—so I decided New York was big enough for us both. There were—
what
—eight million people wandering around? Even if I tried to find him, I doubt I could.

It would be fine.

I sat back in the kitchen and took a deep breath willing his memory to leave my body and evaporate into nothing, the like steam from my tea.

I was so young and idealistic then, I would often tell myself. I had since traveled the world, seeing things I had only dreamed of…and some things that would later serve as fodder for my nightmares.

For the
Seattle Times
I covered international human interest stories and this led me to the darkest corners of the world. I saw too many hungry children in war torn places to get much rest most nights. How could I sleep in my nice comfortable apartment with clean water and a fridge full of food when I saw children—babies—living in squalor, happy to find crumbs in piles of garbage? Any problems I thought I had—or any pain I thought I suffered—seemed to pale in comparison.

A broken heart was a First World problem. Most people were just trying to survive through the day.

My job was how I ended up penning my book, a compilation of intimate and compelling interviews with impoverished and disadvantaged women, men and children in developing and war-torn nations. I wanted people in the First World to understand how growing up in poverty changes you, and how it can even haunt you later even when you escape it.

Having grown up poor and practically an orphan, I knew the pain of being forgotten by the world.

But that was behind me now.

I was educated, accomplished and the lacking self-esteem of my youth replaced with confidence that propelled me into places I never thought I could—
or would
—go.

Like New York City.

***

My best friend, Annika, met me in New York with the generous offer to help me get settled in my new apartment. In truth, she wanted an excuse to go shopping with her fiancee’s platinum American Express.

“Kareem” sounded like perfect “family-approved” marriage material, and they were going to be hitched sometime in the next year. I was happy for her.

I guess.

It was a “long, glorious engagement” she told me as we sipped hot tea from my tiny couch in my matching tiny apartment with a view of a brick wall leading down to an alley—not exactly the most inspiring view for a writer, but it was what I could afford.

“He’s so perfect, Scarlett!”

“Oh, in what way?”

“Well, he just made partner in his law firm. And his family is like the Indian version of the Kennedys but from Dallas. His father is a senator, his brother a judge…and they’re completely loaded.” She almost couldn’t catch her breath rattling off every unromantic reason she was marrying this guy.

“He sounds like a dream…if you’re hoping to run for office one day or take out a loan,” I said with a smirk. “What is it about him you…
love
?”

She scrunched up her face in profound thought while I silently chastised her.

Ah, Annika, when will you learn what love is? That fire, that passion…that feeling of wanting to crawl inside of someone because you want to be as close to them as possible. The sweet insomnia…

I quickly wondered where Dev was in the city at the moment.

Annika would know. Should I ask her?

Don’t.

When I broke up with Dev, I had made her promise to never talk about him to me, and she had kept her promise so far, even when there were times I could tell she wanted to break it. She had hinted at some disturbing family news involving him a year ago, and I was curious to ask, but I had remained strong. I wasn’t going to open that door now.

Annika rudely snapped her fingers in front of my eyes.

“Wake up, Scarlett!”

“I’m listening, sorry.”

“I was just telling you how much I love the way he orders when we eat out. He asks 500 million questions…and always has to have a side of raw garlic with everything—even a hamburger. It’s so cute.”

“Sounds like the romance of the century,” I teased. “I hope he uses breath mints.”

She threw a pillow at me.

“Like
you’re
some expert. When was the last time you went out on a date?”

I suddenly felt uncomfortable. I thought of a strategy to change the topic.

“I’ve been
busy
writing the book, Annika. Remember the copy I sent you that you didn’t read?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Okay, let’s get this straight…you wanted me to read a book about poor people? Like, African kids with flies
living on them?
I just don’t get it—why don’t they
swat
them away? I mean, does the book explain that? ‘Cause then I might read it.”

“Very funny. Really, Annika, I thought you would at least skim through it.”

She sighed deeply like I had pressured her to climb Mount Everest.

“Scarlett, I don’t like to think about those things. That’s how I stay happy. I mean, I can’t solve the world’s problems. And I hate to break it you, but you can’t either.”

I wanted to correct her and tell she was ignorant and selfish and encourage her to grow up, but she was my best friend and I wasn’t going to spoil the last two days of her company. I quickly changed the subject to something that would make her giddy.

“Hey, I have any idea. Let’s…go…
shopping
!”

On cue, she sprang up and grabbed her Gucci purse.

“Now that’s something I can wrap my head around! I’m going to completely remodel your whole look. Scarlett, you’re going to be a New York
goddess
when I’m done.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said with as much sincerity as I could muster.

