Unwrapped (20 page)

December

The match sputtered to life as Mischa scraped it against the box. She cupped the fragile flame and touched it to the candle wick. The taper lit, and she used it to light the first candle on the menorah before gently placing it back in the
shamash
. The blessing she whispered to herself was automatic as she stared into the blue core of the flame, thinking instead about the man whose arms were wrapping around her. She leaned back into his chest, the hard planes of it encased in a soft, baby-blue sweater.

“Your present isn’t ready yet. Do you do presents, even? Are you very religious?” Cliff asked her. It was a fair question. Most of her friends were surprised to learn Mischa was Jewish.

“You’re so sweet, I don’t need any presents. My parents usually just give me money and that’s all I ever need. No, I’m not religious. Not at all, actually. I can’t even remember the last time I went to temple. But Chanukah…it’s special. It makes me feel connected to history, in a way that I never really feel connected to God. Does that make sense?” She turned around and put her arms around his waist.

“I come from Africa, love, I understand a connection to history,” he chuckled, but the smile faded quickly.

“You miss it.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes and no. I miss the sun. It shines differently there. I miss the
braii
barbecue. My favorite. I miss my mother, I miss hearing my language all around me in the street, I miss the jacaranda petals floating around like pink rain. But this is the romantic bit. I know beneath all of my good memories are the ones of dirt, and poverty, and crime. I do not miss that. When I go back, the only memories I will have of America will be the good ones. Except for this god awful cold. There is nothing good about that,” he mock-shivered, clearly trying to drive the conversation away from his too-soon departure.

Nothing was going to drive Mischa’s mind away from it, though. Every soul-melting kiss, every time his strong fingers brushed her jawline, every time she shared her body with him, there was an underscore of imminent loss.

It hurt, more than she thought it would, to know that one of these kisses would be the last. Which was why she’d decided tonight would be the end. Rip off the Band-Aid. She’d hurt on her own terms, using the remaining seven nights of Chanukah to sit
shiva
on the death of her fall fling. By the time Heather was opening Christmas presents, the worst would be over, and she could start the new year fresh.

But right here, right now, in the flickering candlelight, she’d show him how she felt one last time. Mischa stood on her tiptoes to press her lips against the soft hollow at the base of Clifford’s throat, his heart beating against her kiss. His quiet moan made her tip her face to his. They kissed, deep and slow, until the candles were nearly a quarter gone. Pulling back a bit, Clifford locked eyes with her as his hand slowly caressed her face. His thumb traced the outline of her lips. She kissed it before sucking it gently into her mouth. Her eyes didn’t waver from his as she worked her lips and tongue down to the base before sliding up to the tip. Her teeth grazed his skin and he shuddered. Good. She wanted him to remember tonight. A bit of extra suction at the end and she released his thumb with a final caress of her tongue.

Clifford was obviously more than ready to go from the look on his face, but he restrained himself from throwing her on the living room floor just quite yet. The trembling in his arms as he gripped her upper arms gave it away. Normally Mischa adored his dominant, rough sexuality, but tonight she wanted to be the one to control everything. It was only fitting.

She moved her own hands up and around to break his hold on her; once his biceps were in
her
grip she shoved, forcing him down to the carpet of the living room. This time, she was on top. This time, she made him squirm beneath her, wanting more than she was giving. This time, she waited for him to come, staring into her eyes, before she allowed the racking pleasure to overtake her.

Spent and breathing hard, she stayed atop him to catch her breath. He caught her face in his large hand.

“If we were a rugby game, that would be the try that won the match.”

“Clifford…”

“Mischa, I love you.” It was that simple, and that heartbreaking. It was time. She got up and grabbed a blanket from the back of the sofa. As if she could cover her feelings as easily as she could cover her body. Her stomach was in tangles, but it was nothing compared to her chest. With a deep breath

“I need you to go. I can’t do this. You…you have to go.” Her practiced speech flew out of her mind the moment she met his eyes and saw her heartbreak reflected in them.

