It’s our last day in the city. Tomorrow, we’ll be leaving for Gareth’s ranch. Since the night I fell over like a total clown, we’ve been more like travel buddies. We walk around the city during the day and spend the evenings dissecting Gareth’s career. This manages to be both thrilling and disappointing. I’m kind of glad nothing happens between us and also sort of wish that it would.
Each night, Housekeeping leaves a mint on my twin bed.
Before dinner, Gareth says he has something special planned. We take a hired car to San Martin Park and head over to the Salta Tram, a ride that carries tourists to the top of Cerro San Bernado and offers a view of the city. It closes at sunset, a few minutes after we arrive, but of course that means nothing to Gareth. He’s worked it out such that we take our seats, sitting across from each other, alone in a gondola. The only ones going up while everyone else comes down.
We rise, and a flash of warm light crosses his chiseled profile, creating a highlight over his nose. Something about it reminds me of glimpsing his face through the narrow slit in the doorway the first time I came to New York.
“You know, I saw you once before. When I was in high school I worked for a blog that gave me a trip to the city and I went to G Studios. I was hoping to meet you. Beg for a job or something, I guess.” I don’t know why I don’t tell the truth or mention Parsons. Probably because I don’t want to answer for my failures.
“But you couldn’t make it past the guard dogs at the front desk? They can be a bit overzealous sometimes. My father came to the studio once and they wouldn’t let him in because he didn’t have an appointment.” He moves over to sit next to me. The gondola creeps up the cerro, giving us plenty of time to watch the last daylight fade behind the city. Tall, modern skyscrapers form the perimeter of the city with the older districts fanning out behind until they reach the Cordillera mountains. Salta is much larger than I realized, and it goes on and on. “Ah, well, I wish we would have connected,” he says, taking my hand.
I laugh. A dry laugh without any real humor. “Yeah. I know how much you love fat gals. You wouldn’t have even looked in my general direction. Or if you did, it would have been to call me...um...a whale of a woman.”
“You don’t know what I would have done.”
When I give him the side-eye, he continues. “You’re talking about what I said that first day on the plane. Okay. Point taken. That was me being an ass.” His hand releases mine and falls limp in his lap. “I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t start out this damn insensitive. I was the same as you. In the beginning. Out to make sure every person I dressed felt like a million bucks. And then it became more about making a million bucks and I couldn’t figure out how to get back to where I was before.”
At the top of San Bernado, there’s a small waterfall. Nearby, a picnic table has been covered with a stiff, formal white cloth and stacked with fruits and cheese and wine. As we walk, we pass a man in a uniform. He gives Gareth a nod, ducks into a gondola headed back down and then we’re alone.
I fall into one of the steel chairs, dab a bit of Brie onto my plate. “So, not only is it lonely at the top, but once you make it up you might not know how to get back down?”
Gareth smiles and points at the glittering water as it pools. “The best dress I ever made was for my grandmamma. For her fiftieth high school reunion. And it was nothing. A sequin shift dress. You could pattern it in half an hour. But the sparkles moved like that waterfall. I fit it perfectly, musta spent an hour pinning it exactly right. When she put it on...her face glowed like a light bulb. That’s why I wanted to design clothes. For the way they can make people feel.”
He reaches across the table and threads his fingers through mine. “So believe it or not, Cookie, you’re not the only person with a love for the craft. You’re not the only one who can spot talent. If I had seen your portfolio, you woulda been working for me and not NutriMin Water. And that, my girl, is a matter of fact.”
Whether what he says is fact or a rose-colored reimagining of the world or more appealing words that flow from Gareth’s deep reservoir of charm, it’s what I need to hear.
Something warm fills my insides. Like in this little picnic spot, there could be an alternate world where people could be valued according to the size of their potential, not the size of their bodies. Gareth Miller and I could exist in this world.
We sit for a while in silence, listening to the water babble against the rocks. I take deeps breaths, in and out, occasionally the tablecloth rustles in the breeze. Gareth drums his fingers on the table, keeping time with the beat of my heart. When the sun is almost down and nearly everything is blue, we leave the half-finished fromage behind and make our way back to the tram.
He takes my hand, transferring an electric energy between us. I find, in that moment, I’m no longer awkward or insecure or worried that he’ll see my stretch marks.
I know what I want.
The instant we’re in the gondola, I slide the dark blazer off his shoulders. It’s a cool wool, finely woven, smooth and expensive. Probably from his bespoke line, the handmade, custom clothes he produces for A-list actors and billionaires. Gareth takes it from me and tosses it on the bench next to him with the air of someone accustomed to fine things.
I move my fingers down his chest. Slowly. Button by button. I fumble and find patches of hair and warm skin. Breathe.
Gareth loses patience with my slow crawl before I finish the fourth button. He reaches for his wallet inside one of the inner pockets of his jacket. We exchange a look and I give him a small nod.
He lifts me onto his lap and hikes up my dress around my waist. With ease, assurance. Gareth Miller. Probably a charter member of the mile-high club. He puts on his own condom and pushes my thong to the side. Of course. He always knows what he’s doing.
Right now, I know what I’m doing too.
I don’t care that my knees bang against the plastic bench or that the gondola rocks in a way that makes my stomach turn over. There’s the noise, the clangs and thuds of gears and pulleys as we go down. I have to brace myself, planting my hands on the plexiglass behind me to keep from falling back, leaving palm prints on the clear surface.
I let go of all that and focus only on the feeling of his lips on mine and his hands on my body. It’s right and wrong and messy.
And perfect.
I pull my mouth off his and focus on his eyes. The last of the sunlight disappears and I can barely make out their exact shade of brown.
We don’t talk or tell each other how much we’re in love or that we’ll be together forever. It’s not romantic. Or graceful. There’s only hands moving and our bodies trying to fit together in some kind of way and the sound of our breathing.
We are.
We are two people who don’t have the slightest idea where they are or how they got there. Whatever we were. Whatever we will be. In that moment, we just are.
We are two lost people who’ve found each other.
And.
Everything.
As we near the bottom of the hill, I hear voices. I scramble off Gareth’s lap and hurry to fix my clothes. The gondola stops at the station and a man opens the door. I don’t look back at Gareth as the man helps me out and onto the concrete.
But Gareth’s hand is on my back as we go to the parking lot.
We pass another man in a uniform. He says something in Spanish and laughs.
“Well, never a dull moment with you, eh, Cookie?” Gareth whispers in my ear.
I don’t say much. I’m lost in my thoughts on the car ride back to the hotel. I always assumed that skinny people knew exactly what they wanted and were boldly going through life trying to get it. Step by step. Action and reaction. And if I could look like them, I could feel like them. I’m thinner now, but no one sent me my copy of life’s instruction manual.
Even Gareth doesn’t seem to know what he’s doing all the time or know exactly what he wants out of life. We’re trying to pattern out our relationship in the same way we design clothes. Pinning, tucking and darting parts of reality, trying to create a garment I’m not sure we have the skill to construct.
Gareth reaches for my hand and his fingers brush across my palm. I fight off a shiver.
Today, I did what I wanted to and, for an instant, I understand what I want.
Whatever this is, I want it to last.
I take his hand and hold it tight. I leave it for another time to try to figure out if our story is a fairy tale coming true or a dream that I’ll inevitably wake up from.
I hope this will last.