A/N
This is a necessary chapter, so please don't shoot me.
12. A Clear Case of Foot-in-Mouth Disease
SPOV
I arrive at the office ten minutes past nine, only to be greeted by the sour face of Ada. "Did you miss finding your way home?" is her rude welcome.
"No, I did not, and good morning to you, too." (Bitch!) "You obviously have misplaced your manners today."
Grinning to myself, I leave her standing open-mouthed in the hallway to catch flies and head to the boss's office.
I apologize for yesterday's absence, and offer the abridged version of the accident, showing Bill the medical certificate. After reassuring him that I am fine to return to work, I walk back to my desk in the reception area.
Head held high, I can't help noticing my colleagues glancing at me while having whispered discussions. Let them talk.
By lunchtime, I finish two reports for Bill. I also make some calls confirming his meetings and complete the remainder of the most pressing items that accumulated on my desk during my absence.
I announce to no one in particular that I am leaving for lunch. All the others are back from their own lunch breaks and this time don't pay any attention to me as I walk toward the stairs. Away from the prying eyes of my work colleagues, I fish out my mobile and punch in Eric's number. No answer. Maybe he is sleeping again.
At the nearby buffet, I select a dish of leeks and olives and absentmindedly nibble at it, musing over Eric's job offer. Did he really mean it? He hardly knows me. I thought he would be interested in me on a more personal level. At least I hoped so. Working together would be a serious impediment to developing any sort of long-term relationship. I am not the kind of girl to sleep with her boss.
I stare at the mostly untouched food in front of me. Not that I would not be interested in him in that way, I hedge. The unfamiliar ringtone on my mobile provides a welcome distraction. It is Eric. Perhaps it is a sign.
Breathless with anticipation, our conversation is low-key and disappointing. He politely declines my offer to meet with him today after work. After we ring off, my thoughts are a jumbled mess. Maybe he has guests staying with him? Another woman? Another man? I am pathetic in my worrying. At least he said something about meeting for coffee tomorrow evening. Without answers and no way to find out, I'm left staring dejectedly into space. My appetite is gone now, and I pack my food into a plastic container to carry home to my empty house.
The all-too-common fate of the single woman: dinner for one.
The rest of the day seems too long, even if there is plenty of work to keep me busy. I can't wait for five o'clock to arrive. In minutes, I've cleaned off my desk, grabbed my purse and leftovers, and am out of the building, my small, welcoming car my only friend.
~o~
Back home again, my life is just as I left it four days ago. The sameness nearly overwhelms me. I'm saved only by the flowers in my garden, wilted and begging for my attentions after my days spent enjoying time with and tending to Eric. With my only close family long gone, I've no one to greet me, just the ongoing neglect of chipped paint and tumbled, cracked stones on the garden's path. The loneliness nearly overwhelms me before I set about my tasks, watering the garden, and sweeping away the fallen blooms.
My dilapidated home is located in the old Jewish quarter of Bucharest. What was once my grandfather's pride, along with his merchants business, has now fallen into disrepair and comes close to qualifying as a ruin. But there's a history behind this sorry state of the house and gardens.
After my grandfather's death, President Ceauşescu's goal, as a good Communist, was to erase all reminders of the non-Communist good times before World War II. He fulfilled his self-imposed mission with a vengeance.
Spiteful of the luxury enjoyed by some, he even took out his anger on the old beautiful houses he was unable to bulldoze, filling them with either his acolytes or gypsies.
Grandfather's home had the misfortune to become the chosen shelter of the latter. Or good fortune, perhaps, given that we would never have been able to evict the first kind of 'tenants.' It was hard enough with that dreadful family living above us. At all hours, they were drinking, cursing us, and dumping urine down the outside of our windows. When we had the chance to evict them, Gran took care of the details, attending court hearings to remove the unlawful tenants and obtain the paperwork to return the grand old house to our sole custody. The hearings dragged over seven years until they came to the obvious resolution: 'The house belongs to the Stackhaus family, and the squatters have to evacuate it.' When that glorious day finally arrived, we were appalled at the destruction they had left behind: countless bags of horrible filth, fixtures smashed or ripped out, holes left in the walls that were never repainted during 40 years, and ruined heating stoves. Broken windows and window frames were expected, but at every rainstorm, one could take a shower in the living room from the leaks in the roof—the damage they caused to the structure was wanton and malicious.
Without any money for repairs but grandmother's pension, we had to sell some land to raise the money to make the space secure. Unfortunately, the Communists had also nationalized that, too, some 60 years ago, necessitating another legal battle. Changing the tin roof, fixing the neglected plumbing, installing central heating and repainting the interior were expensive endeavors. Still the exterior, windows, bathrooms and kitchen have had to wait, frozen in time much like our family lived during the previous century. Repairs to this house will probably swallow more money than I will ever earn in my lifetime. But I must try, for myself, for my grandparents, for the memories.