We found a boutique where a scarf—
a plain scarf
—cost $225. It was not my cup of tea, but I trudged on for her sake. There was a beautiful, plush sitting area in the dressing room and I didn’t mind sitting there and watch Annika do “her thing”—and I had to admit, she did it well. She had collected a huge number of outfits and was arranging them in order for me to try on.

She held up a slinky red dress; it was
way
out of my comfort zone.

“This would look amazing on you, Scarlett—
with bright red lips!
But don’t overdo the eyes. Remember what I always say, it’s eyes or lips—

“But not both,” I finished, amused how someone could be so involved in make-up that they memorized rules like they were commandments chiseled on stone given from God. “I don’t think I can pull that off,” I pleaded.

“You’re in New York now. You can’t
dial it in
anymore with your slacks and massive cardigan collection. Seriously, it should be against the law to own that many cardigans!”

“I like my cardigans.”

“Scarlett, with a body like yours…and your gorgeous face, why would you hide it?”

I lowered my voice. “This place is…a little out of my budget right now…and I’m not buying clothes on your
fiancee’s credit card
, Annika.”

“He told me to go wild. Trust me,
I’ve earned it
,” she said slyly with a wink.

Earned it?
I made a quick mental note to ask about that later.

I reluctantly put on the dress and came out of the dressing room to show her how awkward and unflattering it was on me.

But I was wrong.

I saw my reflection in the mirror and couldn’t believe the gorgeous vixen in the clingy red dress was me. I usually didn’t try to play up my curves—they were so pronounced—but I have to say, I felt pretty sexy in this dress.

“Oh my god! You realize how you look, right?” Annika whipped around to the saleswoman. “We’ll take it! And we need matching bra and panties—and shoes. You’re going to be the Woman in Red in New York City, Scarlett, and any guy who gets to unwrap you will be in for a sizzling treat.”

She went on to design a completely new wardrobe for me that day, and I almost started to enjoy myself. In these new clothes, I looked cosmopolitan, sexy, and…grown-up. I looked like I belonged in this concrete jungle, and whether I would admit it or not, I wanted to belong somewhere.

She also convinced me to get my blonde hair straightened, and it added another layer of sleek sophistication my long waves couldn’t pull off.

She made me wear the red dress home, and as I walked down the crowded Manhattan sidewalk I felt every man’s eyes within a one-mile radius ogling me. I was asked out three times by different guys—
good looking guys
—before we reached my apartment building.

So this is what it feels like…to put your body on display and wield its power over men.

I kinda liked it.

***

At lunch the next day, Annika confirmed my suspicions about how she “earned” the use of Kareem’s credit card.

“We had sex.”

“What? Who had sex?”

“Kareem and I. We did it.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Oh, wow, congratulations. I thought you would wait, Annika. I mean, your family is so…old fashioned.”

She started cutting up her chicken breast and arranging it on her plate. “I know, I know…but he’s a smooth talking lawyer and he pretty much made his case, like he was in a court room or something. He pointed out that we’re practically married anyway and it would fun in the meantime. So what would it hurt?”

“So he
argued
his way into having sex with you?” I couldn’t repress a laugh. “Did you negotiate a time and date—what positions you would use—in advance too? Did he subpoena you for foreplay?” I was on a roll.

“Ha, ha, Scarlett. Unlike
some people
, I waited a pretty long time. Believe me, I was ready. He didn’t pressure me.”

“And did it meet your
expectations
?”

“Sure. I guess. It was nice.”

“Just nice?”

She failed to hide the disappointment on her face.

I was sad for her. My first time had been entirely different—
beyond
nice
. It was explosive—life changing—nirvana.
But it had been with Dev.

“Well, I have his credit card, don’t I?”

“I think that means it was nice
for him
, Annika.”

Her face fell. I tried to reassure her.

“It will get better over time. The sex, I mean.”

“I would ask you for some tips, but that means I would have to think about you and my brother and then I would have to go throw up,” she laughed.

She sensed my tension.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring him up.”

I tried to act indifferent.

“It’s okay. I never think about him anymore,” I lied.

O
n a crisp June morning the week after Annika flew back to Texas, I walked into the offices of
Time Magazine
looking sharp, attractive and confident in my new, tighter and sleeker wardrobe, complements of Annika—or rather her fiancée. It was a new look for my new life.

My boss, Managing-Editor Bill Merchant, met me in the lobby. He was in his mid-fifties and had the usual anxious energy that seemed to surround every editor I had ever known. He clutched a coffee-stained mug in his hand which matched the color of his teeth.

