gratin (n): A top crust consisting of bread crumbs or grated cheese mixed with butter and browned in the oven.
[here, gratin dauphinois is a gratin with potatoes]
>>><<<
"LADIES, GENTLEMEN, FIRST AND FOREMOST, HAPPY NEW YEAR!" My father bellowed.
I softened at the sight of him center stage. Like every year, he had this presence, this authoritative stature that commanded attention effortlessly.
I had always wished to be as confident as him. I had always been closer to him than my mother. I had always looked up to him, asked him for guidance and put all my trust in him. It had honestly been difficult to look at him now when all I could think about was how he was forcing us into marriage.
My eyes stung, but I ignored them until I put on the facade. Crossing my ankles together, I calmed myself down.
All of the people present were about to listen to my father announcing his retirement.
"To start this New Year, it is important to look and celebrate the year that has truly flown by. We've opened our doors to more than 1 million guests, whether be business moguls seeking a quick night's rest, or just-married honeymooners, we've tried our best to be dedicated, thoughtful and conscious and welcoming. We've achieved this despite the challenges in our ever-changing world, and I thank you all for you for your hard work."
My father beamed at the amount of applause he was getting, and I couldn't help but smile at his warm grin and clap along with the other guests.
"However, it is time to look forward to our new year. To see where we can improve, what we can achieve to be even better. 'The measure of intelligence is the ability to change', said Albert Einstein. And that is why, dear friends, we must change too. It has been a pleasure and a gift to share this journey with you all. And truly, I am saddened to say this," my father paused, voice thickening with emotion.
The audience was hanging on to his every word, mesmerized as always, but shock seemed to be common on people's faces.
"I'm retiring, after creating this company, watching it grow, and flourish. It is important to stay positive, on the right path and to stay strong-willed during hard times. I leave my life's work in my daughter's very capable hands. Thank you."
His speech was greeted with roaring applause and I saw a few tears being shed.
"Nice speech, dad," I smiled up at him sincerely, later that afternoon, when he wasn't surrounded by flocks of people.
"Thank you, darling," seeming shocked that I was talking to him. I remarked how tired he looked up close. I had always known him with graying hair, but now it was completely white. I knew that his wrinkles have deepened, and despite his good looks, my mother said, he truly has aged.
"Congratulations, Ms. Greyson," peeped a gravelly voice, startling me slightly. Robert Gallagher, a board member, looked up at me. He sported a friendly smile like always, chubby cheeks always tinged with red, and a beer belly even though he liked to claim that champagne was all he drank.
"Thank you, Mr. Gallagher," I politely answered him.
"I hear you're getting married soon, eh?" He jabed my side playfully, with a wink. I swallowed the urge to grimace at him, but smile tightly instead.
"I am, yes," I answered.
I could feel my father's gaze boring holes into my cashmere sweater, and I resisted the urge to brush my sweaty palms on my crisp dress pants. Instead, I sipped my champagne, politely answering his questions.
There was no doubt our conversation will be broadcasted to all of his team in Chicago, because he had had a chance to converse with the heads of the company. I disliked the fact that's he was only congratulating me on my engagement, rather than the fact that I had just become the heiress of an empire.
Then again, judging from the thin woman standing next to him, Mr. Gallagher was somewhat of a prick.
"Congratulations again! Have you set a date yet?" He asked enthusiastically, clumsily fishing his pockets for a handkerchief. I tried not to wrinkle my nose at the sight of his, bright red and slightly runny.
"Not yet, no, but we have an appointment with our wedding planner in three days," I revealed, willing this conversation to end soon.
"Well, I'm sure it'll be wonderful," he patted my back gently, before looking back to my father. "It's been lovely talking to you, Ms. Greyson. I wish you all the best on for your wedding."
"The pleasure's all mine," I politely answered, before my father took over and I discreetly escaped.
The next few hours were a blur. I shook hands and talked to so many different people that I hardly remembered their names, but I did enjoy talking to the head of Japan's branch's wife, Fumi, who was seated next to me during lunch.
When I finally settled down on my hotel room's couch, it was already five, and I was exhausted. Unceremoniously, I kick off my heels, took down my French twist, unclasp my bra, before shaking my hair loose.
I decided to order in and ran myself a sweet-swelling bath, and realized that I should probably ask Edith to join me for dinner. The poor girl had been working non-stop, and I couldn't help but think she needed a breather just as much as I did.
It was strange to think I was considering this now, when months before, the idea wouldn't even have occurred to me. Instead of repressing my emotions constantly, I now tried to listen to them and allowed myself to feel more.
The weight on my shoulders felt lighter, and Edith helped me delegate, to distribute the workload instead of handling it myself. My head didn't feel as clouded and bursting with unspoken thoughts as it used to, and I, without a doubt, attributed this to my therapist.
