Ordinary World (22 page)

            “What do you think?” he said the split second I looked up from the screen.

            “I think it’s very good,” I started. “You’ve come into your own regarding style and voice. Your writing has a rhythm now.”

            “I feel a ‘but’ coming on,” he said, a hint of dread in his voice.

            “Not a ‘but’,” I started, “more like an ‘and’. I see some things that are, well, a bit questionable for your audience.”

            “Like what?”

            “Like the introduction. I can see you opening with that for an Art History 101 class lecture, but not your
Globe
readers. Granted, I haven’t seen your other work…” I blurted this out before considering that the truth might hurt his feelings, which, upon seeing his sienna eyes slightly darken, did.

“But I can tell you have a rapport with your readers, and that’s great. I mean, I felt like a regular David Santino column reader as I read this.” (I hoped that would soften the blow.) “But it just seems to be a little…corny…rather than sophisticated.”

            Eek. That was harsh, I thought. But he took his laptop back and re-read the opening paragraph.

            “You’re right,” he replied with self-assurance rather than as someone who’d just been insulted. “Anything else?”

            “I never knew that Impressionism was named after one of Monet’s paintings. That was really cool to learn. I always thought it had to do with the impressions the painting style made—you know, leaving an impression other than the one you’d normally see.”

The words made me sound downright stupid as I said them, especially in the presence of such an expert.

            “Are you telling me that I
never
told you how Impressionism got its name?” he asked in mock outrage.

            “
Mai
,” I replied with a smile; David’s mix of Italian and English was rubbing off on me.

            “How is that possible?”

            “I never asked you, I guess.”

            “And whose fault is that?” he playfully scolded. “You, who adores the Impressionists so.”

            “You slacked in your docent duties,” I shot back. He laughed and winked in concession. I always loved his winks.

            “Yours is fucking great,” he said, pointing to my laptop. “I mean,
really
good. God Andi, you are just so talented. Really, you are.”

            I blushed. “Thanks. Most of that is Sam, though. I mean, I’m just imitating his style to keep his own voice pure and intact. But it’s his story.”

            “But that’s just it—do you know how much
talent
it takes to adapt to someone’s style so flawlessly like that? I couldn’t do it. Hell, I can’t get through my own articles without sounding like a dork most of the time.”

            “Your stuff was always good, Dev. Especially your descriptions. You do an excellent job of showing versus telling.”

            “You taught me the
craft
of writing, Andi, but you have a
gift
. Both you and Sam. I’ll never write like either one of you. I wouldn’t even attempt to try. And I’ve read both of your work.”

            I nearly choked on my iced chai latte.

            “What?”

            “I bought your books. Both yours and Sam’s. I bought yours when they first came out. I even bought the textbook that you and Maggie wrote—I asked one of my clients to get it for me, back during my escort days. I ordered Sam’s through Amazon-dot-com shortly after we got back from Italy.”

           
Why? Why would he do such a thing?

            “How…” I stammered, “how did you even know when my nonfiction came out? It wasn’t exactly bestseller material. Heck, they didn’t even stock it at the local Barnes and Noble.”

            “I
looked
for it, Andi.”

            This only added to my guilt of not having read a single word of his. Of the desire to do so
never even crossing my mind
.

            “I don’t know what to say.”

            “Just tell me you’ll not stop writing,” he beckoned. “You can change other parts of your life, but don’t change that. And don’t stop teaching, either. You’re a natural.”

            For some reason, upon hearing those words, I felt the urge to run away from everything—David, Northampton, Sam’s novel, teaching—and never look back. Hell, never stop running, for that matter.

Chapter Twenty-eight

M
Y BIRTHDAY HAD FINALLY ARRIVED ONE WEEK later. Last year I sat in the dark, crying after another binge of Keebler Grasshopper cookies and milk. This year David took me out to dinner at Johnny Romolo’s restaurant in the north end of Boston. Afterwards, when we went back to his place in Cambridge, he presented me with a thick manila envelope garnished with a softball-sized crimson bow and a pink rose.

            “What’s this?” I asked. “Doesn’t look like a vibrator.”

            He laughed. “Open it, Funny Girl. Sorry it’s not in prettier packaging.”

            I removed the bow and rose and unclasped the metal fastener, which snapped and fell into my hands. Turning the envelope upside-down, I let the contents slide onto the table: maps, a pocket-sized English-Spanish dictionary, plane and hotel reservation confirmations, and an itinerary for Peru.

            I looked at him, dumbfounded.

