"I'm not into men," my shaky breath threatens to expose this white lie.
"I'll make you," Mr. Harris blurted out.
The disgust that sizzles inside of me at the sound of that is unmatched. Where this man shops his audacity from, I'm trying to comprehend. I want to take my eyes off the marble floor and pierce them into his, giving him the worst death stare of his life, but that would be way too risky. I can't afford to lose this God-forsaken house manager job. Not when I still have New York pinned on my To-Make-Happen board.
My pods stay glued to my ears, blasting Dreaming by Flawed Mangoes as I dissociate for a minute. I imagine what life would have been like if only I weren't a coward, if only I did the perfect spin, if only I didn't fall. Maybe if I did things differently__
__I wouldn't be here withholding myself from gagging at the thought of entertaining Mr. Harris. God forbid a girl doesn't entertain a pedophile.
I can't imagine putting up with the new, stupid fondness Mr. Harris claims to have grown for me to save my life. The same fondness he experiences with every new woman he invites home every weekend. I've seen enough to judge. I'm over 100 percent sure he is confessing his lame feelings on this gloomy, cold Saturday because he got turned down by one of his expected visitors. But I'm sorry, I don't accept pushovers either. I feel something for him, though, something so strong I think the name for it is shame.
"Imagine you, me, and the wind on my yacht exploring each other…surreal, right?" he lazily says, attempting to cover the little breathable space between us. "This is me offering you a better life."
Okay, that was the last straw.
"A fool at forty truly is a fool forever." I let it out without a rethink, and yes, I get the satisfaction I wanted; his eyes glare at me in astonishment, but his legs stay glued to where I left him as a walkout. I've worked with him for a concrete year, and he knows me too well by now to try anything stupid because Julie will sing. I'll sing to the whole press how their hardworking businessman and motivational speaker would, without hesitation, jump towards anything under a skirt.
I reach the end of the almost endless hallway route, taking my right, out to the open garden that is supposed to be a wonderful sight to behold, but Mr. Harris's poor taste in cars ruined that. I'm not even rich yet, but I know for a fact that I'd do better with my money when it comes to buying cars. My TO-BUY-LIST can confirm that. Sometimes I think it's hilarious how I talk about my love for cars, but in reality, I know so little about them. I only like the color, the vroom-vroom sound they make, and the interior decor, which must be girly enough for me.
I'm walking out of the mansion that, until a minute ago, used to yield me my monthly income, but I don't live my thoughts behind. I'm still wondering what part about me attracted that loser. Now I have to get a self-evaluation done. He really is a loser, just a rich one. To make myself feel better, I don't think he's as rich as he claims to be. I still remember overhearing him on a call, practically pleading with whomever it was over the phone, not to take back his yacht, saying he was going to make down payments by month's end. Which RICH MAN makes an installment payment for a yacht? Only if his numerous girlfriends knew about this, not like it's my business anyway. My brain just won't go quiet, and I happen to be aiding it in every possible way. I sound like a hater. I sound pained because I actually am pained.
My ride finally arrived after a 20-minute wait, which I spent staring at the grey, pregnant weather. I first check to confirm that the plate number corresponds. It does, but something feels off. It's the awkward look the driver is giving. He looks suspicious of me, like I'm going to run away with his car bonnet or something. It's a mutual feeling, but it's getting dark, and I need to get home ASAP. Maybe if I engage him in a conversation, he'll see I'm just a harmless angel trapped in Paris. No shade to Paris, I love Paris, Paris is beautiful, Paris is home. It's just that this place reminds me of everything I could have been, but failed to be. The potential I know I had haunts me every day to the extent that I pray to disappear. I want to leave for somewhere better, somewhere like New York. The city that never sleeps.
"As a man, maybe you'd be in a better position to educate me on what exactly it is that fuels Men's ego. You wouldn't mind, would you?" I needed clarification so much that I just had to ask.
From the corner of my eye, I can see a rush of excitement build up in him. It's almost as if he's been waiting for this day.
"There's no ego without men." Okay, that's a first. "It's in our nature." I look at him through the dashboard as his eyes shimmer with fulfillment.
The amount of outburst that boils inside of me at the sound of that is ineffable. I totally agree that I'm so easy to rage bait. Men will always be men at this point.
Shit, I forgot my earpod, there's no way I'm listening to this man rant on.
"Can I connect to your Bluetooth?" I interrupt him unapologetically.
Searching for a song to play wasn't hard, as I already have a well-curated playlist with all of my favorites. I loveeee Frank Ocean. I tap play on Seigfried by Frank Ocean, letting the melody flow like the cold night breeze. This song does something to me; all of Frank Ocean's songs do. The heartfelt ones let me imagine what life would have been like if my Dad were present. It would have been me, ma, and him in our fairy tale world, like I imagined at 12, just us. Although ma has never felt the need to talk about him, I still imagine him to fill that empty void I always feel, imagined rather, that's all I ever had the chance to do. Sometimes I think I'm so stupid, yearning to know about a man who never tried to be known, and no matter how hard I try to build my esteem, the fact that I was never really special to him, to the first man in my life, shatters all of it to the ground. Whatever, I'm okay without him. I really am, but sometimes I try to think of the potential we would have had as a family.