“Mischa?” Tentatively. All the times she’d heard him say her name before were in her mind the first time in the carnival field, so many times when he was inside her, the time he’d yelled it across the rugby pitch during a pickup game and scored a try for her. This time, this time was the one that would stick in her heart.

“It
isn’t
a game, Cliff. It’s real life. And in real life, you don’t ‘try.’ You succeed or you don’t, and in another few weeks you and I will be on opposite sides of the planet. That is not success. We played. We didn’t win. And I can’t look at you any more knowing that you are walking out of my life. I don’t like goodbyes. Let’s just…please just go.”

As long as she lived, Mischa knew she would never forget the stricken look on his face as he absorbed her words. Her inner cheek was bleeding from the effort of holding it in by the time the door clicked shut behind him. She sank to the floor and sobbed as if she’d never stop. At that moment, she wasn’t sure she ever would.

New Year’s Eve

“For the last time, I think I’m going to stay in and watch the year-end countdown on MTV. There were some awesome videos this year. Silverchair’s Tomorrow, Toadie’s Possum Kingdom, White Zo-”

“LALALALALALA,” sang Heather, fingers in her ears. “I CAN’T HEAR YOU UNLESS YOU’RE ASKING ME WHAT TO WEAR TO THE PAAARTYYY.”

“Real fucking mature, H.”

“I am
known
for my immaturity. But also for my excellent taste in parties. Come on. You know the gallery does an insanely cool New Year’s. People would die to be on the guest list! You can’t turn me down.”

“I can.”

“Nope. It would be fucking rude. And you are abrupt and a little awkward and in desperate need of a root job, but you aren’t rude. Antonio invited you personally. That’s like telling President Clinton no to a private sax recital. It isn’t done.”

“The regrowth look is in. How do you work at a salon and not know this? Also, I’m doing it. I’m turning it down.”

“Mischa, you are doing it. You have got to leave this house. You should probably get drunk. And most of all, your art career will be dead in the water if you turn down a Phoenix party. You’ll never get invited to another. You’ll be a pariah. Your name will be legend, the Girl Who Made the Worst New Year’s Decision of the Nineties.”

“The answer is no. Final, absolute, period.”

Twenty minutes later, Mischa was sitting on the lid of the toilet as Heather kohled her eyes within an inch of their life.

“I look like Courtney Love,” she said, peering around to the mirror and grimacing at the crimson lipstick.

“Yep.”

“She’s kind of an asshole. And probably killed Kurt.”

“Yep. But she’s hot. Hold still. Don’t roll your eyes, I’ll smudge you.” She touched the tip of the eye pencil to the flame of her lighter and kept outlining. A sequined sheath dress and her Docs completed the look. The blue smears beneath her eyes from too many sleepless nights gave her more of the heroin chic look that was all over the
Vogues
she occasionally flipped through at the salon. As if there was anything chic about the junkies she stepped over on her way to the subway.

Mischa had to give it to Antonio sending a car to pick them up was a class move. She still hadn’t the slightest idea what it was between her goofy, laid-back roommate and the ambitious, jet-setting gallerist that was still working months in, but as the driver gestured at a bottle of champagne sweating in a tub waiting for them, she decided she didn’t care. Heather
did
have pretty excellent taste in parties. After putting up with two-plus weeks of Mischa’s moping around, the girl deserved a nice night out.

“Cheers. I promise to have fun tonight.”

“Cheers. I’m holding you to it.”

The paparazzi were in full effect, flashes going off left and right. None of them were sure if they should know who the girls exiting the black Bentley were, so they snapped just in case. Heather immediately took in the situation and began posing. The bubbles brought out Mischa’s latent silliness, and she joined in. The two of them posed together, separately, with Quentin Tarantino, and a woman they were pretty sure was on
90210
but couldn’t swear to. Antonio finally dragged them inside and shoved them towards the buffet.

