The next time I see a gift duct-taped to the fence, I don't even pretend to act surprised. It appears that once the Man With The Ridiculously Deep Voice sets his mind onto something, he doesn't give up until he reaches the endgame; in this case the endgame being me telling him the name of my favourite plant.
Which is quite hilarious if you think about it, so why not entertain his antics?
"Are you ever going to stop leaving these for me?" Not bothering with the polite greeting—since I know very well that he is always there at this hour—I tear off the tiny violet flower and the accompanying note.
"See, now that's a lie," I quip before he has the chance to hit me with one of his witty remarks.
"First of all, lovely to see you too Cherry," he drawls in that low tone of his. "Second, what do you mean by a lie? I find this line accurately explains many aspects of our life, more than just the fact that the very flower I'd just left for you could have ended up being run over by my car this morning…. For most it's nothing but a weed, but look, now it ended up in your kind hands."
"How do you know I don't throw these out as soon as I leave?" I lie, since his little gifts do in fact make their way to my home. For some reason, I find myself unable to throw them out, so now they're left drying in the hot summer sun on my patio. A dried flower bouquet composed of randomly coloured flowers that some weirdo leaves for me sounds just like something I'd keep around my house.
"I have more faith in you than that," he sounds so sure of himself that it makes me smile. "I like to think I'm a good judge of a character. Being around all sorts of people taught me how to tell the bad and good guys apart. You seem like someone I can trust with my flowers."
I say nothing in response, not wanting to crush his fairytale view of me. "You shouldn't sign the quotes that aren't yours with your name… Or pseudonym."
"And how would you know it isn't mine?"
"Susan Witting Albert," I tell him, "An Unthymely Death and Other Garden Mysteries. Although this quote has been used many times since then."
"And she's a reader too!" I can hear the obvious excitement and it causes my own heart to swell, since I am just now realising how little I talk of my true passions. With anyone. "You're full of surprises, Cherry. What's your favourite book then?"
"What is it with you wanting to know all my favourite things?"
"I love fascinating people, especially those who hide so much underneath the surface," he admits. "You're somewhat of a mystery to me: a girl who ends up in the same spot every night to run off from… Well, that is the part I still haven't managed to crack. Getting to know you is like chipping off these small bits one by one. I feel like I'd literally need to spread you open like a book to finally get a glimpse into your head."
"Do you enjoy "spreading" people open because it diverts their attention from you?" Not wasting anymore time, I get straight to the point. "You don't talk about yourself at all."
"I'm not that interesting," he shots back, which is once again a diversion. "Not like you are," he adds smoothly. And here it comes: using flirting as an avoidance tactic too.
"Usually when someone expects people to open up, they should be prepared to respond in kind," I brush my fingers over the soft petals of the wildflower. "Or, at the very least, attempt to."
"I like cats!" he bellows loudly. "Is this enough sharing for you?"
"Meaningful stuff. Meaningful!" I chuckle.
"Me loving cats isn't an important bit of information? I beg to differ," he fake gasps. This man's so overdramatic.
"You would have liked my neighbour then," I tell him. "She's got like twelve of them. And they're all named after different singers. There's Madonna, Bowie, Nicks…"
"Stevie!"
"...Jagger, Cobain, Mercury, Beyonce…" I sigh. "I'll stop now, don't want to bore you to death."
"Wait, there are modern day vocalists too? Go on!" he seems genuinely interested now.
"Not many, but yeah," I shake my head, thinking of Georgette's weird fascination with cats and music, or the way she lets the two worlds intertwine. Trust me, there's nothing weirder than seeing her listen to Material Girl with a cat named Madonna sitting in her lap. "She's planning to add some more… Adele, for one. Or Lady Gaga. But I'm begging her not to. The ones she already has give me enough of a headache."
"You take care of them?" he asks.
"Sometimes, when she doesn't particularly feel like feeding them, she lets them roam around my garden freely." I hear his loud scoff. "It's not funny! Kinda hard to sleep with all the cat sounds outside your window, so I just keep their food prepared in case I need to let them in."
