Note: I found an unfinished fragment on my computer and decided to write a story around it. Nearly 7k words later, I have my intro. To be continued soon in part two. #finishwhatyoustart
== FARSIGHTED ==
I would never admit to this, of course, but I hate being alone. I suppose the fact that I am currently engaged to what would be my fifth husband makes that painfully obvious.
Now that my daughters are in junior high, they seem to spend every waking moment with their friends, walking around 5F at Bergdorf Goodman. They're harmless and don't cause trouble, but knowing that they won't be home when I walk in the door in the evening makes home far less comfortable.
David is a good man, well-connected and attractive. He's significantly younger than me, but his blond hair is beginning to grey, and his hairline is receding, which actually works in my favor. I am exhausted by the press these past few years—ever since my embarrassingly childish reaction to the way Stephen divorced me.
When I think about it, my one constant in the past few years has been Andrea. She began as my clumsy second assistant, and I didn't think she'd last a month, but soon found I was asking her to join me in Paris. Don't get me wrong, I would have much rather taken Emily, except she had to go and get herself hit by a taxi just days before Paris Fashion Week.
Andrea did the job reasonably well. I didn't want to take such a new employee with me, especially one as impressionable as Andrea was at the time. I've seen it before—I give them one night to themselves and they seem to consume all the wine within the city. I had fully planned to keep Andrea busy each and every night—for her sake, as well as my own—but the divorce papers came, and she had that pitiful look in her eye. The next day I half hoped she would have been too hungover to show up.
Looking back, I think she'd have wished the same.
When I found her sitting by the fountain after my last show had finished, I saw the guilt in her eyes. There was something about her I actually liked. It was refreshing to work with people who challenged you personally and professionally. Andrea was certainly a challenge. I had known all along she wasn't like the other girls at the magazine, but I didn't realize how much my staff needed someone like her to breathe fresh life into the halls of the 38th floor.
Since then, I've become a sort of mentor to her, I suppose. We talked a lot about Paris: about her decisions and about mine, about Nigel, about Emily, and about being an adult with a job and responsibilities. In a way, it was a primer for discussions I imagine I'll be having with my daughters in a few years. It was sad to learn that while Andrea has such loving parents, they aren't able to support her in the ways she needs.
Shortly after Paris, a position as a buyer became available, and while I knew she would never ask me for it, I knew Emily wanted it. I put on a show about how impossible it would be to lose Emily, knowing that Andrea would easily slide into her role. She did that—and more.
Andrea setup a training program for new staff members and created a binder which is affectionately known as "The Runway Bible" by the team. In it is anything and everything one needs to know about life at the magazine, down to my coffee order, my measurements, and the keycode for the gate at my private residence Vermont. I thought the project would be a waste of time, but I didn't have anything else worthwhile to busy her with, so I let her do her thing. I am embarrassed to say that it has worked miracles on the employee retention rates here.
I don't know how she does it.
My loneliness is manageable because of her. We talk or text every single day. She listens to me, has thoughtful replies, and I have started to listen to her, too. Emotionally, I am satisfied because of her; however, it does not satisfy the need for another human being's touch night after night, year upon year.
Naturally, when Irv Ravitz told me he had someone he wanted me to meet, I cringed, more so than usual. But, we were at a benefit that I couldn't leave yet, and Irv was still technically my supervisor, so I smiled and exchanged pleasantries with a gentleman with whom his son attended Harvard. David was kind and charming, nothing unusual for a male at a fashion benefit.
It wasn't until he pulled me aside and whispered that he wanted to kiss me but didn't want to cause a scene that I saw his potential. I brought him upstairs to my suite and mentally began preparing myself for a one-night-stand. He led me to the couch and took a seat next to me. I was surprised—because the bed looked infinitely more comfortable—but my heart was thrumming in anticipation of feeling another human being's skin against mine.
I was desperate.
