Just a Number (Downtown #1) (12 page)

With the break of our hands, I was back.
Namaste
was the sadness word I had ever heard. It would forever have a whole different meaning for me. No longer would it be a peaceful expression, but it would represent a painful moment. It left me with the need to be quiet.

Our silence continued to my room and into the shower. Like our yoga session, the act of bathing was touchy-feely. An exploration of sorts to be stored in our memory banks forever. Sex wasn’t just sex. For the first time in my life, I actually felt something I had never felt before. It wasn’t just for pleasure. And, very pleasurable it was. It was a hello to a deeply confusing feeling and it was a sad goodbye to it.

Dressed, he held my hand, grabbed my rolling luggage, and walked me to a waiting car service. We hugged.
I was going miss those arms.
We kissed.
Oh! The lips!
We said aloha!
Better than goodbye or was it? Both sounded wrong!

I thought about him throughout my journey back to reality, from the resort to my loft in LA. I was fulfilled and unfulfilled at the same time, sexually and emotionally. He was one of the best partners… he was the best I’d ever had. We were in tuned with each other. We fit perfectly. Moved as one. Fluidly; no stumbling. Like in couple’s yoga, our breaths were equal. An aspect I had never experienced. We had chemistry in and out of naked intimacy. It felt as if I knew him always, yet we knew nothing personally about each other. Hokey or not, we had a Zen-like connection. And, no connection. We said our final goodbyes; no chance of seeing each other again. No exchange of contact information. We followed the rules… my rules. No details. Simply resort sex. We were just numbers to each other.

Standing in my kitchen laundry area, emptying my luggage into a hamper, Hazel strolled in the door, pulling a rolling wire shopping cart filled with green and white canvas shopping bags I’d never seen before. She looked very badass. She was wearing a fitted black jersey outfit paired with a leather biker-looking jacket, along with big sunglasses and dark red lipstick.

“Look at you, lovely. What’s his name? You look so refreshed,” she asked. I missed her.

I avoided her assumption. “Oh it was beautiful. Just what I needed. It was perfect.” I bit my lip thinking of the perfection I left behind.

She didn’t miss my reaction to her words. “Hmmmm… I see a glow.” She was looking me over like she was examining a fine piece of china. I was broken, cracked; a hairline fracture had damaged my chest plate, though all she saw was the shine to my porcelain façade.

I brushed off her observation as nothing more than the typical glow achieve with a good suntan. Vacation color. “Sunny. I got some sun.” I touched my face feeling the heat of my little white lies.

She shook her head in an appeasing motion. She wasn’t buying my nonchalant comments. “Yes. Sun. Of course.”

I moved away from her, an attempt to hinder her observation of me. “What are all these bags?”

Removing the shopping bags from her cart, I placed them on the center island in my kitchen. “Oh, love, there is a new shopping place that opened, while you were away on holiday, down on the corner of 8th. I went to the grand opening. They gave me these bags. So nice. They get you sloshed there. Probably hoping you buy up the entire store.”

“Sloshed?” I had sensed a giddiness in her speech.

“Yes. Indeed. They have a bar restaurant. I had an
Urban
Garden
. Citrus, basil, hibiscus, and a garden vodka.”

“Sounds tart.” My lips tingled and puckered at the thought.

“Oh. No. Simple syrup, too. It was fantastic, love. But, I would suggest you shop first. You know, delivery would be even better. I don’t remember if they do that. I think the people that gave me the shopping bags do their deliveries. Something to research with a clearer head. But, it was a splendid visit: the mouth-watering food display, the delectable smells, the bright, bold flowers, and the delightful music singing to me. My senses were overloaded. Lovely. Absolutely lovely.”

Listening to her rave on, I unloaded and put items away. “Uh… Hazel, What is this?” I held up a tube of minty erection cream, according to the writing on the label.

“Exactly what it looks like. My friend on the ninth…” Instantly my mind wandered to who lived on that floor. Let’s see, there were four men: two that were gay and living together, one grouchy old one that was in his late eighties, and then there was a one rather attractive sixty-five-ish one. I figured Hazel was close to eighty, she told me she worked well over retirement age. I would not say she looked that old at all. Think Helen Mirren in the first action-packed
Reds
movie.

Jarred out of my sleuthing mind, by Hazel’s sharp breath, “There’s another cream in the bag for you and one of your friends. I’ll slip it in your side drawer with BOB. You know, they aren’t like the real thing, even young ones don’t get as hard as those things.”
Oh my God!
Hazel knew about my
fun drawer
. “You pick. Cinamint or regular mint, love?”

What could you say?
The jig was up. She knew I had sex. “Whichever.” Sadly, I had no one lined up to use it on. Or, the one I did wish to perhaps use it on, I had no idea where to find him to ask him over.

Hazel’s comments often made me laugh. I couldn’t imagine my mother ever knowing about sex cream and I definitely could not even fathom her talking to me about it. Until her very recent introduction to emailing, holiday and birthday cards were the extent of our communications. I hadn’t checked my emails since yesterday.

Once Hazel finished sorting through the bags, put stuff away, and took her own buys home with her, I opened a bottle of wine. Grabbing a glass from the cupboard, I gave myself a full, obscene pour of Pinard’s Malbec and found my tablet. Then, I plopped down on a seat at a small bistro set I had by a window; one of my favorite reading spots. After a few sips and little arm stretches, I opened up my emails. My mother was finally her own person, at least, with her own email.

