The smell of coffee wakes me. But the first thought through my head is not why I smell coffee but rather the realisation that I didn't have any nightmares. Second night in a row. They'll be back soon though. They always return. After grappling with such thoughts I open my eyes and the first thing I see is a medium sized paper cup, thin tendrils of steam still curling out of it. It's a mocha. Regular milk. Thank god it's not a mermaid latte or something equally horrific. Picking up the cup, I notice that there's a scrawled note tacked beneath it.
Morning, Leger. New clothes for you in the wardrobe. We can still go shopping if you want, though.
I don't just like the clothes, I adore them. They're exactly the kind of thing I would pick out for myself had I the seemingly unlimited funds Rafe has.
All wrapped up in bags and boxes still. I spend ages unfolding them, running my hands over the exquisite material. I eventually decide on some tight Acne Studios jeans and a soft nautical blue cashmere sweater from Ralph Lauren. I decide I'll wrap a cozy Hermes scarf around my neck, and brave the cold when I swap the Off White thigh high boots 'for walking' (too ostentatious) in favour of the most gorgeous- and comfortable!- pair of black Chloé ballet flats. A few bags contain basic cotton Calvin Klein underwear. Unlined, and unassuming. But inside a bag is an envelope containing a very expensive gift card for La Perla. I appreciate that Rafe hasn't been so overly intrusive as to pick out some lace underwear or whatever for me. That would be too personal. I mean, I'm sure that he didn't pick these outfits out himself- probably had a personal shopper or stylist or someone do it- but the sentiment remains and I feel my heart warming towards him.
Then I remember that this is the boy who got me kicked out of the town library, the guy who'd either scowl at me and refuse to acknowledge my presence or snipe at me, the man who ditched me and our history project to sleep with some random girl and I feel my heart harden once more.
*
I feel so restless cooped up in the suite. And even though I know it's wrong. I decide to explore the place. Rafe probably has some camera set up somewhere and he'll catch me snooping and doubtlessly kick me out. But whatever. Curiosity killed the cat. Or perhaps, kicked out the cat.
Anyways. Rafe's room is neat, orderly, perfect. Too perfect. Where is his personality? The other room -my room- has so much more life in it. The only thing (in plain sight- I'm not so low as to go through his drawers) that gives me a glimpse into his personality is a pair of silver anchor cuff links that rest on the bedside table. And maybe, the colour scheme. Everything is an austere grey. From the Egyptian cotton bedsheets to the muted insipid damask wallpaper.
Also, I've noticed that Rafe's bed is folded with military precision but I can't imagine that room service has already come in. Maybe he's as much a control freak as I am? I don't enter his en-suite and instead I slink back to the living room.
Above the fireplace is a bookshelf. There are a whole line of orange-bodied classics, with The Picture of Dorian Gray neatly slotted in. I wonder if Rafe has actually read it yet. I wonder if he has read any of these books. Gazing about the room, I suddenly realise that there are no pictures on the wall. No sense of home. Even though I hated my dismal little apartment I tried to give it a sense of life. Hung up photographs, paintings, pressed flowers. I always gathered bunches of wildflowers, swept them into cut crystal vases so that a light summery fragrance always lingered in the air entangling itself with the scent of my favourite vanilla perfume.
It feels unutterably wrong to redecorate the whole suite -and anyway, not only is it a hotel room that doesn't truly belong to either of us but I'll probably be gone, back to my old apartment in a few weeks- but I return to my room and take out some of my photo frames. There's no way I'd ever hammer the wall of a hotel room so I simply prop up some of my photo frames atop the dresser so that they lean against the wall.
My eyes come to rest on a photo from my past. Kiki and her brother Charlie and I, enveloped in a hug. Charlie was seventeen had just found out he'd been accepted to Stanford law school and in a moment of brief hysteria he'd swept the both of us into his arms as we laughed and smiled so happy for him. Out of all the candid photographs with my former best friend, this is the only one where I am not looking at her trying to fathom what she is thinking, but rather at Charlie, adoringly. And in this picture, he's not looking at Kiki, but rather at me. I'd had a crush on Charlie for forever. With his blond hair and blue eyes, he was a stark contrast to Kiki's dark hair and brown eyes.
