Okay, so I might have gotten emotional and brought him here, but I now understand that this was a bad idea. For one, it’s already eight-thirty and Lucien shows no signs of wanting to leave. We’ve spent two and half hours at Luna Park and after dragging him out of there (he refused to leave) we’re lying on the beach, our backs on the towels we bought (with the credit card, of course). It was super crowded when we got here, but the crowd seems to have thinned over time.
My phone makes a tweety-bird sound. Another message. I ignore it. Emilia’s called thrice and since I was enjoying the water with Lucien, I didn’t take any of her calls. I don’t know what to tell her. And I’m scared of what she will say.
Dusk’s fading into orange ribbons in the sky, its last snapshots reflected on the glassy surface of the water; its warmth is fading just as quickly.
“There are so many families on the beach,” Lucien remarks.
“Yeah…” I agree absently, reading a few more lines of the book in my hand, fingering the thick cover.
This is hardly the typical beach read—Imaginary Numbers and their Properties. I borrowed it from the library. I’ve made scant progress so far, but I’ve gotten to multiplying complex numbers. I expected to understand nothing and quit within the first page, but the writer’s explanations are really easy to understand.
“Whatchu reading?” Lucien grabs the book from my hand. Reading the title, he whistles. “Max, you hit your head or something?”
“Shuddup.” I snatch the book back from him and lay it open on my stomach. “I can read math too, okay?”
“Yeah, sure…” He stops short of rolling his eyes.
“Hey, kiddo, what do you want to be when you grow up?” I question, staring at the twilight-drenched sea and feeling philosophical.
“An actor,” comes his reply.
Wow, really? I didn’t expect him to say that. Turning my face and managing to get a lot of sand in my mouth in the process, I look into his eyes. A contemplative expression’s set on his face; his hands folded at the back of his head, he’s blowing at the salty sea breeze.
“Why do you want to be an actor?”
“Because getting into Harvard as a drama major is easy. I mean, it must be. You got in.”
Being cheeky, is he?
“But what if you didn’t have to worry about getting into Harvard? What would you do then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe play the cello. Is there any money in that?”
“There’s money in everything, if you know how to make it.” I spread my arm wide, the left one crossing over his flat chest. “But where’s the joy? Where’s the spark? The love? Those are harder to find.”
“Do you love being a maid, Max?”
“You think?”
I might like seeing Henry’s sly smile as he enjoys my perfectly fluffed eggs every morning, might be growing a soft spot for Lucien’s constant wisecracks, might even find satisfaction in ridding the window of dirt, but none of these make my heart sing. Only one thing could ever make my heart sing.
“Then what do you love?”
“Acting.”
Being on the stage. Being seen. Being heard. Being loved. Expressing my feelings. Finding myself in someone else’s words.
“So why don’t you become an actress? You’ve even got a degree from Harvard.”
I am unable to say anything.
Kids can sometimes ask you the best questions, but like the rest of us, they have no answers.
“Because I don’t have the courage to face that world anymore,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “I’m friggin’ scared.”
I really hope he didn’t hear me, especially that swear word at the end. Emilia would sack me if he started repeating my vocabulary to her.
“You shouldn’t be scared,” Lucien murmurs in my ear. When a small hand slides down my spine, I draw in air, which feels like shards of glass against the back of my throat. “Mom says it increases your blood pressure.”
A giggle hiccups out of me. “That’s a good reason not to be scared.”
Yet I am scared. It’s not like I’m a terrible actress, or even that I have stage fright. There’s just this really bitter taste in my mouth left by things that happened. Performing’s become linked with a lot of terrible memories that I’d rather never recall again.
Under my butt, my phone vibrates. Throwing my hands under to get it, I’m surprised to find Henry’s number on the caller ID. Lucien reads the letters on the screen, then gestures with his finger on his lips: ‘Shhh.’
But I still take the call.
Henry’s voice hits me like a bucket of cold water, shaking away my depressing internal monologue.
