Overexposed: The Complete Boxset: A Virgin Meets a Bad Boy Romance, page 7
Of course I knew that things changed for Charlene after my father went to prison, but this—this is like someone’s sucker-punched me in the gut. Gone is the Manhattan brownstone with its wrought iron ornamentations and granite steps, the polished mahogany crown moldings, coffered ceilings, ornate stairs, and of course the marble fireplaces in every room. Most of all, gone is my childhood bedroom painted a pale lavender, the mural of my horses—my former horses—Bramble and Scout on the opposite wall of the queen-sized canopy bed with its lace curtains. I’ll probably mourn that bed forever—there was nothing more comforting than pulling those curtains closed and sinking into the Egyptian cotton sheets, the down-filled comforter, and the dozens of decorative pillows. It had been my own oasis, a private sanctuary to escape from the real world.
Now, I am forced to share Charlene’s one-bedroom walk-up, my bed the pull-out couch next door to her room.
Merry fucking Christmas to me.
I climb the concrete steps and slip the key into the lock. Propping open the door with one of my suitcases, I go back down to retrieve the other. Once I have them both securely inside the building, I glance around and almost crap myself when I realize I’m basically in the first floor apartment’s entryway. One of the apartment doors is slightly open and I can see the shadow of a person moving around a small kitchen.
I quickly gather my bags and start up the neglected, original wood staircase. I pause at the second-floor landing to briefly catch my breath and realize I’ve entered another entry of sorts—shoes and coats lined up against the wall. Just being in the common spaces here feels like I’m invading someone’s home. Why is there no separation? How do they live like this? Gathering what little strength I have left, I force myself up the last set of stairs.
The moment I reach the top level, it’s like being transported into Charlene World. There’s a tastefully painted bench with baskets tucked beneath for shoes, and hooks above for coats situated between two doors. For some reason, this small reprieve from the other two floors blindsides me with memories of Devon. It comes so swiftly and unexpectedly that I sink onto the bench, trying to breath through the pain of his rejection.
Three weeks have passed since we were together in paradise, literally and figuratively, and yet it feels as if it were a lifetime ago. Or just yesterday. My brain tells me to forget him, to chalk the entire experience up to a passing fling. My heart rejects that offering. It continues to believe there had been something deeper, truer. No one has ever touched me, known me, made my body sing in the ways that he did. Even the memories of our short time together makes my fingers itch to release the tension that’s been simmering beneath the surface of my skin.
I refuse to give into the temptation of pleasuring myself for him. Especially when I still have Eric.
Eric, who is my future.
Eric, who deserves my loyalty.
When I left the island, I made myself a promise. I vowed to forget Devon. To focus everything back onto what really matters.
It hasn’t stopped me from tracking Devon’s travels online. My fingers on my laptop keyboard constantly betray me, checking his photo-blog like it is my new religion.
He went to Poland for St. Andrew’s Day. The irony wasn’t lost on me. What other holiday is more appropriate than one devoted to finding your true love? His pictures of young girls pouring hot wax through keyholes into water to divine the shape of their future husband’s face were beautiful. The candlelight flickered across hopeful, smiling faces.
From there, he went to Costa Rica, the pictures of his time in the preserves breathtaking. From the misty views of the virgin rain forests of Monteverde Cloud Forest Reserve to the hot springs of Arenal Volcano National Park, he’d captured sparkling waterfalls, roped swing bridges, crystal blue beaches, and the numerous faces of the locals he’d charmed.
Now, improbably, he’s in Tulsa. For an art show. I’ve yet to see any pictures from the actual show, but there are an abundance of landscapes and skylines.
Part of me can’t help but wonder if he’s also thinking of me. If in his recent travels there was a beach, a pose, or a wafting smell in the air that assailed his senses with images of me. If he sees glimpses of my face in those of the people he’s met, of the soft curves of my body in the lush arch of a coast line. If he’s ever touched his thick length in remembrance of his time with me, inside of me.
I shake free of the hold Devon’s captured me in. Forcing myself to my feet, I stare at both doors before deciding to knock on the one with the Christmas wreath. Charlene greets me with a smile and a toast, the clear liquid sloshing dangerously close to the lip of the martini glass. “Anna! Come in dear.”
