**
I expected to regain my composure when I got into my apartment. Well, I can confess without shame that I did the opposite of that.
Pedro ran to me and knew something was wrong—I had just found out that my real mother is somewhere out in the world, so it's without guilt that I would be in the wrong element. I gave Pedro some TLC before going to my kitchen to pour myself a glass of wine.
"No," I mumbled, slowly setting the bottle back down on the counter. "I've already drank too much tonight."
Instead, I went into my living room and turned on my TV and went through my DVR until I found an episode of Say Yes to the Dress already pre-recorded. Pedro sat by my side as I started the episode, but I couldn't focus. Relaxation should have been the priority; I act irrationally when I'm stressed. My hand tightened around the remote until I couldn't handle the pressure. I shot up and got my laptop from the dining room table.
"Jamie McLelland," I typed into google. Of course, the millions of search results weren't going to help me. I didn't even know what she looked like. Do I look like her? Does she even have a Facebook? Does she still live in Scotland?
I sifted through google results for an hour, missing the entire Say Yes to the Dress episode and pissing Pedro off since I was compromising his "me" time. I didn't know who I was looking for, but something in me told me that I wasn't finding anything. I gave up on the one-hundredth or so social media profile and thought it would be a good idea to call my father without a warning or heads up on his end. I doubt my mother told him that I found out who Jamie was.
"Hello?" he picked up. He didn't sound tired or groggy, so I assumed that I didn't wake him up.
"Dad," I said. I didn't say anything else; I didn't know what to say next.
"Sweetheart." I felt his smile through the phone. "What's up? Is something troubling you?"
"Um, no," I ran my fingers across the couch fabric. "Actually, I...yes. Something is."
And then I rambled on like a preacher, telling him everything I knew about Jamie and everything my mother told me. He didn't say anything until I was finished; it took three minutes for me to stop talking and start crying again. I tried to hold my tears in but they spilled out regardless.
"Christ," is all he replied, breathing it out like he was holding it in for as long as I spoke. There was a static-sound shortly after; he was rubbing his beard, for sure. My dad always rubbed his beard when he was stressed. Always.
"Is it true?" I asked him. He sighed again, and I expected him to at least lie about it. But him admitting it so openly hit me harder than him lying to my face.
"Honey, this...this wasn't something I wanted to tell you over the phone," my father said. "I...I didn't...there's much m—"
"—more to this than I understand?" I finished for him.
"Aye," he responded after a stretch of silence. I didn't know what to say after that. We just sat in quiet for a while, listening to each other breathe, afraid that the next words would destroy everything further.
"Leslie—"
"I need to go," I blurted out before hanging up. Not because I didn't want to hear his voice, but because I felt an anxiety attack coming on, and talking about the subject would only make it worse. As my lungs squeezed in my chest and my limbs turned into Jell-O, I rushed to the shower, stripped off my clothes and stood underneath the ice-cold water, letting it run through my hair as I locked myself in this chamber, surrounded in these thoughts and notions and ideas that controlled me and my sanity. I didn't know what to do, really. I didn't know who to turn to, either.
When I got out, I tied my hair up into a bun and slipped into some comfortable clothes—sweat pants and a very large t-shirt. It's quite unlike me to wear pajamas that don't match.
My dad had called numerous times while I was in the shower—eighteen times, to be exact, plus two voicemails. I texted him, telling him not to worry and that I would talk to him tomorrow; that I needed some time to think. But I know my dad—he's going to worry. A lot. I feel bad for making him worry.
I started another episode of Say Yes to the Dress (even though I missed the last episode completely), but called Beth instead of paying attention to the first two minutes. I had hoped that my best friend would be available for a virtual shoulder to cry on, but when she answered, it was clear that she was busy enjoying her night with her other friends.
"I'll call you later," I said. I was selfish to think that she was going to drop everything and ask what was wrong, but she didn't.
"Okay!" she exclaimed before hanging up. I tried Paul next, but he was doing the same thing—busy with his other friends. He was a little different, though. He offered to take a minute out for me to talk to him. But I didn't want to compromise his night by cramming so much information into a one-minute long confessional.
I thought about calling Alejandro, but I decided against it. I had given him the impression that I was fine—fine enough to agree to Spain. But I wasn't. Far from. And the last idea I had in mind while being far from fine was to call 'him'—Sebastian.
