Chapter Twelve
Derric
No Apologies
Be careful what you wish for. You may get it.
The hackneyed phrase buzzes in my ears as I try the number for the fifth time today. It doesn’t even go to voicemail. It’s like she’s switched it off. Who does that? No one I know under the age of forty. We’re all addicted to our devices, and I’m no exception. Since Mila hasn’t been taking my calls, my phone has become like a broken appendage; useless and painful to lug around.
I try her office number only to hear her bespectacled young assistant deftly screening my calls. How can I explain what happened, or even apologize if the woman won’t hear me out? Won’t even acknowledge my existence? I’ve seesawed between remorseful and indignant for the better part of two days. When I said it was an important business call, I thought she’d just wait in the other room, not do a complete runner.
I’ve lived alone, done things my own way for so long. I never gave a shit who disapproved of my behavior, especially when it came to Steve. Sometimes I think I acted like a shit on purpose, just to get his goat; give him a taste of how it felt to be treated as insignificant and undeserving of respect. It never mattered to him what I did; I gave up trying to please him long ago—when he burned down the doghouse I’d built for my new puppy because it was only ‘half a job’.
Well, I gave as good as I got, but the old bastard really outdid himself this time. Just when things were coming together at the station, he tears it all down with one phone call. Seems I can’t hide from the paparazzi as well as I thought. Business-wise, I’ve kept a low profile, just like he ordained. Not out of any desire to impress him, but to earn my freedom. To make my mother proud, God rest her soul.
And what does he do? Hires a goddamn PI to follow me around. Real Philip Marlowe shit, hiding in bushes and behind lamp posts, taking pictures and video, and live streaming them to guess who. He’s been creating a goddamn documentary of Mila and me, going out together, dining together, touching and kissing. Thankfully nothing beyond that, but enough to stir the evil brew bubbling in the Steven Faris cauldron of cock-shittery.
He calls me to say if I don’t dump her, he’s pulling the expense accounts and sending another producer to replace me. Someone he can trust; someone who won’t litter the countryside with a trail of bastard children all jockeying for a piece of the Faris fortune someday. Weren’t there enough Ozzie Sheilas willing to drop their knickers for me without luring some poor American retro flower-child into my web of debauchery?
That’s when I lost it. That’s when the shit—and most of my furniture—hit the proverbial fan. While physically destroying inanimate objects give me some satisfaction, I’d rather they’d been my father’s expensive trappings. Or even better, his own wrinkled, brittle carcass. Unfortunately, that’s when Mila came in. I’d forgotten our plans for that evening and just about everything else in my shitstorm of rage. Now I’m the one inside a flaming doghouse.
Hearing my father’s lurid opinion of Mila makes my blood boil, and all the more determined to pursue our relationship. That anal-retentive buzzard has no right to judge her or anyone else he’s never even met. Somehow, I’ve got to make it up to her. This whole sorry episode makes me realize how empty I’d feel if she weren’t in my life. Just because Steve made a shit job of fatherhood, doesn’t mean I will. It’s finally hit home for me: she’s having my baby—our baby, brand new and perfect, something of mine that Steve can’t touch.
But I’m going to need some help seeing as Mila won’t even speak to me right now. I redial a number on my phone’s call list. After three rings, I get an answer.
“Yes, hello,” I say. “May I speak with Claire Strait, please?”
***
“Don’t let the building super catch you up here while I’m out,” Claire says, handing me an extra key. She dusts her hands and surveys the area the two of us have swept and tidied the best we could in one lunch hour. “I never realized what a great view we actually have from up here. Nothing compared to yours, I suppose.”
“Well, since we’d have a hard time getting her to come there short of a kidnapping, this will have to do,” I say, following her gaze across the adjacent rooftops. “In fact, it’s perfect.”
“Now, remember, she gets home around five—make sure you’re out of the apartment before then. I’ll make myself scarce—tell her I’m meeting a friend for dinner straight from work and not returning until late.” Claire turns and walks toward the heavy fire door that we’ve propped open with an old metal chair we found discarded on the rooftop of the building she and Mila live in. “Gotta get back to the office before she suspects something,” she calls over her shoulder.
“Claire,” I say. “Thank you.”
Claire does an about-face. “You’ll be welcome when you’ve put a smile back on my best friend’s face.” She looks me up and down, a wry grin curling her lips. “Not sure what she sees in a surfie slacker like you, but there’s no accounting for taste.” She throws me a wink and disappears down the concrete stairwell.
I’ve certainly been a slacker in some areas of my life, I’ll admit. Money can do that to a person, especially when it’s handed to you without having to earn it for yourself. But earning Mila’s trust is something I’ve got to really work for. And it starts now.
I set up the table, chairs, sound system and strings of lights I had sent over from the props department at the station. Nothing says movie magic like stuff that’s already been in a movie.