I sat next to him on the couch and began to take my earrings off when he reached up and stilled my hand. "Let me," he said. He was so careful and meticulous, handling the gemstones as if they were the most delicate jewel in the world. First my earrings, then my bracelet and rings, and lastly, my necklace, all set delicately on the coffee table. He traced his finger down my neck and my body awoke with a shiver. I don't remember what he said, just that he kissed me. We were kissing each other and touching each other and I kept reminding myself, this is a one-night-stand. After a while, we took a break to catch our breath, and he excused himself to the bathroom. I took the opportunity to change out of my couture gown and into my black silk lingerie, grateful that Andrea always had the essentials ready in my suite.
I was kneeling on the bed when he emerged a few minutes later. He climbed up to join me, kissing me and touching me as I unbuttoned his shirt. I unfastened his belt and reached for his pants when his hand stopped me. "Don't take this the wrong way—you're a very beautiful woman," he said, "but I believe in chastity." I sat back on my heels as his words washed over me. He proceeded to take off his pants and shirt, leaving just his boxers and socks, as he explained that he still very much wanted to sleep with me.
"Just sleep?" I asked him. He clarified that he wanted to kiss me and touch me and hold me all night, and maybe fall asleep too. I could hardly believe what was happening, but I agreed, and that was one of the most satisfying nights I'd had in recent years.
We exchanged a few emails and calls over the following week, and after learning more about him—he was a very devout Christian, and a widower—I started seeing him officially. We saw each other four or five times a week, and he spent the night every other week, when my daughters were staying at their father's. After about six months, he proposed to me, and I accepted.
I have been delaying any talk of marriage, and I am not sure why. The obvious reasons would be something like fear of commitment or anxieties about intercourse, but I don't think either of those really apply. Would I have sex with him? Of course. Do I desire him sexually? Not really.
Truth is: I love what he provides me with, but not him.
When I started seeing David, I witnessed a jealousy in Andrea that was entirely unanticipated. I made note of that, and have since tried to drop hints at how much I appreciate her as a friend. I make an effort to have lunch with her at least once a week where we just talk about her career, the freelance stories she's working on, and whatever else she wants to discuss. If we're at work late—usually the nights when David is busy—I'll invite her into my office for a drink while we quietly prepare for the days and weeks ahead.
I've noticed that she touches me now. I can't say whether she had been doing this all along, but it seems like it started once things became serious between David and me. Maybe I am just more sensitive to the touch and have only started noticing, although I find that difficult to believe. The thing is, her touch is heavenly, and I can't help but respond.
She will brush her fingers along mine as she hands me a folder, or along my neck as she drapes my coat over my shoulders. She rests her fingertips on my arm when she leans in to whisper something, and I can feel her hand on the small of my back when she steps aside and lets me walk ahead of her. Months ago, it was just the gentlest of touches, but now, she softly strokes her thumb along my arm or my hand, and I still can't figure out whether it is deliberate. Not that it matters.
I looked at my phone and realized I have been ignoring David all week in order to spend time with the young woman. Turns out I would rather be emotionally satisfied than physically. I can't talk to David the way Andrea and I do; I don't have the same connection with him. He's incredibly devoted and would do anything to make me feel better—well, except for his vow of chastity—and it rather reminds me of the way Emily would fawn over me years ago. He's nice to have around, but not stimulating, and certainly not someone I would want to spend the latter half of my life with.
I just don't know how to break it to him.
I quickly glanced at my calendar. Tomorrow the girls would be going to their father's in the evening, and David would be coming over. I needed to talk to him before then, or else the entire weekend would be a disaster. I sent him a message asking him to meet me for dinner, and asked Andrea to make the reservation. He agreed, and the reservation was set. Now I needed to figure out what I would say.
"Andrea," I called.
"Yes?" she replied, standing in my doorway.
I took off my glasses and pinched the bridge of my nose. "If you were to—hypothetically—need to cancel plans with a hypothetical significant other, but you want to do it as nicely as possible without being too nice," I paused and looked up. "Stop smirking, this is a serious question," I said. I was slightly irritated that she seemed to find this situation humorous.
"I'm sorry. Just, can you say it in plain English? You can trust me," she said. I nodded and gestured for her to shut the door as I got up and walked over to the sofa. She sat beside me and reached for my hand. "I'm listening," she said. I squeezed her hand and took a deep breath. "I need to break my engagement with David. He's a good man…for some other woman. I don't love him, and I can't spend the rest of my life with him. And it's not fair to lead him on like this," I said.