Once I’ve yanked both of my suitcases through the door, Charlene gathers me in a one-armed hug and air kisses each of my cheeks. Her familiar scent of jasmine and vodka is a balm to my soul. At least some things will never change. “Let me get a look at you dear girl.”
Taking a step back, I lift my arms and do a quick turn. “And how do I look?”
“Like you need a drink,” Charlene answers, before turning on her heel and heading to the antique bar cart in the corner.
I sink into the dark plum couch. “Truer words have never been spoken.”
She returns with a second martini, and after handing it to me she gracefully sits beside me. “How does it feel to be back?”
After a quick sip and a tiny sigh, I answer. “Surreal.”
Charlene nods. “Brooklyn is an adjustment, but you might end up loving it.”
I try hard not to scoff in her face, and instead I take a healthy sip of my drink.
“I’m serious. There is an amazing little gem of a grocery store down the block, right next to a Walgreens.”
My eyes widen. “You go to the grocery store? Yourself?”
Charlene’s head tips back as she laughs. “I do, and I actually enjoy it. Besides, you forget that I didn’t always have a housekeeper to do all the heavy lifting for me.”
“How the times have changed.”
“Yes, they have.”
In the momentary silence, I glance around the apartment. While I wasn’t expecting opulent decor, Charlene did a great job of making the house feel cozy and welcoming. Across the room are two black leather wing chairs, which I’m sure she kept from Dad’s office, and a entertainment center with a modest-sized flat screen TV. A few of her and Dad’s favorite art pieces grace the walls—well the ones that were worth the least, considering they’d needed to sell the rest—and a large ornate mirror hangs above my head. The light gray rug, cable-knitted throws, and plush throw pillows pull the room together. “You’ve done a great job with the apartment,” I say, a little in awe but genuinely relieved at how homey it feels.
A genuine smile lights up her face. “Thank you. I’ve tried my best. I kept a few things from the old house, and I’ve discovered IKEA.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “I do love IKEA.”
Charlene stands, “Let me give you a quick tour.”
“I’d like that,” I answer as I stand and follow her through the pocket doors she slides open.
We enter a tiny room with a small loveseat against the far wall and a quaint desk against the opposite wall nestled between built-in cupboards. “I know I told you this was a one bedroom, but I thought this might work as a pseudo private bedroom for you. The loveseat converts into a full bed.”
This is definitely an improvement over the prospect of camping out in the living room. “It’s perfect.”
“I’m glad.” She pushes open another set of pocket doors, and we’re standing in her bedroom. And hung above the bed is a Picasso. When she notices that I’ve noticed, her face flushes red. “You’re Dad refused to let me sell this one.”
“I don’t blame him, it’s the one he bought you as a wedding gift.” And I genuinely mean my words. I wouldn’t have been able to ask her to give it up either.
“Sentimental old fool,” Charlene says in response, but her voice is low and husky, filled with undeniable love. She clears her throat and takes another sip. “Enough of that, now here’s where it gets tricky.”
I raise my eyebrows, but follow her through another doorway. We enter the postage stamp-sized kitchen, which consists of a built-in cabinet for dishes and groceries, a stove, an impossibly tiny sink, and barely any counter space. Charlene has a slim, butcher block-topped island on wheels pushed against the wall. “There isn’t a refrigerator?”
“It’s out here,” Charlene says as she leads me down the narrow hall. She points to the door to our immediate left. “Bathroom.” A few steps more and she now motions to a small alcove where the fridge is nestled. “And here we have it.”
“Well, that’s useful.”
Charlene laughs again. “I have two more surprises.” She glances down the hall. “Never mind, make that three.”
She leads us down the hallway a few more steps and opens the built-in cabinet. Light pours from the ceiling, and there is a wrought iron ladder leading up to the domed window behind the cleaning supplies. “Access to the roof.”
I clap my hands at this little slice of unexpected bliss. “That’s amazing.”
“I’ve nicknamed it Santorini, after our vacation to Greece. It was definitely one of the selling points to this apartment.”