So here it is, home sweet home.
Once inside, doors locked and lights turned down to conserve energy, I tried hard not to think about my imperfect life and the large blond man with the perfect home, perfect body, powerful bike, butter-soft leather couch, a delicious bulge in his pants... Oh God!
~o~
The next day goes by in a blur, and soon it is time to leave. I buy a bottle of fresh squeezed orange juice as a small gift and drive to Eric's house.
As I step inside the unlocked yard enclosure, I marvel again at the unusual exotic building with its intricate blue patterns. There are no flowers here, only a neat lawn and a few decorative small trees. Neglect of another type, I suppose. Near the trash bin, on the ground, there is a tipped-over cellophane-wrapped gift basket, full of delicacies, with a red liquid, probably wine, dripping from it. How did that end up here?
After waiting some time in front of his door, I hear his heavy steps, due to the crutches, and then Eric opens it. My heart skips a beat as I take in his stunning physical presence. He shaved, and his hair is loose in soft waves over his shoulders, framing his strong features. His leonine presence so dominates the space, I'm almost too dazzled to appreciate the mouthwatering views of his powerful arms and legs. His eyes look rather green now, catching the hue of his top. His supple lips curl up in a beautiful welcoming smile.
He is easily the most handsome man I have ever seen. I cannot help but wonder what this ugly duckling is expecting here? His eyes roam over me from head to toe, triggering a blush as I sort through uncomfortable feelings, well aware of my mouse-like demeanor in the face of such heart stopping masculine beauty. I am glad that at least I wore heels and a skirt, a pinstriped black one, plus a sheer white shirt, with my nicest beige bra with black embroidery. Well, matching panties too, just in case, a very improbable hope, I know. I look down, praying I am not blushing too hard.
"You look good enough to eat." The pink tip of his tongue welcomes me too, as he moistens his perfectly kissable lips.
"Thank you. So do you."I give him a small smile. I wish I could see myself through his eyes, and understand what he sees in me.
"There is a gift basket outside, on the ground." I say pointing in its direction.
"I know."
"Do you want me to bring it in?" I am confused by his brisk answer.
"Just leave it where it is." His sharp tone and sudden aloof manner startles me.
Closing his eyes, he adds, after taking a deep breath. "Will you please come inside?"
My brief surge of exuberance dashed by his sudden business-like tone, I follow him into the living room. "Do you want coffee, Sookie? I know it is late. I also have some green-jasmine or rose hip tea," he offers when we get inside.
"Coffee is fine. Caffeine has no effect on me."
"Cappuccino? Espresso?"
"Cappuccino, please. May I help?"
"Yes. Will you please hand me two cups from that cabinet? A large one, and a smaller one.
I find the cups he wants, enjoying the smooth touch of the frail translucent china. Fascinated, I watch him as he expertly makes use of the big coffee machine on the counter top, fumbling with coffee, sugar, and cinnamon containers. I could easily get used to playing house around here, with him. I wonder if he should be standing on his one good leg for long periods of time, but won't embarrass him by asking.
"I like your house, it is very beautiful. Though, it is not what I imagined to be your style. Do you live alone in this huge palace?" I am quite sure he lives here by himself; however, this seems a safe way to find out more about him.
"What did you envision for me? Me living in a dank cave covered in furs?" I hear him chuckling.
"Not exactly" even if that would be a sight to behold. Eric in nothing but animal skins... Yummy... "Actually something more modern, with minimalist decor."
"Pass the milk from the fridge, please," he replies, not exactly answering my question.
From the fridge, I collect the milk and place the juice I brought him on a high shelf. There are many groceries on the shelves today. I wonder who brought them. Tray, or maybe that girl he mentioned, Amelia? Or perhaps he does not live alone here, after all. All this 'getting to know each other' is a process with which I have little experience.
After he finishes his preparations, I pick up both our cups. Thinking he'll be more at ease sitting down, I carry them to the living room, setting them on top of the coffee table.
"So how was work? Did you have any trouble after taking time off yesterday?" he asks after he finds a comfortable position for his leg on the couch.
"Okay, I guess. I'm fairly busy because our company is offering a new seminar on assertiveness for our customers. It will be this Friday; should be an exciting event. I will be taking care of the event's catering and the attendee's check-in. I fully intend to eavesdrop on the lecture."
"Assertiveness? I know the word, but I'm not sure why a Pharma company would offer a seminar on the subject."
"For some, it's about relearning how to stay true to yourself and communicate your needs and desires. This event is a little different, because the program will emphasize the role of collaboration in achieving your goals." And I could certainly use some training in setting and maintaining my personal boundaries, especially among my colleagues.
I then launch into a detailed explanation, details gleaned from the materials I read about the seminar. Seems like my enthusiasm is contagious, and he asks me if I can squeeze him in. I giggle at the image of a two-meter blond giant with a cast on his food trying to look inconspicuous.