She gently squeezed my hand again and brushed her thumb along the back of my hand. "Okay, so you're trying to figure out how to tell him this, and I imagine you want to tell him sooner rather than later, correct? That's what the reservation is for tonight?" I nodded. This woman's ability to handle a situation was uncanny. Andrea spent the next ten minutes talking me through what I would say, how I would phrase it, how I would leave things. She made me promise to call her later tonight, regardless of how dinner went, and knowing I could talk to her when it was all over was a small ray of hope for me.
Dinner went better than I had expected. David had tears in his eyes, but did not cry. He appreciated my honesty, and we both agreed that we did not regret the time we spent together. I wished him the best, and left before dessert arrived. I wanted to call Andrea in the car on the way home, but as I was dialing, my ex-husband called to tell me that he picked up the girls a night early since they were going somewhere right from school the next day. I wasn't happy about it, but what could I do? I returned home to an empty house, with no hope of physical contact anytime soon. I poured myself a glass of wine, sent my daughters a text goodnight, and made my way up to bed.
Several hours later, I woke to my house phone ringing. I reached over to the nightstand and picked it up. "Hello?" I heard Andrea sigh on the other end of the line. "Hi, it's me. Sorry, I was just worried," she said. I switched the lamp on and picked up my phone, which was still on silent. Two missed texts and one missed call. "I was waiting for your call tonight, and you weren't responding, so I just wanted to make sure you're okay. Sounds like you were sleeping?" she asked. I read through her text messages as I listened to her talk. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. I intended to call you, then James called to say he picked up the girls a night early, and then I just fell asleep. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," I said.
"Did everything go okay tonight?" she asked. "Yes," I explained, "He took it better than I thought he would." She seemed satisfied with that and told me to go back to sleep, that we would talk more in the morning. I hung up the phone and turned the light out, staring into the dark. Somehow, I didn't feel so alone.
The next morning, I was a little nervous about heading into the office. I was feeling particularly vulnerable, but I was too defeated to carry any armor. I sent a quick message to my driver, asking him to pick up Andrea before getting me. I knew she wouldn't be in the office yet—she showed up promptly at 8:30 AM every morning, 9:00 AM on Fridays. It was behavior I would have never let my staff get away with years ago, but somehow, it worked. There were no crises, no last-minute scrambling, just a comfortable tranquility.
When my car arrived, I made my way down the steps and slid into he backseat, and Andrea surprised me by having my coffee ready. I began to tell her she did not need to do that, but she stopped me and simply said, "You're welcome." I blushed and apologized and thanked her. She continued talking, correctly assuming that I didn't want to talk about the previous night and that I just needed to get my mind off David until I was in my office. She went through my schedule for the day, and for next week. She talked about what she planned to order for lunch, and about her own weekend plans which seemed to consist of painting her bedroom and hanging up some artwork. Before I knew it, she was walking me into my office. When I took a seat, I simply looked up at her and hoped my eyes conveyed my gratitude.
The day progressed with relative ease. No major fires, and more importantly, no word from David. The way we ended things, I didn't expect to hear from him, though part of me hoped he would call and beg me to change my mind. He didn't need me, though, and that was more disappointing that I expected. I need to feel needed.
After lunch, many of the staff had chosen to take the afternoon off—part of the Summer Fridays program that Andrea had helped create. I had a few edits to finish on the cover story for the next issue, and I wanted that wrapped up before I left for the weekend.
"Got a minute?" Andrea asked. I looked up and she was standing in my doorway, sunglasses on her head, her bag in hand. I nodded, and she took a seat. She explained that she was heading out for the afternoon, and that Erica, the second assistant, would be there for the remainder of the day, but of course, I could call her if I needed anything. I thanked her and turned my attention back to the computer monitor, but I realized she was still seated. "Yes?" I asked.
"Miranda, this might seem odd or inappropriate or something, but, would you want to come over tonight for dinner and a movie? Or even just a drink? I know it's been a long week, and well, I just thought some company would be nice. I mean, I know it's weird. You would never go to your assistant's home, but I really hate going out to the bars and thought a casual evening—" she paused and sighed. "Sorry, I'm rambling. Will you come over tonight, say 7 o'clock?" I smiled and nodded. That actually sounded nice. I so rarely had the opportunity to spend time with her outside of work—this would be good for me.
