Chasing Stars (20 page)

Last night, when I entered his studio, it looked like a thousand lit candles glimmered to welcome me home. Will had a bottle of my favorite wine, a 2001 vintage of Chateau Rieussec Sauternes. How does he remember these details? Side note: He does not drink. He bought the wine with me in his thoughts.

He served me a delicious homemade dinner and gave me a full body massage at midnight. Yep, I kid you not. God, I was dead tired after fifteen hours of filming and his actions melted my heart.

Oh, and did I mention? When he kisses me, my lips fit so perfectly with his. What do I think about all of this? If I lived in the la-la land that Hollywood sells for millions of dollars to millions of idiots, I would think that fate or something as stupid as serendipity brought us together. But I live in a fucked-up, real crazy world where unicorns don’t exist. So, no, meeting Will is nothing more than a series of coincidences and the amazing time we share is due to a shitload of impossibly good chemistry.

Like a throbbing pain, that reoccurs when you least expect, for the hundredth time my mind returns to the conversation I had with Mel about Will during the recent weekend when Will and I looked after Chloe.

While visiting Will’s family in Connecticut, stupidly I wore jeans. It was a hot summer day and fearing heat stroke, an unsuspecting me followed Mel to her bedroom, in search of shorts. When I entered her room, she nonchalantly walks to her dresser and fishes for a pair of denim shorts.

“Whoa, you kept your room, huh?” I glance around. The walls are painted green and purple drapes match the bedcover.

“Yeah, I like having this last link with Mom and Dad. And after Tim was deployed, I have been spending a lot of time here.”

“My mom cleared out my room the day I mentioned my desire of putting a deposit toward the purchase of my first home.” I smile. “I was eighteen and had to move before the decorator had time to buy me any furniture.”

“God, I guess your mom and mine should learn a few things from each other. I wished sometimes, Mom would be less overbearing. But I am glad it is not to the extent of yours. I am still not ready to give up my room. And in all honesty, I don’t think I ever will.”

I swiftly scramble out of my jeans and into her shorts. I turn to leave, but her hand grabs my arm and she stops me.

“Portia, I need to talk to you, and this is the best opportunity we will have.” She gestures to a chair in the corner.

“Sure, what’s up?” I ask, sitting in the chair.

“I haven’t treated you very kindly. Perhaps I am being unfair, but that’s another discussion altogether.”

Now that’s an understatement. What did I do to deserve her passive-aggressive treatment?

“The reason is simple. You are a player. Anyone who is not smitten by your charm can see it.”

Well, I cannot disagree on that one, I muse.

“Will and my parents are enchanted by you, therefore, unable to see, how you are just toying with Will.”

Now, that’s not fair. Is it? Darn, I am not completely sure if she is being fair on her assessment of my intentions regarding Will, and for a reason beyond my simpleminded brain, it puzzles me. My hands clutch the jeans I am holding.

“I know it is not my story to tell, but, you need to know.” Her green eyes are piercing.

Anticipating what she is about to say, I nervously open and close my mouth, but not a word comes out. Her ambush has paralyzed me.

“Will was born a crack baby,” she draws a deep breath before she continues, “Though he was up for adoption, he was rejected by any potential parents. They feared he would have cognitive deficits due to his exposure to drugs while in the uterus.”

My head spins and I swallow hard. “Mel, I’m—” She raises her hand to stop me.

“Please, Portia, you need to hear this.” She squirms in her seat and continues, “Will was born prematurely, underweight, and malnourished; maybe he will show you the pictures one day.” She pauses. “He tested positive for cocaine and heroin. Reports on his records say he constantly cried from withdrawal. Doctors drugged him as they detoxed him to calm his tiny body,” her voice falters, and I realize is difficult for her to tell me the story. I wish she would stop.

Her words render me motionless and unable of escaping, so I continue to listen. What Mel relates is private and personal, and breaches Will’s privacy. Unfazed, she continues. Damn, she has trapped me.

