(Missed some? Read chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21.)
Q: What did the candle say to the fire?
A: I'm at wicks end.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #184
Elliot whisked us back to Milan and the hotel in no time—the guy sure got used to driving a quarter million dollars’ worth of speed in a hurry. As we changed for Ferrero's after party, I considered what he had said about me.
Was I really waiting to explode just beneath the surface? Or was I really just a plain and dull as I always imagined myself to be?
"Did you bring that slinky dress?"
"What dress?" I asked, turning away from my selection of clothes long enough to wonder what he meant.
"The one you wore at that first party. Gray. Shiny." He cocked his eyebrows for emphasis. "Slinky."
Oh, that dress. "Yes I brought it. Why?"
His eyebrows dropped, hooding his lids in a seductive, bedroom-come-hither look. "Wear that."
My cheeks burned and I felt a rush of tingling heat shoot through every vein and nerve in my body. I had thought it too cold to wear such a revealing dress, but I was overheating now.
One look and I was a puddle.
"Oh," I said, breathless, "okay. Good, um, choice."
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to look away. To search through my belongings to find the one dress I now had to wear. The thought of wearing anything else evaporated along with my willpower, inhibitions, and capacity for rational thought. It was bad enough he already looked good enough to eat, now I had developed a gnawing hunger.
Finding the dress hanging neatly and unwrinkled in the armoire, I slipped it off the hanger and darted into the bathroom to change.
Dubble Bubble Damn, I forgot to grab the nude, seamless panties I needed to wear under this dress. All others either showed in bulges beneath the clinging jersey or cut my flesh into hills and valleys. Neither resulted in a streamlined sexy look.
Thumbs hooked through the waistband, I shimmied out of the black lace bikini I had been wearing with the intention of grabbing the right pair and slipping them on before we left.
When I emerged from the bathroom, slinky dress donned and smoky make-up applied, I found Elliot leaning against the door in a casual-but-ready-to-go pose.
He still wore the tailored black tux, but had replaced the stark white shirt with an unstructured one in a light blue that accentuated his eyes. The first two buttons were undone, displaying a delightful triangle of smooth, tanned skin. His hair was still a windblown mess from the stretch of driving with the windows down, but the disheveled look worked oh-so-well on him.
"Hey hot stuff," he greeted. "Ready to go?"
"Yes, just let me grab my clutch."
As I transferred a few essentials from my day bag to my chic black sequined clutch, I knew I was forgetting something.
And it felt important.
"Come on. I don't want to miss all the good champagne."
Oh well. If it was really important, I would have remembered.
"I'm ready."
Arm in arm we left, heading for the Corona Reale ballroom on the mezzanine level.
It wasn't until the doors closed on the elevator that I remembered what I had forgotten.
"No, I don't run much," I heard myself telling an up-and-coming Italian designer who seemed to be trying every possible bad pick up line ever written.
"Well you've been running through my mind all day."
I sighed, which he took as a sign of relent, and glanced around the room for a friendly face.
"Was your father a thief?"
"No," I answered. Momentarily excited to find a streak of platinum blonde until I found it was only that blue-eyed model, Nadika. "He was in advertising."
"Because he stole the stars and put them in your eyes."
Not yet pushed to the edge of being entirely rude, I tried diverting the conversation. "I design jewelry."
"I design ladies undergarments." He moved in closer and whispered in my ear, "Want to see."
I gasped, even as all the blood in my body rushed to my face. My hand instinctively pulled back to slap him indignantly across the face. "No, I—"
"There you are, angel."
Gavin took my hand and pressed a soft kiss to the warm center of the palm. I positively melted into his side when he swung an arm around my shoulders in a possessive, this-girl-is-mine gesture.
My sleazy, would be seducer took the hint and slunk away.
My grin couldn't have been brighter.
"Thank you," I offered as soon as he was out of hearing. "I never knew Italians were so fluent in bad pick up lines."
"Your salvation is my greatest pleasure."
Gavin bowed chivalrously, looking quite pleasurable himself in a scrumptious suit just a little lighter in color than my dress with a slight green tint that made his eyes glow. Blonde hair neatly combed and not a lock out of place. Cheeks flushed with little boy excitement. He looked just like his GQ cover shot.