After she left, I was able to finish up my work relatively quickly and leave the office before 5 myself. I went to pour myself a glass of wine, but remembered my plans with Andrea, so instead I selected a bottle to bring her and put it in the fridge to chill. I changed out of my white suit and instead of reaching for my yoga pants, I wondered what I might wear to Andrea's. I sent her a quick message, asking how "casual" she meant. She replied, saying she would likely be in running shorts and a t-shirt, but I could wear whatever felt comfortable. She did warn me that her air conditioning only had one temperature setting, so it was best to dress in layers. I dug through my closet and put on a pair of black capri-length leggings, a black ribbed tank, and then a lightweight drapey black and navy blue patterned cardigan. Just as I was deciding which shoes to wear, I got a text message and automatically assumed Andrea was canceling. To my surprise, she was simply telling me I could come early and help her cook if I wanted.
That was exactly what I needed to hear.
I decided to walk to her place—it was just over a mile from where I lived when I actually looked at the map. I usually didn't walk around the city, but with a baseball cap and sunglasses on, I blended in enough to be inconspicuous.
"Hey!" she said, greeting me at the door, "I almost didn't recognize you." I explained to her how I had walked through the park and not a single person noticed me. It was usually difficult for me to disguise myself because of my hair, so I was particularly proud of this accomplishment. "No," she said as I took of my shoes and followed her into the kitchen, "not that. Your body, it's—I didn't realize you were this thin. You never wear anything with lycra to work." She paused for a minute. "You look great, don't get me wrong. It's nice to see you outside of the office," she added. I pondered on that comment as I pulled a bottle of wine from my purse and handed it to her. She grabbed a corkscrew and handed me a glass. "Cheers," she said, "to Fridays and friendship." Fridays and friendship, indeed.
She was right about the air conditioning in her apartment, but I would rather be too cold than too hot, so I removed my cardigan and tossed it across a chair. She was making steak tacos, and while she sautéed the meat, I worked on the salad, which consisted of tomatoes, cucumbers, and avocado—all chopped in equal-sized cubes—plus some cilantro, thinly sliced red onion, lime juice, and olive oil. It had been years since I cooked a meal with someone, but I was happy to let Andrea assign me whatever tasks were needed. While the steak rested, she gave me the option of warming the tortillas or making fresh tomatillo salsa. Spotting the Magic Bullet on her counter, I quickly opted for the latter.
"You know, I've never had rosé with Mexican food," she said as she finished her glass of wine. "Neither have I, but luckily, we finished it, so we'll need something else with our dinner," I said. She looked in her fridge and gave me three options: margaritas, Bud Light Lime, or a Tempranillo. The wine looked outstanding, but something about a taco and beer sounded so tempting. I had heard the girls in the office raving about that beer, so I thought I would give it a shot. Andrea looked floored at my decision, but opened a bottle for me, and one for herself. She reached for a glass, but I was already taking a sip, and it was pleasantly refreshing. She told me I was "utterly unpredictable" and then put two plates and bowls out on the kitchen island, where I had already set silverware and glasses of water.
Dinner was—in a word—easy. It was always so easy to be around Andrea. I never needed to worry about what to say or what she might think. And even if I said or did something otherwise embarrassing—like let out a small belch after finishing a beer—her reaction was always agreeable. She didn't ignore it, and she didn't call attention to it. I don't know how else to explain it. It was just easy. I was glad to have her as a friend, and I told her as much as we were cleaning up our plates. We opted to leave the chips and salsa out for a snack, but I helped her to put everything else away into her fridge.
"So, um, we either need to switch to margaritas, or we'll have to run out to the corner bodega for another 6-pack. I've only got one bottle of beer left," she said with a frown. I was really enjoying the beer for a change and didn't really want to switch to hard alcohol, so I reached in my purse and handed her a twenty-dollar bill. "I would come with you and pay myself, but somehow I think a picture of me buying beer in a bodega would cause a much greater uproar than me walking through central park in workout clothes," I said. She agreed and headed out the door, telling me to make myself at home and pick out a movie.
