LUNCH with my mother is a trying experience.
She's so much to handle at one time. She's overbearing and meddling. She's loud and the complete opposite of me, but I know she cares about me.
I didn't grow up with her, but we've gotten closer as the years went on.
I went to boarding school in Switzerland, meaning that I never actually lived with either of my parents for a long amount of time. They had divorced when I was little, so any time spent in the States was divided amongst them.
Carl lived in Washington, but never made me feel like I was obligated to visit him, which I rarely did. I loved him, but we never had anything to talk about. Now that he's dead, I kind of wish we spent more time together, but I can't change the past so I don't dwell on it. He left me most of his entire fortune from the software company he created years ago, which was a lot.
I've invested most of the money, but there was still a lot left for me to keep.
Renee is more of a free spirit. She's a painter now, and a rather famous one at that. She lives in New York mostly with her art dealer/husband, Andrew. I like him, but don't care enough to invest myself in their relationship.
I was always so mature for my age, even as a child. Growing up away from my parents only made me more independent, and I loved that about myself. I enjoyed going to school abroad and think it was a great experience for me, but I sometimes wish I could talk to my mother like other daughters did.
Renee and I are... detached, for lack of a better word. We don't fight, but I never really let her into my life enough for us to have any meaningful conversations.
Then again, I could barely spend an hour at lunch with her, so meaningful conversations might be a little too much for our relationship.
I drive home from the restaurant, looking at the surrounding Boston skyline.
I chose this city because it was somewhere I had always wanted to live. Not as big as New York, but still a lot of hustle and bustle. It's eclectic and young and vibrant. I needed that when I moved back here.
I thought about staying in Europe or the West coast, but I wanted to be closer to my family. It just felt like I was missing too much when I was away.
I also thought about going to college, but schooling in Europe was different than it is here. After high school, no one really goes off to a university to study right away. They take time off and think about their lives. They wait to see what they really want to do.
I was so confused as to why Carl kept pushing me to come back here for college, until I realized he was raised that way. High school, then college, then grad school, then work...for the rest of your life. One right after the other.
I didn't really want college right now. It wasn't in my immediate future either. I was smart. Really smart, or so my test scores said. Schooling would always be an option, but just not now.
With Carl's inheritance, I purchased a townhouse in the Beacon Hill area. The rich area. It was four floors and had high ceilings with crown molding that the realtor explained had been around since the Revolutionary War.
My neighbors were elderly women who had lived in their houses for years, their husbands dying off decades ago. When I introduced myself, they both told me that the neighborhood was filled with older people who could afford the payments.
They were trying to figure out how a girl of twenty-two, who probably looked younger, could afford a place nicer than theirs.
I didn't tell them that I paid for my house in full and was thinking about buying their properties as well once they died off. I just dropped my baked goods in their hands and told them to call if they needed anything.
I pull my car into the small driveway of my townhouse and then jump out.
Inside, I take off my heels and strip out of my clothes. I'm nearly naked by the time I get up two flights of stairs to my room. Boxes are still unpacked and clutter is filing the place up. Years of my life, scattered all around my new house.
I drop my clothes on the bed and then walk to the bathroom. I nearly collapse into my marble shower. Today has taken a lot out of me. Renee, for one. But Dr. Styles, as well. That man...What was his first name? Did he ever tell me?
I think about what it could be while I wash the day from my body.
My skin is slick with soap and I make a mental reminder to get a massage. Hands on my limbs feel good. Even if they're my own hands. I wish they were somebody else's. I don't let myself think about who exactly. Just somebody. Anybody. A man.
It's been too long.
I get out of the shower and dry myself off. The phone is ringing in the other room so I rush to get it, wrapping the towel around my body.
"Hello," I answer.
"Hi, Alyssa! How's Boston?" The voice of my step-sister Phoebe replies. She's Carl's second-wife's daughter from her first marriage, but has been my best friend for years.
"Hey," I sink into my therapeutic mattress, letting it swallow me whole, "I was wondering when you would call."
"Sean told me to let you get settled. But two weeks is far too long. I miss you," she whines.
I laugh at her antics. She's older than me, but has always been the young one in our relationship. "I miss you, too. I haven't even unpacked yet. The boxes keep piling up."
"I'll be there soon to help. We can make a party out of it."
"I can't wait." I roll my eyes.
"How are you doing... after Carl?" She whispers as if the subject is taboo.
"Phoebe, I'm fine. Stop worrying about me." It's the truth. I really don't feel too sad about his passing. I did six months ago, but not now.
"Okay, we'll discuss it later." She doesn't believe me.
She always thinks I'm hiding my feelings behind too many walls. She's wrong, but there's no convincing her otherwise.
We talk for an hour about mundane things; her husband Sean, work, fashion, movies. It's always the same, but I enjoy it.
I hang up and sigh.
It's still early in the afternoon, but I'm tired so I take a nap. I wake up a couple hours later and make a small salad for dinner. Then I sleep again.