Although they only shared a father, they had the same supermodel beauty, same tanned skin, same omnipresent glimmer in their eyes as if they knew and shared a deep delicious secret. And they loved each other so much. I'd always been slightly jealous of Kiki in the way that she had an older brother who always looked after her, adored her unconditionally. I'd liked to imagine that I was Kiki's closest confidante but really, it was never me. Charlie was the only other person in the world that I can truly say that Kiki loved, and he loved her just as equally, regardless of their maternal differences. Sighing as I stare at our frozen smiles, I trail my finger across the frame of the photograph and leave the room.
Even though the glass wall of the living room is no doubt double glazed, the cold beginnings of winter still manage to sweep into the room. I play around with the fireplace for a few minutes, finally work out how to turn it in on and I call up room service, asking if I could have some cinnamon toast and hot chocolate, please. The drink comes with marshmallows on the side, tucked on the edge of the little china saucer. I rest the cup and saucer and the plate on the coffee table and curl up on the edge of the Chesterfield couch opening up the Agatha Christie murder mystery I'd taken from the bookshelf.
About forty minutes later, Rafe arrives, disturbing me from my gripping novel. I stand as he walks in, undoing his tie, and flinging it to the ground.
"Hey," He says, unbuttoning the jacket and ruffling his hair. "Business meeting," he explains. And for a second I blush thinking he's going to completely strip down in front of me. He swipes the tie from the floor and disappears into his room for a few minutes coming back in less formal, albeit still expensive, clothing. "How was your day?"
"Good."
"Good." He looks me up and down. "The clothes look good; do you like them?"
I want to launch into a spiel about just how much I adore them, how wonderful they are, how thankful I am to Rafe, but somehow my tongue ties itself up and I can only get out a few clipped words.
"Yes. They fit. How?" The question come out accusatory.
"Well, I sized you up the moment we met." Rafe winks and I imagine that this is the moment that most girls usually fall for him. Not I, though. Falling for a guy you're actually living with -and indebted to- sounds like a recipe for disaster to me.
The silence looms once again and I break it suddenly. "The walls are lonely." Rafe stares at me with a clear wtf? look on his face.
"What?"
"The walls. They are lonely. You don't have any paintings or photos or anything."
"Oh. Right. Haha. Lonely walls. Yeah, I don't know, I don't really like this place. Never really felt the, y'know, urge to decorate it or whatever. Speaking of which though, my father has been at me for years to refine my auction house skills. We could go? To Sotheby's, of course, or an art museum? I've been meaning to pick up a Jeff Koons piece or two. Maybe a balloon animal. They're good investments." He looks at me questioningly and I avert my gaze, flustered.
"Oh, I won't be here for very long. I can't intrude on you and I've never... uh-"
"We don't...if you don't want to-"
"Wait." Rafe stops and stares at me expectantly and I resolve to at least try to put an end to my relentless babbling. "I do want to go. I've just never been to an auction house. I don't know what to do." Rafe relaxes his shoulders and I suddenly see how tense he was.
"Cool. Okay. We'll have a day trip sometime then -go together- before you leave, I guess. Appease my father." He says, looking pleased with himself, even as he rolls his eyes at the mention of his parent.
Suddenly, his phone rings and he fishes it out of his back pocket and scowls at the screen. "Speak of the devil," he mutters. For a few seconds he simply glares at it, markedly, then he taps at the screen accepting the call and I slink out of the room. Quietly. Leaving him to his call.
After a few minutes, I realise that I've not only left my book in the living room but also my phone. I don't really know what to do. I sit, cross legged on the bed, counting the seconds for about ten minutes then decide that I really ought to get my phone and my book. I creep through the doorway and hesitate as the shouting gets louder. A verbose discussion about shares and rising stocks. Rafe's business empire is growing. Well done Archer Enterprises. And yet, somehow, I don't think that the voice on the phone is pleased, more like pissed, and I hear the venom creep back into Rafe's voice as he attempts to maintain control over his tone.
"Thank you, father." He manages to choke out, somewhat respectfully. "Of course. Yes. Goodbye." In the solitary second after his latest edition iPhone clicks off, he is still, silent. Then he growls and hurls the thing into the fireplace.
