Lust (39 page)

I cried for the pain I inflicted on him—the pain that he
had compared to the death of his parents. I cried for knowing
that I would never feel his touch again. His hands were burned
into my skin; his scent permeated everything around me. And
not the cologne he wore but the scent of his skin when it came
into contact with mine—the scent of his manhood as he exuded
his need and desire for me, the indescribable scent of euphoria
as we made love. The memories tore at my heartstrings and
fought with my mind. I tried to convince myself, between the
weeping and gut-wrenching moments of clarity, that it was for
the best.

But it wasn’t, and I couldn’t believe otherwise.

My mother had said just days ago that I shouldn’t make
rash decisions—almost as if she had known that I was about to
destroy myself and Alexander in one blow. And as I replayed
the moments when Alexander embraced my mother and shook
my father’s hand for the first time, the reality that had been living
with me for the last two weeks was finally becoming clear.

Samantha called a few times and left messages, as did my
mother. They knew me well enough to understand that I heard
the calls and the messages but needed to crawl into my skin and
find my own way out. I’ve always had a loud voice. I’ve always
been outspoken, but I’ve never been in love. And love leaves
you breathless, speechless, and completely affected.

For the first time in seven years, I dreaded going to work
the next morning. It was Sunday and only 6:00 p.m., but I
couldn’t seem to visualize myself getting up Monday morning.

I showered and lay back down in my bed. I opened the shades
to my bedroom for the first time since Alexander had been in
bed with me. I stared out at the ocean; the waves slammed onto
the surf as hard as my heart, which felt like stone. The time
slipped passed me, and days had gone by, bringing with them
every moment I had spent with him.

I restrained from speaking or even thinking his name,
because the moment I did, I would weep for hours. I refused
to change my sheets, afraid that I would lose the scent and
memory of our bodies writhing in ecstasy. Life is too short,
painfully too short, and I never heeded the warnings.

I heard a loud knock.

I sat up, abruptly feeling like forgiveness was at my door; I
jumped off of my bed and ran down the stairs toward my front
entrance. I paused and breathed deep, praying that fate had led
me onto its planned path once again.

Maria, Chrissy’s mother, was standing in my doorway
dressed in black, with sunken, cried-out eyes, and carrying a
broken heart.

“How are you, Maria? Please come in.” I extended the invitation
to her, but she remained at the door.

“I can’t, my dear; I must go finish packing Chrissy’s things.

I came to give you this.” She presented a pink box covered in
calla lilies. The note attached read: For Evangeline.

“Chrissy left notes for me and for you. She wanted you to
have whatever is in this box. She loved you so much. You were
and will always be her big sister; I want you to know that.

Please take care of yourself.” She left me with the box in hand
and a kiss on my cheek and let me to go back to my sorrows.

I walked with the box in hand up the staircase and back
to my room. I took Chrissy’s last thoughts to me out onto the
balcony and sat myself down, placing the box on the cushion
in front of me.

The box was covered in a pink embroidered fabric and tied
closed by a silk pink ribbon. Tiny calla lilies covered the ribbon;
they were her favorite. I savored the moment as I looked
at the box; after all, it held Chrissy’s good-bye—a good-bye I
would have given anything to have had in person.

I carefully loosened the lid to find a typed note folded in
half. Underneath the note lay layers of ivory tissue paper. I unfolded
the note, crushingly drawn to Chrissy’s final thoughts
to me.

The letter read:

To the sweetest big sister in the world,
I write this letter to you as my final good-bye. Samantha was here
earlier recounting the story of how Alexander has swept you away to
an island somewhere. I can’t begin to tell you how much I cried. Don’t
fret; the tears were very much full of joy. I am so happy that you have
allowed love into your heart and into your life. He is an amazing man.

A nurse arrived yesterday with baskets of food, magazines, and
movies; she said that Alexander had ordered her to be there every day for
as long as I needed her, and someone else would be covering the nights.

I was overcome with his kindness and knew that he also couldn’t stand
to spend a minute away from you.

My life was way too short. Thirty years of life isn’t nearly enough
to do everything there is to do in this lifetime. But you only realize the
time you wasted when you don’t have any time left to spare.

I never told you this, but the month after I was diagnosed, I went
to see Bryan—you remember…my ex-fiancé! I know I was stupid but,
that’s just it, I only realized how horrible of a mistake I had made
when I realized that oops…I’m going to die soon. (Don’t roll your eyes
at me; I see you :)). Anyway, I went to see him at his place, and guess
what? He was married and his wife had just given birth to an amazingly
beautiful little girl. They oozed happiness and I was “Jell-O”!

I wouldn’t have taken anything away from them, but I did apologize
for hurting him. And do you know what he told me? He said that no
matter how much he loves his family, I was his first love and his first
heartbreak. He said, “That’s someone you’ll never forget!”

He was right! I could never forget him, and he could never forget me.

But why would I want to be remembered as the girl who broke his heart!