I try to unpack as the days go on.
I wake up at seven on a Friday and put on yoga pants along with a t-shirt. I only dress this way when working out. I get in my car and make the short drive to the gym near my house.
It's upscale with homemakers and businessmen, exercising before the day. I run an hour on the treadmill and then stretch out my body on the yoga mats. I see a couple of men checking me out. It's exciting but I don't see any suitable prospects.
I drink a whole bottle of water on my way home and then race up the stairs for another shower.
I eat a granola bar as I dress. Today, I decide on a summery, pastel, floral print dress that flows down to my knees. It's cool and breezy, perfect for the day. I slip on cream colored heels and switch purses so that everything matches. My makeup is spotless and my hair is perfect. As always.
I'm out of the door and on my way into another part of the city. My mother has a couple of paintings at the Museum of Fine Arts, which I have yet to see. I promised I would go take a look before they take them down. Renee went back home last night, so I'm thankfully going alone.
It's only ten in the morning, but surprisingly crowded. Tourists and school trips seem to enjoy museums. I pull up to the front of the giant white stoned building where a valet takes my Range Rover and hands me a ticket slip.
I thank him and then climb the large stairs until I'm inside. There's a patron waiting for me at the door and somehow recognizes me immediately.
"Hello, Ms. Wilson." He shakes my hand. "I'm here to guide you around the museum so that you can see your mother's exhibit."
"Thank you. Sorry I'm late," I say even though it's only five minutes. I hate being late.
"It's not a problem." He leads me through the throngs of people at the entrance.
He points out the Impressionists wing, and the modern wing. All things I've seen before in Chicago or New York or Paris. I do enjoy the outdoor gardens and sculpture work, though. I promise myself to come back tomorrow when I have more time to browse.
"Here we are," the man says, waving his arm around a large room. My mother's artwork is on the walls, hanging proudly.
"Wow. I haven't seen most of these." I walk around, weaving slowly through some of the spectators.
The patron's walkie-talkie goes off, altering him to a situation. He apologizes to me and asks if I'll be okay alone for half an hour. I wave him off and tell him that I'll be fine.
I take my time, perusing the work. I'm not sure if Renee has a style, but people seem to like it. She has a unique imagination and it translates well on canvas.
Ten minutes later, I feel eyes on me and turn around to look around the room. No one seems to be doing anything out of the ordinary so I ignore it. The feeling comes back a couple minutes later, but again, I come up empty with my suspicions.
I stand in front of a large blue painting. It could be the sky or it could be the ocean. Renee would never tell me the details of her pieces. She says you're meant to come to your own conclusions.
As I stand, I see a tall man with blonde hair out of the corner of my eyes. He is close and then steps closer.
I turn to look at him and see that he's looking at me.
"Hello," I say. This is strange.
"I'm sorry for being so rude, but I know you from somewhere. I just can't put my finger on it."
Is he trying to flirt with me? Or is he serious? I can't tell.
"I don't think we know each other. I just moved to Boston and don't have any friends in the area." I smile politely.
His brow furrows and then realization dawns on his face. He snaps his fingers. "Yes! I remember now. I saw you last week, at my office. I'm Ryan Marshall."
"Hello," I repeat, still confused.
He grabs my hand and shakes it vigorously like we're old friends. "I'm partners with Harry Styles. We're dentists. You were in last week, weren't you?"
Styles. Harry? That's his name?
"Oh, of course. I've never met you, but I have your business card in my purse. Yes, I know Dr. Styles."
"I knew I recognized you." He seemed very proud of himself for remembering me. "Gosh, that was going to bug me until I figured it out. I'm sorry if I was being creepy."
"No, it's fine. I sometimes do the same thing. I'm Alyssa."
"Nice to meet you. Are you enjoying your time at the museum?"
"Yes, very much. These are my mother's pieces." I look around the room.
"Really? That is impressive. She's an artist?"
I nod. "I promised I would see them while they're still up. I'm coming back tomorrow as well. What is a man like you doing out in the middle of the day?" I ask, remembering the busy work schedule at the office from the week before.
"It's my lunch break. My wife and I like to get away for a little bit. It allows me to clear my head." He cracks his knuckles. He has corn blue eyes and an impressive build. Ryan Marshall is very nice to look at.
We talk some more while we wait for his wife Cassidy. She's in the bathroom. No mention of Dr. Styles as we talk, but I want to ask. I want to know what he's been up to. I refrain from going there.
Cassidy Marshall is a tiny woman, with large hazel eyes and short brown hair. Nothing about her is artificial. She is beautiful and bubbly and complements her husband rather well. They are a lovely pair.
I tell them that I don't really know anyone in Boston and they give me their numbers. It's a nice gesture, but I doubt I'll have need for them. Who wants to hang out with their dentist?
The next day it is more of the same routine. I wake up. Work out. Unpack a little. And then dress for another day at the museum.