"What all goes on at these fashionable after parties?" he asked.
"Well..." I glanced around the room, at a sea of the fashionable and fawning. "Some mingling. Some networking—like over there," I indicated a pair in deep discussion in the near corner, "they might be closing a deal on a big order."
"Or they might be arranging the time and place for their romantic rendezvous."
"Or that," I laughed. "If you hadn't interrupted, I might be doing that myself right now."
We exchanged meaningful looks. I exploded in laughter. Different from the kind I had with Elliot—those laughs usually bubbled out of me despite my best efforts to keep them in. This was a mutual laugh.
"And what about that?" Gavin asked, motioning to the center of the room. "What's going on there?"
"That," I whispered, leaning in conspiratorially, "is the most important aspect of a party like this."
A circle of guests surrounded Ferrero, each vying to congratulate him on the successful show. Ferrero stood in the middle, pretending to be humble and waving off their compliments. But even those untrained in the art of social modesty could see he was enjoying every second of it.
I looked away, unable to stare into the light too long without risking blindness. "The fawning."
"Aaah..." Gavin nodded in understanding. "In business we call it brown-nosing."
"Hey you two!" Janice's voice called to us like the whine of an airplane. Or a Long Islander reverting to her native, nasal accent. "Hi there lovebirds!"
She appeared in front of us, platinum tresses loose and flowing to her waist. Dressed in muted gold palazzo pants and a matching cowl-neck sweater, she looked more elegant than I had ever seen her. If not for the unfocused glint in her eyes. The unsteady sway in her walk. The half-empty tumbler in her left hand.
After the week-and-a-half she'd had, I guessed she was due a little alcoholic respite.
"Is the wedding back on yet?" she asked.
My jaw clenched and I positively felt Gavin scowl. I knew that Gavin-and-me-and-Elliot was a prime topic of conversation between Janice and Kelly, but that didn't mean she had to bring it out in public. Drunk or not.
"Hello, Janice." I spoke a little louder than normal, making sure my voice penetrated. Hoping to successfully change the subject. "Isn't this fun?"
She beamed like a little girl, eyes closed and chin thrust forward. "It's wonderful." Hic. "Ferrero deserves such a celebration for his homecoming."
"His homecoming?" Gavin asked.
I rolled my eyes. Not once had I heard Ferrero himself say that he was Italian-born—probably because it wasn't true—but nearly everyone involved in fashion week believed him a native. I could pretty much handle the world at large thinking that, but Janice must have known the truth.
A woman couldn't work with him for nearly twenty years and not realize the accent faded in and out. That he ate more Coney dogs than cannoli.
"Don't you know?" Janice jabbed an accusatory finger at his chest, missing by several inches. "Ferrero is from Milan. Originally."
"Oh," Gavin acknowledged, "I didn't know that."
"Yep. Well, from a little village just to the north. He moved to New York in his twenties to pursue his passion, but at heart he's always an Italian."
Some of her words slurred together and while she spoke she turned her head to make goo-goo eyes at the subject of her little fantasy. Not only was this not healthy, it was darn annoying.
"No, he's not," I interjected.
Both pairs of eyes turned on me.
"What do you mean?" Janice stepped closer.
There was a tremor of threat in her voice. She dared me to explain. To finish my thought.
"You know that Ferrero isn't from Italy," I said quietly.
Janice blinked several times, as if that speeded up her comprehension. "Of course he is," she argued. "He's from Milan."
"No," I said a little louder, "he's not."
She looked blank. Then started laughing. “You are such a kidder,” she wailed. She turned to Gavin, “Always joking, this one.”
I didn’t know what was more appalling: her misconception about my personality or her drunken dogmatic insistence that Ferrero was Italian. “He is not Italian.”
“Yes, he is.”
“No, he isn’t.”
“Yes, he is.”
“No, he—”
“Yes!” she shouted, sloshing her drink onto the carpet with a grand gesture. “He’s from Milan!”
“No he’s not!” I shouted back.
She shoved her glassed at Gavin and, as he caught it before it fell, stuck her fingers in her ears and starting humming. “La la la. I can’t hear you.”
My frustration and determination met in a combustible mixture. "Franco Ferrero is not Italian! He's from South Jersey!"
Oh no. That was louder than I’d intended.