Look, I haven’t gotten through that thick head of yours in thirty
years of life, but I thought that my death might wake you up. I know
I’m being morbid, but I’m OK with it. I’m OK with leaving this life
and causing some trouble in the next. But you…I need to know that
you’ll be OK.

Don’t let him go, Evangeline. Find your strength, conquer your
fears, and fight for what you know in your heart belongs to you and
belongs with you.

That IS what the poem is about.

Don’t concentrate on the death; concentrate on the life. Enjoy
every breath, every kiss, every moan, and every orgasm he gives you.

Because one day he may be gone and you will be left with nothing
but the longing. Fear is cowardly and you, my sister, are nothing but
STRENGTH!

Live for me, for all the years that have been taken from me.

Laugh for me, for all the smiles that I will not get to smile.

Love for me, for all the love that runs through me now but will
cease to flow someday soon.

I love you, Evangeline. And will watch over you always.

Chrissy

Needless to say, the letter was soaked with tears even before
I finished reading it. Chrissy died a few hours after writing the
letter to me, and in her last moments she worried not about her
death but about my life.

My chest burned from the hurt that coursed through
me. Chrissy’s letter was the straw that broke the camel’s
back, or in this case, my heart. I couldn’t, with any of the
strength I had left, let Chrissy’s death be meaningless—not
by ignoring my choices or ignoring her words. Every bit of
her last words to me rang true; my cowardly actions and my
being left with nothing but longing for Alexander’s presence
in every minute of my life was my truth. But, there
was no turning back, no easy way to say, I’m sorry, I love
you. Before I closed the letter back into the beautiful box
Chrissy had made for me, I noticed something silver peeking
out of the paper.

I pulled out of the box a silver frame, and behind the glass
were two pieces of paper. One was the torn tissue that Alexander
had written and sent to me with the bottle of champagne at
Black’s Lounge. The other was the note he wrote and had Brant
hand deliver to me at the office the night of his charity event
at his home. The same night that cemented my overwhelming
lust for Alexander. I realized Samantha had to have been part of
this collection of Alexander’s thoughts to me. She had been the
only one near the note Alexander had written that included the
poem of Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie.

My thoughts were cloudy with only one apparent truth: I
had to go to him; I had to go to Alexander.

I packed Chrissy’s box up and placed it on my bed and
dressed in sweats and flip-flops. I got in my car and headed
out toward Alexander’s penthouse by Central Park. I imagined
what he would say when he saw me. It was it a toss-up between
slamming the door in my face or slamming me into the wall
and taking me right there and then. They were not terrible
outcomes; the door in my face I almost expected, but I planned
on lingering and sleeping outside his door, pleading for his forgiveness.

The latter would have been a dream come true.

I arrived at Alexander’s complex, and the doorman recognized
me. He offered to park the car in the garage for me, but
I asked him to keep it out front. I knew that in my wildest
dreams fate wouldn’t be so nice to me to allow me to get a free
pass for this one. The elevator ride took seconds, but the anxiety
made it feel like hours. The elevator dinged as it arrived at
Alexander’s entrance. There was no time for preparation, no
hallway to stall the long-awaited meeting, as the elevator door
opened to his foyer.

Brant greeted me as the metal doors slid open, and though
he smiled, the sadness in his eyes told me that he knew what
had happened.

“Eva, I am so pleased to see you. How are you?” Brant
asked, holding my hands lightly in his own.

“It’s always nice to see you, Brant. I apologize for not calling
ahead. I really wouldn’t have known what to say. I…” And
I still had no idea what to say—not to Brant and certainly not
to Alexander.

“No need. What do you need, my dear?” Brant inquired,
smiling as usual.

But as I began to tell Brant why I was there, his expression
turned. It was the face that I imagined Samantha wore on the
phone as she told me about Chrissy; it was the face of dreadful
news.

“I need to see Alexander. I need to speak to him. I need…”

But Brant’s somber face paused my plea to see Alexander.

“Eva, I hate that I have to bring this news to you, but,” he
paused and placed his hands on my shoulder. “Alexander left.

He packed his things and left for California yesterday morning.

He is going to base himself out of his home in Los Angeles
now. I stayed behind to pack the remnants. To be honest, I
couldn’t understand how he could leave you behind, but when
I questioned him…” Brant became silent and unsure of how to
continue.

I pressed him for more. “Please, Brant, continue. What did
he say? Please,” I begged.

“He said that he loved you, but he had to leave you,” Brant
mumbled through Alexander’s response.

I imagined Alexander burning as he responded, truthfully
admitting his love for me—a love that had been tossed out and
torched by me.

I left my car parked at the complex and walked through
Central Park. I sat on one of the benches for over an hour trying
to digest that Alexander was gone. But I refused to accept
it, and with no apparent resolution, I wallowed in my sorrows.

I thought over so many things: my mother’s advice about
not letting Alexander slip through my life; Chrissy’s letter to
me asking me to live a life filled with love, a life that she hadn’t
been given to live. I had disappointed everyone; I had failed
everyone, including myself. All of my goals of being successful
and of being truthful in my wants and my needs were tossed
away with the love and possibilities I had with Alexander.