I spend more time in the gardens. The temperature is so nice in Boston, which is something I'm not used to. Everyday I've been here so far has resulted in sunny skies, but nothing oppressively hot.
I go to my mother's gallery one last time. There's a specific painting that has bugged me since yesterday. I think it's about me, but I can't be sure.
Renee has painted a small girl, maybe eight years of age, with brown hair. That's the only distinguishable feature about her. The face is blurred and there's no background to look at besides the pale gray border around the piece.
"She doesn't look like me at all." I tell myself. "Maybe it's her?"
I stand in front of it for quite some time.
Out of nowhere, a warm feeling spreads over my body. It's welcoming but completely surprising. It's a tingle that causes me to breathe deeply in order to steady myself.
I can smell his scent. Same as it was the day he first examined my mouth in his office. It's spicy and very attractive.
"I thought I might find you here," Dr. Styles' smooth voice says from next to me. Stalker.
I turn to see him staring straight ahead.
"Hello, Dr. Styles." I breathe out a laugh.
"Hello, Alyssa." He smiles and turns to me somewhat. "My partner told me you were here yesterday."
"So you decided to drop by to see for yourself?"
He shrugs. "I had a cancelation and thought it might be nice to see some artwork."
The air around us is thick. With what, I'm not sure. But it's nearly suffocating me.
"Ryan told me that your mother painted all of these. I like what I see." He nods to himself. "I was never really good at art in school, but I wish I were."
He's more relaxed than he was previously. I like it. Less formal.
"I was going to take a little walk around the museum. Would you care to join me?" I ask. He nods again.
We talk. A lot. He seems rather forthcoming with information as we browse each wing.
While looking at Egyptian art, he tells me that he graduated high school at sixteen, then went to Harvard early for college.
In the Art of the America's exhibit, Dr. Styles tells me he derailed his studies to join the Navy for a couple of years before going back to finish up. Dentistry has always intrigued him, but he could have seen himself as a doctor as well.
He's from old money. Really old money. His family is very rich, but he tells me that he is self-sufficient. His trust fund has gone untouched since he was eighteen. He's very proud of that fact.
By the time we reach the Renaissance painters, he asks me to please call him 'Harry'. I don't have the courage to do it, although I nod that I will.
I have something to do at noon. I end up canceling it. There's no way I'm leaving.
I tell him more about my father and Renee's love for art. He seems fascinated. So I talk some more. I flirt, but never touch him. Never. I don't let myself think about what might be going on here, because I want to enjoy it.
He tells some horrible jokes, but I laugh because he's cute when he blushes at the punch line. He thinks they're funny.
We stop off for lunch at the small cafe inside of the museum. I ask him if he's missing work, but he shrugs and says that he took some time off. We laugh across the table from each other and make conversation.
I eat a Caesar salad and he has some kind of pasta dish.
"So, we've talked about almost everything." I wipe my mouth with my napkin. "Except how old you are. You've conveniently avoided that."
He chuckles, "Well, let's guess each other's ages. It's a game."
"That's not fair. You already know how old I am."
"I never asked you," he says.
"True, but you've seen my dental charts. All of my information is in there."
"I can tell how old you are without them."
"Really?" I lean forward. "Enlighten me."
"You act older, but your teeth tell me you're in your early twenties. Your molars are almost finished growing and your canines are at just the right length. Your chart gave me the specific age of twenty-two." His eyes are so green. He smiles at me and it makes my legs shake a little.
"Okay, so now it's my turn. Let me guess your age." I sit up in my chair and inspect his face for a couple of seconds. From what I know about him, he's lived quite the life, but he didn't seem that old.
"You can't take all day, Alyssa." He takes a small bite of his pasta.
"Thirty-one." I guess.
"Older." He sips his water nonchalantly.
"Thirty-three," I try again.
"Older."
I raise an eyebrow. Is he lying? I'm not sure.
Harry laughs at me and wipes his face with a napkin. "I'll be thirty-five in two months."
"I was going to guess that next," I say smugly.
"You're lying, Alyssa," he teases me.
I shrug.
This is so intriguing. I've never been with an older man before. What am I talking about? I'm not even with him. He's married. Maybe we're just friends. I'm not sure his wife would like this very much, but I don't think about that. In any case, I've never had an older, male friend.
He watches me carefully to see if his age bothers me. I smile genuinely because it doesn't, and it seems to put him at ease.
We spend a total of four hours at the museum, and I leave him at the entrance when the valet pulls my car around.
"It was nice seeing you again, Alyssa." He shakes my hand. "It's not every day that I get to spend an afternoon away with a beautiful lady."
"Such a charmer, Dr. Styles."
"I told you, please call me Harry."
"Alright, then. Thank you for lunch, Harry."
I'm still holding on to his hand, but I can't seem to release my grip and let my hand fall to my side.
Not yet.
And standing there like that, I realize that his wedding band feels cold against my warm palm.
Just like it did the last time.