I didn't want to see one people saw in movies, where you lied down for an hour, and told your thoughts to someone that didn't care about them and doodles in a notepad instead.
Sheridan had all sorts of things in her "office", which included a kitchen, yoga balls, mats, a bed, pillows you can scream into, art supplies, and even a bracelet-making station. She liked to tell me that she was always evolving.
Last time, we baked cookies while talking about ways to not keep everything inside. I told her about the Incident spread - eagle on a futon mat.
She didn't allow me to wallow in self-pity, but somehow, asked me questions that help me understand myself better.
She was like a common-sense filter in a way, finding loopholes for difficult situations. I told her I didn't like looking at people in the eyes, and she told me to look between their eyebrows, instead. (It worked.) And she really liked Lucca, too.
The water felt nice on my skin, and I shut my eyes, breathing in the soothing smell of lavender. Glancing at my fingers, I saw that they had practically become prunes.
When I was little and took baths with Daphne, she used to tell me that my whole body would turn into a prune if I stayed in the bath for too long. Of course, being four and a half, I believed her every word and still now, as if she was still here, I glanced at my fingers ever so often, not wanting to turn into a wrinkled fruit.
Edith answered on the third ring, her voice deeper than usual and with occasional sniffles.
"Ms. G-"
"Okay, either you have a cold, or you've been crying," I interrupted, concerned. "But I know you don't have a cold."
Edith was like a loyal soldier, always hardworking, never complaining.
I had never heard her talk about her personal life before, since she was always making efforts to be more professional.
"It's nothing, Ms. G," she bravely answered, "don't worry about me. I'm a big girl, I can handle it. Did you need anything?"
"I know you can, I couldn't be worried less than you can, but I'm in my pajamas, and I was wondering if you wanted to come for a bit? I've got plenty of room."
"I-"
"You don't have to," I immediately assured her, feeling guilty that I, as her employer, might be using my power on her.
"That sounds nice, actually," she said quietly.
"Great! See you in a bit."
She made her appearance in a plush robe, with bright green socks, hotel slippers and still puffy, red-rimmed eyes.
Her shoulder-length hair resembled a curtain of spaghetti strands, and she smiled sheepishly when I let her in, grinning wide.
"Welcome to my modest abode," I teased, closing the door behind me.
"I ordered some French wine, I hope you want some," I winked, urging her to follow me as she awkwardly stood near the door.
"That would be great, thank you," she said with a nervous laugh.
We settled on the vast array of couches, all following a cream-white color scheme.
"Tell me everything."
And so she did, and by the end of it I learned that independent, hard-working Edith was, or had been, rather, in a tumultuous relationship with a misogynistic cheater.
She had held in the desire to kick him out numerous times, but he had something about him, she told me, he'd just say sweet words and expect her to come running back to him, which she did. But when I had called, she had been on the phone with her best friend, Thomas, who informed her Stanislas had cheated on her, again.
"I just don't understand how I wasted three years of my life with him," Edith kept saying, gesturing wildly, like I learned she did when she had had a drink.
"You're free now," I pointed out, amused at her gestures. I liked how comfortable I felt in her presence, despite not doubting that this is partly due to the wine.
"That's the thing, I'm actually not. The apartment we moved in together was partially paid by his parents, who obsessively are a big part of Stan's life, and I have to get a new one, to be freed of him forever, or so to say. The thing is, I've been saving for it for a while now, but I'm not quite there yet, despite you paying me way more what we'd initially agreed on. But now that this has happened once again, I can't bear to stay with him any longer."
"Have mine, then," I promptly offered.
Her eyes widened significantly at my words, but she was already shaking her head.
"I can't accept it, Ms. G."
"Yes, you can. It's not that difficult, actually. I lease it to you, since I recently bought the building. Although, nobody knows that, except my finances advisor, so I'd rather you not tell everyone, but you can stay in it for sure."
"Really?"
The girl looked like had given her the moon, I realized, endeared. I had just gotten her out of a perhaps dangerous situation, and that made me feel fuller than I could have ever imagined.
"Yes," I said, acting exasperated.
"Thank you so much! You do not know how much this is quite literally saving my life,"
And with that, she promptly hugged me, tears wetting my bathrobe.
>>><<<<
He found her asleep on their grey couch, curled up inside a thick blanket, when he returned home that afternoon. Lucca smiled, setting down brown bags upon brown bags of groceries.
Camellia sighed softly, and Lucca's heart squeezed despite himself as he tried not to close the door too loudly behind him. It seemed like she was still fully dressed under the covers, if the heels beside the couch were an indication.
They did get along better now, despite their heated kiss before she left for DC. Their conversations were warmer, but they both kept a friendly distance from each other. They held each other's hands in public but that was it.
