Turbulence
Page 11
“You’re focusing on the wrong thing.” He rubbed my arm. “I just said that I damn near love you. This is where you say that you love me back and we go find somewhere to get reacquainted. Preferably someplace private and quiet.”
“How many girls have you fucked behind my back, Ben?” I nearly yelled.
“Lovers in New York...” The pianist’s voice carried against the wind. “Lovers fighting in New York...”
“Ten or so,” he said flatly. “But I always come back to you, see? I don’t take any of them on dates, I don’t have long conversations with them on the phone like the two of us have, and I definitely don’t let any of them spend the night at my place like I’ve let you. That’s because I only use them for sex. I like you for you, and I actually care about you.”
More tears fell down my face as he continued to explain his twisted logic, as I silently cursed myself for somehow missing all of the signs. The late night meetings across town, the buzzing of his phone coming in the middle of the night, the sudden growing obsession with wealth and “looking good for whoever else might see me today.”
I started to wonder about all the dinner parties I’d attended with him, if the smiles and waves from other women meant far more than a casual hello. If he’d paraded me around as a part-time girlfriend who knew all about his side affairs.
“Why are you looking like a deer in headlights, Gill?” he asked, his tone suddenly soft.
“Because I honestly feel like one...Was there ever a time when you weren’t sleeping with other women behind my back?”
“The first few months we were together,” he admitted. “I only slept with you then.”
“We’ve been together for years.”
“And we can be together for many more...If you can agree to let go of your current blue collar jobs and maybe go back to your old job—the actual, impressive one, or agree to work at my dad’s firm. Maybe we can be on the same schedule and I won’t have to resort to sleeping with other people. We’ve both had a hand in this, Gillian. Both of us.”
I stepped back and held back a cry. I refused to let him see me break down.
“Lovers in New York...” The pianist sang ten times louder than before. “Lovers crying tears of—”
“Please shut the fuck up!” I shouted at him, misdirecting my anger and hurt. I took a deep breath and started to apologize, but he ignored my outburst and continued singing anyway.
“Oh, babe.” Ben held up his arms and stepped toward me for a hug. “Don’t cry, it’s okay. Come here.”
“Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare touch me.”
“Fine. Let’s at least get on the same page before we go back inside to the party,” he said. “I don’t need you causing a scene in front of all my parents’ friends. How would you like to compromise on our issues?” He paced back and forth. “I’m willing you listen to your ideas, although I must admit, if you want to ensure that I only sleep with you, you’ll have to make some major changes and give me time to adjust to that again.”
I didn’t say a single word. The last word wasn’t worth it. Not now, not ever.
We were finished.
I turned around and walked away, ignoring his pathetic, weak calls after me. Without looking back, I weaved through the party guests, plastering a fake smile on my face as they smiled and nodded at me. Not wanting to come face to face with the throng of photographers near the elevators, I took the stairwell down a few floors and caught the elevator from there to the ground level.
Hot tears fell down my cheeks and my chest heaved up and down with every step. Each one was a reminder that I was abandoning a one-sided relationship that once seemed so promising. That the issues I’d planned to bring up later were minor footnotes compared to the pages of problems Ben revealed.
When I reached the lobby’s doors, I noticed the rain’s sudden return. It was falling harder now than it was when I first arrived.
“Miss Taylor?” A deep, masculine voice called from behind. “Miss Taylor?”
“Yes?” I turned around and found myself face to face with the Walsh family’s driver, Francis.
“Are you leaving the party now?” he asked. “Alone?”
I nodded.
“Will Mr. Walsh be joining you?”
“No, and I don’t need a ride,” I said. “I don’t want to accept anything else from Mr. Walsh ever again.”
Ignoring me, he grabbed a black umbrella and opened the front door. He let the umbrella up against the rain and gestured for me to go with him.
“I was ordered to take you home, Miss Taylor.” He wasn’t going to let me leave on my own terms. “I was told this was my priority hours before you arrived.”
“If you insist...” I held back a sigh and walked with him to a waiting black town car.