"Oh my god! Rafe!" I shriek, running towards it and trying to grapple with the controls to shut it off. The thing is smoking but I don't know if the phone is actually on fire. Regardless, I have no doubt the fire alarms will go off any second now. Ugh. I've had enough of those damn things. Rafe hasn't moved.
"I'll call room service. Leave it. Leave me." He turns to me and repeats the word. "Leave." When I don't move he roars angrily, spitting out the phrase.
"LEAVE!" I turn my back on him, reach for my book and my phone and breeze wordlessly past him. He watches me go and doesn't say another word.
*
The lobby is relatively quiet. There are a few people checking in and others checking out, sliding into expensive cars and driving off into the brilliant orange sunset that dips over Astoria. Apart from the hotel staff, nobody lingers. Nobody but me and a singular boy. Dark hair, tan skin and black eyes. I saw him here weeks ago, when I was with Noah. He sits at the piano in a world of his own. For a while, I actually don't notice him. Not because he is plain or insipid -he's not; this boy is well and truly gorgeous- he just seems to really belong here. So much so that he's almost a part of the furniture. Almost.
In the minutes after I finish my murder mystery - I solved it myself; would definitely have made MadeLucky proud and I even debate calling Madeleine and Lucas but forget to when I notice him- I realise that the delicious rendition of Bach's Invention is live and right in front of me.
For a while, I just watch. Not just him, but the other guests too, against a soundtrack of baroques. Their outfits are so beautiful; runway ready and clearly name brands. And yet, I don't feel odd among them. Casually lounging on a deep chestnut brown Chesterfield couch in my own newly purchased designer wear, nobody gives me a second glance. No furtive looks as if to say that I absolutely do not belong here. And strangely, my former romantic notions of settling down in Astoria creep back to me. And letting my mind wander like this is the only thing that keeps the tumultuous dichotomy of thoughts regarding Rafe away. He didn't mean it. He did. He was angry, bitter. He's alway like that. He cares about you. He doesn't...
The wistful feeling only heightens when the boy at the piano notices me, staring at me with those piercing dark eyes. He smiles, gently, yet mysteriously as if he knows something I don't and he runs his hands over the black and white keys carving out a beautiful melody layered over an arpeggiated bass clef. And then, with his eyes locked on mine, he engages in a complicated sopra, a directive for the pianist to cross hands, one which can often be quite difficult, and yet the boy does it with ease, without breaking eye contact, and his Alla Tarantella continues on smooth as ever. He is seriously smooth. After a few more pieces, he gets up from the piano and walks over to me.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey," I say shyly.
"I noticed you watching me. Do you play?" Oh, but I noticed you watching me.
"Yes. But I can't. Not right now." As the boy raises his eyebrows quizzically, I show him the bandage on my hand.
"Shame. I'd love for you to play for me sometime." And I can't help the blush that rises in my cheeks when he says that, thinking it's some kind of double entendre but he's so earnest that I feel -well, hope- that maybe he isn't trying to toy with me and actually just wants to hear me play the piano. He gestures toward my injury. "Can you do other things with that hand?" Oh gosh, the innuendo behind that question.
"Like what?"
"Like go out for dinner with a nice boy and eat with a fork and knife." I laugh at that. He's very sweet. Also the way he said fork and knife too quickly makes me think he was cussing. Forkenknife. Say it quick. "Is that a yes?" He asks hopefully.
"I think so." I reply smiling. And he offers his arm to me and we walk to Siricoco Restaurant and spend half the night joking and laughing and talking.
For some strange reason, I find myself spilling so much of my life to him. I don't tell him about the darkness within me though, or the curse, of course. Nor my dreams both literal -in the sense of nightmares- or my future aspirations though. Honestly, we just talk about school and our families and friends. When he asks me about "that blonde boy who looks Swedish or something" that I was with the first time he saw me from inside The Henley, I correct him, politely, even though his tone is slightly cold. Tell him that although Noah prefers male pronouns, he is non-binary. And Finnish-British but raised here in Astoria. For a single second, after I clarify about Noah, I think I see something like anger flash in the boy, Elio's eyes, dart across his face. But it disappears so quickly that I am almost convinced that I imagined it.
But when the night is over and Elio goes to kiss me. I hesitate, pull away. When he asks if I'm seeing someone, I feel flustered, unable to say a word.
And he takes that as a yes.
What have I done?