“I can see why.”
Charlene closes the cabinet and I mourn for the little slice of beauty already. She opens another cabinet, which actually turns out to be a closet with a stacked washer dryer combo. “Selling point two.”
“No laundromats!”
She matches my enthusiasm. “Exactly. If I have to do my own laundry, I’d rather do it in the safety of my own home.”
“What is surprise three? A room full of gold?” I joke.
“I wish.” Charlene twists the knob to the door at the end of the hall. And we find ourselves back on the landing. “So, if you want to use the bathroom during the night and don’t want to disturb me, or even if you need a midnight snack, this is your only option. The same key works on both doors.”
“That’s not strange at all.” I glance over at Charlene and quickly amend my statement. “But totally workable.”
She pats my cheek. “You’re such a good girl.”
“Thanks, Charlene,” I say before gathering her back into a hug. “And thank you for taking me in.”
“Of course, dear girl. You’re my family, and family help each other.”
Charlene’s words echo in my mind, as I unpack my bags, arranging my clothes in the cabinets. Our relationship may be strange, but she’s all the family I have left besides my Dad. And she’s done more to help me in the last few years, even more than Eric. She’d also take my secrets to the grave. No one will ever find out about Sierra, and I can finally put that part of my life to rest. As if on cue, the image of Devon flashes across my mind. I imagine him telling me to do the filthiest things imaginable, his face hidden behind a camera. My breath catches and my chest swells as I shake my head and try to clear the image away. I have to think about Eric now instead. It’s time to start focusing on the future.
Suddenly exhausted, I plop down onto my new couch bed. I reach into my laptop bag and free the book I’d started on the plane. I need to get lost in someone else’s world and problems for awhile.
Minutes or hours later—I can’t be sure—the sound of the doorbell wakes me from my unexpected nap. I hear Charlene buzz the person up, her excited laughter upon opening the door, the closing of the door, and then the quick clip of her heels against the wood floor. There is a loud rap on the pocket doors, and when I call for her to enter, her arms are full of flowers.
“What beautiful flowers! Did Daddy send them to you?”
“No. These just came for you, silly girl!” She transfers the flowers to my open arms, frees the card and hands it to me. “For someone who isn’t getting sex, Eric sure doesn’t skip on the romance.”
I can’t help the laugh that forces it’s way out. My fingers fumble opening the envelope. And then they almost drop everything on the floor, when I read the simple words. “Anna. You are always Art to me.”
2
Sequestered in the bathroom, I stare into the mirror, eyes wide with panic. I take in my freshly darkened hair, the dark framed glasses, and oversized cable-knit sweater—at Anna. There should have been no way for Devon to connect Anna to Sierra. I splash water onto my face. How had he found me?
My hands shake as I try to apply some fresh make-up, my brain searching for any clues. Any slip of the tongue that could have lead Devon to New York and Anna. The thought that he’s made the effort to find me, the real me, both terrifies and elates me. But I don’t have long to contemplate over this new development before there is a knock on the door.
“The car’s here, Anna.”
“I’ll be right there,” I answer as I quickly run a brush through my hair and secure the pair of diamond studs Eric had bought me last Christmas into my ears.
I pull the door open and thread my way back to the living room. Charlene’s in a navy blue wrap dress, her hair elegantly twisted into a knot on the back of her head. “Shit, I’m under-dressed. Do you think I have time to change?”
Charlene waves a hand. “Of course you do. It’s good to make a man wait.”
With a quick smile, I rush back into my room. My fingers comb through the meager options I brought until I find the perfect dress, an eggplant-hued long sleeve maxi in a soft cotton. I take a moment to admire my reflection in the full length mirror attached to the back of the cabinet door. It hugs my curves in just the right ways, the neckline scoops and the waist cinches. It’s the perfect mix of both comfy casual and elite appropriate. A pair of black suede booties complete the ensemble as I gather my coat and purse.
“Ok, I’m ready.”
Charlene raises an eyebrow in appreciation. “You clean up well, my dear.”
“Well let’s hope the Underwoods think so too.”