“Max, where are you? The house is empty and Emilia called to say that Lucien’s not home yet. She’s worried sick, and making up theories about terrorists and kidnapping.”
As soon as he realizes it’s Henry, Lucien snatches the phone.
“Hi, Uncle Henry. I asked Max to take me to me to Coney Island. We’ve been here all day. It was so much fun. I went on the roller coaster. Thrice. Max screamed like a baby, and I’ve had three scoops of ice-cream so far…” He rambles on and on, describing every detail of the day.
To a child, I suppose, it’s thrilling to be on a beach and eat ice-cream. It was fun for me, too, and I’m not a child anymore.
“Sounds like you had a great time,” Henry says from the other side. “When were you planning to come back?”
“Maybe never.” Winking at me, Lucien giggles into the phone.
There’s an openness to his face.
“Lucien, your mom’s worried,” Henry relays in a stern voice.
Wrinkling his nose at me, Lucien replies, “She’s always worried.”
“Pass the phone to Max.”
“Will you tell her to take me back home?”
“You’ve gotta go to school tomorrow, buddy.”
“I don’t want to.”
An exasperated sigh ruffles the clarity of the phone line. “I thought you liked school.”
“But I like being with Max more.” He shoots me a smile.
Aww. This charmer. He’s so going to grow up to be a ladies’ man. New York—beware.
“Lucien, I want to talk to Max,” Henry insists.
“Promise me you won’t scold her. It’s not her fault she’s so stupid that she gets duped by a nine-year-old.”
Even Henry can’t bite back a laugh at this.
“I won’t scold her. I promise.”
Satisfied, Lucien hands me the phone. I grasp it between my trembling fingers.
“Hello.” I’m nervous as a mouse that’s surrounded by cats.
Henry’s probably mad at me for being irresponsible enough to cart his nephew off to an amusement park on a school night. Despite his promise to Lucien, I don’t think he’s going to let me off scot-free.
Bracing myself, I grip Lucien’s hand tightly. He lends me his support by closing his other hand around my palm.
“Max, I’m coming to get you now. Don’t go anywhere. Stay where you are.”
Holy crap. He doesn’t want to scold me over the phone so he’s going to do it in person.
“We can get home by ourselves,” I whisper.
“No, I’ll come get you.” His voice is firm enough to eradicate any scope for argument. “Keep checking your phone. I’ll send you a message when I get there.”
Swallowing, I squeak, “Okay.”
“Until then, you and Lucien are welcome to go on as many rides and eat as much sugar as you want.” He pauses. “You’ve already come this far, so might as well go all the way.”
Then his voice cuts off.
*
Lucien and I ended up eating candy floss, dipping our feet in the sea and riding the carousel again. This time, I wasn’t stuffed, so I didn’t get queasy.
But the highlight of the trip is riding the Ferris wheel and looking at the glimmering sea of lights on Coney Island. Red, yellow, green…the carousels, roller coasters, rides and beach shops glitter brightly, a long line of gaiety extending everywhere. And beyond it lie the boring, clinical skyscrapers of New York. But in this moment, they seem to be part of a different world. My world, for this brief instant, is filled with stars and lights and a little head tucked under my arm.
“This is better than London,” Lucien remarks, eyes full of wonder, looking like a child for the first time since I’ve known him. “London’s so gray and it always rains.”
“There’s a world you haven’t seen yet.” I caress his hair. “And it’s the world that’s closest to you.”
Henry comes an hour later. By then Lucien and I are both exhausted; I am sitting on a bench and Lucien has fallen asleep on my lap.
Henry doesn’t say much, except, “I’ll walk you to the subway station. You can take the subway home to Queens from there. I’ll take Lucien to Emilia’s.”
But I volunteer to carry him, not wanting to part with him yet. Somehow, I’ve managed to grow attached to the kid in the span of half a day. Picking him up in my arms and looping the plastic bag filled with the ice-cream I bought a few minutes ago for Ji-ae and Cooper around my wrist, I skip ahead.