“The caviar’s going fast, load up.”

Mischa’s eyes went wide at the spread. New Year’s parties back home often involved pizza. Occasionally someone got fancy with a shrimp cocktail. The offerings at The Phoenix ranged from the aforementioned caviar to foie gras, oysters to raspberry tarts. The two working-class girls did a surreptitious high-five before piling their undersized plates with lobster in cream and chocolate-covered strawberries. Antonio guffawed at their hoarding as he handed them fresh flutes of Veuve.

“Look around, girls! Downstairs is the year-end showcase of my current artists, upstairs I have devoted the loft to my newest artist’s newest collection,
Try for Love
.”

“Stupid name, Tony, but we’ll look,” Mischa said through a mouthful of Beluga. After some mingling, of course. And a few more refills. And more truffle-deviled eggs. So
that
was the fuss about truffles. Heather started tugging her around, but calmed down pretty quickly when she realized the amount of celeb-gawking to be done in the larger downstairs gallery. As many people pointed at them as they pointed out to each other. Mischa couldn’t stop cracking up about it. The red-carpet shenanigans had brought her instant fame.

It was already 11:30 by the time Mischa ascended the steps to the upper space. The laughter died on her lips as she realized what she was seeing. The show, that stupidly named show, the “newest artist” Antonio had directed her towards the walls were full of Mischa. Clifford’s Mischas. Small, large, happy, sad, all of them Mischa.

“What…?” She shook her head to clear the last of the bubbles. This couldn’t be happening. Heather giggled with delight and retreated to Antonio’s side to watch.

She wandered in a daze through the loft. There she was, grinning madly. There, nude and relaxed after clearly having been ravished. Oh dear God, that’s why everyone downstairs had been pointing. Not the red carpet, although it turned out she had a better reason to have been on it now that she knew she was a model for the star of the evening. To the left, the painting she’d first seen here, when she discovered Clifford’s art; to the right, her face as she’d told him goodbye.

“Happy New Year, Mischa.” She’d know that rumbling, accented voice anywhere. Her eyes filled with tears as she stared at the paintings. At the proof of his love. He put his arms around her and she leaned back, no longer sure she could stand without collapsing into tears.

“How?” It was all she could trust herself to say.

“Antonio and I have been talking since my first show. I sold most of the paintings. After that, he didn’t want to let me go. Making me his resident artist was the obvious answer. We thought we’d have news about my visa by mid-December, but it took a bit longer. I didn’t want to tell you and get your hopes up if it did not work. It was going to be your Chanukah present, but now it is for the new year, that I am officially a United States resident.”

She finally turned around to look into that gorgeous face she thought she’d never see again.

“If this didn’t work, this try, I would not stay. I have made more money here than I ever thought. Enough to move my mother to a nice neighborhood, enough to quit working terrible jobs, enough to join my rugby club. If I stay, I can make more. I can build a reputation. I can learn the business, maybe have my own gallery someday. But if I don’t have you, this country will never make me happy and I cannot stay.”

“Clifford I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you,” and Mischa barely registered the whoops and cheers of the crowd as the clock struck midnight while they kissed. Her tears spilled over as their lips pressed together. She pulled back, forehead still touching his as she gazed into his chocolate eyes. “This was the try that won the match.”

Unwrapping Liam

by Gennifer Albin

The house loomed up the drive way with it’s columns and tiled roof and neatly trimmed hedges. One single strand of glowing Christmas lights and a wreath on the door betrayed the season. It hadn’t snowed yet in Olympic Falls when we left, but at least Washington had the decency to turn cold and gray in winter. The sky was clear and cheerfully bright. If a gaggle of bikini-clad blonds had skipped up the sidewalk with giant beach balls, it couldn’t have been more obvious that we were in Southern California. But the only thing that was warm here was the weather.