An instant hush fell across the crowded ballroom. All eyes were on me. A quiet wave of whispered gossip began near me and spread from guest to guest in a building wave. I watched, helpless, as the wave circled and neared the center of the room.
My eyes locked on Ferrero, I saw the brief moment of disappointment in his face as he heard the news.
The center of sudden and unwanted attention, Ferrero did the only thing he could in a situation like that. He laughed. He laughed, and the laughter spread. Following the same path of the gossip wave, the laughter swept the room and finally reached me.
I, too, laughed, knowing it was the only way to save face. Both mine and Ferrero's.
Before his attention returned to the nearest fawning fan, I caught a trace of pain in his eyes.
The look in Janice's eyes was closer to fury. She looked ready to scalp me. Maybe if Kelly had been close by she could have used those acrylic nails to do the job.
I expected her to scream, maybe yell, definitely launch herself at me with claws flying. Instead, she turned her back on me and walked away. As if I was so beneath her notice that she didn't even bother telling me off. Like an M&M Mini squashed to the bottom of your shoe; not the most pleasant thing on the planet, but definitely not worth the hassle of taking off your shoe and cleaning it off.
Gavin, still at my side, looked confused. "What just happened?"
"Can we get out of here?" I needed to be far, far away.
"Sure," he agreed immediately. "But will you tell me what's going on?"
I let him take me by the elbow and lead me through the crowd. "I just ruined a career."
Breaking into the less populated hallway and making for the stairwell, Gavin asked, "Whose?"
Sighing, I click-clacked down the stairs in my heels.
"Everyone's."
"You're drunk," Gavin declared.
Lifting my head off the table in the hotel bar, I winced as the walnut and gold interior swirled unsteadily before my eyes.
"Yup." Letting my head drop back onto the table, I smiled as the images in my brain stopped moved. "Def'nily dunk."
"Come on." He took my arm, pulling me to my feet despite my protest. "You need to get to bed."
No, I needed to go back in time and undo, oh, the last six weeks. From the moment I invented the non-existent boyfriend and until I opened my big mouth about Ferrero's nation of origin.
"Hey, how'd we get on th'elevator?"
Come to think of it, how'd I end up cradled in Gavin's arms? That's what I get for drowning my sorrows in sweet-tasting brandy. Stick to vodka, Lyd. At least you feel it going down.
"Your room or mine?" Gavin asked.
As he strode into the hallway, carrying me like a baby, my stomach turned. "Ungh. Mine. Def'nily mine."
The porcelain was calling me. And I was listening.
"Fine," he grunted and dropped me unceremoniously on my feet.
"Wha? Why'd you do that?"
"Go on to your boy toy. I'm not carrying you into his arms."
"Boy t—" Did he mean Elliot? "Elliot's not my— He's— Nothing's happened between us."
"Sure." The venom in his voice penetrated my brandy fog. "Men and women share beds all the time purely platonic-y."
Platonic-y?
"You're drunk, too."
"Maybe, but I'm thinking clearer and clearer." By now he was practically shouting. "If you want to climb into bed for some nookie then you have to choose. His bed or mine."
I didn't understand. All I wanted was to get into the bathroom and hug the toilet. And maybe bed. Much, much later. If I didn't wind up on the marble bathroom floor.
I glanced longingly at my room door. "Gavin, I just—"
"Fine." He turned and marched towards the stairs. "I'm going back to the bar."
"Wait." The stairwell door clicked shut. "We're on the eleventh floor," I finished lamely.
My stomach lurched. Fishing the room key out of my clutch—miraculously still hanging from my wrist—I dipped it in and out of the card reader and ducked into the room.
"Welcome back," Elliot called out as the door closed behind me. "Where've you been?"
A quick search found him digging through his duffle bag.
"Are you leaving?" I asked.
"Nope. Ah, here they are." He pulled a small box out of the bag. "Just finding my business cards. Met an editor of Italian GQ who wants me to do a spread devoted to male muses."
I dropped my clutch on the floor. Everything that had happened that night built up right behind my eyes and suddenly it all poured out. Tears burst out.
"Honey," Elliot dropped the box and appeared at my side. "Honey, what's wrong?"
Looking into his concerned blue eyes my despair doubled. "Everything!" I wailed.