"Oh, any particular flowers you like to grow there in your garden?"
"Nice try."
He groans. "Well, it was worth a shot."
"You said you love cats, do you have one?" I use this opportunity to strike back in this weird interrogation.
"Back home," he skillfully dodges the question, "I've been thinking about that line you came up with last time we talked."
"Line?"
"Put a price on emotion, I'm looking for something to buy," he recounts. "You wouldn't mind if I use it?"
"Oh," I shake my head, then remembering he can't see me, I add, "Technically you're the one who came up with the first part, and all I did was give you a general idea of how to continue it. You're the one who put it into words."
"Still…" he hesitates.
"Are you a songwriter?" I ask before I can stop myself. I admit I'm curious, as this would definitely explain things: the guitar, the silly poems, the overly descriptive way he sometimes speaks, or how he affords to live in the most expensive area of Los Angeles. Also, why is he always out there in his backyard at such early morning hours? Insomnia? Or is it perhaps the hour when he feels the most inspired?
"I dabble in writing," he mumbles so quietly I have to strain my ears to hear him.
"Sure, you dabble. That's exactly why you asked for permission to use it—for the lyrics that will never see the light of the day," I say sarcastically, but stop myself from pressing any further. This relationship is meant to stay in the safety of our secret spot, which means it's better if we don't know who the other is. "So, you play the guitar?"
"I've been learning, but my skills are pretty basic," he admits, "A friend has been teaching me."
"My grandmother taught me how to play the piano," I'm surprised by how easily the words flow out, in complete contrast to the way I'd felt a couple of days earlier with Emil. Maybe it's because this man is such a good listener, or that he will never have a clue of who I really am, but something about his presence makes me want to spill all my darkest secrets. "I played for years when I was younger. Haven't done it since she passed away, though… Reminds me of her, in a painful kind of way."
"So you must be really good at it, then? I play a little but again, my skills in that department are also pretty basic," he lets out a long impressed whistle. "It sounds to me like you're a very talented girl, Cherry."
"Hardly," I mutter. "Most people who know me think I'm either lazy or indecisive. And knowing how to play one instrument doesn't make me a freaking Mozart. In fact, I'd go as far as to say I'm really plain. Basic. Boring."
"You know what I think?" Instead of waiting for my answer, he presses on, "You're putting yourself down as a way of punishment. Something went down, you're feeling guilty, hell, you even talk to a complete stranger to escape reality. You don't know me and yet you're telling me all this as if I were your best friend. Is it because there is no one in your life that you feel like you can confide in?"
"Woah, okay," I whisper, a little thrown off by his brutal honesty. So far our conversations were either based around light topics or intentionally kept vague, so this is taking me out of my comfort zone. Although admittedly what bothers me the most is that he's completely and irrefutably right in his assumptions about me.
"I didn't mean this as an insult," he adds quickly, and the tone of his voice tells me he's embarrassed. "We don't know each other and it may come out sounding all wrong, but I worry about you because everyone needs friends in their life."
"I have friends," I say, my mind running to Asa, Sally, Georgette and Emil in no particular order.
I do, I do, I do, I repeat stubbornly in my head.
"Real ones?" he's asking now, hitting all the right points while I just sit there quietly, taking his words in. "Having the right sort of people in your life… sometimes it's the only thing that can save us from falling into a pattern of self-deprecation. Or, even worse, becoming too full of ourselves."
"You sound like you've been there," I observe.
"Like I said, everyone needs someone to ground them sometimes. A reality check of sorts." There's a short pause, and then he asks, "Do you have that kind of a person?"
"I used to, but…" I shake my head. "I messed up and now he hates me."
"Y'know, sometimes I tell myself that the ones who truly care will stick around no matter how much you mess up," I hear the sound of shuffling on the other side. "Might be a tad naive of me."
