LUCIA

 

“Coffee break?” Josie asked, and when I turned to look at her I arched an eyebrow at the wild look in her eye. She’d had an…interesting morning, to say the least. And evening. We both had.

“Please,” I said, standing and immediately following her to the back, grabbing a blanket from one of the chairs. It was freezing outside, the wind whipping through the trees. Ray was all about it, on long calls with Shay about how we could incorporate “storm imagery” into his avant-garde style.

Calvin had been hunched over stacks of paper all day, and barely glanced my way once. He’d certainly not mentioned the poem I’d drunkenly left outside his door last night. Which was for the best. As soon as I’d woken up—a little hungover, squinting against the harsh daylight—I knew it was a mistake. Embarrassing, even. Supermodels didn’t leave secret love poems for guys they had crushes on.

It just didn’t happen.

Although, for the briefest of moments, I thought I’d caught Cal crying. He’d looked stricken, flipping through some notebook, and when I’d walked past he was wiping tears from his eyes. I wanted to jump over the desk and wrap him in a hug.

I wrapped us in the blanket, huddled over the cup of coffee like it was the Holy Grail. Josie had bitten her lip so much I was worried she’d break the skin.

“So…” I started, “the bouquets.” Last night Josie had gone home with Gabe, the sexy, bearded bartender—and Cal’s closest friend. This morning she’d crawled home only to have a bouquet of irises delivered to her cabin an hour later.

“They kept coming,” she said, gulping down caffeine. “Six total, one every half an hour. Each with a card.”

I fought to keep quiet, but I couldn’t stop the beaming smile. “Josie,” I squealed, shoving her with my shoulder. “He’s a total sweetheart! And he’s got the hots for you, for sure.”

She shook her head. “We’re seeing each other tonight. For a date.” She grimaced at the word. Josie hadn’t gone on a date since Clarke, two years ago.

“That’s a good thing.”

“It’s against the rules.”

“Rules-schmules. Just have some fun. We’re leaving tomorrow anyway,” I said, and a corresponding feeling of dread unleashed in my stomach.

With her best friend sixth sense, Josie turned a sharp look on me. “What happened with you last night?”

I shrugged nonchalantly. “Oh you know…got a little drunk and left Cal a poem by Mary Oliver at his bedroom door.”

Josie spit her coffee out.

“What is this, The Three Stooges?” I asked, sighing.

“You have a crush on Cal.”

“I sure don’t,” I said. Lies, lies, it was all lies.

She let it go, even though it was so obvious I was lying. I hadn’t had a real relationship in years—hadn’t had real feelings for a person in years. Everything in my life as a model was orchestrated and for the cameras. I dated opportunistically. I swallowed against a panicky feeling in my throat—like a cluster of moths was trapped there.

It was fine. I had the rest of my life to fall madly, passionately, wildly in love. But not now.

And certainly not with Cal.

“We’ve known these guys for three days,” Josie said in a calm voice. “I’m really not sure what we’re freaking out about.”

“I’m not freaking out,” I lied again, and she half-shoved me. “So, um, I got a message from Sabine. I’m supposed to call her tonight, to set up travel plans, go over some mock-ups. I should be in Paris by the end of next week.”

The words sounded dull to my ears—how was it possible that our time in this…this place, this bookstore…. was giving me such stark feelings of dismay about leaving for my dream job?

Josie was quiet for a moment, and then feebly said, “Yay.”

I laughed. “This is a good thing,” I reminded her.

“No estoy seguro de que estés feliz,” she muttered, looking away for a moment. I couldn’t parse the sentence.

“What? I can’t conjugate Spanish verbs when I’m hungover.”

She sighed, biting her lip again.

“You can tell me, I’m not going to be angry.”

“No, it’s just…Lucia, you’ve seemed more excited to talk with Calvin, to read poems again, to be in this bookstore, than you are about this photo shoot or Paris. I just think that’s…interesting.”

“It’s a big move. I have to leave you. I don’t speak the language…it’s probably just nerves. But good nerves. Happy nerves.” The moths were back, cluttering up my windpipe. I was moments away from wheezing on this rain-drenched patio.

Josie looked at me—like really looked at me. “You’re sure about that?”

“Fuck yeah!” I said, charging my voice with an enthusiasm I didn’t feel. I was distracted—worried about how Josie felt about Gabe, wondering if Cal was okay, and half noticing that there was a definite poem in the way the puddles slid down the dark wood of the patio—the reflection of the trees, our toes at the edge, like twin sisters about to jump into the ocean. Holding hands, their hair whipping against the foam. The image coalesced in my mind, hardening into the rough outline of a stanza.

It took my breath away. I squeezed my fingers around the mug, attempting to soothe the itch.

“I love you, Lu,” Josie said suddenly, wrapping me in a hug. I hugged back, surprised.