“Is this it?” Liam asked. I’d asked him to drive the last leg to ensure we actually made it to my parents’ house.

“Keep going,” I instructed him.

Liam peered down the road, slowing the car to stare at me. “I’ll drive off that bluff if I keep going.”

“Exactly.”

“Chicken.” The car came to a complete stop and he reached for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. It was amazing how his touch still sent tiny shivers running down my back. Liam had spent the last few months making my toes curl from pleasure every opportunity he got, so it made sense that even the slight touch of his hand would get me excited. “We’ve been driving for fifteen hours, I’d love to lie down in a warm bed, preferably with you.”

“Fat chance that will happen with Tara around.” I tugged my hand free and crossed my arms.

“Leave your mum to me.”

“That sounds promising,” I said. “Poison? Cut her brake lines?”

Liam shook his head. “Worse. I’m going to win her over with my irresistible charm.”

I couldn’t quite swallow back a snort at this. “You are, huh?”

“It worked on you.”

“I have a heart,” I reminded him, “and warm blood pumping through my veins. How is your charm on reptiles and other cold-blooded animals?”

“I feel like my plan will work better if you try a little harder yourself,” Liam said in a soft voice.

“Don’t use I-statements on me, Mr. McAvoy.”

“A little interpersonal communication might be exactly what you and your mum need,” he said with a shrug.

“I could have dragged Professor Markson to be our personal relationship coach and gotten nowhere with Tara. Some things are a lost cause.”

Liam laughed at this.

“What’s so funny?” I demanded, punching him lightly on the arm.

“You sounded like a girl I used to know. She liked to tell me she was a lost cause, too.” Liam leaned over the center console until his lips were temptingly close. “Good thing I didn’t listen to her.”

“Maybe she was right,” I said quietly. Now that we were here on the verge of spending a whole week with my parents in separate bedrooms, my recently discovered faith in myself—and us—was failing me.

“Stop,” Liam ordered, taking hold of my chin so that I was forced to meet his blue eyes. “Nobody talks about my girlfriend that way.”

“I’ve known her longer than you,” I reminded him, trying to sound cool as I fought the tears rising in my throat.

“Well, I know things about her that you couldn’t possibly know.”

“So that makes you the Jillian Nichols expert?” I said. “What do you know that I don’t know?”

“I know that there’s a freckle on the crease of your inner right thigh that makes you moan when I kiss it.”

Liam kissing me anywhere down there had that effect on me, but he was right, I didn’t know that he had a particularly mark he concentrated on.

“I know that your cheeks get rosy when you sleep.”

I had to admit that I had never seen myself sleep.

“And I know that you are the bravest, smartest, most beautiful woman in at least two continents,” he said.

“Only two?”

“The ones I’ve been on,” he said with a wink. “Although I’m willing to bet that I could travel the entire world and never find anyone as amazing as you.”

“Is this the charm you plan to use on my Tara?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“It might work,” I admitted.

Liam grinned as he drew my mouth to his, kissing me softly on the lips before he turned his attention back to the steering wheel.

“Maybe you should kiss me one more time,” I said as he started to put the car in drive, adding, “for courage.”

And also because I wasn’t likely to get him alone with me for more than five seconds this week. Tara would be on constant patrol. After the bathroom break Liam and I had taken during parents’ weekend, she’d already made it clear that she saw the two of us a ticking sex bomb. What she didn’t realize was that the longer she came between us, the more apt that description was likely to prove.

Liam obliged my request but this time his kiss wasn’t soft. It was urgent as if he suspected it might be our last for a while. I deepened it, inviting his tongue to explore my mouth. Within seconds I was squirming in my seat, trying to wiggle free of my seatbelt to get closer to him.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Liam whispered against my lips.

“It’s a good way to go.”

I leaned in to kiss him again when I was jolted back against my seat. Liam’s hand slammed into my stomach as though he could push me farther back, but the danger was past. The car, however, was in a ditch.