"We've arrived at your destination, ma."
Ma? I'm only 21. I open my bank app to make a payment, reducing my screen brightness to the lowest exposure known to mankind. No one, aside from myself, and I need to know I'm standing on an iceberg. At least I'm rich in my savings.
I'm walking out of the car with a balance that, if it had a voice, would scream. Pitching dangerously like the catholic soprano singers.
I once read where someone said 'Dad is a word, it doesn't mean anything unless there is action and intention behind it. He's just someone that you share DNA with, and I one hundred and one percent agree with this.
. . .
Firing myself from my workplace doesn't feel so bad anymore now that I, for once in a blue or better still pinkish moon, come home to meet Caroline making dinner. Not joining her feels like a missed ritual, but my goodness, I could watch her from a distance for ages. I wish I looked just like her. My own brunette woman. Strong and resilient but loving and yet so calm. Too calm for someone who's gone through a lot, I could never. I watch from the door as she does her magic on the palatable-looking pasta in the open kitchen. She's so beautiful in all ramifications. It's like her benign nature could be seen radiating from every movement she makes. How could a man give this up? I don't care what his reasons may be. How dare he?
I watch as her soft, shiny hair graciously unwraps itself from the messy bun it was in, falling to her waist. I at least got that from her. She attempts to wrap it up, turning to see me lost in admiration. Her cheeks immediately turn flame red. She's literally just a girl.
"Why are you standing over there like a jump-scare? Come here, I made your favorite".
My love for pasta emanated from watching her make it with so much joy. She says she loves that I love it, but honestly, I love the look of accomplishment I see on her face when she plates a perfect bowl of pasta with minced meat garnished with veggies. The taste is always divine. I once tried pasta at an overpriced famous restaurant in town with Anna, where they served us a tiny amount of pasta that I remember counting to be 12 strands for thirty euros, yet it wasn't half as good as Caroline's.
"You're always so lost in your endless thoughts, baby." Caroline snaps my mind back to reality, her thin brows furrowing with worry. "How was work today? I didn't expect you to be back until the weekend".
I didn't expect it either. I let out a heavy sigh without even knowing it, and now her concern has augmented. Her hands move towards mine to cup them as the worry in her eyes grows. Oh, Mummy, you worry too much. How do I tell you that I just lost my job? Same job you asked me not to take because, as my mom, you have taken it upon yourself to work and give me a better life. I just have to escape this, at least for now.
"Ma, the food is getting cold…" I stress the last word, straining to sound casual like I'm not battling tears that feel like an invisible wire wrapped around my throat. It hurts.
She knows, she knows that I'm not fine, but she lets me eat in peace, and I truly appreciate that.
We both have dinner in the open kitchen, and half the time, I catch her stealing glances at me. I have to tell her, I do.
"I lost my job."
"What? How did that happen?" She swallowed so hard, she almost choked. "Oh my baby, I'm sorry. You don't have to be sad."
"I'm not sad, mummy, as a matter of fact, it's totally fine," I reassure her, twirling pasta into my fork. The least of things I need right now is sympathy. I believe I did the right thing by quitting the job, so I'm not trying to feel bad about that.
The kitchen that was once filled with the scent of fried tomatoes and spices now feels so choked up all of a sudden. I can tell Ma is giving me that look again, the one that says 'I know this is hard for you, and I'm sorry'. I wish she knew I really am fine. Although my resting face always says otherwise.
I need air, I feel like I'm suffocating. There's a faint knock on the door. Ma stands up to get the door, and I feel a heavy sense of relief flush out through me.
I lazily pack the empty plates from the insanely long table that should contain 12 dining seats. Six on one side and the other six on the other, but we have just two seats for Ma and i. She didn't see a reason to get more dining chairs, as it's just her and me. I don't either.
My feet abruptly stop at the chime of Ma's phone. I admit I can be really nosy sometimes, or maybe all the time. Ma and the next-door neighbor are still having their hearty chitty chats outside, giving me more time to be nosy. I've been policing her socials for years, hoping I'll catch her in the middle of a relationship, but she never seems interested in any of the numerous men who text her, practically begging for a date.
My hovering fingers reach the top of the screen, dragging down the notification bar. There's a message from Aunty Lina, my mom's immediate younger sister, who lives in New York. She's talking about some man…hmm, sounds interesting. I tap on the snippet of the message, revealing its full content. This message is not just about a man, but a man with facial features similar to mine. My green colored eyes, my one-sided dimple, my… It's like I can see myself in him.