While she was gone, I explored her apartment a bit. It was probably listed as a two-bedroom, though the second bedroom was more like a random nook without a door. However, she made it into a very comfortable and chic-looking home office. She had already moved all of her furniture and pictures into the office in preparation for painting her bedroom, so her bed—a California King, I couldn't help but notice—was the only item in her rather large bedroom. The bathroom was small but quaint—a vintage claw-foot tub that had been repainted but was in exquisite condition was the centerpiece of the room. She installed some shelving beneath her pedestal sink, which was nice, and a small frosted-glass window let fresh air in or steamy air out. I made my way back to the living room and squatted down to see her DVD selection. My eyes immediately jumped to an old film I hadn't seen in many years, and I pulled it from her rack and put it into the DVD player.
Andrea returned and tried to give me the change from the beer, but I told her to keep it for next time I come over. That seemed to satisfy her, so she opened two bottles of beer and brought them to the couch, where I was already sitting. "What movie are we watching?" she asked. "Already in the player," I said with a grin. I watched as she maneuvered two different remotes until the disc menu came up. She actually squealed when she saw that I had selected The Philadelphia Story, and she reached over and hugged me and thanked me for choosing her favorite movie. I don't think she quite noticed—and I would attribute that to the fact that we had each consumed two glasses of wine and two beers at this point—but when she hugged me, I sighed. It was so sudden and hurried, but all I could think about was how wonderful it felt to have her arms around me. Not that David's arms didn't feel wonderful, too, it's just that Andrea's felt better.
Andrea was better.
We watched the movie in a comfortable silence, until I began saying one of the lines. Then, it turned into a competition on who knew the lines the best, and I would have won, had Andrea not paused the movie at her favorite part because she had to pee. I waited patiently on the couch, thinking about how the last time I saw this movie was right after my divorce from my first husband. I had been feeling down and this movie helped cheer me up—though the thought of re-marrying my ex-husband sent a slight shiver down my spine. Andrea returned with another beer and two glasses of water. "It's getting warm in here—do you mind if I turn the A/C on for a few minutes?" she asked. I didn't mind, and I drank some water before reaching for what must have been my fifth beer that night. I could feel the fogginess that usually tells me to stop drinking, but I was comfortable and happy, so I kept on.
After the movie was over, we stayed awake, talking late into the night about everything and nothing. I yawned and glanced at the clock, shocked to find that it was almost 3:00 AM. I called for a car, and then explained to Andrea that I needed to get home, and she needed to get to bed. After we finished the beer, she made herself a few margaritas, so while I was feeling just fine, she was ready to pass out. I stood from the couch, but she grabbed my wrist and tugged me back, basically pulling me onto her lap. "Just stay here tonight," she said as she wrapped her arms around my waist. I pried her hands off of me and stood, still holding her hands. "Come with me. I'm going to help you into bed," I said. Andrea frowned, but came willingly. We first stopped in the bathroom where I removed her eye makeup and gave her some mouthwash, then headed to her bedroom, where I helped her into bed. "Don't I get a kiss goodnight?" she asked. I smiled and kissed her knuckles, then let go of her hand, turning out the lights and letting myself out.
I didn't hear from her until late the next day, when she texted to ask if I got home alright. I told her that I very much enjoyed the evening, and she suggested we do it again—if, of course, our schedules allowed. As it turned out, the girls asked me if they could go with some friend to see Grease in Central Park on Friday. "Of course," I said, "Whose parent is going with you all?" When they didn't respond, I was about to say something, but Caroline quickly asked if Erica or Andy could chaperone them. I told them they would have to call the office in the morning before school and ask themselves. Andrea, of course, said yes, and later that afternoon she asked me if I would be there. I told her the girls didn't invite me, and she reached down for my hand, then said "Well, I am inviting you. Will you join me?" She hooked me with the promise of a picnic complete with pinot grigio juiceboxes and string cheese. It was another delightful Friday evening with my friend Andrea, and while it was a little chaotic rounding everyone up and waiting for their parents, it was comfortable.
For the rest of the summer, Andrea and I had a standing date on Fridays. On weekends when I had the girls and they were actually at home, she was always willing to find something fun for them to do. They didn't always end with us talking till the wee hours of the morning, but they just felt right.