Occasionally, he'd kiss her forehead, but they still laughed and joked around quite often, no effort needed. There were silences too, but comfortable silences, where one was content not needing to fill the blanks.
But he was reluctant to face her after she had just come back, the memory of her in his arms burning through his mind. He didn't know what to think anymore.
We should keep it professional?
What did that even mean?
His phone vibrated in his back pockets as he was storing the brown sugar up a higher shelf, and Lucca worriedly glanced at the sleeping form that stirred without waking up.
It was Nicholas, asking if they could come over for dinner the next evening. His mind buzzed, but he couldn't give him a straight answer, so he pocketed the device before returning to his groceries.
After a warm shower, scalding to some, relaxing to him, Lucca made his way back to the kitchen, a cookbook in his right hand, causing him to curse when he stubbed his toe against the island.
An ear bud in each ear, he involuntarily danced to the music, stirring the sauce and adding spice punctually. Tonight, he was making a Gratin Dauphinois, which was simply potatoes with heavy cream and cheese, with a side of spinach and some Bordeaux, an excellent red wine.
"Un besito bien suavecito, bebé, Taki taki, Taki taki," he murmured, couldn't quite believing that he too, had fallen to the trendy and obnoxious rhythm.
"I didn't know you still spoke Spanish," Camellia grinned, grabbing his earphones and making a face when she heard the song.
"Hey," he greeted, grinning, putting aside his spatula. "Well, I did take all those Spanish lessons with didn't I?"
She was enthralling, the proximity of his presence rendering him... warmer. He hadn't even seen her yet, simply felt her behind him.
"Bonsoir," she exhaled, kissing both of his cheeks the French way, leaving him quite dumbfounded. "You did, but it's always been much better than mine."
Her compliment surprised him, and he winked at her suggestively before she shoved him with a laugh.
Lucca was right. She still wore her office clothes, which was a knee length, form-fitting dress blue dress that showed a peek of cleavage.
Surprisingly, her hair was down today, light, and fluffy with beautiful curls. It suited her the best.
"Sorry," Camellia hid her laughter behind dainty hands. "The French team was here to the discuss stuff with us today. I didn't realize."
"So many customs," he complained, "You speak like, five languages fluently. I'm only good at Spanish, maybe Italian and English."
"You speak Italian with the accent and everything," she shot back.
"¡Desde luego!" he chuckled lightly; shifting his weight onto the other foot.
"What's for dinner?" was her next question.
She widened her eyes when he told her, admiration painting onto her features.
"You still have time to take a shower though," he assured her. "The gratin's will be ready in twenty minutes or so."
She gave him a tired smile, and made a move to kiss his cheek.
"That seems nice. I'll go take that shower now, since I stink so bad," she winked at him, glancing at him over her shoulder.
"That's not what I-"
But she was already off, swaying her hips with her suitcase trailing behind her, and her heels from the other hand. Lucca shook his head, feeling heat blossoming from the nape of his neck to his cheeks. Of course, it was due to the feel of her lips on his skin, a reaction he never seemed to control.
Her laugh rang in the corridor and he couldn't help, despite his embarrassment, but smile.
>>>><<<<<
"I have a question," Camellia stated later that evening, interrupting the amicable silence that was passing between them.
Lucca perked up, nicely mellowed down from the wine.
It was nice to see her eating this well, without complaining and with unexpected praise towards his cooking. It had been an unspoken rule between them that Camellia could in no way go near the kitchen. Well, not completely. She was good at making cocktails and at ordering in.
"Ask away," he allowed, running a hand through his dishevelled curls. Even as he averted his eyes from hers, he could feel hers boring holes through him.
"Who's Daisy?"
He froze, his mouth falling open.
Nothing could have prepared him from this question. She was looking at him curiously now, not knowing for a second who that whirlwind of a woman was. It felt strange, discussing her with her, especially since he had feelings for her. He didn't even know if those were gone.
Lucca cleared his throat, trying to words through.
"Why?" He inquired instead.
"You mentioned her in your sleep that night when we were back from the hospital," Camellia answered, concerned.
"Daisy was...Her name was Daisy. But she was the opposite. She was calm and collected, sure, but she always pushed herself to the extreme. We broke up five times because ninety percent of the time she was a pain in the ass. She had short, cropped hair with blue streaks and brunette locks. She was fun. And funny. And never had a dollar in her pocket."
He paused, trying to get the words right.
"It killed her in the end. She had stage IV lung cancer and she didn't want to tell me because then I'd offer to pay for it. I was still studying by then. "
"She called me before she passed away. She was weak, and I ran to the hospital because for once, the first time in weeks, I'd gone out to buy her some green tea. Her favorite, because I knew it was almost the end. I knew she was going to leave, and soon. She left quietly, unlike she had done for the majority of her life, without me, without anyone, with a smile on her pale face. I just wanted to say goodbye, you know?"
