All of It (31 page)

“Ronnie?” I’m lost in thought and his whisper breaks through the dilemma rattling inside me. I look up and meet his eyes. They’re dark, but sparkle in the dim light. “You’re beautiful.” His words are so sincere it almost hurts. My looks have suffered right along with me over the past year: my depression shows in the hollowness of my cheeks, shadows under my eyes, my skin is pale, and my hair is dull and lifeless. I haven’t cut it in over a year and it’s usually pulled back in a ponytail. Makeup is another thing I’ve given up on. I’m a raw, sickly version of my former pretty self. His words are too generous.

My responding smile is slight and meant to appease, but he sees through it. I shrug.

Patting the empty side of the bed he beckons sweetly, “Come here, baby …
please
.”

I pull back the fluffy down comforter and climb in beside him, letting his arm curl under me and around my shoulder. We’re both propped up against the pillows, but I’m facing him while his eyes are fixed on the ceiling. A peaceful silence fills the room. He’s relaxed, his chest rises and falls rhythmically; I watch it. The sudden urge to touch him overwhelms me. With trembling fingers I reach for his chest. Dimitri’s surprise is evident in his immediate flinch at my touch, followed by a faint moan as he bows into it, welcoming the contact. The muscles are hard and tense, tight, as I my fingers draw lines along his chest to his shoulders, down each arm to his fingertips, and back up to his neck.

His voice is rough and low when he speaks. “Do you know what I miss most?” His gaze still fixed on a single point on the ceiling.

“This?” I meekly guess.

His chest rises as he huffs in strangled amusement. “No, though your touch is, to say the very least … arousing. I miss it more than you can imagine.” So I do still affect him physically, I think. He does still want me. He sighs almost painfully, as if he can read my thoughts, and continues in a low voice, “Your laugh. I miss hearing you laugh.”

“I laugh,” I say weakly.

He cocks his head and looks at me, correcting me tenderly, “No. You don’t. The last time I remember hearing you laugh was graduation night. That was a year ago.” He returns his gaze to the ceiling and smiles. “One of the funniest things I’ve ever witnessed is you trying to get through telling a funny story. Half the story is lost in laughter.”

I pinch my eyebrows together. “I don’t do that.” Inflection near the end indicates my response is more a question than denial.

He smiles again and steals a glance at me. “Yes, you do. Jo is exactly the same way. You two, especially together, cannot tell a funny story without breaking out into hysterical laughter, then dissolving into happy tears—and this is before you’re even halfway through! The story is always more for your entertainment than your audience’s, which ironically makes it even funnier for us.”

I think about it a moment. “Really?”

He laughs at the curiosity in my voice. “Ronnie, I know you better than you know yourself. Trust me, yes.”

I prop myself up on one elbow and challenge him, “Oh really? How well do you know me? Let’s hear it.” I’m caught up in the innocent argument.

There’s no hesitation. “You lick your lips unmercifully when you’re deep in concentration.”

I pause momentarily to contemplate; my lips are always chapped when I get done writing a paper or reading a good book. I concede, “Okay, I’ll give you a point for that. I guess I do.”

“You have a black speck on the iris of your right eye, where the green fades to gold, and you have a birthmark shaped like a paw print on your back over your left kidney.”

“I’ll give you a half point for being so observant.”

“Your favorite scent is sandalwood.”

I stop to think. “When did I tell you that?”

“You didn’t.” After a short pause he adds, “You sigh half a second before you drift off to sleep.”

My response is quiet and questioning. “No I don’t.”

He nods and smiles faintly, as if remembering something pleasant. “Yes, you do … every night.”

Do I? I don’t know. And how does he know? He always leaves before I fall asleep.

“You’ve always dreamed of visiting Paris—”

I interrupt this time. “That’s easy. I award you no points.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” he objects. “You’ve always dreamed of visiting Paris with the man of your dreams.” He glances at me for approval. “Too bold if I presume that the man is me?”

Wrapped up in our game, I shake my head. “No, not too bold.”

“You’ve always dreamed of visiting Paris with me, near the end of summer. Of walking hand in hand near the Seine at twilight when the air is still warm, and kissing me at the top of the Eiffel Tower under a full moon.”