Once autumn approached, my schedule was becoming busier. Dinners and showings and photoshoots and cocktail parties seemed to pop up everywhere, and for four consecutive weeks, I had professional obligations that prevented me from seeing Andrea. I was able to leave one of the shoots early because it began raining, so I asked my driver to head to Andrea's place, in hopes that she would be home and up for an impromptu drink. I had been meaning to talk to her, too, about her freelance work. She was incredibly successful, and I knew if she had more time to devote to writing, she could easily make that into her full-time career.
When I knocked at her door, I heard what sounded like Led Zeppelin playing on the stereo, and for a minute I thought I had the wrong apartment. She opened the door and reached for me, hugging me as she pulled me inside. "Oh my god, I can't believe you're actually free!" she said. She opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses, bringing the bottle to the coffee table as well. It was already pretty late, but that didn't matter. It just felt good to close my eyes and relax against her couch, sipping on an alcoholic beverage. I was tired, but not ready to sleep, so I sipped my wine until the glass was finished, then I placed my glass back on the table, and leaned back into the couch. "Thank you, I needed that," I said, reaching for her hand. She set her wine glass down and took my hand in hers. "How was your week? We didn't talk much," I said, my eyes still closed. "It was okay," she said, "nothing spectacular. Definitely better that you're here now." I smiled and took a deep breath. I could feel the wine wash over me as the burdens of the week seemed to disappear.
I felt Andrea's fingertips on my cheek, tucking my windswept hair behind my ear, then tracing down my jaw. My eyes shot open and she was inches from my face. Before I could react, her lips were on mine. She was kissing me. Andrea was kissing me. Her lips were so soft, but—I reached up and pushed her away, gently squirming out from beneath her arm. She looked up at me with these sad, pouty eyes, all while a million thoughts raced through my mind.
What just happened? Is she drunk? Is she a lesbian? Am I drunk? Was I dreaming? Her lips felt so good. Am I a lesbian? What was she thinking?! She still works for me. What am I doing here? What have we been doing these past months? Does she love me like that? Do I love her? I thought we were just friends. NO. She's just had too much wine. We are friends and nothing more. She won't even remember this in the morning.
"Andrea, darling, you're drunk," I said, smiling and standing from the couch. "No, you are!" she said, folding her arms across her chest and frowning. "Let me get you a glass of water," I said, heading for the kitchen. I needed some space, and I needed to clear my head. I let the water run for a while before pouring a glass and bringing it back to her. I sat next to her and handed her the glass of water, but she would not make eye contact with me. I laid my hand on her back and gently started rubbing in circles, desperately trying to take my mind off of the exquisite taste of her lips. I wanted another glass of wine, but opted to wait until I returned home.
She finished the water and set the glass on the table, resting her head in her hands. "It's okay. It happens to the best of us," I said, hoping to reassure her. She was crying now, and it broke my heart. I had only ever seen her cry once, when she had just started working for me, and that felt like ages ago. "Come here," I said, pulling her closer so she could lean on my shoulder and I could wrap both arms around her. "No need to cry, darling. It's okay, I am not upset," I said. After a while, she sat up and wiped her eyes, still avoiding my eyes. "Miranda, I think you should go," she said.
I was a little surprised, but I took a deep breath and stood from the couch. "Don't worry, darling, things will be alright in the morning. Is there anything else I can do for you?" I asked.
"Stop! Just stop doing this, calling me 'darling,' and touching me and smiling at me. Just stop," she said. I tensed up and felt my walls going up quickly. "Andrea," I said sharply, "I have no idea what I have done to anger you so much right now. If you'd care to share, I am open to an adult discussion, but I will not have you shouting at me. Do you understand?" Andrea buried her head in her hands again and groaned. "Of course I fucking understand. It's you who apparently doesn't understand how adults actually interact. What, did you think we were having playdates for the past four months?" she hissed. I glanced at the door, but decided I needed to stay and have this conversation now, against my better judgment. "What does the past four months have to do with this? You had too much to drink, got a little too friendly, and now you are shouting at me. Connect the dots for me, Andrea," I said, placing my hands on my hips. "And do me the respect of looking me in the eye." I was furious. I trusted this young woman, and for her to turn on me so quickly—all the private information I shared with her over the years that could find its way into the Post. I was beginning to feel sick to my stomach.