"I'm so sorry, Lucca." Camellia uttered, shocked.
His voice broke, and he hated it, he hated it. It had been two years, 24 months, 731 days, and his voice was still breaking over the girl with the blue hair.
She was a welcome distraction that came with loving you, he wanted to tell her.
"Yeah. But I'm okay now, I just..." he trailed away, focusing on her now.
She was sprawled across the couch, her legs seemingly endless with bright pink pajama shorts. Also, Camellia was clearly not wearing a bra underneath that lacy camisole, and was not oblivious to the discomfort it was causing him.
Lucca breathed out, his mind a mess.
"I think you guys would have gotten along," he simply answered.
"Why, because we're both self-destructive?"
"I was going to say that you both have head strong personalities," Lucca peered at her cautiously.
"Mmm," she mumbled.
There was a pregnant pause. Unexpected, yet again.
"And how was DC?"
"Freezing and emotional."
"Why?"
"Edith's boyfriend is a cheating bastard. She broke down in front of me. It's the first time I've seen that many emotions on her face."
"Oh," Lucca said. "I see."
"How was your time alone?" she asked coyly.
"Satisfying," he answered with a wink. Camellia groaned and he swiftly dodged the pillow she threw.
"You're gross."
He simply wiggled his eyebrows at her, quite obnoxiously, before yawning and stretching. Lucca didn't miss her lingering gaze of the exposed skin of his torso.
"No, it was incredibly busy. I've been designing a new project that I hopefully will be able to talk about soon," he said conspiratorially. "But in the meantime, I'm off to bed, sweet cheeks," he announced, rising from the couch.
She rolled her eyes at the endearment but wished him goodnight, jumping a little when he lowered his mouth to kiss her cheek.
"Still not falling for that!" She called after him.
>>>>><<<<<
"What are you doing here?" Lucca's sleepy interrupted my tv show, much, much later in the evening and I rubbed my eyes, startled.
He yawned again, and closed his own as he stretched. Last time he did, he was still wearing a shirt, but now shadows are all that cover him as I took in his defined arms and shoulders, and taunt abdominal muscles, and the dusty blond happy trail down his low-hung boxers.
"Nice boxers," was all I answer, not wanting to answer the question. He already knew why I was here, but he simply wants another opportunity to lecture me.
"Camellia, answer the fucking question," he mumbled, ruffling his hair.
"I can't sleep, you know this."
"Why?" He asked intelligently, his blonde curls now sticking in every direction.
To him, sleeping was the easiest thing in the world. To me, it was a –
"Nightmares."
I gripped my mug tighter despite myself, shudders rippling through my skin.
"You know, watching Grey's Anatomy probably isn't going to help."
Lucca's voice sounded distant but amused, despite the hoarseness of it.
I shrugged noncommittally.
Suddenly, I felt my earphones being unceremoniously yanked out of my ears.
"Hey-" And even more suddenly, I was looking at Lucca's behind, smoothly moving in red-and-white checkered boxers, from upside-down.
"Lucca, put me down!" I hissed. "It's too damn late for this-"
He put me down on his bed like a sack of potatoes, and I groaned.
"What the-"
"Shush," he urged me, pressing a finger to my lips. "Sleep, alright? I got you. Nothing's gonna happen."
"I don't appreciate being manhandled," I told him.
"Camellia. Just sleep."
With a huff, I lowered myself into the covers that smell of nothing but him. I inhaled his musky scent that combines pine trees and cinnamon.
He turned off the lights with a satisfied sigh, and brings the covers upwards, turning on his side.
"Do they ever vary, or are they the same?" He asked in a murmur.
"Huh?"
"The nightmares," Lucca clarified, his voice the only sound in the dark room. Heat emanated from him and from how close we were, I could feel my cheeks warming up.
"Are they always the same?"
After a silence where I pondered on my thoughts, I answered him as honestly as I could.
"Same theme, same darkness, with variations of characters during the play."
"Really?"
"Yes. People I care about are usually in there, not necessarily during the main event, but before. Violence is usually there too."
He said nothing and I breathed, sudden exhaustion weighing upon my shoulders.
"It's a lot of people watching me but them being not being able to do anything about it."
"Will it help if you sleep with someone?" He finally asked, his voice still low and quiet.
"Like, sleep sleep or have intercourse?"
"Sleep sleep."
"I don't know."
But I did know. Every time I had slept with him so far, the images had either lessened, or just weren't there. I couldn't tell him that though, because he specifically said we should keep this professional and he was right.
This could only last a year, because while I had trouble just handling friendship, romantic relationships I could guarantee I would ruin.
He fell asleep first, rhythmic breaths escaping his lips, but eventually I couldn't keep my heavy lids from closing.
And when they did his arms were around me, a safety net I would gladly fall into.