Seeing Julia (17 page)

I’m assailed by these confusing connections to him and this place. Disquiet returns full force.
What am I doing here? With him?
I walk away from him and stand at the center of his living room and contemplate my next move, suddenly feeling trapped, as if I’ve just discovered I’m in a maze and cannot find my way out.

“What do I know?” I finally say.

“I think you know a lot,” he drawls. His charming southern accent practically dissolves all the emotional walls I’ve put up. He comes to stand beside me and gets this thoughtful look.

I’m unable to look away. “Believe me, I don’t know anything.” We look at each other again. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I should go.”

“Don’t go,” he says. “Stay.”

We share another long-drawn-out silence and hold each other’s gaze unable to look away. The words
go home
are now timed with my heart rate:
Go. Home
. Except all I can do is stand here, looking at him, fascinated by the way he’s looking at me.

It would seem we’re both too captivated to do anything more. Then, finally as if synchronized, we both take an unsteady breath at the same time, just enough to break the inexplicable spell between us.

“I should go home.”

“I’ll get the paperwork,” he says, turning away from me. His retreating footsteps sound out along the wood floor, while I slide down onto his sofa, suddenly too weak to stand.

≈ ≈

“It’s a lot of money.” I cannot keep the devastating sadness out of my voice.

“It is.”

We’ve gone over the finite details of Evan’s estate for the past two hours and his net worth of two hundred million. I’m reeling from this fact alone. I knew Evan had money, but, like so many things he and I never talked about, I just didn’t know how
much
. This astounding revelation presses down on me like a vice, serving as an uninvited new kind of torture that reminds me that I am still here and Evan is not. No amount of money is going to change any of that.

There is no consolation for me in any of this. I am all that is left. I am the charred broken remains; the one left behind again, after death’s inferno effectively destroyed my life with Evan and took him from me. The reality of the after crushes me, once again. He’s gone, incinerated for all time. I am the left behind ashes; soaked with too many tears, and burdened with an infinite future I cannot see. Our life together is finished. His money, so excessive, seems to be a personal affront that should have been incinerated alongside his body. Evan Hamilton was supposed to live forever. That was the plan. I begin to shake, engulfed in the suffocating loss of a life I will never have with him again.
It’s over
.
Finished.

Jake’s voice breaks through to me. “There are properties in Malibu, Manhattan, of course, the house here. He and I were just finishing an acquisition in Telluride, Colorado. We should talk about that one.” I hear him sigh, and then he taps my arm. “Julia, are you
listening
?”

“
No
.”

I feel hollow inside. Grief returns. My life is over, uncertain. I’m drifting. I’m alone, bereaved, empty. The enormity of it all: first, Evan’s death; now, dealing with his company, the properties, the money—his assets. It’s unbearable.

“I just wanted a normal life,” I say. “A baby. A little house on the beach. Love. Happiness. Forever. I didn’t want all of this other stuff. I just wanted … a normal life.
With him.”

“I know.”

Jake stares at me. Once again, I’m held here by his exquisite blue gaze so different from Evan’s.

Loneliness returns. This vast emptiness threatens to drown me. The need to be held becomes pervasive, an all consuming need. I’m undone, scattered and broken into fragments. Part of me is distressed by this obscene amount of money. Part of me is undone for some unknowable reason by the man in front of me. Part of me is inebriated by the chardonnay we’ve drunk over the past two hours. We finished the first bottle and we’re halfway through the second.

“I just want someone to tell me it’s going to be okay. Tell me the lies. Just tell me
something
.” I’ve spoken aloud. This is all but confirmed by Jake’s distressed look.

“It’s going to be okay,” he says after a long pause. “Julia, I … I can’t. I’m your lawyer. You’re my client. You’re the chairman of Hamilton Equities for Christ’s sake. I basically work for
you
.” He holds up part of the paperwork as if it’s a sword with special powers, wielding it in front of me.

I’m alone, bereaved, empty,
drunk.
I confirm this as I stand.

Jake gets up, too. We’re a foot away from each other.

“I just wanted a normal life.”

“I know.”

A tear makes its way down my face. Jake seems to watch its progress as if he’s memorizing the tear’s path, but gives me this I-can’t-help-you-out kind of look.

I break away from his intense gaze, grab the half-empty bottle, and refill my empty glass. There’s a part of me that knows I should care about this almost empty bottle. So like me, it seems. This almost empty bottle. There’s a part of me saying,
go home Julia.
Yet, another part of me basks in this heightened inebriated state, revels in this astounding awareness of him, and desires to give in to this astonishing need to feel something with someone.

Dr. Hallmark Card’s soliloquy about attraction, love, and his ongoing sermons about not being able to control these things plays havoc with this widow’s mind. My body wants Jake and my mind says
what the hell, Julia. Enjoy yourself because, frankly, your life can’t get any more fucked up.
And, I haven’t even taken a single pain killer to feel this way. I blame my devil-may-care attitude directly on being best friends with the promiscuous Kimberley Powers.
Kimberley
would give in these overpowering feelings of attraction and the need to be held; she would consummate this thing, this need of him. The saintly Dr. Stevenson would seem to be echo and encourage the same of me in these cosmic circumstances. I close my eyes and try to remember exactly what the good doctor had to say.