I’m lost in his narrative. Goose bumps rise on my arms. It is
exactly
as I’ve pictured it a thousand times, though I’ve never shared any of this with him. I whisper, “Another point.”

“You’re a magnificent piano player and have a soft spot for Beethoven.”

“I don’t play, remember?”

He winks. “Not yet. You can give me that point in a couple of years when this little prediction becomes reality.” He continues, “You secretly yearn to be a mother someday.” He clears his throat and exhales softly, his voice cracks, “You’ve always wanted a son.”

My throat tightens at this. He’s right. I have, but this is something I’ve never told anyone. Ever.

He looks at me through misty eyes. “Ronnie, you have
so
much to live for.”

I glance down at the sheets, at nothing in particular, and realize I’m licking my lips.

“What are you thinking about?” His voice catches near the end.

“I guess you do know me better than anyone else.”

“I’m not one to say I told you so, but—” the ghost of a smile is faint.

“—I told you so,” I say, the corners of my mouth twitching. I’m drawn back to his eyes searching optimistically for answers I desperately need. “Well, since you seem to know everything,” I continue hesitantly, “How does my story end?”

His eyes are bright again. “That’s easy,” he says as he kisses my forehead. “You and I live happily ever after.”

Life is sometimes … finding something to live for.

I sleep in his arms that night and though it’s a dreamless sleep, I feel safe in a way I never have before.

I wake to find that the all too familiar, painful void remains in my chest. Foolish of me to think that a conversation could change my perspective, clean the slate. Kind words don’t erase depression, not when it’s hijacked your mind and taken your body hostage. I’m surviving, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, at its unforgiving mercy.

Upon awakening Dimitri ushers me to the hotel spa where he informs me I’ll be spending (and I quote) “a well-deserved day of pampering”. Well-deserved is an extreme exaggeration, when what he should have said was, “Ronnie, you look like hell and need a haircut and a really thorough scrubbing.” My entire day is meticulously scheduled and he has ensured that I’ll be looked after every second. I have the odd feeling I’m being babysat.

I’ve never been to a spa before and don’t know what to expect. After a few hours I begin to liken myself to a lab rat in the midst of an experiment. I’m stripped, scrubbed, massaged, wrapped, and polished. They polish peoples’ bodies you ask? Why yes, yes they do. I realize many people think this experience is relaxing and pleasurable, but it makes me self-conscious, embarrassed, and raw. Those feelings carry over nicely to the massage. I cannot get over the fact that a complete stranger is rubbing down my naked body. I feel exposed and vulnerable. That coupled with the fact that the masseuse has a brutally heavy hand does not make for a relaxing hour. I’m pretty sure she views me as a tough steak that needs tenderizing. Mission accomplished—I’m tender. And sore.

Admittedly the manicure and pedicure, on my end at least, aren’t offensive. Though I pity the woman scrubbing my feet; this really isn’t something we should ask other people to do for us, even if they are being paid. It’s degrading and humiliating. She picks out the colors without asking and I’m pleased to see my toenails covered in pale pink polish and my fingernails covered only in a clear coat. The conversation is limited, but unlike the masseuse I actually find myself liking this woman, maybe because she hasn’t violated me yet.

The last of my “handlers” finishes up with my hair and make-up. His name is Ian and he’s by far my favorite pseudo-babysitter. He’s young, friendly, and kind. My only instructions to him are: “Make me look human again please; the rest is up to you.”

He responds with a fiendish smile, as if ready for the challenge. And he goes to work mixing up a concoction that he methodically applies to small sections of my hair before wrapping them in pieces of foil. After letting the stinky stuff work its magic, or so he says, he shampoos me. I decide in that moment that a scalp massage is
so
much better than a body massage. I could sit at this shampoo bowl all day. Too soon we return to his chair and I watch eight inches of hair drop to the floor. We chat easily the entire time. He’s complimentary and encouraging in a way that an old friend might be. He’s believable. He makes me feel good … and I allow it. For two hours, I don’t think about the past or the future—only the present. And for the first time in months, the stranglehold loosens. I can breathe. Ian turns my back to the mirror, not allowing me to watch as he styles my hair and applies my make-up. He insists on surprising me.

