Chasing Stars (19 page)

“Hey, baby, are you OK?” I look down and ask.

“Oh, yeah, the heat has made me a bit tired. That’s all.” She looks up at me. Her eyes are vulnerable and almost sad. “Shall we eat?” Maritza inquires.

“Finally!” I sprint up, hauling Portia with me.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. After lunch, Dan spreads a blanket on the grass where we all lounged. From time to time, Portia shot me a sad stare. But the rest of the time, we laughed and talked for most the afternoon.

On our return to the city, Portia and Chloe slept. I watched over them with confusing feelings continuing to stir inside my knotted heart. We returned Chloe to a refreshed Stefan and Marina. Last night, Portia had treated them to dinner at a fancy restaurant and today she treated them to a renowned spa for couples. They seemed to have enjoyed every second of it.

Exhausted, we both collapse in bed, drifting into an immediate sleep.

My eyes fly open, a layer of sweat covers my skin, and my heart thumps inside my ribcage. The familiar feeling that my lungs are closing permeates through my body. I inhale deeply, attempting to ease my accelerated heartbeat. Focusing, I command my mind to register the air nourishing the fibers of my lungs.

I shudder and question what triggered the recurrence of the nightmare, finally concluding that it was the overwhelming emotions of the last few days. Just as with every other time post-nightmare, a great deal of dread sweeps through me. Remembering the images, I feel a gut-wrenching pain ramping through my body. For the first time, the blurry person pleading for help had a face. Portia’s.

I glance to my side and find Portia in a peaceful sleep. Her long hair drapes over my chest, and her arms and legs wrap around me. The sight is soothing. Too afraid to dwell on the images of the nightmare, I focus on the cadence of her serene breathing, in hopes it will lull me back to sleep.

Up until I moved to Dan’s, parasomnia had plagued and possessed me. Nightmares and night terrors had haunted me throughout my childhood and adolescence. It was always memories of abuse I suffered, mingled with the fear of threats from the people I currently lived with. At times, I spent weeks without sleeping through the night.

During my fourth grade year, I slept at my desk in the classroom. The teacher must have taken pity on me, because she allowed me to sleep without interrupting me. Though I failed her class miserably, my body got the rest it desperately craved.

After moving in with Dan, for many nights he, Maritza, or Mel, sat by my bed, comforting me until I was exhausted and could be lulled back to sleep. In the span of two years, the sleep terrors subsided and eventually ceased. However, one single recurrent nightmare, which I had since a very young age, persevered. In a way, the repeated swirling images are worse than the terrors because, while not as severe and violent, it leaves me with an unexplainable hollow-feeling chest that lingers for days.

I focus on calming my breath, relaxing my muscles, and eradicating the daunting memory of the dream. My mind reels, seeking all the strategies to dodge the anxiety that Dan taught me. Wow, it has been many years since I went from a sixteen-year-old delinquent to becoming the exemplary, adopted son of a preacher. The irony of that? I couldn’t be happier. A ghost of a smile reaches my lips. Without Dan, what would have become of me?

Giving up on sleep, I disentangle my body from under Portia and slide off the bed. I gather my painting supplies and set a blank canvas on an easel beside her. My hands itch with anticipation. As I contemplate my angel sleeping, my eyes rummage through her perfect curves. With parted pouty lips, tinted cheeks, and disheveled hair she looks incredibly beautiful.

Noticing my absence, her hand searches the empty bed and a soft moan escapes her lips. She frowns slightly, but continues her slumber.

My fingers curl around a pencil and I sketch the perfect and round fullness of her hips partially wrapped within sheets.

Tranquility engulfed the room with the heady combination of painting and watching her slumber. The artistic process, which I have done repeatedly, escalates into a new realm from the simple fact that I am snapping a very intimate picture of Portia that the world will never get to see. I sigh deeply, realizing I could spend the rest of my life just watching her sleep. Hoping to do justice to the splendor of her heavenly beauty, I continue to sketch her and focus on capturing the essence of her purity.