Minutes later, Lucien is snoring loudly on my back, arms strung around my neck, breathing against the curls of hair that have sprung free from my topknot. The night wraps around us with its many little sounds.
“That was fun,” I say, licking a bar of ice-cream.
Technically, this one was for Coop, but whatever. It’s hot.
Henry mirrors my steps, walking beside me. “How did Lucien convince you to take him to Coney Island?”
“He just asked.” I take another bite out of the ice cream. “He’s lonely. He wants to do things his friends do. I didn’t think a kid asking to go to an amusement park was anything extraordinary.”
“You know, I once ran away from home to an amusement park when I was young, too. Pity it was closed. But then, it was eleven at night.” Henry is counting the stars in the inky sky. “He’s like me.”
I’m surprised by this revelation. Henry’s never struck me as the rebellious type. But then again, when was the last time I judged him correctly? Even the first time we met, I dismissed him as a nerd before giving him a chance.
I wonder what else I don’t know about him, I think, then dismiss the thought. It’s ridiculous to be fascinated by my employer. Even if he’s a really nice employer. And kind. And still hasn’t shouted at me yet.
“We didn’t plan to stay this long, but before I knew it, it was already eight,” I say in my defense.
I’m worried why he still hasn’t scolded me. It seems weird for him to not shout at me after I did something so idiotic.
“You don’t have to come tomorrow,” Henry says, out of the blue.
“But tomorrow’s Friday.”
The day he said he’d be at home—the day I’ll be able to watch him as I vacuum, cook and dust. And talk to him. I enjoyed the conversation we had about imaginary numbers the other day.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he gazes tenderly at sleeping Lucien. My heart skips a beat. Then another. “Take the entire weekend off. I’ll be at home to supervise him.”
“Okay.” I don’t want to say more.
A car zooms past us. I feel someone looking at me, and am surprised to discover that it’s Henry.
“Max, what happened in Hollywood? Why did you come back?” Henry asks all of a sudden, his voice raspy.
“Nothing,” I lie, tamping down the urge to spill everything. “That was the issue—nothing happened. No big roles, no modeling contracts, not even many decent supporting roles. Nothing happened.”
“Something happened.” For the very first time since I’ve met him, he betrays emotion.
Disappointment glazes his eyes. Reaching over, he pushes away a strand of hair from my face and gazes deeply into my eyes. My heart breaks into a trot. What the hell? Henry Stone’s making my heart race like this? What’s next? The apocalypse?
He continues slowly. “The Max I knew wouldn’t have quit just because she was dumped by her agent or because Hollywood didn’t recognize her brilliance right away. You’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”
“You’re right,” I admit, with a smile creeping up on my lips.
“Then why?”
This is my darkest secret that even Coop doesn’t know. I don’t like talking about it much. But I want to tell Henry about it. I don’t know why; I just want to.
“I haven’t told anyone about this—I was afraid they’d judge me, or pester me to do something about it, or both.”
I fully expect to see scorn on his face, but his eyes are wide with surprise instead. He looks adorable—innocent and vulnerable. I want to lean in and kiss him, take a piece of his innocence away, but that would destroy the semi-decent relationship I’ve worked so hard to build with him. And there would be no going back from it for me. If I kiss him, I acknowledge to myself that I’ve fallen for a nerd.
“You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to.” He widens the distance between us.
I shorten it again. “But you’re the best person to talk to about this. I mean, you’re an engineer, so you study processes in people’s minds. You’d understand me.”
At this, he bursts into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, shaking his head. Puzzled by his reaction, I come to an abrupt stop.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, dear God…you think engineers study people’s minds for a living?” He doubles over in laughter, eyes watering now.
“Well, I remember that time in the auditorium, you said something about studying processes of mind transfer, or something.”
“Momentum transfer. And chemical processes.” Shuddering with laughter, he rakes a hand through his hair. “Although, technically, thought is a chemical process too. But no, that’s not what I study.”
“It’s not my fault! You were spouting so many complicated words so quickly,” I defend. “But if you don’t study minds, then what do you study?”