"I can try, but I'm not sure that will work. But I could bring you a copy of the printed materials."
"I'd appreciate it. Would you also be so kind as to give me the lecturer's contact information? I can contact the organization directly."
"Sure will." I enter a note into my mobile for follow-up and look up to see him watching me.
"How about you, Eric? Does your leg still ache?"
"It's healing, so now it's more about some itching I can't scratch. In about a week, I should be able to remove this stupid cast and wear a removable support. Then I'll start going out again. I hate being under house arrest."
There is a long gap in the conversation as I search for words to fill the growing silence in the room. Meantime I cautiously sip the scalding liquid covered in white foam.
I wonder if he is willing to talk about his work, and the subject he opened the day before yesterday, the job offer.
"About that..." and "Have you considered..." we blurt at the same time.
"You first." Spoken at the same time, again.
It might have been laughable, except that unlike him, I'm gesturing for him to continue. In my excitement, I forget that I am holding the mostly full cup and saucer in my hands. Naturally, more than half of its contents instantly spill, flying in an arc towards him. Acting on reflex to catch it, I only succeed in having it tumble through the air, spilling the rest on myself.
Fuuck! That burns!
My coffee is now sprayed over both our shirts and the brown leather couch between us.
Can't believe how much coffee was in just one damn cup! At least the porcelain did not break.
Feeling foolish, I stare glumly at the mess I've made.
Eric's movement snaps me out of my stupor. He sheds his green top and starts to wipe the coffee from the furniture.
"Gosh, I'm so sorry. I ruined your shirt and the couch. Please give me that, I will clean up."
"The leather is dark; there won't be any visible stains. And this is an old shirt, don't worry about it. But perhaps you will want to rinse out your pretty blouse."
I glance down to see the now splattered white fabric, the brown liquid dripping down the skirt, the foamy milk and cinnamon powder clinging to the material. I bet even the bra got stained. Shit.
"I'll give you something to change into. Come."
Grabbing his shirt, I'm the humble penitent.. At least I get to admire his wonderfully chiseled backside caressed by the long locks of his hair as he limps along a wide hallway on his crutches. The way his taunt muscles move beneath his golden skin is mesmerizing. His shorts are riding low on his hips, no hint of any underwear to impede my access to his firm, round ass I imagine beneath the faded cotton. His back dimples are fully exposed; I long to dip my tongue in those sexy indentations as I tug his shorts lower. My fingers are itching from restraining myself from grabbing him from behind. I never understood that a woman might have to struggle to keep her hands off a man, but here I am, digging my nails into my palms, ogling the gray fabric of his shorts as if I could see through it if I stare hard enough.
By the time I step into his bedroom, I have completely forgotten the reason for being there. I can only drink in his half-naked form, standing in the middle of this beautiful room, a huge four-poster bed with carved pillars right in front of us. I cannot remember the last time I was in a man's bedroom. Or, rather, I could, but would rather not. This is a rather opulent room, for a single man living alone. In fact, this room and the bathroom I saw the other day have a quality I would define as sybaritic. Almost as if someone had purposely prepared them as such, anticipating something at which I can only guess.
My throat feels dry, and I wish I had something to slake my thirst. I try to distract my raging hormones by focusing on something other than Eric's body, while he begins rummaging in a big closet.
On one of his side tables, there is a white candle and the picture of a slightly older, dark-haired man. He has exotic features, reminiscent of a timeless beauty. The haunted brown eyes of the handsome man seemingly look right at me from the thick, black, wooden photo frame. A sad smile enhances the beauty of his sensual lips while an aura of strength seems to radiate from him.
I keep pictures of Gran, my parents and my brother all around the house. Even though they are gone, they make the big house seem somehow less empty. I do not see an immediate resemblance between this man and Eric, but I guess he must be a member of Eric's family.
"I love family pictures. Especially the ones taken with my parents and my brother. Having those around helps me recall so many happy childhood memories." Some sad ones too, but I wisely refrain from sharing that sentiment with him.
I continue my rambling in a misguided attempt to dampen my flaming attraction to his out-of-this-world sexiness.
"Is this your father, or a brother?" I ask politely, pointing to the photo.
"Just an old friend." His voice sounds strange, strained and depressed.
"Ah, I didn't think I saw any family resemblance. Do you still stay in touch?" I can't think of any friends I'd keep a memento of by my bed, but then I don't have a lot of friends.
"He's dead."
"Oh, Eric. I'm so sorry." Even as I speak the words, I'm wondering about the nature of their friendship.
He grunts his thanks, and I settle down on a chair in the corner where I can more closely examine the photo of the man with the sensual lips. I'd like to pick up the frame, but content myself with leaning forward, Eric's back turned to me concealing my actions.