She took a deep breath and looked up at me, tears streaming down her cheeks, her mascara smudged beyond repair. "Miranda, I love you. I'm in love with you. I thought you were—I thought we—these dates—and the hand-holding. Miranda, you led me on. For months. And now you're treating me as if my feelings don't matter, as if I acted out of some drunken stupidity. Well you know what, even though I didn't have a sip of wine tonight, I think one has to be both drunk and stupid to attempt to love Miranda fucking Priestly. Please excuse me, your highness," she said, genuflecting as she stood and walked past me and into her bathroom.
I stood there, frozen, for god knows how long. I was only angry with myself, wondering how I let this happen, how I hurt my one and only friend so badly that she would say such things to me, and more importantly, wondering if the damage was beyond repair. I took a deep breath and set down my bag as I kicked off my heels. I untucked my blouse and headed for the bathroom, knocking gently. "Andrea?" No response. "Andrea, I need to apologize." No response. "Please, I need to know that you're okay." "I'm fine."
I let out a sigh of relief and pressed my head against the door. "Can I come in?" I asked. "Sure," she replied. I slowly opened the door. She was sitting indian-style on the lid of the toilet. She had removed her eye makeup, but her eyes were still red. "Would you prefer to speak in here? Or maybe in the other room?" I offered. "Not the couch," she said. "Okay, it doesn't have to be the couch. We can sit on the floor and lean against the couch, how's that? I'll move the coffee table a little bit?" Andrea nodded and got up, following me out of the bathroom. With the coffee table off to the side, there was plenty of room on the carpet. I pulled a few pillows off the couch and tossed them on the ground, easing my fifty-three-year-old body to the floor.
"Let me start," I said. "I would normally reach for your hand while talking to you, but now I'm trying to be more conscious about our interactions." I clasped my hands together and folded them in my lap. "Over the past few months, you and I have gotten really close, but even before that, after Paris, you've just become this constant in my life that I wouldn't give up for anything. One of the reasons I ended things with David was because I didn't feel as emotionally connected to him—as much as I was to you. You were this constant by which I judged all other things, and until today, I didn't quite realize that no one will ever compare to you." She looked up at me for a moment, blushing before putting her head back down.
"You must realize," I continued, "that this has all happened very fast for me. I know it's absolutely no excuse, but the mere thought of, of that kind of a relationship between us, had not crossed my mind. Please forgive me. I love what we have, and it's not surprising that I freaked out the way I did. You're my employee, my best friend, twenty-five years my junior, and a strikingly beautiful woman. I have never kissed another woman, let alone touched her in ways—but with you, however brief, I won't lie, it felt incredible. So, maybe I'm the one who's drunk and stupid right now, but if you can accept all of my craziness and still want me, that should be enough to help me conquer my fear of feeling the same."
I paused for a moment as my words sunk in. I was nervous. Each second longer made me regret opening up in the first place. I closed my eyes and waited, until finally, I jumped when I felt her hand on mine. "Miranda, it took me a while to decipher what you said, but I think it translates to something like 'I love you, too, and I want to try this but I'm scared'—is that right?" she asked. I looked up at her and nodded. "But I can't promise it will be easy, or that I even work that way. We'll have to go slow," I said as I cautiously reached up to cup her cheek. She leaned into my hand as I softly brushed the pad of my thumb under her eye. "Don't cry, darling," I said, "if you can paint, I can walk."
Andrea smiled and kissed the palm of my hand before moving closer. "I just want to curl up next to you, okay? No pressure," she said. I smiled and ran my fingers through her hair. "Darling, not to be too presumptuous, but do you think you could curl up next to me in a bed? I would rather not wake up grumpy and stiff," I said. "Plus, it's nearly midnight." She sat up and climbed to her feet, then reached for my hands, helping me to my feet as well. We regarded each other for a minute, and then she bent down and tossed the pillows back onto the couch, then reached for my hand and led me to the bedroom.
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TBC in part 2...let me know what you think!