Retrieving his phone from his pocket, he hurls it at me. “Google ‘chemical engineer’.”
I do, and then I’m forced to read the never-ending Wikipedia page on the subject, which is brimming with complicated words and symbols I can’t make head or tail of. At the end all I come away with is that chemical engineers do complicated shit—and it has nothing to do with the mind.
“All right. I got it. You do chemical-y things.”
“That’s one way to put it.” He yawns. “Now back to what happened in Hollywood.”
“Okay, but first promise you won’t judge me.”
“I’ll try not to.”
I fill my lungs with a deep breath. Inertia pulls me back. It’s not easy to talk about difficult things, but I can’t back down now. Slapping my cheeks, I look ahead. In life, I’ve always looked ahead. I need to keep moving forward.
All right, ready to go.
I speak slowly at first. “There was this guy I met the year before my agent dropped me—he was a casting agent with his fingers in a few production pies. I fell for him immediately—how could I not? He was charming, hot, well-connected, rich…everything I wanted in a guy. We moved in together within weeks of meeting each other, and he helped me land good roles. He was a big shot in Hollywood, you know. He was involved in so many things. I was really happy—it was all perfect.”
I lick the bar of ice-cream, muscles pulling taut at the bad memories.
“But?” Henry prods.
“How do you know there’s a ‘but’?” I ask, adjusting Lucien’s position on my back.
“Because your face tells me there is.”
Closing my eyes, I contain the tears. “You’re right. Unfortunately, there was a ‘but’.”
“What was it?” he coaxes, as I clam up.
“He turned abusive.” Even though my eyes are closed I sense the stilling of Henry’s body beside me. My own tears breach my closed eyes and leak out. And then I turn into a blubbering mess. “It was horrible…I was so scared…he was too powerful…I couldn’t escape him. But I didn’t want to lose the dream that I had worked hard for. I wanted to make it. I tried avoiding him…didn’t work.”
Without taking a single breath, I blurt the rest of it out. “I knew I had to leave. That was the only way it would end…but I couldn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want to be made fun of.”
“Jesus.” He smooths the lines on his forehead. “I can’t believe this.”
He shoots a stream of curses at nobody, something that is so unlike him.
“I wanted to be famous. I wanted to be loved. I thought I could have it all. How conceited of me…in the end I lost everything…” I continue with my rambling.
His hands cup my shoulders, holding me steady as sobs wreck me. “Max, slow down. What’s his name? Start with his name.”
I shake my head. I know what Henry’s thinking. But I won’t let anyone drag Rob back into my life. I’m beyond the point of seeking justice. I just want peace now. I ran away so I could stay away.
“S-sorry…I shouldn’t have told you. I’m so stupid. Always doing stupid things…”
Like bleaching the curtains, dropping vases, and feeding Lucien high-fat food. Like unloading my sordid past onto poor Henry. A smart person like him probably doesn’t even understand what it’s like to be me.
“You’re not stupid. You’re human.” He gives me a shake. “It wasn’t your fault that he was such an asshole.”
“But it’s my fault that I was so stupid.”
“Stop this. You’re not stupid. You went to Harvard.”
Through a veil of tears, I manage a smile. “Yeah, I went to Harvard.” Sucking in snot, I say, “You know, that’s why I gave up on being an actress. I’m scared of running into him again if I go to LA. He’d be so angry that I left without a word…I don’t know what he’d do.”
“I’d say you were being melodramatic, but I’m not sure you are.” He takes a whiff of the night. “The world can be a small place at times.”
Yes, I know. It’s impossible for me to live and work in Hollywood again without running into Rob. The more popular I become, the more I integrate into the circuit of high flyers, the more chance I’ll see him again. And at this point, the mere thought of seeing him again makes me faint. He was so scary…he showed me what ‘scary’ really means.
“Henry…tell me something scientific,” I beg, worried by the recollections in my head. “If my brain’s confused with big words, I’ll feel better.”
His fists clench at his sides, knuckles flexing against thin skin. His lips thin. “Sorry. I’m too angry to think of something. I can’t believe there exists a bastard in the world who’d hurt you.”