Ian bends down, his hands on my shoulders, looking me squarely in the eye, a slight pout on his lips. “Veronica, I must admit … you don’t look human.” The frown slowly draws up into a dazzling smile and his eyes sparkle. “You look
fabulous
!”

He turns the chair around slowly, and I barely recognize the woman in the mirror. She’s beautiful—and much older than eighteen. The hair that falls just past her shoulders is shiny and full of body, golden highlights woven through the chestnut brown. The eyes are golden green, lined in black—much larger than my own. Her skin is flawlessly glowing, and her cheeks are rosy. And she’s smiling … smiling while a single tear rolls down her cheek.

I turn to Ian and hug him. “Thank you,” I whisper in his ear. “For everything … more than you can imagine … thank you.”

His eyes are shining in triumph and he winks. “You’re welcome. We’re not quite finished though. Your knight in shining armor will be here soon to rescue you, but he’s requested that you change into this first.” He retrieves a large white box from the table next to us. “You can use the dressing room in the back, love.”

The box contains a very revealing, silky, burgundy dress. My hands tremble as I undress and slip the dress over my head. I haven’t worn anything this pretty, this sexy, since homecoming, and that feels like a lifetime ago. Or maybe just a different life altogether. The dress fits as if it’s been custom made just for me. It’s short and backless, exactly like the homecoming dress my mom made for me. The neckline plunges, embellished with intricate beadwork. It’s a work of art. I slip my feet into the suede, toeless, five-inch heels. They’re the same color as the dress. My pink toenails peek through and compliment the shoe color so well I can’t help but suspect that Dimitri has orchestrated every last detail to perfection. The last thing remaining in the large white box, amongst all the tissue, is a smaller black velvet jewelry box. With shaking hands, I open it—and gasp. It contains a jaw-dropping pair of earrings. They’re delicate: dozens of dangling, translucent pearls set in yellow gold. It takes some time to feed the posts through my ears since my hands are shaking so much. As I slide the second back in place I look at the woman in the three-way mirror in front of me, and she’s even more a stranger than the woman in the salon chair staring back at me minutes earlier. This woman is stunning. Her face reflects a look of surprise and awe.

I return to much “oohing” and “aahing” from the salon staff. As I smile at the group of smiling faces, I find that there, standing behind them all, is Dimitri. The crowd parts and we meet in the middle. The rest of the world drops away, except the two of us. His smile is joy, desire, and triumph … and it’s all for me.

Wearing the heels, I meet him eye to eye, smile, and then brush my lips gently across his. I close my eyes, pull back slightly, and revel in the moment. “Thank you, Mr. Glenn.”

His lips nudge the hair away from my ear and he whispers so softly I wonder if he’s speaking aloud or directly into my subconscious. “You take my breath away. Not the clothes, or the hair, or the make-up. Just you.” The ghost of a kiss touches below my ear and his face drops to nestle against my collarbone. His warm breath seeps in and elicits a delightful shiver that resonates just beneath the surface of my exposed skin.

Our fingers interlace and his face comes level with mine. “Shall we go to dinner, Miss Smith?”

I nod, unable to speak. I wave to everyone and blow a kiss to Ian. His hands are clasped in front of his chest and his eyes are glassy. He blows a kiss back, smiles and nods, as if to say, “You’re welcome.”

• • •

After dinner I request a walk outside to admire the Eiffel Tower. The sun has set and the Tower twinkles with light. It makes me smile. My heart feels less heavy. Dimitri stands with me, his arms wrapped around me, the entire time.

“Do you think it really looks like this? The real one, I mean.”

“For the most part, yes,” he says thoughtfully. “I’d expect a slightly different ambiance in Paris these days, and probably a lot less neon.”

I smile at his joke. “I think I’m done for tonight. We can go inside now.”

He kisses my forehead. “Okay. It doesn’t have to end here. I have something to show you. Something I think you might like.”

We walk through the casino, but instead of walking toward the bank of elevators we’ve used for the past two days, Dimitri leads me toward a different set of elevators on the other side of the hotel.

We ride the elevator in silence. I can’t take my eyes off Dimitri. He’s dressed in a black suit, with a dark blue shirt and tie. His gray eyes shine bright and deep. He smiles at me, gentle and content. I feel satisfied, calm, and actually … happy.