“My foot slipped off the brake,” he murmured, turning his blue eyes to me. They were wide with embarrassment.

“I was the one who told you to drive off the cliff,” I reminded him.

“I guess we know who wears the pants in this relationship,” he said as he unbuckled and reached over to rub my neck.

“Because you wear the kilts,” I said. “Or, at least, you keep telling me that you do.”

“Getting Jess’s Camry out of the ditch with a kilt on would be interesting, but I have to admit I’m glad I’m wearing blue jeans.”

“I can’t say that I am. A kilt might calm me down. My heart is still racing.” I fanned myself dramatically.

“I promise that seeing me in a kilt would do nothing to calm you down.” He winked at me as he got out of the car to inspect the situation.

Before I could even open my door he was there to make sure I got out safely. Knowing absolutely nothing about cars all I knew was that it was wedged somehow in a sandy, gravel-like substance. I could already tell I was going to be little use in getting it out. Fortunately—or rather unfortunately—both my parents were already running up the drive.

“What on earth happened?” Tara shouted.

“Good to see you, too,” I said under my breath, bracing myself for an awkward hug from my mother.

My Dad began inspecting the situation immediately without question. Within seconds he and Liam were wrapped up in plots to get it out of the ditch, which left me to contend with Tara who had bypassed the awkward hug altogether and gone straight to making judgmental commentary on the sidelines.

“Merry Christmas, Mom.” I managed to make the greeting sound nearly sincere, but she cocked her eyebrow anyway.

“Don’t take that tone with me.”

“What tone?” I asked, planting my hands on my hips. “The jovial-spirit-of-the-holidays tone?”

“It’s the same every year,” Tara said with a sigh. “I don’t know why I asked you to come back at all. It’s obvious you don’t want to be here.”

“Careful or your going to get visited by the ghosts of Christmas past.”

“Perhaps, he’ll come for both of us,” she said.

I bit back the numerous responses crowding my mouth. I wasn’t going to win this one with Tara, and the longer that things stayed civil the better. Four adults under one roof, two of which were going to be suffering from involuntary celibacy, was bound to cause some stress.

“I think we just need to get the wheels turned the right direction and you can back up,” Dad told me, attempting a half hug that I accepted gratefully.

“I still want to know how you wound up in that ditch,” Tara said. “Were you two fooling around?”

This time I couldn’t hold back. “I’m not sure. I had my head in his lap.”

“Jillian!”

“It was a joke, Mrs. Nichols,” Liam assured her, casting a warning glare in my direction. “I missed your house and I thought I could turn around.”

“Maybe they don’t have ditches in Scotland,” Tara huffed. I noted with pride that her cheeks were a bit pink as she said it.

“Why don’t you girls head inside?” Dad suggested. “Liam and I can take care of this.”

“But my bags are in there,” I said, holding on to the hope that the fragile excuse would prevent what was sure to be an excruciating half an hour alone with Tara.

“We can handle that. Go inside and get warm.”

It was a balmy sixty-some-odd degrees outside and after a month of grey skies and cold wind on the Puget Sound, being outdoors in California was like heaven. But I knew better than to press my luck further, so I followed Tara inside.

My house—or rather my parents’ house—looked primed for a magazine shoot with the ten-foot tall straight off Pottery Barn Christmas tree in the living room. Tara changed it each year, buying all new ornaments and lighting. I suspected that the second she waltzed into whatever high-end home decor store she frequented on November 30th, sales associates high-fived each other. No expense was spared to create the ideal holiday setting for the Nichols house, but it was only an illusion just like the rest of the house. Each room here was finished by professional decorators to look polished and welcoming, but I’d never felt at home here. From a young age I’d been taught not to touch the beautiful crystal vase on the table in the foyer. Tara had made it clear that grubby, little fingers weren’t welcome on her oak dining table. If we’d had a maid, I would probably have been sent to the kitchen to eat with her. Even now my mother made it a point to remind me of proper table etiquette whenever she could.