As he settled into the front seat and adjusted the air settings, I looked at my phone and saw an influx of text messages.
Ben: Instead of going to Hemingway’s, I’ll have Francis take us to your place so we can have a real discussion about this later.
Ben: I’m willing to come to your apartment in Brooklyn, Gillian... BROOKLYN! If that’s not trying to compromise and get on one accord with you, I don’t know what is.
Ben: Did you leave the party? Did you REALLY leave before we could get a photo together?
Ben: Answer my phone calls, Gillian. Now.
Ben: Gillian...?
Francis steered the car down Avenue of the Americas and I wiped away fresh tears. The last thing I wanted to do tonight was wake up to Ben knocking on my door for a conversation.
The car approached a yellow light, and as it came to a complete stop, the perfect way to avoid Ben tonight hit me.
“Francis?” I asked.
“Yes, Miss Taylor?”
“Would you mind dropping me off somewhere else instead of my apartment?”
“Depends on how ‘safe’ this alternate location is.” He looked at me through the rearview mirror and furrowed his brow. “A bar is not an acceptable option.”
“It’s not a bar. It’s The Madison on Park Avenue.”
“Ah,” he said with a smile. “Yes. Your other place of employment will be safe enough. Should I I assume you won’t want me to tell Mr. Walsh that’s where I dropped you off?”
“Yes. Please don’t tell him.”
He nodded, and when the light turned green, he made a U-turn and headed toward the other side of Manhattan. Passing the grand front entrance, he parked near the rear of the building and stepped out to open my door, once again holding the umbrella up for me.
As if he could tell that he probably wouldn’t be seeing me again, he handed the umbrella over to me and shook my hand, wishing me the best of luck.
I knew he wouldn’t get back into the car until he actually saw me go inside, so I pulled out my employee badge and held it against the door. I gave him one last wave before slipping inside and letting the door shut.
I grabbed a Madison tour brochure and held it up to my face, pretending to read as I walked past my supervisor’s office. I was grateful that only the night crew, people I hardly ever worked with, were too busy working on files and handling phone calls to look up.
“How many girls have you fucked behind my back, Ben?” I nearly yelled.
“Lovers in New York...” The pianist’s voice carried against the wind. “Lovers fighting in New York...”
“Ten or so,” he said flatly. “But I always come back to you, see? I don’t take any of them on dates, I don’t have long conversations with them on the phone like the two of us have, and I definitely don’t let any of them spend the night at my place like I’ve let you. That’s because I only use them for sex. I like you for you, and I actually care about you.”
More tears fell down my face as he continued to explain his twisted logic, as I silently cursed myself for somehow missing all of the signs. The late night meetings across town, the buzzing of his phone coming in the middle of the night, the sudden growing obsession with wealth and “looking good for whoever else might see me today.”
I started to wonder about all the dinner parties I’d attended with him, if the smiles and waves from other women meant far more than a casual hello. If he’d paraded me around as a part-time girlfriend who knew all about his side affairs.
“Why are you looking like a deer in headlights, Gill?” he asked, his tone suddenly soft.
“Because I honestly feel like one...Was there ever a time when you weren’t sleeping with other women behind my back?”
“The first few months we were together,” he admitted. “I only slept with you then.”
“We’ve been together for years.”
“And we can be together for many more...If you can agree to let go of your current blue collar jobs and maybe go back to your old job—the actual, impressive one, or agree to work at my dad’s firm. Maybe we can be on the same schedule and I won’t have to resort to sleeping with other people. We’ve both had a hand in this, Gillian. Both of us.”
I stepped back and held back a cry. I refused to let him see me break down.
“Lovers in New York...” The pianist sang ten times louder than before. “Lovers crying tears of—”
“Please shut the fuck up!” I shouted at him, misdirecting my anger and hurt. I took a deep breath and started to apologize, but he ignored my outburst and continued singing anyway.
“Oh, babe.” Ben held up his arms and stepped toward me for a hug. “Don’t cry, it’s okay. Come here.”
“Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare touch me.”
“Fine. Let’s at least get on the same page before we go back inside to the party,” he said. “I don’t need you causing a scene in front of all my parents’ friends. How would you like to compromise on our issues?” He paced back and forth. “I’m willing you listen to your ideas, although I must admit, if you want to ensure that I only sleep with you, you’ll have to make some major changes and give me time to adjust to that again.”
I didn’t say a single word. The last word wasn’t worth it. Not now, not ever.
We were finished.
I turned around and walked away, ignoring his pathetic, weak calls after me. Without looking back, I weaved through the party guests, plastering a fake smile on my face as they smiled and nodded at me. Not wanting to come face to face with the throng of photographers near the elevators, I took the stairwell down a few floors and caught the elevator from there to the ground level.
Hot tears fell down my cheeks and my chest heaved up and down with every step. Each one was a reminder that I was abandoning a one-sided relationship that once seemed so promising. That the issues I’d planned to bring up later were minor footnotes compared to the pages of problems Ben revealed.
When I reached the lobby’s doors, I noticed the rain’s sudden return. It was falling harder now than it was when I first arrived.
“Miss Taylor?” A deep, masculine voice called from behind. “Miss Taylor?”
“Yes?” I turned around and found myself face to face with the Walsh family’s driver, Francis.
“Are you leaving the party now?” he asked. “Alone?”
I nodded.
“Will Mr. Walsh be joining you?”
“No, and I don’t need a ride,” I said. “I don’t want to accept anything else from Mr. Walsh ever again.”
Ignoring me, he grabbed a black umbrella and opened the front door. He let the umbrella up against the rain and gestured for me to go with him.
“I was ordered to take you home, Miss Taylor.” He wasn’t going to let me leave on my own terms. “I was told this was my priority hours before you arrived.”
“If you insist...” I held back a sigh and walked with him to a waiting black town car.
As he settled into the front seat and adjusted the air settings, I looked at my phone and saw an influx of text messages.
Ben: Instead of going to Hemingway’s, I’ll have Francis take us to your place so we can have a real discussion about this later.
Ben: I’m willing to come to your apartment in Brooklyn, Gillian... BROOKLYN! If that’s not trying to compromise and get on one accord with you, I don’t know what is.
Ben: Did you leave the party? Did you REALLY leave before we could get a photo together?
Ben: Answer my phone calls, Gillian. Now.
Ben: Gillian...?
Francis steered the car down Avenue of the Americas and I wiped away fresh tears. The last thing I wanted to do tonight was wake up to Ben knocking on my door for a conversation.
The car approached a yellow light, and as it came to a complete stop, the perfect way to avoid Ben tonight hit me.
“Francis?” I asked.
“Yes, Miss Taylor?”
“Would you mind dropping me off somewhere else instead of my apartment?”
“Depends on how ‘safe’ this alternate location is.” He looked at me through the rearview mirror and furrowed his brow. “A bar is not an acceptable option.”
“It’s not a bar. It’s The Madison on Park Avenue.”
“Ah,” he said with a smile. “Yes. Your other place of employment will be safe enough. Should I I assume you won’t want me to tell Mr. Walsh that’s where I dropped you off?”
“Yes. Please don’t tell him.”
He nodded, and when the light turned green, he made a U-turn and headed toward the other side of Manhattan. Passing the grand front entrance, he parked near the rear of the building and stepped out to open my door, once again holding the umbrella up for me.
As if he could tell that he probably wouldn’t be seeing me again, he handed the umbrella over to me and shook my hand, wishing me the best of luck.
I knew he wouldn’t get back into the car until he actually saw me go inside, so I pulled out my employee badge and held it against the door. I gave him one last wave before slipping inside and letting the door shut.
I grabbed a Madison tour brochure and held it up to my face, pretending to read as I walked past my supervisor’s office. I was grateful that only the night crew, people I hardly ever worked with, were too busy working on files and handling phone calls to look up.
