The Girl She Used to Be (21 page)

Tears of joy are so much easier to stop.

I turn and thank each one of them individually—and confirm they’ve been taken care of, financially speaking. They say they
have been, like they just finished some daylong lovemaking session; my dark side wonders what Jonathan gave them for currency.

As I walk away and stroll out the front of the spa, I hear Kimberly say to someone, “She is simply lovely.”

Twenty-six years in the making.

On the journey back to my room, up the elevator and through the halls, the eyes of men are casually upon me in a way they’ve
never been before; they are covetous. I smile at each but I keep walking; I’ve got a deadline to meet.

I enter my room and turn on the Weather Channel and find out tonight is going to be warm, in the mid-seventies. I finally
start going through the bags of clothes that Jonathan filled with his purchases, and I spread it all out on the bed. He managed
to buy something of just about everything, and in an array of various sizes: jeans, blouses, sweaters, various colored T-shirts
and camisoles, a skirt, a sundress, a pair of strappy sandals, even two bras and three panties. He is an all-inclusive kind
of guy. And I’m impressed at what must’ve been difficult purchases, embarrassment-wise, for a man of his character.

I carefully remove the tags from the sundress—a blue and white dress with a questionable pattern until I see the manufacturer,
after which I’m quickly assured of its good taste—and slip out of my clothes. I hold the dress up to my body in the mirror
and the colors bring out the natural tones of my skin and the new (original) color of my hair.

I stare at the bras on the bed, but—one advantage to being flat-chested—I decide to forgo one altogether. I slip the cotton
dress on
carefully
; it does not touch my hair or my face. It fits on the tightish side, clings to my body as though it were tailored specifically
to my figure at a younger, slightly thinner age, and the fringe of the dress meets my legs at mid-thigh. And what do you know:
it’s a size six; there are advantages to starving oneself on the run.

I slip on the sandals and they’re the wrong size by a half, but as luck—or Jonathan’s hidden skill—would have it, this maker
runs big, so they fit well enough.

It is three minutes till five and I grab one last look in the mirror. I’d primp myself a little, but at this point I could
only do damage. I snag my room card and proceed to the elevator, get off on the second floor, and walk toward the bar.

I approach cautiously because I am not a veteran of such scenes, and the last time I spent any significant time in a bar,
I ended up going home with the nipple-twister. The place is quiet but the traffic, for the most part, is going in now that
the workday is ending. The lounge is massive, could easily hold five hundred people, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer
views of the harbor and Pratt Street. The entire bar is dark and sort of dreamy and I slither in as I scan for Jonathan. I
do not see him.

It is exactly five o’clock.

I walk to a series of low, empty tables by a window in the corner and I face the doorway. I try to send off a leave-me-alone
vibe, but I’ve never been very good with vibes. A waitress comes over and carefully places a napkin in front of me and asks
what she can get me.

I say, “Um, can you recommend something?” I smile like I’m something more than the nitwit I’m portraying. I lean forward and
slide my hand down my calf to appear casual and I’m distracted by a delicate softness not known to my skin since I was a toddler.

She starts whipping off a stream of mixed drinks and martinis that hold no future in my bloodstream.

“I’ll have a glass of red wine. A Shiraz or Cabernet or something?”

She smiles and nods, walks with a determined pace that has her delivering my beverage in under a minute.

Two guys at the bar, about thirty feet away, are chatting and smiling, and one of them keeps glancing my way. I pretend not
to notice, but they are sort of in the path of the entrance, where my eyes are fixed. I’m waiting for Jonathan to come to
my rescue. Again.

The bar guys are smiling more intently. The first nods in my direction for his friend, then they both look over, then lots
of smiles. Now the first one is on the move and it occurs to me that all I had to do was order two glasses of wine and I would’ve
been left alone.