"This is Sebastian Harrison," his voicemail announced. Thank God, he changed it from the last voicemail. "Sorry I'm unable to take your call at the moment, but if you leave me a message with your name and number, I will get back to you as soon as possible."
He said the number of his secretary and assistants as well before the beep sounded off, and like an idiot, I talked into the phone like he would answer back:
"Hey, Sebastian. Um, I-I know this is crazy. It's late, and I shouldn't be calling you about something like this. But I...I really need someone to talk to about this, and surprisingly, I chose you. Funny. Out of my very few friends, you're the only friend that I want to talk to about this. Anyway, call me back after you—"
Fuck, what was I thinking? Sebastian has much better things to do than answer my sappy, depressed call for help.
"You know what?" I retract. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called. Forget I even sent this. I'm so sorry."
I hung up and threw my phone on the other end of the couch. And as of now, I'm sitting on my couch, knees to my chest, staring out of the window with this empty look on my face. I don't know what to feel and I don't know who to call or talk to; no one is there for me the way I need them to be, and it makes me feel awful, being so expectant of others to drop what they're doing to help me.
I'm more like my mother—Francesca—than I'd like to admit, then.
**
About a half-hour later, my buzzer rings.
I'm not expecting anyone tonight. Or am I? A part of me thinks that it's Alejandro coming back for some odd, fictionally-driven reason in my mind. With high hopes it's indeed him, I get up and answer it.
"Hello?" I say into the intercom.
"Leslie. It's Sebastian."
My heart stops for a moment, then starts beating so fast I can hear it through my ears. Fuck, he actually came? That means he must have heard my embarrassing voicemail. God dammit!
"Oh," I reply. "I...I didn't know that you'd be coming by I...hold on."
Of course, I let him up. I'm not in the state I wanted to be in to see Sebastian, but as of now I have no choice. No matter what, I'm not telling him about the Jamie-drama. That isn't something that he needs to know about, because I feel like he'd worry. I don't want him to worry about me; I'm not someone he needs to care about like that. At least not anymore.
The moments leading up to his arrival are fucking agonizing. I pace around my apartment and think of what lie I'm going to tell him to explain the voicemail, but nothing comes to mind. Maybe it's because I know he'll see right through me and my stupid attempts at fibbing.
Three soft knock on my door send me over the edge. Pedro starts running off from the couch and begins barking until I tell him to be quiet. I take a few deep breaths, make sure my eyes aren't too puffy in my hall mirror, and then finally open the door. And sure enough it's Sebastian, leaning against the door frame with this apprehensive look on his face. He looks down at me, then looks even lower to my feet—at my socks.
"Butterflies?" is the first thing he says.
I shrug, smiling weakly. "I didn't pay too much attention to my socks when I picked them out."
I invite him inside. He walks into my apartment and looks around with those quizzical green eyes like he's waiting for danger to come out of the shadows. I apologize profusely for the voicemail, but he interrupts me midway.
"Did something happen? What's wrong?"
"Nothing." I shake my head, suddenly feeling self-conscious in my less-than-formal attire. "I shouldn't have sent you that voicemail."
"You sent it for a reason." He walks towards me, but I back away, not wanting him to see me so 'organic;' I don't like being so bare-faced. "It worried me, Leslie. Shit, I still am worried, I mean...come on? Talk to me."
"You don't need to worry about me, Sebastian. I already said that it was a mistake."
I can see it on his face—my secrecy is making him upset, only because he sees right through my façade but isn't able to hear any admittance from my end. And truthfully, I want to tell him; the fact that he took it upon himself to actually come to my apartment and check up on me is shocking. But, what good would telling him about my problems bring me? We're all suffering, one way or another.
Right?
"Did you want some coffee?" I offer, going to my kitchen and starting up my coffee maker before he answers—I know how he likes his coffee, anyway. "I know it's late, but I need an excuse not to drink alcohol; guests usually compel me to pour a glass of wine."
I add in the roast I want but struggle with getting the coffee maker working; my fingers tremble with every type of contact I make. Over and over again, I press the wrong buttons, knock the carafe off the warming plate and even nearly knock the whole machine into the sink. I curse myself for being dysfunctional to the point of not being able to work a simple machine; a metaphor for my life and my family matters, really.
No matter how hard I try, I can't get it to work. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sebastian walking towards me; I'm determined to configure this stubborn piece of machinery before he feels obligated to assisted me in—
"Here. Let me help you."