The house was Tara’s domain. It was one of the few places Dad allowed her to use her money as she saw fit. Possibly because she would have lost her shit a long time ago if he hadn’t given her an inch on something. Dad’s salary didn’t match up with her inheritance, so he’d forced her to tone down her lifestyle when they got married. The house being his one real concession. Right now in the three car garage sat two ten year-old semi-luxury cars. They’d joined a country club, but he wouldn’t buy a boat. I think it was his way of attempting to ground her in the reality that ninety-nine percent of us lived in. Looking around the house, I couldn’t say that it had worked.

“I have the second guest room ready for Liam.” Tara led the way through the front rooms and into the kitchen.

“I don’t see why we have to sleep in separate rooms,” I grumbled as I dropped into a chair in the breakfast nook.

“Because you aren’t married.”

“I thought you were against me marrying him.” I was treading dangerous ground, but I couldn’t help being annoyed at how hypocritical she was being.

“One doesn’t get married so she can shack up at her parent’s house.” She nodded at me as though this was a profound statement certain to change my perception forever.

“Oh, I know. I’ve thought a lot about it.” I let this declaration hang out there, knowing it would drive her crazy.

Tara offered me a glass of wine which I took gratefully. She stared at me for a long moment before clearing her throat. “How is he handling your condition?”

“You mean how is he handling my Parkinson’s? About the same as I am. It’s a pain in the ass some of the time, but most of the time, I don’t really think about it.” It was all lies, and if Tara knew me at all she would know that but she didn’t. Ever since Liam had found out about my Parkinson’s, he’d been treated me like glass. I’d had to resort to demands and near violence a few times, but he’d lightened up a little. I understood that he was just being protective, but it was frustrating, too.

Tara took a labored sip from her wine glass before she answered. “I’m glad.”

She wasn’t, but I appreciated the effort.

“So about the separate bedroom thing.” I figured I might as well try again.

“When there’s a ring on your finger.” There was a finality in her tone that felt almost funereal. Of course, the thought of me getting married was worse than death to her.

Which is why I couldn’t resist one last parting shot as I jumped up from my chair to go check on the boys. “Maybe next year.”

***

Two days later no one was dead. This was an accomplishment given that Tara’s helpful advice had turned into a constant running commentary on my life. She suggested I change my hair, exercise more, stress out less, eat more protein, and then there were the comments about Liam. At some point, she had decided he was Irish, which did nothing to ingratiate her to him. But still Liam managed to stay as polite and thoughtful as he always was. I, on the other hand, was on the verge of freaking out and no amount of interpersonal communications expertise was helping. Tara took I statements as an invitation to comment on my beliefs and opinions.

And worst of all, she’d held good on her celibacy demand. Liam and I had barely had a chance to kiss since we got here, and I’d gotten desperate enough that I woke up early, hoping to catch him in the shower. My dad and Liam’s rapport had only grown after the car incident. The two had taken to waking up early and walking down to the beach. It killed me that my dad was having romantic alone time with my boyfriend while I got stuck with my mom.

I knocked as lightly on the door as possible to avoid anyone else in the house overhearing, although I was fairly certain that Tara had installed security cameras while I was away at Olympic State. It was simply impossible that she could always know exactly where I was.

The door cracked open and Liam peeked through.

“Tell me you’re naked,” I whispered, shoving the door open further so I could slip in.

“Unfortunately…” His eyebrow shot up when he saw me in my boy shorts and tank top.

He was thankfully close to naked, clad only in boxer briefs that hugged him in all the right places. I couldn’t help but admire his muscular thighs or how the waistband dipped low enough for me to spy the chiseled v that I’d been fantasizing about for days.

“I’m going crazy,” I said, running a finger down his chest and tracing the ridges of his beautiful six-pack.

“Your mother has been trying.”