“Julia, are you okay?”

“Uh-huh.” I open my eyes and slightly sway.

The man before me, a mere six inches away from my face, right now, looks uneasy. The afternoon has definitely faded away. We’re standing in the dim light of his living room.

I turn away from him, steadying myself as I move along his furniture, gripping it as I go. “What time is it?” I turn back to look at him.

“A little after six,” he says, glancing at his watch. “I should take you home.”

“I’m not sure either one of us should be driving, even if it’s just a few miles down the road.” I sweep my hand across the room and stare directly at him. “Where’s your restroom?”

He points toward the hallway. I watch him take a deep breath as if he’s been holding it. I shake my head side-to-side and suddenly laugh at his helplessness. The man is afraid of me right now. Somewhere inside, I enjoy this power over him.

His bathroom serves as a much needed respite.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I’m about to.
I surprise myself in recalling my Catholic upbringing. The memory of confession returns to me, all at once. I haven’t thought of this childhood ritual since my parents’ death. For some reason, it makes me laugh again. I feel the guilt for the inappropriateness and my attraction for Jake at the same time.

I spend the glorious minutes away from Jake and try to find my center. I dab at my face with wet wash cloth and try to cool down these hot embers of desire coming to life inside. Despite my recollection of Catholicism and confession, nothing is putting out the passionate flames for him radiating inside of me. I stare at myself in the mirror for a long time.
Who are you? Who is this person that would be with someone else? Sleep with someone else? Who are you?

“I just wanted a normal life,” I say to the girl in the mirror. She nods.

I take my hair out of the elastic band that’s been holding it back, lean over, and brush it out with my hands.
Steady.
I grip the counter as the effects of the wine courses through me. I finger-fix my hair and leave it down. I run a line of Jake’s toothpaste along my index finger and hastily brush my teeth with it. This old college trick reminds me of times with Bobby. I examine the face in the mirror again and recognize the remnants of Bobby’s Julia—the one who was desirable and overflowed with happiness and love
.

“A normal life that’s all I ever really wanted,” I say to the girl in the mirror again.

I rummage through the drawers and find a discarded lipstick.
Thank you, Savannah?
I wipe off the end of it with my finger and apply a line of some sultry plum color to my lips. I
put the lipstick away, tidy up his bathroom, and head out to his hallway.

The problem is: I haven’t resolved anything. The desire for him runs through me like an out-of-control fever; and, I no longer care. That’s the problem. Bless me, Father, for I
will
sin.

“I’ll make you dinner,” Jake says from the sofa. He looks compassionate, sitting there casually sipping his wine, apparently oblivious to his own sex appeal, although his eyes rake over me with renewed interest at my improved appearance. Apparently, fresh lipstick and finger-fixed hair is a sufficient enough turn-on. He holds his wine glass in mid-air, all at once, alert.

“I’m not hungry…for food.” I tower above him, lean down, take his wine glass from him, guzzle the rest of it, and then set it down.

“I should take you home,” he says, suddenly uneasy.

“Take me…
home
.”

Within seconds, I climb onto his lap and start kissing the side of his neck. His pulse races beneath my exploring lips. He makes this inaudible, helpless sound. His arms come around me, pulling me closer. He whispers my name. I close my eyes and give into the amazing sensation of kissing him as his lips find mine. The magnetism between us is unleashed once more and neither one of us seems to be able to control it this time as we move into each other. The connection between us begins to heat up and I strip off my running jacket and then my t-shirt. He’s kissing the tops of my breasts and unhooking my bra. The freedom and the warmth of his mouth set me on fire.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he says against my lips.

“We shouldn’t,” I echo back.

I move in closer, wanting to feel more of him. He comes to life beneath my thighs. Need takes over, accelerates, and outruns all logical thought. I’m kissing him all over and he’s responding. I grab at his clothing, stripping off his white t-shirt. He’s muscular and hot to the touch underneath. I trail my tongue along his chest and savor the saltiness of his flesh and hear his breath quicken.

“Oh God. Julia, we can’t do this,” he whispers.

Minutes go by and the intensity of our bodily explorations accelerates, though some part of me registers his growing despondency as his movements become more labored, less responsive. Eventually, his arms slacken and he lets go of me. I stop for a moment, trying to ascertain why he sounds and feels this way,
different
, but necessity urges me on.

I need to feel alive again. With him. Desperate, I press into his body, wanting him, needing this connection with him. I shove thoughts of Evan way down inside, knowing the shame of what we’re doing will seek and punish me later for this indiscretion. With enough white wine working in combination with the inner peace of this place and this magnificent specimen of a man beneath me, I overcome the thoughts of my future and the inevitable meeting up with grief and shame that lies ahead, just waiting for me.