He doesn't take the carafe from my grasp, but instead slides his fingers over my mine, engulfing my hand in his. The same butterflies on my socks start fluttering deep in my stomach at his touch. He helps me bring it to the warming plate, navigating my movements until the coffee maker is finally started. Dark roast falls into the glass container. We both wait silently for it to fill up, and once it does, Sebastian grabs two clean cups from the dishwasher and places them on the counter. I stare at him, speechless for only a second.
"You like extra creamer, right?" I buildup the energy to ask him.
He nods, smiling. "Yes, I do."
**
Remember when I said that I wasn't going to tell Sebastian everything? Well, I failed—I told him everything.
I didn't add in how I felt or how my emotional state was. I only gave him the facts—my father had sex with a woman, that woman gave birth to me, my step mother ruined my life because of my father's infidelity, and now, at twenty-seven years of age, I'm barely finding out that my biological mother is a woman I have never met. It takes Sebastian a moment to process everything. Our brews have been sipped until the last drop. I'm not sure how long we've been sitting at my dining room table, basking in the drama that is my family.
"Leslie, I'm so sorry," he says to me. I shake my head, but words won't come out. Sebastian drags a hand slowly down his face and thinks even harder before leveling his eyes with mine and keeping them there. I believe he's waiting for me to "crack"—to sob uncontrollably and release all of the pent-up anger and sadness I have in my heart. He looks worried that I'm so calm before him. In my defense, I did have my moments tonight that he didn't bear witness to.
"I think I'm handling it pretty alright," I say to him, lying tremendously. "I mean, yes it's hard, but it could be worse, right?"
"It's OK if you feel sad or lost because of something like this," Sebastian says. "It's normal."
"Normal." My life is the opposite. All I know is how to live on the other side of normal.
I rub my eyes; they're sore from crying earlier. "Alright, I'll admit that I do feel a little...betrayed. Lost. Confused. I have a lot of questions."
Fuck. There's that dreaded knot deep in my throat again. I don't want to cry in front of Sebastian. I get up and rush over to the kitchen sink to place our cups inside.
"What questions do you have?" Sebastian asks me. By now, he's out of his seat and standing next to me. Thankfully, he's giving me space. I look at the kitchen cabinets.
"I...I guess I just want to know about her," I say. "What she looks like. What she does. Does she still live in Scotland?" I laugh coldly. "If she's even still alive?"
My vision blurs in front of me. With my shirt sleeve, I soak up whatever tears are wheeling around in my eyes. I don't know what face Sebastian is making because I refuse to look at him this way.
"Why did she give me up?" I continue. "Could she not take care of me? Did she...did she not want me? Did she just take one look at me when I was a baby and decide that I wasn't good enough or something?"
"Hey," Sebastian says sternly, lightly grabs my arm. The graveness in his voice prompts me to look at him. "Don't say that. Leslie, anybody who's willing to give someone like you up is fucking crazy. Trust me..."
I wait with bated breath for what he's going to say next, but he doesn't say it. Instead, his hands rest firmly on my shoulders and draw me nearer to him. I feel the warm tears falling down my cheeks, my face expressionless as they fall one by one onto the kitchen floor.
"What I mean is," he starts over, "you are intelligent, and witty and you're sometimes insane in a very good way." Me laughing makes him laugh, ruining the severity of the moment. "You're beautiful, Leslie; you have a big heart that you'd give to anyone who needs it. Shit, I can't think of any reason why you wouldn't be 'good enough' for anyone. Whatever reason Jamie had for not being there for you, it wasn't because of you, alright?"
I guess it's fine to be vulnerable around Sebastian in a way that I fought against; I rest my forehead against his chest, tired and roped in by words that I don't deserve from him. We stand unsure against each other until Sebastian deems it appropriate to finally wrap his arms around me, tighter and tighter until it's like I'm sinking into his body. It feels good. Actually, who am I kidding? It feels fucking incredible.
The longer I'm held by him, the more I'm reminded of that feeling I'd experience when I was young, when my father would hold me and tell me that everything was going to be fine and that life would get easier. I never believed him, but if life is nice enough to throw in these soul-softening, pride-dampening, pain-thinning embraces once in a while, then I suppose I'm content with life not being as easy as I always dreamed it would be.
**
What'd you think? :)
-Hailey