It takes almost forty-five minutes to get to the Upper East Side, and to be honest, I’m glad for the extra time. I need to get my head wrapped around the fact that Devon’s found me, that he’s been actively trying to find me, and that now I’m on the way to Eric and his family. A fact that a few weeks ago would have made me deliriously happy. Now, I’m conflicted.
I’m thankful for the town car, and the fact that no partition makes any and all discussions of Sierra’s life off-limits. Instead, I listen with half an ear as Charlene divulges the latest society gossip, not expecting any answers from me—just the occasional nod and gasp.
Before I’m mentally prepared, we pull up to the front steps of Eric’s family’s building. The brownstone looks like a fairytale of olde as the snow falls and swirls around the streetlights and gently dusts the ground. I expected to feel relief at the familiar facade, to feel the comfort of coming back to the semblance of home—instead, I feel detached and unimpressed. I experience a slight longing for Charlene’s homey apartment with its IKEA and Target finds mixed with a few of our old pieces, and I almost say as much to her before the driver opens the door.
Rosa, the Underwoods’ long-time housekeeper, greets us at the door. She welcomes me with a warm smile. “Mr. and Mrs. Underwood are awaiting your arrival in the parlour. It’s good to have you home, Miss Anna.”
“Thank you, Rosa,” I answer with as much affection as I can muster past the network of live wires currently twisting and turning in my gut.
As if sensing my hesitation, Charlene links her arm through mine. “Chin up. It’s time to face the music.”
I smile weakly.
The minute we cross the threshold of the parlour, Eric’s father Lloyd stands and crosses the room. I force myself to endure his too-long embraces—inappropriate ever since I grew breasts at fourteen—and a flurry of air kisses as I tried to avoid his lewd lips coming anywhere near my skin. His mother, Arabella, tsks at Lloyd, her face nearly immobile. She has the shiny-plastic frozen look of someone who’s just had yet another facelift. She’d never do something quite as awkward as actually hug me, but she offers an outstretched hand and a slight smile. The effort makes her face look as if it might tear in half.
“Charlene, come have a drink while Anna finds Eric,” she says.
Charlene allows Arabella to lead her to the bar cart, as Lloyd stage whispers, “Eric’s waiting for you in the library. We thought you might like a moment of privacy.”
I heave a quiet sigh of relief as I leave the room. The hardest part is over. Now it’s just Eric—and Eric I can handle. My eyes soak in the familiar surroundings, the elegant furnishings, the millions of dollars worth of paintings which hang on the thousands of dollars worth of wallpaper. The oriental rugs, the gold-plated mirror so large it reaches from ceiling to floor—for fucks sake, even the knickknacks are worth more than everything I actually own. The contents of my bank account is something else entirely, but as far as actual possessions go, the difference between their home and mine couldn’t be starker. The entire house exudes wealth and privilege, and it makes me want to scream over the unfairness of it all.
I slip into the powder room to try and calm the unexpected rage boiling in my veins. How is it fair that we lost everything and yet Lloyd has emerged unscathed? Looking around this house, at their lifestyle, you’d never know that the scandal ever touched them. That he had his hand farther in the cookie jar than anyone else implicated. It’s the main reason Dad took the fall, it would have been worse for Lloyd.
Charlene deserves better than a three-story walkup. She deserves more than the pity and the whispers, the endless ridicule. And here sits Lloyd, on his throne of lies and corruption, while the elite in this town view him as nothing more than an unwitting dupe.
Seriously, fuck this shit.
I hate to associate Eric with these misconceptions, but if I faced facts, what had he or his family done as a show of support? They sat back and watched as our life was dismantled—one piece of furniture, one less friend at a time. They guarded their own interests, their standing in the community, this precious house with all of itspretentious bullshit. And yes, Eric stayed by my side—said nothing could change his love for me, but he’d still let me go. Let me go for seven fucking years, never asking questions—not really caring about what I was actually doing. Something tells me that Lloyd and Arabella wouldn’t be especially heartbroken if things ended between us. It would be the final string clipped, forever ridding themselves of contamination—letting them put the final shine on their slightly blemished reputation, turning it back to gold.
