Date: Sunday, March 3rd, 2013
Time: 10:43am
Location: Diego's Apartment, Los Tokyo
I woke up in his bed, my face to the window, sun beams peeking behind the drawn curtains. I looked down at the hardwood floor and see my dress from last night haphazardly tossed on the ground. To say I had no idea last night would happen the way it did would somewhat be a lie.
My vision for the night was that we'd dine out for hours at this fancy restaurant and, when he dropped me off at my place later, I'd invite him upstairs. I had finally cleaned my apartment and everything, though it still was kind of a mess up there. I long debated about putting all my stuff in a storage locker, but the cost was so exorbitant that I might as well get a better apartment, defeating the purpose of living here: saving money.
Besides, the building was so old and run-down anyway that I don't know how much decluttering would help. You can only put so much lipstick on a pig. If my mom was still around, she'd be shaking her head at me. Cleanliness and order were such virtues in the Village, though they never had to jam all their worldly possessions into a 380 square foot dingy apartment.
When the dinner turned out horribly though, we had to reconfigure our plans and that threw me for a loop. I guess we could have gone to my place anyway although I had nowhere for us to sit and eat, and I didn't like the idea of us sitting on my bed, balancing bowls of ramen on our laps, the mattress creaking every time we took a spoonful.
I had hesitated for a moment when the option of his place came up though. I'm not entirely sure why. He had been to my place, if only for short moments, and I had been alone with him in his office, his car. Surely, if he was some crazy murderer psycho that fact would have already revealed itself and his tendencies wouldn't be deactivated at my place. I think I just liked having the control, the homefield advantage, even if his place was a more ideal spot to convene than mine.
Still, as I woke up this morning, I had this inexplicably surreal feeling. I couldn't believe I was here, in his bed, right now. While I intended for our relationship to move to the next step, when it came time to execute on that, I got nervous. I accidentally let slip over dinner that I had cleaned my place for him but didn't want to confirm it. He looked at me quizzically after I got embarrassed and tried to change the subject. Throughout the rest of the night, he gave me plenty of opportunity to leave, but I insisted on staying, though never making a move. He never initiated one either knowing I wanted to take things slow.
At the end of the night, when it was just about time to leave, and I couldn't find some other activity to stall, my instincts finally kicked in and I kissed him. Even when the plan was my place, I had only intended to make out with him, with maybe some light petting. However, as the minutes passed, the urge to do more took hold and notably, surprisingly, I didn't feel anxious or nervous about it. That never happened. My instincts were often right, so I decided to honor them.
I turned over and saw him, lying on top of the covers, wearing a white t-shirt and blue striped cotton pajama pants. He's propped up by two pillows and he has one arm crooked behind his head while his other is balancing a large hard cover book on his hips. The dust jacket was taken off the cover so I can't make out the title. Based on the size of the book and the large paragraphs of text I can see from my angle, I'm guessing non-fiction.
He heard me stirring and looked over. "Morning, kitten." He set his open book upside down and kissed me before resuming his previous position. "You sleep well?"
Hmph. That nickname. I hate to say it, but it really has been growing on me. It's nice to be someone's something. I yawned and stretched my arms. "I slept great." I looked over at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand and read the time. "Too great, I guess. I can't believe how late it is. I think I'm just not used to sleeping in a comfortable bed. The bed that came with my place has springs sticking out of it."
"You're welcome to crash here, any time you'd like," he offered. He smiled mischievously. "I'm sure the incredible sex last night had nothing to do with it."
I smiled. "That might have helped too." I let out an exaggerated sigh. "Well, that's one way to lose your virginity," I said casually, trying my hardest not to laugh.
He slammed his book shut, making a large thumping noise as he did. "What?" he asked incredulously.
I laughed. "Wow, and you say that I'm easy to tease."
He laughed too and set his book down on the nightstand. "I was going to say, you sure had me fooled. If you were, I'd bet anything that there were hundreds of guys lined up hoping to change that."