            “You said Sam was gonna go to Peru. And the novel you’re working on takes you there, doesn’t it?”

            “I think he was thinking of going, yeah. So?”

            “So, you’re going to need to do some research. Why not do it firsthand rather than Google everything?”

            “You bought me a trip to Peru?”

            “Yeah.”

            “But, that’s so
much
.”

It was so
Sam
too.

            David looked hurt. “Who are you, the Gift Police?”

            I didn’t squeal with excitement, didn’t throw my arms around him in gratitude. I just stared at the contents on the table, a knot forming in the pit of my stomach.

            “You’re coming with me, aren’t you?” I asked.

            He shook his head. “No.”

           
I know this feeling.
Dread slithers around your intestines like a snake.

            “I don’t understand,” I said quietly.

            “I think you need some time alone. You never really got that in Rome.”

             “So you thought you’d get rid of me by buying me a trip to Peru? What is this,
Days of Our Lives
? You’re bribing me to leave you?”

            “No, I’m giving you an opportunity to do something adventurous.”

            “I can buy my own trip, thank you.” I pushed the papers toward him. “And I did ‘adventurous’ in Rome. Look where it got me.”

I regretted the words the moment they slid out of my mouth.

            “Andi, I’m not trying to hurt you.”

            “Is this payback for my leaving you for Sam after your father died?”

            He looked at me with outrage. “Are you kidding me with this shit? This is me giving you the chance to do something your husband wanted to do with you.”

            “Don’t presume to tell me what my husband wanted. If I want to fulfill his wishes, I’ll do so myself. I don’t need your help.”

            “Can you honestly tell me you would’ve booked that trip on your own?”

            “Eventually,” I said, aware of the stupidity of such rationalization.

            “So, I sped it up for you. Look, if you really wanna pay for it, be my guest—I’ll send you a bill.”

            He left the room; I wanted to throttle him.

            “Don’t do me any favors,” I yelled. “And don’t break up with me by telling me it’s for my own good.”

            Just as quickly as he left, he stormed back in. “Fine—it’s for
my
own good, okay?”

            “So you
do
wanna break up with me?”

            “No! I just think you need some time alone, that’s all. You need to figure out what you want for yourself and commit to it. You used to be so committed, no matter what it was you set your mind to.”

            “I’ve had plenty of time to be alone,” I said, full of resentment.

            “Not in a place where Sam isn’t everywhere you turn.”

            “That doesn’t change just because the scenery does.” I paused, then shifted my interrogation. “Is there someone else?”

            This time he looked at me with a dumbfounded expression. Like the way Nick Lahey looked at Jessica Simpson when she asked him if Chicken of the Sea was really chicken.

“You don’t get it, do you,” he said.

“Get what?”

He continued with the look. “No,” he finally said.

            “You sure?”

            “Last time I checked.”

            I sat on the sofa and fixed my gaze on the familiar Jesse Bartlett print. He sat next to me and lightly touched my cheek with his thumb.

            “You know, leaving the way you did all those years ago was so brave. Really, it was. I couldn’t admit it to myself back then, but I knew you were doing the right thing. You were taking charge of your life for perhaps the first time ever. You weren’t trying to please anyone else, weren’t trying to avoid anything. You were the real deal and you took a real risk. I think even then I was proud of you.”

I said nothing in response.

“Your boldness inspired me to take charge of my own life in the same way for the same reasons. And it made me love you even more. It breaks my heart to see you dangling like this, Andi, as I’m sure it does for you too. I really, really thought Rome was the starting point for you to recapture that boldness. I guess I was trying to jumpstart it again for you with this trip.”

            I withdrew from his touch.

            “You know, David, I don’t understand you anymore. I mean, I don’t understand what motivates you. You seem to have everything that you want. And yet, it’s like there’s a screw loose or something. Something’s missing from the equation.”

            “There is,” he said. “You. Us. I wanna go all the way with you.”

            Interesting choice of words.

            I paused for several beats.

            “In all those years that you were an escort, why did you never once go all the way with any of those women?”

            At first, he dropped his head, and when he picked it up, his sienna eyes turned to ash. Then he stared off past me, and I could tell that he had just transported himself back into another time and place. I imagined he was seeing the face of every client that he’d teased and pleased; every client that attempted to seduce him and get him to go all the way; every client who looked at him with longing, craving him to love her and only her, to be the only one… Only he wasn’t seeing them as
clients
; rather, he was seeing them as once-innocent
women
, and was lost in sadness and shame.