"It is," I tell him bitterly. "People leave whenever they want, it's just how life works. No amount of wishful thinking can change that."
"Would you like to hear the song?" he asks abruptly, hitting a random note on the guitar.
I blink at his sudden switch in mood. "What song?"
"Put a price on emotion." We both chuckle at the ridiculous name. "Shut up, it's a working title!"
"Okay, hit me," I grin as he starts strumming the melody, and now I understand what he meant by saying that his guitar skills are mediocre at best. I can easily tell his fingers miss the correct strings a couple of times, making the whole sound come out slightly distorted and out of tune.
"How is it?" he asks excitedly.
"I don't know, how about you sing it for me?" I smile.
"Nah, I told you I can't—"
I let out an exaggerated sigh. "Excuses, excuses."
He tries to hit the right chords several more times, before his attention switches back to me. "Cherry, can you keep a secret?"
"My mouth is shut," I play along with a smile.
"Thing is: I'm bloody famous. I can't sing around you, because the moment you hear me, my cover will be blown," he delivers the line in such a serious tone that I burst out laughing.
"Oh my god, your voice must really suck if you're trying so hard to hide it from me!" My body is shaking with uncontrollable giggles at this point. Looking down at the watch on my wrist, I see it's nearing six; I know I have to get going before Georgette arrives with her daily Yerba Mate. "I so have a new nickname for you."
"What is it?" the Man With The Ridiculously Deep Voice asks again, although I know now that this temporary name won't stick around for long. Truthfully, none of the names I've given him lasted for longer than one meeting. Somehow, I have a feeling it will take a while before I find a suitable way to refer to him in my head.
"You'll see," I say cheekily, "Au revoir!" (Goodbye!)
__________
The following day, Sally and Georgie are both sitting in my living room, a folder full of my photos spread out on the coffee table in front of us. I admit I haven't been overly enthusiastic about seeing the effects of Ryan's work, but what he sent me so far has exceeded my expectations.
"The one he chose to be on the cover of my portfolio is… Nice." Surprisingly, Ryan must have listened to my suggestions after all, since the editing was obviously kept to a bare minimum with my red hair and freckles prominently displayed in the photograph.
"Mhm… sure seems so," Sally starts, but her sentence is cut off by a loud sneeze. Covering her nose with the back of her hand, she turns to face Georgette with a small scowl marring her features. "I'm sorry Mrs Mosbacher, but could you perhaps take them to the other room? You know I have a terrible allergy…"
We all glance at Nicks and Jagger playing with my old sock at the foot of the sofa. "I would, but a little bird told me that someone is going out with a certain man that should not be named…" I cringe as I realise where Georgie is going with this. "Maybe I need to bring over all my babies just to knock some sense into you."
"What the hell?!" Sally turns to me with an affronted gasp. "You're bad-mouthing me behind my back?"
"Oh no," Georgie shrugs, "It was that silly boy Emil. He'd tell me anything as long as I let him in this house."
"Georgette!" I huff, annoyed. "This is none of your concern. It's between Sally and me," in a louder voice I add, "and stop letting Emil in my house!"
"But I worry," she sends a pointed look Sally's way, "about the both of you."
It's not really that hard to guess that Georgette and her late husband have no children of their own. I don't think she's ever fully gotten over the fact that there's no heir to her name, which may be the reason why her maternal instincts tend to come to the surface at the weirdest moments, such as right now.
"It was just that one time, okay?!" the blonde blurts out, springing to her feet to stand by the kitchen door, away from the cats. "Take them out of here or I'm leaving."
Grabbing both Jagger and Nicks before they could skitter away, I stomp over to the door and throw them out into the backyard. "Happy?!" I groan. "Now can we please all drop the subject and try to get along?"
Sally huffs, but sits back down nonetheless. "I told him not to use the bikini pictures. You're welcome."