I scoffed. "I don't know about that. No, if our range is between zero and hundreds, the reality is much closer to zero." I paused. "You're number three," I said, deciding to divulge that piece of information without going into specifics.
My first time was at 17 with this guy, Kamal, from the Kingdom of Khura'in. He was a couple years older than me and visiting our village for six weeks that summer with a 20-person congregation from a temple over there. Aunt Morgan told me that this visit was supposed to be a big deal. She said that the royal family of Khura'in would potentially choose to stay at our village, if they were in the country, based on the recommendation of this congregation. However, already knowing my plans for college next year, I didn't really care. I was just focused on him, the two of us talking and flirting the whole visit. He didn't have any channeling powers, but he seemed cute and sweet.
The final week of his visit, he and I snuck into the channeling chamber, taking the only key with us. I was a nervous wreck but wanted to get it out of the way so I wouldn't be scared any more. It was not very good, and uncomfortable lying on the bamboo mats of the chamber, but we kept in touch for several months after the fact. Our communication only stopped once he found out I wasn't going to take over as Master after my mom. He never explained why that bothered him so much, dropping off completely without a word one day, a few months before I went to college. I always worried that Aunt Morgan would find out about my little act of rebellion, but I felt nearly certain she hadn't. She probably would have kicked me out and called me a hussy, if so.
The last time was with my college boyfriend, Parker, and was my longest relationship. I had really liked him, and we dated for six months near the end of my undergraduate degree. One day, a friend of his messaged me and said that Parker had shared nude pictures of me with his friends, sending one of them as proof. I kicked Parker's ass the next day in front of all of them, forcing them all to delete the photos. However, I never felt entirely confident that there wasn't still one lurking around online. I tried my best not to think about that.
He could have pressed charges against me, but he was so embarrassed that he didn't. I wasn't normally prone to enacting vigilante justice like that, but the police told me that they couldn't do anything if the photos had been provided willingly, so I felt I had no choice.
I later found out that his friend, the whistleblower, didn't have the most noble of intentions in mind, only coming clean to me because he thought he could steal me out from under Parker's nose for being the one good apple in the bunch. Doesn't work like that, I told him. His "change of heart" came three months after the pictures had been circulated so forgive me if I didn't believe he had my best interests in mind. After that, I haven't dated anyone seriously for almost three years. Unsurprisingly, I have some trust issues about the whole thing.
"Number three. Is that so?" he said, lying down sideways, still on top of the covers, looking at me. "You know what I always say, third time's the charm."
I scanned his face, trying to read his expression. He looked genuine. I hope he meant that. I smiled slightly. "Maybe so," I said.
We laid there in silence for a moment, as he moved a strand of hair off my face and stroked the rest of my hair. "What about you?" I asked.
"What about me?" he replied.
"Am I also lucky number three?" I asked, trying my best to sound carefree.
He inhaled deeply through his nose and sat up. "I don't know if we should talk about this," he said.
I sat up too, pulling up the sheets and blankets with me and tucking them in between my arms and my sides to cover my chest. I know he had already seen me naked, but I suddenly felt really exposed in the cold light of day. "What?" I exclaimed. "I told you what my number is."
"I also never asked," he responded.
Crap. He did have a point. But his evasiveness was answer enough. Unless he was the secret virgin, something I highly doubted, that number was significantly higher than three. "Ten?" I asked. He didn't answer. "15?"
"Mia...", he said, his voice trailing off in warning.
"20?" I asked.
He sighed and then answered. "Would that be wrong?"
"I'm number 20?" I asked unbelievingly.
"Technically, you're number 22," he corrected.
"You counted?" I asked, even more shocked.
"If I didn't count, you'd say I was insensitive for forgetting someone," he said plainly.
He was right, but hearing the number was jarring. We sat there quietly, my thoughts moving a mile a minute. I considered myself open-minded and, when I thought about it, I realized that it wasn't the number itself that bothered me but knowing how different we were in that way.