“I love you too. And are you okay?” I asked against her hair. “Those flowers really upset you, huh?”

I liked to think of myself as a peaceful person, but if I ever came upon Clarke in a dark alley he was a fucking dead man. He’d made my fiercely independent, free-spirited best friend doubt her feelings, her intuition, her sense of self—smashed her internal compass into pieces. It was hard now, when men like Gabe showed her kindness and not just sex.

“I don’t know,” she said in a small voice. She pulled back, wiping a stray tear. There was a poem here too.

“I think he’s a really nice guy. And I think he has a crush on you, even after one night, because you are brilliant and beautiful. I think it’s okay to let yourself have fun with him tonight. Because, well, what are your chances of ever seeing him again?”

“Minimal,” she said, resolute. She lifted her chin. “And he’s sexy as fuck.”

“Thatta girl,” I said, punching her arm. “You deserve to get laid.”

She nodded, her walkie going off. Ray, wondering where in the hell we were. “And you deserve a guy like Cal.”

 

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Zippers were my fucking arch nemesis. As a model, I’d had zippers on every single part of my body—not just in the normal areas. Under my armpits, along my thighs. Once, in a full bodysuit, along the arches of my feet. I’d spent the entire runway show trying not to laugh (I have terribly ticklish feet).

And now I was stuck in the bathroom attempting to zipper this gauzy, bohemian dress and failing miserably. The gauzy layers kept getting stuck in the teeth of the zipper, and it started awkwardly low on my back, just above my ass.

“Go fuck yourself, zipper,” I said through gritted teeth, half-pushing the bathroom door open to find Josie. Instead, I walked right into Calvin.

“Oh…um…hello?” he said, stepping back quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“We have to stop meeting like this, Cal,” I said, flashing a grin. “Or you need to stop following me into tiny, enclosed spaces like hallways and bathrooms.”

Cal rubbed the back of his neck, shuffling on his feet. “It’s always been part of my charm: following women into small spaces. I’m a total Casanova. I spent a lot of high school, just…you know, juggling too many girlfriends in too many enclosed spaces.”

I laughed, leaning against the door. “So was that the title you held in your yearbook? Instead of Most Likely To Succeed you had Uncontrollable Amount of Girlfriends?”

“Oh, no…I’m pretty sure it was Never Going to Get Laid.”

Without realizing it, I’d backed further in and he’d followed me. The glasses, the blushing, the nervous speech: he’d joked about being kind of a nerdy outcast in high school and I could see how it had happened. And how he’d spent those years developing such a dry wit: nerds in high school always ended up with the best senses of humor when they were adults—it was a weapon, a shield against bullying.

But also, I got the impression Calvin had grown into his good looks kind of recently. Because standing six inches from him in this bathroom, I had to admit to myself that if we’d met in high school (and he looked the way he did now), I would have had a serious crush on him. Like, can-you-hold-my books; I’ll-wear-your-letterman-jacket type of crush.

He was tall, taller than me, which was saying something since in heels I hovered over six feet. He didn’t seem overly muscular, but he did seem fit—broad shoulders and a trim waist. That crooked grin, his strong nose. Bright green eyes behind his thick glasses. He alternated between clean-shaven and scruffy, five o’clock shadow (today it was clean shaven) and I fought the strongest urge to press my hand against his jaw and feel the skin there.

“Lucia?” Cal said, quietly, and I snapped back from my reverie.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just, um…hey, can you help me with this zipper?” I asked, turning around. I’d never been shy about my body—you can’t be a model and have any kind of shyness, really. So I usually wouldn’t have thought twice about asking someone like Calvin to zip up a dress that barely covered my back. It was just skin.

But as soon as I turned—my hands gripping the sink, our faces reflected in the mirror—I realized I’d made a critical error. Because I had a front-row seat to the total shift that went through Cal at the sight of my bare skin. He placed his hands on my body: his left hand, firmly, on my hip. His right hand grasped the zipper, his thumb pressing against my lower spine.

He looked up into the mirror, gaze meeting mine, and there it was: the shift. That look. Like he was a man dying of thirst in the desert.

And I was the oasis.

 “Who made this dress, NASA scientists?” he asked, his eyes still on mine.

Two days ago, I would have told him looking at it would help, except that would mean he’d break eye contact with me. And I was suddenly desperate to keep his gaze.

He squeezed my hip gently and a riot of sensations spread forth from the touch—slide his hand forward and he could slip his fingers between my legs. Backwards and he could palm my ass.

“Something like that,” I finally said, a distinct shake in my voice. “I mean honestly, about eight of these gauze layers are completely superfluous.”

“I love that word,” he said, yanking on the zipper and smiling at me.

I arched an eyebrow.