“Scarlett, welcome to New York. Let’s get you settled in.” He was friendly but rushed. After a quick handshake he took off toward the elevator with me at his heels.

Inside the massive floor towering over the city I felt my nerves kick in.

Can I do this?

Am I good enough?

Can I really walk in these heels all day?

The black pumps were making themselves known to my poor feet. I decided to endure it. I looked great…I couldn’t go back to flats.

After Bill dropped me off at my cubicle, a man with an outdoorsy tan and build—like he just stepped out of an REI catalog—peeked over the divider with a bright smile. He was nice looking with bright blue eyes that seemed honest—like they could never conceal what he was thinking.

“I’m Eric. Eric Stevens.”

I offered him my perfectly manicured hand with my new longer acrylic nails.
How was I going to type with these things?
I quickly wondered.

“Scarlett Sommerfield.”

“You came from the
Seattle Times
, right?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“Well, I’m all yours.”

I cocked an eyebrow at him.
All mine?

“I mean, I’m your
photographer
—when you need one—and hopefully you’ll need one soon.” He shot me a wide grin.

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all
.

I met most of the staff writers that day and worked at setting up a routine. As a writer, routine is everything.

I put arranged my Oxford American Thesaurus and my well-worn copy of the AP Style Guide next to my laptop. My favorite tea cup, covered in Texas Bluebonnets, found a home in the breakroom among all the other writers’ tea and coffee-stained cups. And then I pulled my bags of salted and roasted almonds and hid them away in my desk drawer. They were my salvation when I didn’t have time to eat and pushing hard on a tight deadline.

When five rolled around, I got ready to leave. The real work would start tomorrow at the staff meeting where I would be getting an assignment for the August issue.

Eric found me at the elevator.

“Leaving?” His easy smile was infectious.

“No, I just liked to watch the elevator go up and down. It’s soothing.”

“Ooh, sharp-tongued. You’ll survive this city just fine.”

I was going to tell him that I lived her for a summer but decided not to. How could I talk about my time in New York without mentioning Dev?

“How long have you lived here, Eric?”

“I moved here from Colorado ten years ago, so I’m a sufficiently jaded New Yorker by now.”

I laughed. He was…likeable.

“I really doubt that. You seem very nice.”

He grabbed his chest in mock pain.

“Ouch. That hurts. No man wants to be described as
nice
.”

I thought of Dev and his moody darkness, his raw ambition, his biting sarcasm. I could handle nice. I was ready for nice.

“If it makes you feel better, I’m sure you’re a dirty rotten scoundrel beneath the nice exterior.”

“I do feel better. Thanks,” he replied, his smile never letting up.

He leaned against the wall casually and folded his arms across his chest.

“There’s an amazing Thai restaurant on the corner. Can I buy you a welcome-to-New York dinner?”

I knew the restaurant, Thai Passion. Dev and I had eaten there several times that one summer. The Tom Yum soup was his favorite…

Stop it, Scarlett. Time to move on.

I met his bright baby blues and gave him my best, most sincere grin. “I would love to try it out, Eric. Thanks.”

Eric and I sat at a table next to the window and I let him order for us.

“The Tom Yum soup here is amazing,” he said enthusiastically.

“Sounds delicious. Can’t wait to try it.”

He took a sip of hot tea and then gave me another charming smile, his sun-bleached locks falling over his forehead.

“So, Scarlett, what do you like to do for fun?”

Fun…what’s that? Should I make something up?

“I write.”

I felt a little embarrassed. I didn’t really do much else but read and write and take long walks…
in order to think about something to write about or ponder what I had just read.
Damn
, I realized,
I was boring
.

“I mean, I just published a book.”

He tried to look interested. I guess he was hoping to hear that I liked rock-climbing or kite-surfing.

“Oh? That’s great. Congratulations. What’s it about?”

I almost couldn’t say it.

“Poverty.”

He looked amused.

“Sounds like a fun read. When can I have a copy?”

“That’s nice—I mean
kind
—of you, but it’s one of those books that I don’t really expect many people to read. It was a passion project of sort.”

He leaned across the table and looked me square in the face.

“Not only will I read it, I know I’ll love it.”

I couldn’t resist a smile even if I tried. He was cute, funny—and even though he wouldn’t admit to it—
nice.

As we sipped our spicy soup, the lemongrass and lime filling my senses, I felt some inkling of hope that I could make this city my own. That my memories of Dev—which permeated every nook and cranny of this town—would fade, replaced by new ones.

How wrong I was.