We lapse into an easy silence for the next few moments as the sounds of Eric's digging through the clothes in his walk-in closet fill the room for a while. I wonder if he feels the same attraction towards me as I feel for him, or am I simply imaging the racketing up of the tension between us.
Looking for a neutral topic, I speak without thinking, curious about the man in the photograph. "So, did you two grow up in the same neighborhood, perhaps?"
"No, that's not a reminder of my upbringing. He was just a friend I made after I left home." Eric's tone is harsh, laced with a warning I finally catch.
"Oh!" I let my eyes roam over the large nearby bed, covered with a crimson heavy cotton coverlet. Might this be possible? I'm bewildered by the revelation, and unthinkingly whisper the question to myself.
Raising my eyes towards him, I realize he just heard me. I am met by a steely look. His lips set in a straight line, his jaw forms an obstinate angular shape. When he finally opens it to answer, I flinch at his intimidating tone.
"He was my lover. Do you have a problem with that?" His voice is challenging. His whole demeanor is spiteful and defensive, with knuckles turning white as he grips a starched white shirt, almost tearing it into shreds. I am suddenly frightened, noticing that I appear to be caged in with a wild, dangerous animal.
Stepping back, I reply in a shaky voice, "No. No, I don't. I'm so sorry for your loss..."
Mentally adding, 'For being so foolish, for refusing to read the signs, for lacking the required equipment that might interest you...'
"I didn't mean to..." fall for a gay man, "...offend you," I lamely finish up.
I dare to glance back up at him. He has his head lowered, his face partially hidden under the curtain of his golden hair. He now looks sad and defeated. I have not seen him like this before, even on the hospital bed. He avoids looking at me, pointedly fixing his gaze on the picture instead. However, I can see the glitter of tears pooling in his eyes.
"I apologize, it is just... It's hard. And wrong," he mumbles, voice thick with tears.
Wrong? What? Me being in here? I wonder.
"I'm sorry, I'm just tired." His voice sounds strangled. I start to reach for his hand, but hesitate. He is obviously hurting. Would comforting him be something I should do? I would like to hug him, but I am not sure how would he interpret my action.
My heart aches for his pain, and I bite back my many questions. What happened to this lover of his? How long were they together? Was Eric present when he died?
He scrambles away from my outstretched hand, letting the shirt in his hand fall to the floor and dropping on the bed with a muffled sob.
"I'm exhausted, please... excuse me." He hides his face in both palms, shaking.
I've never seen a man crying, and I feel a void in my stomach. What am I supposed do? I don't believe he wants others to see him like this, so very vulnerable. I am at a loss for words, so like a coward, I take the easy way out.
"No problem, I will see myself out," I offer, but not before I move to his side and stroke his hair in comfort. I stop when I realize my touch is making his shoulders shake even more.
Aghast that my attempt at comforting him is making it worse, I jerk my hand away and almost stumble over the crutches lying on the floor. Disheartened and disappointed by everything I've learned, I leave the room, the house, and most likely his life.
I get in my car and lean my forehead against the driver's wheel. Stupid! I made such a fool of myself. I so wanted a damn fairytale, I turned a blind eye to the simple truth - this was way too good to be true. I've nothing against gays, even though I've never met one until today. Homosexuality is a taboo subject in my country, unlike certain others. However, while I fully support human rights for all, gay or straight, I can't help asking: why did it have to be Eric. Why?
Hot tears stain my cheeks before I gather myself, and shelving my shattered dreams, I straighten up and start the engine.
It doesn't matter anyway, I tell myself. Such a guy, even without being gay, would be too good for me. I am just a simple, stupid, blond secretary. Just plain ol' crazy Sookie. Damn it!I shout, glad for once there is no one to overhear my cry of pain over yet another shattered dream.
I'm only dimly aware that my fist aches from hitting the dashboard, and I am close to leaping from the car and screaming my frustrations at the passersby on the street. If I don't calm down soon, anyone walking by might be able to hear me and wonder what is wrong with me, possibly even calling for the police. Can't have that! I take a few shuddering breaths, put the car into gear, and with blurred vision hindering my efforts, I somehow manage to get my stupid self home.
A/N
Eric has his reasons for behaving so stupidly. In the next chapter, you will hear his side of the story.
For the tale behind Sookie's story, I was inspired from my own family's inheritance saga. No part of it is an exaggeration.
There is a video linked in my profile, for this chapter, about similar houses in my town.
My ever-gracious beta Scattered21, aka PrincessTweak - she is as brilliant ever.Special thanks for YoungBoho who provided great inspiration for this chapter. Also, thank you to Peppermintyrose and all of you, my reading friends. Your reviews will bring Eric's point of view sooner.
Disclaimer: Eric in furry outfit or leather pants, or skimpy jeans... oh, shush, is not mine *cries*. Neither are the rest of characters.