“Superfluous,” he said, finally breaking eye contact to squat below me. “Sorry, it’s just…yeah, all these superfluous layers are fucking jammed in this zipper,” he said.

And I could have just called for Josie, or had someone from wardrobe cut the damn dress from me, but I was glued to this spot. An earthquake could have cracked Big Sur wide open and Cal and I would still be standing here, suspended in time.

“Me too,” I said, aware of his body crouched behind mine. His hand tightened on my hip, his breath ghosting over the small of my back. My eyes fluttered close for the briefest of seconds. The material tugged and pulled around me—evidence of his attempts at freeing me.

“It’s not a word I see in poetry a lot,” I finally said, wishing he would lean forward and press his lips against my spine. “Or even literature. But I love saying it. Rolls off the tongue perfectly.”

A hard yank, and then Cal said, “Victory is mine.”

“And yeah, it’s the tongue work that makes that word so magnificent.” He was suddenly standing back up behind me, and was it my imagination or was it closer than before? And did he have to say the phrase tongue work?

He pulled the zipper up slowly, cautious of getting snagged again. As he did, his thumb caressed up my spine, setting off a round of shivers.

“Should I stop?” he asked softly, and there was a new scrape to his voice.

“No,” I said, and there was no hiding the slight moan. I’d just spent the entire day being pet and touched and felt up by Taylor, a supermodel, and felt not a single thing.

Two minutes with Cal and I was aching with lust. I felt it now, full-blown and cataclysmic.

“I won’t, then,” he said, thumb continuing to stroke up and up and up. The zipper reached its destination but Cal’s fingers stayed on my back, feather-light. I shifted back—barely a centimeter—and met the hard resistance of his erection right where I needed it. I swallowed a gasp.

“Were you okay earlier?” I asked. His fingers danced up to the nape of my neck, stroking.

“Yes, I mean, I am now,” he said, fingers moving in small circles. I was tempted to move my hips like that, circling on his cock, but held off. Not yet. “Thank you for asking. The grief comes in waves.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

His fingers found my hair. He scratched lightly at the base of my scalp. This time I closed my eyes, not caring if he saw. Wanting him to see the effect he was having on my body. I couldn’t remember ever being so aroused. So aware.

“If Mary Oliver wrote a poem about this moment, what would she say?” he asked. His breath stroked the back of my neck. I smiled, happy we were both finally acknowledging the poems we’d been leaving each other.

“Oh, let’s see. Something about nature. Spring time, maybe?”

“Why spring time?” We still hadn’t broken eye contact, conducting the conversation as if his hands weren’t on my body, his cock not pressing deliciously against my ass.

“Bodies. Warm air. Exploration,” I said, a poem half-writing itself in my mind already. My fingers twitched against the bathroom sink.

“Verdant. Flourish. Lush,” he said. He half-grinned, fingers still scratching the strands of my hair. They migrated downward, his thumb pressing massaging circles into my neck. I let out a small, breathy sigh and he gripped my hip so hard I knew it’d be bruised tomorrow.

I loved it. Grew hot at the idea of bruising beneath Cal’s hand.

“Wantonness,” I said, my mind searching for my favorite words. Words that described lust. Because this was a poem about two bodies seeking primal release. Nature at its most lascivious.

“Salacious,” I said, his green eyes darkening. I wanted darker. Deeper.

“Hunger,” I sighed and rolled my hips ever so slightly and Calvin let out a low growl.

“Fuck, Lucia—” he started to say, and then we heard the loud clomp of Ray’s boots and his voice, calling out.

“And where the hell is Lucia? She was supposed to be back ten minutes—oh,” he said, stumbling into the bathroom. We’d sprung apart at the sound of his boots. Cal was red-faced and I knew I was breathing heavily. Ray looked between the two of us, arching an eyebrow at me. I shook my head quickly. “My zipper was broken and Cal here was helping me with it,” I said, fluttering my hand his way.

Cal nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I, um…have always had a penchant for zippers. Good with my hands,” he said, laughing nervously. “So, I’m going to get back to my paperwork. Lucia, happy to be of service,” he said, moving quickly around Ray and leaving the room.

I let out a long breath.

“You needed me?” I asked, ignoring the questioning look on Ray’s face.

“I mean, we are in the middle of a work day so—”

“Bossy,” I said, swatting Ray playfully. “Can’t a girl take a 5-minute bathroom break? We have a union, you know,” I said, laughing to cover up the fact I was still trembling.

I walked back out to the Big Room and plopped myself into the makeup chair. Josie gave me one look. “Tengo preguntas…” she said beneath her breath.

“Luego,” I said, glancing at Cal. His head bent over dozens of documents, like he’d been all morning. Me in the makeup chair, like I’d been all morning.

Both of us, as if those minutes in the bathroom had never even happened.

 

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