"You told…." I furrow my eyebrows, suddenly everything dawning on me: why Ryan failed to edit the photos, discarded the pictures that I didn't like, and most importantly, why he hasn't posted them on their page just yet. Sally must have somehow convinced him—there's no other explanation.
Suddenly I feel bad for judging her so quickly, for jumping to conclusions before knowing the full story. "Thank you," I murmur, avoiding her gaze.
"You've never really wanted to do this anyway. I'm just helping you out until you go back to what you're truly good at." Just like that, my irritation comes back in full force.
"And that's what we can both agree on!" Georgie chimes in. "Let me make you two some tea, and then we'll discuss what you," she points her finger at me accusatively, "should be doing."
Sally's eyes follow her retreating form until she disappears behind the kitchen door. As soon as I see her expression, I know exactly what's coming.
"Please tell me you talked to Asa."
I groan; the more she presses the issue, the less inclined I feel to actually reach out to him. "I told you that I can't."
"Why?" I can feel the tone of her voice grow exasperated. "Is it because you're afraid he still feels the same?"
Instinctively, I pull my knees close to my chest, withdrawing from the conversation both physically and emotionally. "Amongst other reasons."
"He'd have to be a masochist after the way you screwed him over." As she speaks the words, I know she's right, yet the stubborn part of my brain still refuses to accept it. "Listen," she sighs, "It's the same story each time: good guys obsess over you, you stupidly go for the dickheads, break some hearts, then move on to the next victim. Asa knows this better than anyone else, he gets you, he's forgiven you. Nothing is stopping us from going back to the way we used to be."
"Wow, that was harsh," I mumble.
"Am I wrong?" she shakes her head at my lingering silence. "You'll do the same to Emil and any other guy you meet. You're just not ready for commitment."
"It's not commitment I'm afraid of," I say quietly, "and it's never going to be the same between the three of us, Sally, never," I repeat the last word slowly. "We're all too different. Asa is a hot commodity now, you're on your way to becoming one, and I'm just… Me. We're not who we used to be, it's been a long time since we stopped being those kids trying to act out scenes from Gone with the Wind in my backyard. We grew up."
Sally shakes her head stubbornly, the first signs of tears appearing in the corners of her eyes. "That's because you won't let us be those kids."
"Yea, I know, it's always my fault: who I am, what I've done, what I'm not doing… " I list out. I'm not even angry at this point, just defeated.
"I love you so much, but I love Asa too," she whispers next.
"I know."
"You've put me in such a difficult position," she sniffles, and this time I know it's not allergies anymore. "It hurts because I really need a friend right now, but you both are as good as gone from my life."
My heart aches as I remember what a certain someone told me just a few hours before—we all need friends in our life; that special someone we confide in whenever we feel low. Have I really allowed Sally to go without that kind of support for months?
"I'm here," I attempt to reach out for her, "You can tell me what's wrong."
"Nothing's going on," she snatches her hand back. "I just—Just don't forget about that party next week. I can't go there alone and you'll surely make for the main attraction."
"The party?" I ask dumbly, ignoring her other comment.
"Kendall Jenner's party, remember?" she rolls her eyes. "See, this is exactly why we don't talk anymore."
"Sally! I'll be there. Promise!" I rush out, trying to follow behind her but she's already halfway to the door, shutting them in my face without another word. My forehead falls against the wooden surface as I try to control my ragged breathing.
Sally gets me. More than anyone else does or ever will, Sally understands the side of me that isn't so pleasant: the arrogant spoiled brat. However, this is the first time she's ever been so vocal about her feelings on that matter. I can't lie and say that it doesn't sting, just a little.
"She's not well." I nearly jump when I hear Georgette's gruff voice behind me. "Stop being so arrogant and look around yourself, because it's right here, in plain sight. You're not the only one going through a rough patch right now."
__________
You'll find the photograph of Cherry they were talking about at the top of the chapter.
Any thoughts on this chapter? Have we perhaps judged Sally a little bit too soon?
Any Fine Line lyrics references you picked up this time?
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Xx Cathy
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