But for now, I chose not to care.
“I’m going to run you a bath,” he announces, “and get you something to eat, then I’m going to make love to you, in the bath, and on the bed. I promise to make you forget everything but my name, and the feel of my hands on you.
“Well, don’t make me wait.” I tease, “When you make a promise like that you have to get right on it.”
He laughs, “I intend to.”
Hours later, sated in every way possible, I watch him sleep, marveling at how innocent he looks, like a boy, not like the man who has made me come, over and over again in every way possible. If I didn’t know better, I would convince myself that what’s happened between us can mean something, but I know better than to expect anything from Jackson. Now that he has spent his anger on making my body his again, there’s probably nothing left, except maybe indifference. I sigh.
“What are you thinking?” Even though his eyes are slightly unfocused from sleep, I feel as if he can still read my thoughts and know exactly what’s on my mind.
“Nothing,” I reply.
“You can tell me.”
I search his face. How easy it would be to tell myself that everything has changed, that our physical intimacy has some emotional significance. How easy it would be to share everything I’ve carried around with me all these years. There’s so much he doesn't know, but what would be the point of telling him. I want to get over my pain, not share it, even though I know he’s the only one that can make me forget. So I lie.
“I’m not thinking anything.”
He pulls me back into the warmth of his arms and goes back to sleep. When I’m sure he’s asleep I get up and go back to my room, by the time I have my things together, it’s almost morning, and for the second time in a lifetime. I slip away from Halcyon in the early hours of the dawn, my heart heavy, and certain that I’ll never come back.
The Jackson I’ll always remember is the one from my last day at Halcyon, the tender, loving man who made love to me and made me feel as if nothing that happened in the past mattered at all. That’s the Jackson I’ll carry around in my heart and in my memories, for as long as I live.
“A little more to the right,” I tell the tall, beautiful model I’m photographing. Her hair and dress are billowing in the wind from a large fan, and I'm sure she’s as tired as I am, but she turns her face, giving me the profile I want.
“Perfect.” I call out, taking a quick series of pictures. We’re doing one of those rooftop fashion shoots, and it’s windy and a little cold. I concentrate on perfecting every shot, shaking off all thoughts of Jackson as I call out instructions and take some more pictures. By the time the shoot is done, I am almost too exhausted to stand.
“That was pretty intense.” I look up at the tiny woman with a big mass of orange curls that threaten to bury her face as she offers me a bottle of soda from the snack table. She’s Carly French, the fashion director for a small women’s magazine who’s in charge of the shoot. I’ve worked with her a couple of times before, and while she's nice, she’s also a hopeless gossip.
I shake my head at the soda and watch as she pops it open and drops on a chair beside me. All around us, the workmen are packing up the set while the model changes back into her jeans and t-shirt, turning her back to the rest of us as her only nod to modesty,.
“You look really tired,” Carly continues, which I know means I look awful. I feel awful. Most days I want to curl up in bed and cry until I have no tears left. It’s only because I’ve gone down that road before that I’m determined not to make the same mistake twice.
“Just a lot of work,” I say, getting up. I start to pack up my equipment. “I’ll get these to you.” I say gesturing towards my camera.
She shrugs. “So I heard you spent a couple of days upstate at the Lockewood mansion.”
New York gossip is one thing that will never cease to surprise me. “I did,” I reply wearily.
She looks impressed. “Did you meet Jackson Lockewood? I’ve never met him, but I’ve seen him from afar, and he’s just sex on legs.”
I reply with a shrug.
She gives me an odd look, obviously unimpressed by my lack of enthusiasm. I don’t care. I’m not going to talk about Jackson if I can help it.
I leave soon after. On the sidewalk, the city is bustling with people and noise. I hail a cab, and once inside, I allow my mind to drift as I stare at the trees by the sidewalks, their leaves already fading from green into that beautiful shade of autumn brown that means they’re soon going to be as dead as I feel inside.
My apartment feels empty, more so now than it did before I went back to Halcyon. Had it always been like this? Did I fool myself into thinking I could be happy, only to have those illusions shattered once I realized that I could only ever have true happiness in Jackson’s arms?
&nbs
p; It will get better, I tell myself. I’ve felt this way before. If I could survive the first time, then I will get over Jackson again. But even I know that this time, it’s different, the way I feel now is much worse, I’m languishing at the deepest point of loneliness and pain, and I doubt there’s anything that can change the way I feel.
I change into pajamas and curl up on the couch with a tub of ice cream, not really paying attention to the string of reality shows that follow one after another on the TV. I don’t know how much time passes before my phone rings. It’s May.
“How’re you?” She asks.
“I’m not sick, or dying May. I’m fine.”