After a couple hours of probably the most energy expended in a day outside of a fitness gym, I use Claire’s key to slip into the girls’ flat to clean up and change. After meeting the caterers and showing them in, I’ve got just enough time for one final detail; the note on Mila’s door and the trail of breadcrumbs—in this case, rose petals from a florist down the street—that will lead her up the steps to the roof and back into my life.
The sun is setting behind a jagged horizon of spires and towers as I stand on the rooftop, waiting. It’s a reasonably warm spring night here in New York, but I do miss the Aussie heat and sunshine. Could I really stay here permanently? It’s curious how the seasons are opposite; it’s coming on autumn back home. I switch on the sound system and check my phone for the time. 5:20 p.m. What if she doesn’t turn up? Might serve me right for taking so long to realize what’s important.
Just then I hear the heavy door squeak open. I move to the side of the table where there’s a clear line of sight to the stairwell entrance, and out of its dark orifice, Mila appears. My chest feels like it’s about to cave in with my giant exhale of relief. She looks stunning in a white sleeveless dress, the sapphire necklace I gave her sparkling against her tawny skin. Her lawless curls tumble unbound over her shoulders. She pauses in the doorway and looks straight at me, then her eyes pan out to take in the makeshift, corny, but hopefully romantic tableau before her that I’ve spent the afternoon creating.
Miles of Edison-bulb light strings swag overhead and a plate of pillar candles flicker on the round table in the center of the brick and concrete space. A slight breeze flutters the hem of the white linen tablecloth and bobbles the stems and leaves of the four giant flower arrangements positioned around the table. Potted dwarf evergreens wrapped in fairy lights stand guard on the brick sill at the edge of the roof, while polished silverware and glossy china reflect the myriad points of light from every direction.
Mila gasps and presses a hand to her throat. She seems frozen in place, afraid to venture forward as if the whole scene is a mirage that might disappear once she gets too close. I hold out my hand. She lets the door fall closed behind her and steps slowly toward me. I draw her even closer as her palm slips into mine.
“Are you free for dinner, ma’am?” I ask, grinning at her awestruck expression.
“I am,” she replies, nodding. “I can’t believe you’ve done all this. How did you...?
“Oh, I had the help of a Clair-ey Godmother,” I say, wrapping my arm around her waist and leaning in for a kiss. Her lips are sweet and moist with strawberry-flavored gloss. I savor the taste, thinking that even this extravagant catered meal won’t compare to the sweetness of her kiss.
“Claire helped you? I don’t believe it.”
“If you prefer to believe I flew in and staged this magical dinner date entirely by helicopter, I’ll go with that.”
“That, I’d believe.” She laughs.
“Well, let’s not leave it to get cold, eh?” I pull out a chair and help her get settled before taking the seat opposite. I lift a chilled bottle from the bucket and offer to pour. “Non-alcoholic,” I announce.
She smiles and nods.
We start on dinner, and I can’t help but marvel at how beautiful she looks awash in candlelight and surrounded by flowers. All the stress of work and the nasty business with my dad fades in her presence and I’m truly enjoying this experience. We’re nearly finished when I realize I haven’t yet apologized.
“Mila.” She looks up as I say her name, focusing her big brown eyes on me. Waiting. Waiting for the words she needs and so richly deserves to hear from me. Waiting for the truth. “I’m so sorry for the other night. Sorry that we missed the performance you were so looking forward to, and sorrier still that you were caught in the fallout of my... frustrations. When I realized you and the baby could have been hurt...”
“We weren’t. I’m a strong person, Derric. You should know that by now.”
“I do.” I gaze at her gentle face that belies the strength of character within, and I’m suddenly aware of the music wafting through the air. The song is “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” from The Lion King. “Strong enough to dance with me?” I ask, rising from my chair and offering my hand again.
“Yes.” Smiling, she takes my hand and follows me to the open space beneath the strings of lights. I hold her in my arms and let the music guide our feet. All my senses come alive as we slow dance. The texture of her dress… The smell of her hair… The fragrance of flowers… The taste of her skin… The sounds of traffic far below that mingle with the voice of Elton John… All faultless. I swear I can even feel the tiny heartbeat of our unborn child pulsing between us as our bodies press together, and realize what a miracle that is.
It’s a perfect moment, and I want to keep having it, every day, over and over. This is what I want, what I’ve missed out on; a chance at real love, a family, a deep and unbreakable connection with the one person who fills me with joy.
I lean down to speak low in her ear. “Mila, I know life hasn’t exactly been a fairy tale for us. So much has happened so fast—things we didn’t plan—but, despite all of it, I know that I want you, and the baby, and I want us to give it a go; to be together, officially. Be a family. What do you say?”
I feel her breathe in and out before she raises her head to look at me, a huge smile on her face. Every bulb and candle could go out right now, and our rooftop dance floor would still be lit by that smile.
“On one condition. That you take me downstairs right now and make slow, passionate love to me.”
“Ah, I see you’ve learned to go for what you want,” I say.
“And I see you’ve learned to apologize. Now, make love to me, or the deal’s off.”
“Now that’s an offer I can’t refuse.”