“By using drugs, his mother destroyed any chances for him being adopted. Therefore, he was left as foster kid in a screwed-up system.”

For a moment, I watch as she silently stares out the window. When she turns to face me, her expression is sad. With a poised voice, she continues to reveal Will’s heartbreaking story.

“I can’t begin to imagine what he was exposed to while in foster care, but whatever happened lead him to use drugs and to head on a destructive path. Will came to us when he was sixteen. At the time, he was addicted to meth,” she shudders. “Even watching someone withdraw from drugs is awful and painful.”

Her hand protectively pats the small bump on her tummy and I know she is already nurturing her baby.

“The guest room across the hall became his.” She pauses. “Will could not handle being in a bedroom. According to his record, he spent many years of his life incarcerated in one, only leaving to go to school.”

My mouth goes dry and my whole body is shaking. I am petrified as she continues, “For pretty much his whole life, Will has suffered from night terrors. For a very long time after his arrival, I woke up to his agonizing cries in the middle of the night. The desperation in his voice is forevermore engraved in my memory.” Horror crosses Mel’s face. “One sentence, ‘Don’t touch me,’ was all he repeated,” she chokes and tears glimmer in her eyes.

“Some nights, it was so bad, that Dad, Mom, and I took turns at his bedside. During the day, he hallucinated and became paranoid. It was a long journey, nurturing his soul back to life and eventually to us.” Tears roll down her cheek. “Will was a ghost, he rarely talked, he only ate when offered food, and he only showered when told. It took almost a year, until he graced us with a smile.”

She draws a breath of air. “Painting was the only thing he did with spontaneity.” She laughs a little. “Will became passionate and obsessed about painting. It turned into his escape. Without any formal instruction, he produced incredible pieces.”

Mel’s lips curves on a smile. “Our high school art teacher Mrs. Leo recognized his extraordinary aptitude with a paint brush and took him under her tutelage. Will’s talent is nothing short of an unexplained miracle. During our senior year, Mrs. Leo sent pictures of his work to art galleries and to every university she presumed worthy of him. Shortly after, several elite universities came to our door offering him scholarships.”

“Will’s life is good, Portia. He is happy and, I think, pretty stable. He loves what he does, and is recognized internationally for his art. Most importantly, he has overcome his dark past and put all the suffering behind him.”

She stares deep into my eyes. “You must be wondering why I am telling you all of this. The reason is simple. I see a sparkle in Will’s eyes I have never seen before. It wasn’t there when he dated Pam…and it’s not there when he paints. And I worry that you will hurt him. He has suffered enough and deserves someone who will make him happy.”

I look at her face, and a thousand thoughts dart through my mind. I want to scream at her for telling these most intimate things about Will. How can I ever look at him the same? Argh, my head is about to explode.

“I don’t intend to hurt him, Mel. And, since you were honest with me, I am going to return the favor. What Will and I have is private to the two of us, but I’ll tell you this, I care about him like I never have cared for anyone else. But we are taking it one step at a time. I am clueless as to where that is leading us.”

Thankfully, Dan knocks, peeks his head in the room, and says, “Lunch is ready, and Will is about to pass out from hunger.” He grins, but I think he senses we were having a serious conversation.

Facing Will after the talk was immensely difficult. I threw my arms around his waist, wanting my embrace to shield him from further suffering.

Though I am not particularly proud of the trait, I was born and reared as a self-centered person. I resent Mel’s revelation, mostly because it highlights my own selfish nature.

Knowing Will’s heartbreaking story compelled me to stray from him. The reason is simple, I am neither naïve, nor that vain, but I can see Will is developing deep feelings for me, and so am I for him. However, the difference is that when the wind changes, I will be gone and will never bother to look back. Knowing Will, tells me that he will suffer a great deal when I leave. I don’t want to cause him further suffering, so the responsible step would be to leave before his feelings towards me are rooted far too deeply.

I am not a cruel person, really. I do not intend to hurt Will, but I can’t walk away from what is happening between us. Even though I know it will be costly to him when it ends.