Taking me in his arms, he rubbed soothing circles on my back and whispered calming words in my ear. "It's okay. Everything will be fine. Tell me about it."
In garbled and sob-wracked words I explained all about the party and getting drunk and the argument with Gavin and my confusion about just about everything in my life.
"You're fine," he assured me. "What you need is sleep and plenty of it. Let's get you into bed."
He swung me up in his muscular arms with little effort and carried me to the bed. Securing me with one arm, he grabbed the covers and flung them across the bed. As he lowered me to the sateen sheets, I clung to his neck.
When he chuckled and tried to unwrap my arms, I pleaded.
"Stay."
He froze.
For about ten seconds he stood motionless.
His answer was unequivocal. "No."
"Please," I begged.
Releasing him, I ran one palm over his chest. His pecs tensed beneath my touch. I needed to touch him, to feel him all over. I needed to be close to someone. To him. To forget all about my horrible night.
"Please stay." I cupped his jaw in my hand and lifted my mouth, seeking his.
"No." He pulled back, leaving me reaching for air.
"Stay," I persisted, smoothing my hands over my body and wishing they were his hands exploring me. "I want you. I need you. Make love to me."
"You're drunk and you're upset." He grabbed the box off the floor and headed for the door. "You don't know what you want."
As my hand skimmed my hip, a memory surfaced.
"I'm not wearing any underwear."
He stopped, hand on the doorknob, back to the room.
"Goodnight, Lydia."
Angry and frustrated, and hurt by his rejection, I shouted out the one thing guaranteed to earn me a reaction. "I'll pay you extra."
"What did you say?" He still didn't turn around, but I could hear the dangerous warning in his voice.
Sitting up in bed, I pushed further. "What was your fee again? $200 an hour? I'll double it."
I watched the muscles in his back tense and release several times, but he didn't speak again.
"Four-hundred an hour,” I offered. “Five if you satisfy me."
The silence rang in my ears.
"You're drunk, so I'll forgive you in the morning." He jerked the door open and looked back over his shoulder. "But you'd better think about what you just said. Right now I can’t stand the sight of you."
He disappeared into the hall and the door swung shut behind him. Realization hit with a resounding smack.
I bolted out of the bed and rushed to the door. On the way, the halter tie on my dress unknotted and the top of the dress fluttered to my waist. Haphazardly holding the bodice up over my chest, I pulled the door open and stepped into the hall.
"Elliot, wait!" I shouted, looking both ways down the hallway and finding him approaching the elevator.
Without hesitation, he kept walking.
The elevator arrived at the same time he reached it.
When the doors slid open, Gavin stepped off, running directly into Elliot. As he apologized he caught sight of me, nearly topless and calling for Elliot. His eyes narrowed and he turned and stepped back onto the elevator, taking his place as far from Elliot as possible.
Nausea hit me full force. Turning back to sprint for the toilet, I ran into the locked door.
"Damn!" I shouted to no one but myself.
Deep breathing and a steady refrain of I Will Not Puke kept my stomach contents in place. But nothing could dampen the realization that everything in my life that could go wrong, had.
My despair was complete.
Mental Post-It: next time you tell yourself that nothing worse could happen, punch self in gut before the world has a chance.
When I finally managed the physical and mental capacity to re-tie my dress and travel to the lobby to get a new key, I found Gavin and Elliot sitting in the hotel bar like old drinking buddies. Huddled together at a small table in the corner and gesticulating wildly. An empty bottle of whiskey between them.
Not wanting to add very public scene-making to my expanding resume of social faux-pas, I moved as stealthily as possible through the lobby to the front desk. And tried to retreat just as unseen to the elevator after receiving my key.
"There she is." Elliot's voice echoed across the marble space.
"Yup," Gavin concurred, "the lady in—lady in—uh—question."
Their voices grew louder with every word.
"Speak of the devil," Elliot shouted to anyone within hearing, "and she appears before your eyes."
I jabbed at the call button, willing the elevator to arrive and take me away before things got worse.
A tap on the shoulder told me it was too late.
Dubble Bubble Damn, why hadn't I erased the word worse from my vocabulary. It always made things, well, worse.