After a few hours, I succumb to the exhaustion coursing through my body and I tuck the canvas away where Portia won’t see. I want to finish it before showing it to her. I climb back into bed and sleep finally finds me.

“Do I look OK?” Portia critically examines her reflection in the mirror.

Sprawled on my bed with my hands crossed under my head, my eyes travel lazily along her body. I admire her perfect figure. A blue sheath dress hugs her full hips and she looks delectable.

“Aren’t you eating in?” I ask.

“We are, but I want to look presentable.” Her lips twitch slightly and she shrugs, feigning indifference. Her body language is such a giveaway when she attempts to hide her feelings.

“Portia, don’t worry, it’s only your Dad, for crying out loud.”

“Exactly.” She blows her hair away from her face.

I sprint from bed and stop in front of her. My hands cup her face and my eyes search hers.

“Baby, you would look stunning wearing a rag.” I kiss her lips, trying to dissolve the anxiety I see in her eyes.

Portia’s torn face is maddening. The thought of how her father toys with her disgusts me, but I conceal my emotions and smile at her.

In multiple ways, I respect my biological mother more than I respect Portia’s father. At least, my mother had the courage to discard me and never bothered to cultivate any ground for dreams to grow inside my heart.

Portia rests her head on my chest, and I have an overwhelming desire to protect her. Releasing my hold of her, I whisper, “Please hurry back, I can’t be away from you for too long.”

“Oh, Will, I will hurry back.” She grabs her purse and walks to the back door. With her hand on the knob, she turns to me. “Will, thanks for making me feel wanted and special.” She leaves before I can reply.

Stunned, I stand in the middle of the empty room. My lips curve in a small smile. Portia is more perceptive than I gave her credit for. She saw right through my feeble attempt to make her see her worth. I realize we are two halves, fitting perfectly together. And, yes, there is more to us than amazing chemistry.

An irrevocable force keeps my center of gravity anchored with Will. The thought is scary, confusing, and a novelty. But also amazingly delicious.

I clamber into Dad’s Mercedes and smile at his driver. “Hi Dennis, it is good to see you. How have you been?” I smile at the kind man who has worked for Dad for the last three decades. Jeez, before I existed.

“Hello, Miss Portia. I am well, thank you.”

The quiet engine hums as Dennis steps on the gas and merges into the hectic traffic of a Monday evening in Manhattan. The five-minute drive will likely take a half hour. If the heat index weren’t so high, I would have walked to Dad’s house.

Gazing at the lively streets, my eyes feast on the explosion of colors and the diverse ethnicities of the pedestrians. They rush through the cement mazes, seemingly oblivious to the blaring noises of the city as it pulsates with a unique beat as the center of the planet. Street vendors, newspaper boxes, cars, and skylines of glass and steel, complete the mural. New York has its own unique rhythm that attracts people of all races, from all cultures.

This city used to be one of my least favorite places in the world. Spending every summer alone in this concrete jungle made me resent it a bit, especially knowing that Tarry and Niki were together back in LA.

For the first time, I am having a very, very pleasant stay in this unbelievable city. Daunting green eyes is playing a pivotal part in this new feature of my life. Will took it upon himself the role of my private tour guide. In the past few weeks, he has shown me a side of New York that fascinates me. In addition, Dad has had dinner with me almost every week, which is the closest to a miracle I have ever witnessed.

A bitter smile plays in my lips. As a child, when I stayed here for the summer, I saw Dad once a week, when he briefly visited with me after work. Considering that he worked two blocks from the apartment, and Priscilla was on The Hamptons, I never understood why we didn’t spend more time together. She would never have even known.

Well, now I do comprehend. People are not forced to love: they do or they don’t. It’s just that simple. But none of that matters anymore, I have learned to cope with it.

My mind shifts to reminiscing about the time I have spent with Will. It’s been a week since Marina and Chloe visited and, though my filming schedule has been brutal, I can always count on Will to be very entertaining. I smile, thinking of how unfair it is to the rest of mankind that Will owns such magnificent pecs. But there is so much more to him than his nearly perfect body. Will’s smile transports me to a very relaxing, yet exciting place and he always does something to blow me away.