The guy is aiming for me, like an arrow from a bow, and he shows no signs of stopping or slowing until he pierces my flesh.
He is a young professional wearing a dark business suit, mid-twenties at best, built, short hair, with glasses so trendy they
scream of overcompensation, good looking, and obviously practiced in what he is about to do.

All I can think of are the frat boys back in West Virginia.

I consider looking away, though now it would be obvious. As he approaches, he studies me from head to toe. If he asks to join
me, I’m prepared to tell him I’m waiting for someone.

He doesn’t ask; he sits. Now, I’m annoyed.

He smiles—the smile he’s likely practiced in the mirror every day since he turned thirteen. “I’m Marcus.”

I rub my forehead a little, and instead of offering a name or a hand, I sigh quietly. “Hi. Look, um, I’m sort of expecting
someone.”

His smile weakens and he casually looks across the room at his buddy and suddenly I feel I am once again the balancing point
of a bet. He moves his influence from his smile to his shtick.

“You are the most beautiful woman in this bar.”

I frown and glance around the lounge. “There are, like, eight women in here.”

He stops and readjusts, like he’s pulling from a random point in his overworked algorithm. “Your eyes, they’re just amazing.
I’ve never seen color so—”

“Drab? I have drab hazel eyes, Marcus. For future reference, if you want to blow a woman away, compliment her lips.”

He smiles again and starts going on about how beautiful and sensational I am, how he has never witnessed such splendor, and
the words flow with increased speed and triteness.

From the corner of my eye, I see Jonathan’s physique appear in the entryway. He pauses to look around, spots me, and heads
in my direction—first at full pace, then slower, then full pace again.

Things are going to take an ugly turn for poor Marcus.

I am not hearing a word, but the guy is really trying hard, so hard that I’m convinced there is at least a hundred bucks on
the table. I turn and look at Jonathan, and he walks up behind the guy and places a hand on his shoulder.

“A friend of yours?” Jonathan asks.

I smile a little, as I can only imagine what clever thing Jonathan is going to say to this guy. I shake my head no.

Jonathan does not use words. Instead, I see Marcus quickly yield under Jonathan’s grip and he slides down in the chair in
immediate pain.

“Wait, wait, wait!” I yell.

But it’s too late. Before I can even leave my seat, Jonathan has already grabbed the guy by the collar of his suit jacket
and dragged him several feet across the room. And as he tosses him back toward the entrance and over a table, Marcus goes
limp and the room falls silent.

The friend at the bar is not coming to the rescue. Again.

I’d like to say my present concern is for Marcus, but the only thing running through my mind now is that black-and-white photo
of a fright-filled Gregory Morrison—and an attempt at understanding what made Jonathan capable of that brutality. This scene
feels like a precursor to a more savage event.

Jonathan hurries back to me. “Are you okay? Was he trying to hurt you?”

I take a few clipped breaths as I feel this room full of strangers turn into a room full of witnesses. “You’re supposed to
ask that
before
you come to my aid.”

He studies me, takes a step back. “Oh, Melody, you are stunning. It’s hard to imagine you could be more beautiful than before,
but I’m nearly breathless. I cannot tell you how proud I am to be at your side this evening. You look like an angel.”

Angelina. Angelica.

I throw my hand up and say, “Uh, thanks, I really, um, appreciate—shouldn’t he be getting up by now?”

Jonathan shrugs without looking at the guy. “He’ll be fine.”

Marcus comes to life with a weak groan.

Everyone stares at us as Jonathan pulls out his wad and drops a handful of bills on the table. He gently takes my arm and
says, “We should get going.”

I cover my eyes and walk with Jonathan, hand in hand, a few paces ahead of him, like I’m dragging my son through a crowded
mall. Once we reach the hallway of the hotel, I punch him three times in the chest; he does not move.

“This is
not
New York!” I whisper loudly. “You cannot just walk into a bar or restaurant, render a person unconscious, and drop some cash
on the table like it’s some MasterCard with an unlimited credit line for felonies!”

He simpers. “Technically, you can’t do that in New York, either.”