From: Marian Dane

To: Willow Dane

New email address for your mother

Yesterday at 10:00 PM

Hello Dear,

Mrs. Hoolihan helped me set up my own email. Still on your father’s computer, though. I also learned how to search the internet. She told me to set up a social media account like the characters in our book club novel. I don’t think I’m ready for that. LOL—laugh out loud. She taught me that, too. I feel like I’ve been living in the dark ages. You must find me to be silly. I don’t mean to write you too often. I just wanted to let you know my new address. So many new things in my life these days. Seeing so many articles about you: newspapers and magazines clippings, as well as many photos and accolades from school. It made me so happy. He was so proud of you, Willow. I think you scared him; he didn’t know what to make of you. You were stronger than your brothers. They were out having a good time with girls and sports. Your nose was always in a book. I’m proud of you, too.

Love,

Your Mother

Articles about me? Certificates? Photos? Were these the things that my father compiled for the files? I was surprised that he would have these items on me! My brother’s with their sports, yes. They were always in the newspaper. But, me? I wasn’t ever in the newspaper until later in life. I understood him having items before I left home, but, beyond that?

Over the years, I had been interviewed and I had even written some articles for online and print magazines and newspapers all on the behalf of my clients. Only once had anything ever been written directly about me, but it was outside of my corporate public relations job.

When I was just starting out in my profession, in my spare time, I had tried my luck at being a fashionista blogger. I set up a free website where I wrote and posted photos about anything and everything fashion. It was just for fun, but it started getting hits and followers. Then, businesses began to contact me for paid sponsorships. A fluke turned into a money maker. The bigger it got, the more notice I received, and that was when the big article was written about me.

The published interview brought even more people to my, once little, fashion blog and suddenly, I was in need of extra help. Posting for help, some of my devoted blog subscribers volunteered. If they hadn’t, it wouldn’t still be alive today. I’m no longer involved. I sold it to a group of fashionistas, along with a couple of my fangirls that had jumped in to help. They have been very supportive of my fashion clients. The internet is a powerful tool. Perhaps my father searched the internet for my name.

I guess the most shocking part was that he would even take the time to know anything about me. And, scared of me? I can only think of one time I scared him. The day I left home for good after he made one of his male chauvinistic remarks, cutting me down, again. I was so mad, I couldn’t see straight; I picked up one of his crystal “Business of the Year” awards and threw it across the dining room into a wall. He never moved a muscle as the glass shattered, leaving shards all over the floor. He just sat there with his mouth gaping wide at my action, along with my words, “Fuck you!” But scared? Maybe shocked. I was the one that was scared. I ran out of the house as fast my legs could take me and never looked back.

I didn’t stand my ground and speak to him. I refused my mother’s calls and pleas to come home. She said he was sorry. She tried to justify his comments. But, it wasn’t just that one time; it had been all my life—anytime I wanted to do something that
girls didn’t do or girls weren’t supposed to do
. I never went back. I never heard from him. So, to hear that he was proud of me. No. It couldn’t be. I learned from him that I would never be good enough for a man because I didn’t act like a
true
woman.

Maybe he was the reason I never wanted to be in a relationship. I know at some point, you can’t keep blaming your parents. But, it could be a subconscious thing.

Did I think I was no good for a man?

Was I afraid of finding a man like my father?

A man that would put me down?

I couldn’t see Dash treating me that way. Not that I would ever find out. But he was interested in my opinions. When I said I had rules and restrictions, he was okay with that. He respected me. He never called me names when I said and did things that I had always been warned against doing. He didn’t think less of me for knowing more than he did about something. He treated me as an equal, never dictating what we should do. Granted our time together was filled with vacation fun. Though, I couldn’t see him changing his treatment of women once he left paradise.

He seemed genuine. Honest. The kind of man I could be friends with… would want more with, if I did the whole relationship thing. The time I spent with him had seemed so real. We were like a typical couple on a beach getaway. If I knew every day would be like the last few spent with Dash, I may have changed my rules. Actually, I would’ve hunted him down. I didn’t believe there was a substitute for him. He was not only gorgeous on the outside, but beautiful on the inside, as well. Maybe it was the yoga training. Maybe it was just genetics. He was going to be very difficult to push out of my mind. I could’ve meditated from then until forever and I was certain my brain would never let the memory of him go.

Dash

B
ack in New York City. Alone. No tropical paradise. No ocean breeze. No waves crashing on the shore. No yoga on the beach. No sweet smell of blooming island florals. No exotic passion fruit. No passion. No Willow. That was the bottom line; my life felt empty without her.

I hadn’t seen Willow in a couple weeks, and yet, her memory had failed to dim. I saw her in my dreams during the night and my thoughts during the day. Her dark hair and icy-blue eyes were haunting me as before. I smelt her on my skin, thanks to a couple of my t-shirts I had refused to wash when emptying my luggage. I could still see her face on our last day, saying goodbye standing in front of the hotel. It looked a lot like sadness. I wanted to keep her with me for at least one more day. I wanted to erase those negative vibes between us. We had started so fast. We had ended too soon.

Should I have asked her to stay?
I wondered what she was feeling about me. I had gone over and over our last couple’s yoga class together in my mind a million times. I remembered every move, including how she felt pressed into my back. Her heart was beating wildly. Her breathing was erratic. My inquiring mind wanted to know her every thought. In no way was she clearing her mind, as instructed. I could not match her breathing. It was probably the only time our bodies were not in sync. But, there were feelings between us, I was certain.

About to head out west to restart my life again, I wondered if we would run into each other downtown. If she, in fact, lived there.

Surrounded by many boxes; ten years of my life, spent in the City, was all packed up, ready to start a new adventure. A new location or, I should say—a reintroduction to an old location.
Where had the time gone? This was only supposed to be a stepping stone:
graduate school, an internship, a corporate job, establish myself, then move back to LA. That
was
the plan. Unfortunately, life and tragedy had a way of changing my path.