Oh, how I wish Mel never bombarded me with the sad story of Will.

Dennis pulls over in front of my dad’s apartment building, “We are here, Miss Portia.”

“Thanks, Dennis.” I step out into to the warm evening and then into the cool building. My heels click on the marble floor, which echoes through the luxurious and cold lobby. Once again, Will returns to my thoughts and a sudden reality hits me. For the first time in my life, I would rather be with someone else other than my Dad.

I smile at the door attendant, who pushes the elevator button, and ushers me in. As I ascend to the top floor, a familiar anxiety sweeps over me. My father always has this effect on me. The mere thought of meeting with him makes me nervous and as giddy as a child. Damn him.

The doors part and I stroll into the spacious foyer. I glance at the white orchids over an antique console, Priscilla’s signature, even though she is absent. Dad appears in the living room, his appraising blue eyes twinkle at me.

“Good evening, darling.” Dad embraces me, and I melt inside his arms. He holds me at arm’s length and comments. “Look at you, so beautiful, just like your mother.” He clears his throats, apparently embarrassed after the comment.

“Hi, Dad.” I feel like a little girl, under his scrutiny.

“Come, let’s catch up before Estela serves dinner.”

I follow him through the vast living room to the couch. We sit facing Central Park.

He is casually dressed in beige slacks and a polo shirt. His hair, still damp from the shower, has silver sprinkled around his temples and makes him all the more handsome.

“How are Priscilla, and the girls?”

“They are enjoying the summer. Priscilla will stay on in the city for a week, to tend to domestic tasks.”

“Oh, I will try to stop by for a visit.” Of course I won’t, I know I am not welcomed.

“Sure, she will be delighted to see you.” He smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“So, you are staying with a friend? Estela told me, you haven’t slept here lately.”

Now, that’s a novelty. My father interested in my personal life.

“Yeah.”

“Have you known this, um,
friend
for long?” He inquires with a reproachful tone.

No, no, no, at this point we are not playing parenting games. “Long enough.” I snap, and my courage surprises me. I’ve always mumbled when Dad asks me such direct questions.

“And how is the filming? Almost done?” He changes the conversation to a more impersonal subject.

Inwardly, I grimace at how his interest on me, can so easily be defused. Though my heart aches, my face remains emotionless when I reply, “We are on a tight schedule, but we will mostly be done within seven weeks.”

Despite my effort to conceal my sadness and disappointment, Dad probably notices.

“You know Portia it does concern me who you spend time with. Though we live thousands of miles away, and I did not have the chance to be a present father, I do worry about your well-being.”

Surprise slams me, leaving me breathless, as if someone is pressing a feathery pillow against my face. Distraught, I see my carefully crafted mask of indifference crumpling from my face and going to pieces on the rich mahogany floor. After years of yearning to hear the concern ingrained in his voice, I am oblivious on how to react.

Did I ever say I have come to terms with my dad’s lack of concern and love? I did, didn’t I? Well, I lied. To my defense, I’ve lied to myself my entire life and end up almost believing the lie. Almost. Deep down I know it is a mechanism of self-defense. I’ve wanted desperately and intensely to have him reciprocate all the love I have tightly packed in my heart and soul.

Startled, I gaze up at him. How do I react to his sudden interest? During most of my life, all I received from him is the sting of a subtle rejection. I resent him tremendously for it; I also resent him for turning me into an envious person.

Every time I see a picture of Dad with my three half-sisters, my stomach churns. Yeah, it’s that bad. I have asked myself innumerous time, how can he be so loving and dedicated to them and cold and distant with me? Are they better than I am? Am I so awfully fraudulent that I am unworthy of his attention and love?

Well, I don’t have time to dwell on the proper way to respond to his sudden attentiveness. Estela enters the room and announces that dinner is ready.

“Shall we?” Dad stands, and outstretches his hand my way.

I reach for his hand and we walk to the dining room holding hands. Later I will try to decipher what all this means. Now I am eager to finish dinner, to return to my brooding green eyes.