Elliot and Gavin had left the bar—but not their bottle—and staggered to the elevator. Gavin, who had been drinking longer and was ten times worse than when he left me in the hall, glared at me through hooded, bloodshot eyes. By his side, hand on his shoulder for support, Elliot was fast behind. Sober when he left the room, he was now as drunk as Gavin appeared to be.
Stifling a groan of distress, I schooled my face into a look of neutral curiosity.
"Yes?" I asked, my heart racing even as I maintained my nonchalance. "Did you need something?"
"You," Elliot barked, swaying with the momentum of jabbing a finger at me, "are a tease."
"And," Gavin added, "a two-timer."
Eyes closed, I wished them both away. Not forever. Just for the night. For the next two minutes, even. Long enough for the elevator to show and whisk me away.
"We be'n talkin' an' we thunk—" Gavin, the usually faint traces of his West Virginia upbringing coloring his speech, shook his head at the misspoken word. "We think you stink."
Elliot laughed out loud. "We think you stink." Ha ha ha. "You rhymed."
"I'm a poet and I—"
"I'm leaving," I interjected.
Surprising enough, considering the day I'd had, the elevator chose that moment to ding it's arrival. I turned and marched inside the moment the doors opened, spinning to face my accusers in triumph as the doors shut on them.
Only the doors didn't shut.
I stood there, blankly waiting for the shiny gold panels to glide together, closing out Gavin and Elliot's equally confused faces. Nothing. Not even a warning bell or an apologetic ding.
Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
Clearly, the elevator had no plans to leave.
Opportunity presented itself and the rhyming twins stepped on board, grinning drunkenly at their good fortune.
"We gotcha now," Gavin gloated.
Elliot nodded his approval. "You have to listen."
They stood on either side of me, sandwiching me between them so I had nowhere to turn. Deep breath. Dee-eep breath.
"Fine. Say what you have to say."
I did a quick mental evaluation. My nausea was gone, at least for the moment, and nothing they said could possibly make me feel worse than I already did. Of the two men I cared about, I had treated one like a cast-off and the other like a whore. Let them do their worse. At least it would soon be over and they would probably feel better for berating me.
"We know," Elliot explained, leaning close and speaking softly, "that you care about us both."
"We don't blame you for that," Gavin added from the other side. "We know you can't choose who you love. Of all people, we know that best."
"We certainly didn't choose to love you."
"But we do."
My eyes shot from Gavin to Elliot and back again.
"It's true." Elliot tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, pressing a kiss to my temple when I looked shocked. "I love you."
My heart raced. Elliot loved me? This was—I mean—I knew he—Holy Hot Tamales, love?
"And," Gavin whispered in my other ear before my brain had fully processed Elliot's confession, "I love you, too. Still."
Gavin loved me, too? Still? Our eyes met and I knew he had never stopped loving me. Not when I disappeared from his life without explanation. Not when I reappeared with a male model on my arm. Not when I came to Italy with said model and wanted to date them both. He loved me.
They both loved me.
I looked back and forth at the two of them. Each looked happy and expectant. Genuine.
In the end, I couldn't keep darting looks between the two eager faces like a courtside spectator at Wimbledon. I stared straight ahead, not seeing the ornate gold and marble lobby, the front desk, the bar, or the pair of guests waiting for us to decide whether we were coming or going from the elevator.
"The thing is," Elliot stepped out into the lobby as he spoke, "neither of us wants half of you."
Gavin joined him, leaving me alone in the elevator car. "We would rather have none of you than that." His green eyes met mine, imploring. "It hurts too much."
My heart broke.
In four short words, I could see how much my indecision was hurting the two men I loved. Because I knew that I loved them both, each in their own way. And it killed me that I had caused them both pain.
But what could I do?
"We've come to an agreement."
Gavin nodded. "Whichever man you choose, the other will walk away uncontested."
I frowned. What did that—
"But the crux of the thing is, Lyd—" Elliot smiled weakly.
"—the bottom line, Lydia—"
"—you have to make the choice."
"And neither of us will see you until you do," Gavin declared with inarguable finality.
The couple in the lobby, deciding not to wait any longer, stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for their floor. Instantly, the doors slid shut.
At a loss, I watched Gavin and Elliot disappear behind a wall of shiny gold and I silently cursed the word worse out of existence.
Happy Birthday to me.