“Why? What’s so great about me?”
He looks at me, as if I asked him whether the moon was pink. “You’re Maxima Anderson. That’s what’s great about you.”
Lucien snores loudly into my ear. I bend my elbows and prop them under Lucien’s knees to prevent him from sliding off my back.
“You know, I used to think guys like him were the ideal—arrogant, confident, charming, drop-dead gorgeous. But now I wish all guys were decent like you, that they didn’t deceive or hurt others.”
The subway station is approaching—I can see the string of colorful circles with letters inside them.
“It’s been really hard for me to date since I came back. Being near guys makes me uncomfortable. I have intimacy issues.” I laugh, because I don’t want to sound too tragic.
Intimacy issues. That’s a big word. It feels even bigger when you have to face it every day.
“Time will make everything better,” Henry says.
“Yeah. In the meantime, I don’t have a love life. And I can’t even do the one thing I’m good at—acting. I’m not much good at anything else.”
“You’re good at your work. Lucien loves you and the house has been spotless since you came. Honestly, you’re the best housekeeper I’ve ever had.”
“Thanks. You’re the best boss I ever had, too.”
“Really?” he teases, narrowing his eyes. “What about your boss at the Four Seasons who praised you all the time?”
“He’s fictional.”
“What?” Henry’s jaw hits the floor. “He’s fictional?”
“He actually fired me. I set the bedsheets on fire, then flooded the bathtub while trying to put out the fire. It was my first and last day at the job.”
Henry coughs, eyes watering. “You lied to me during the interview?”
I pat his shoulder. “Don’t look so surprised. Everybody lies in interviews—except maybe you.”
Casting his eyes down, he sighs. “No, I’ve lied, too.”
“What did you say?”
“That I’d taken a course in bioreactor design in college, even though I hadn’t. They never checked.”
My mouth forms into an ‘O’.
“Henry Robert Stone…how could you?” I shake my head reprovingly. “That’s perjury.”
“Perjury means lying in court, not lying during an interview,” he corrects, with a tsk.
Melted ice cream drips down my lips, staining my chin. “Really?”
“It seems you’re as clueless about the law as you are about engineering.”
“I’m an actress,” I retort right back. “Why do I need to know about such things?”
“Right now, you’re my housekeeper.” His gaze trails down to my lips. “Wipe that ice cream off your face.”
“Does it bother you? The ice cream?” I have no idea why I’m asking him this. Maybe I enjoy seeing him flustered.
“Yes. So wipe it away.”
“I’ll do it later,” I say.
“Do it now. It’s distracting,” he barks.
Why is he giving me instructions all of a sudden? I’m off work.
“I won’t,” I protest. I’m not easily pushed around and it is time everybody realized this.
“Then I’ll do it.” A second later, the meaning of his words sink into his head. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yeah, why don’t you?” I mock, moving my face closer.
His eyes widen. “Max, this is inappropriate.”
I realized I’ve never heard a guy use that word before. Inappropriate. It makes me want to rebel.
“So what?” I angle my chin up, touching my lips to his.
And I don’t stop with touching, I kiss him.
Holy smokes, Henry Stone can kiss. You know what they say about judging a book by its cover. Henry might look boring, like historical fiction, but he’s actually an erotica novel. I savor every bite of his teeth on my lips, every flick of his tongue against mine, the friction of us together. He must have really wanted to kiss me for a long time.
His tongue caresses my lips, spreading heat all over it, before plunging deeper to stroke the intimate corners of my mouth. I respond the best I can, caging him with my arms, just as eager to explore his mouth as he is to explore mine. Every swipe of our lips ignites another conflagration inside me. I might be a dud at science, but even I can recognize good chemistry. And this is some chemistry.
The kiss lasts for minutes, making me forget time, space and everything in between. Encircled by his scent, his strong hands, and his safety, I feel secure.
As I open my eyes, the truth hits me like cold water.
I like Henry Stone.
I really like Henry Stone.