I am not in the mood. I look at him in a way that conveys this notion.

He clears his throat. “I’m sorry. Look, I can never know who’s after you, right? I’m just trying to protect you.” He takes
a deep breath and we both start walking very quickly; now he’s dragging me.

“Was he bothering you?” he asks.

“Not really.”

“Was he hitting on you?”

“Yes. But he was
only
hitting on me, okay? Just like those kids were
only
spitting on your car. They’re offensive acts, sure, but there’s no reason to overreact—and certainly no cause for violence.”

He looks down. “Right.”

We get to the elevator and as the doors close I feel some relief. I move toward him and gently place my hand on the spot I’d
punched. “Sorry I hit you.”

He takes my hand, brings it to his lips, and kisses it softly. The blood rushes to my face.

I pray Sean is wrong; I
need
Jonathan to be my hero.

W
E LEAVE THE HOTEL, AND THE CLOSER WE GET TO THE harbor—and the farther we get from the hotel bar—the safer I feel. Part of
my anxiety is from Jonathan’s propensity for violence; the rest stems from an underlying fear that I’m going to get nabbed
by the police in conjunction with one of Jonathan’s outbursts, and I will have to explain who I am and why I am voluntarily
with my captor, and I can just imagine Sean standing behind a one-way mirror, shaking his head in disgust, muttering, “There’s
your hero, Melody.”

Jonathan makes a phone call on his cell, the first call it seems he is deliberately trying to shield me from hearing. He waited
until we were in the midst of a loud section of Harborplace, the strip of shops and restaurants on the water, before deciding
to use his phone. And his head is constantly turned away from me. My concern dissipates, though, as he shuts his phone and
clenches his fist and smiles, like his team just covered the spread. He looks at me and his whole body droops with relief.

I stare at him and he scrunches his chin. “Just making sure we’re buffered,” he says. “I managed to get us one more night.”
Of safety, is what I’m sure he wanted to add. Because, you know, tomorrow…

This day of pampering and this last-supper sort of evening have me wondering just how confident Jonathan is in his plan; I
feel my hours are potentially numbered—in the single digits, no less. A stress-based shiver overcomes me, and he gently takes
my hand and somehow pulls the torment right out of me. Like a drug, he is.

We hold hands and walk around the harbor; he steals glances at me and I believe he is truly proud to be with me. The air is
warm and moist and there is a gentle breeze that has the edge of my skirt tickling my thighs. We walk for many minutes without
saying anything to each other.

I look down at my new dress and sandals and say, “These are lovely clothes, Jonathan. Thank you.”

He tightens his grip on my hand and looks at me for a few seconds before saying, “They’re only lovely because you’re wearing
them.” We stop and I turn and look up at him. He stares into my eyes and without hesitation or embarrassment or premeditation,
he says, “You are flawless, Melody. Beautiful, smart, funny. Everything about you is right in every way: your height, your
hands, your skin, your hair, your eyes.” He slows his list, speaks softer. “Your smile, your laugh, your… legs, your
body, your lips… everything about you.” And finally, in a whisper meant only for my ears, “It’s the kind of thing men
live and die for.”

Oddly, it’s sort of the same speech Marcus was delivering just before he was flung over a pub table. But there is one thing
lacking in the Marcus version: genuine words from a genuine heart. And to be told this from a man who seriously and convincingly
means them—well, it makes all the difference.

I am suddenly self-conscious and cannot look him in the face. Through nervousness, I begin to dilute his compliments, as I
did with Marcus. “My, um… my eyes? They’re a drab hazel that—”

“It’s more than the color.” He lifts my chin a little and our eyes reconnect. “They have a dark line around the edge of the
iris, a thing of natural beauty that brings your eyes to life. And they are intense; they shine like they’re reflecting the
light of a thousand stars, and they reflect me, too, and they make me want to be everything to you. And when you get angry,
they dance a little, and every time it weakens my heart and makes me smile.”