I was tense and so he wrapped his arm around me and started rubbing my shoulder. I remained just as tense. "Listen," he said. "This is why I didn't want to talk about this. But if you do the math, it makes sense, right? First time at 18, turning 28 in May, that's like two a year."
When he put it that way, it made more sense, but it still didn't make me feel better. I knew I was being irrational though so finally I answered timidly, "it's okay. I'm just surprised is all."
I wasn't selling "okay" well, so he added, "if it makes you feel better, you're by far the best."
"You have to say that," I replied skeptically.
"No, if I didn't feel that way, I'd just say nothing."
I smiled halfheartedly. I believed that he was telling the truth but that comment only took some of the edge off.
He stood up off the bed and moved to the doorway. "It's almost lunch, how about I make you something to eat?" he asked brightly, trying to change the subject.
"I'm not really that hungry," I replied flatly.
"Nonsense!" he exclaimed. I'm not sending you home without anything to eat or drink." Sending me home? I didn't realize I was leaving. "Cappuccino or caffè mocha?" he asked.
"Cappuccino," I answered eventually, realizing he wouldn't take no for an answer.
"Omelet or pancakes?"
"Omelet," I answered. He nodded and walked towards the kitchen. I sat motionless for a few minutes, before finally telling myself that I should get up. I looked on the floor at my crumpled dress. I didn't want to put it back on, but I didn't have another change of clothes.
"Diego!" I called out.
"Yes, kitten?" he called back.
"Do you mind if I borrow some clothes?" I asked.
"Oh yeah. Grab whatever you like from my closet," he replied.
I walked over to the closet, the blanket still wrapped around me, and opened the door. He had a walk-in closet that was neatly organized: dress shirts with dress shirts, casual shirts with casual shirts, and pants perfectly folded in rows on the shelves. As if I wasn't jealous enough of his apartment already.
I grabbed one of his many red dress shirts and buttoned it. All his pants were too big, so I took a pair of his boxers and put those on instead, the elastic waistband keeping them from falling down. When I was dressed, I walked over to the kitchen. He had a stainless-steel milk pitcher in his hand and a coffee cup in the other, finishing my drink.
He looked up and smiled. "I love seeing you in my clothes," he said.
I looked down at myself, at the baggy clothes, and back up at him. I find that hard to believe. "Why is that?" I asked.
"I don't know," he said, thinking. "You really look like you're mine that way."
I smiled flatly. He was being sweet, but I couldn't muster any more enthusiasm than that right now. He carefully handed me the cup, a heart design on the surface formed out of steamed milk. My eyes widened in surprise. "I didn't know you knew how to do that," I said.
"It is me, the coffee guy, we're talking about?" he asked jokingly, rhetorically, gesturing to himself and laughing. "I did work as a barista for a couple years during university though. Learned a few things."
I nodded and held onto the cup with both hands, warming them. Still too hot to drink. "Did you need any help?" I asked, noticing him gathering some eggs and other ingredients from the fridge. He waved me off, so I just walked around the apartment looking around, still gripping the cup. This place looked even better in the daytime, the sun shining through the gauzy curtains of the three nearly floor-length windows in the living room area. "You have somewhere to be?" I asked, peeking behind one of the curtains and looking out at the city skyline.
"Yeah," he paused. "I just have this thing in a couple hours," he explained, not offering any specific details. I didn't press for more information, but the lack of clarity concerned me. What did he not want me to know?
I continued to look around the room. I couldn't get over how pristine everything was, like it was pulled right out of an interior design magazine. All the furnishings were of the highest quality. The couch was fine leather, the tv was enormous, the appliances were stainless steel, the countertops white marble, and the art on the wall tasteful and well-chosen. He had an assortment of plants in front of the windows and an expensive stereo system on the far wall equipped for CDs, vinyl records, and an auxiliary cable with a collection of well-organized CD and record cases stashed below.
The entire apartment was hardwood, real hardwood, not that laminate you mostly see nowadays, and there was a large and expensive-looking rug anchoring the couch, coffee table, and tv together. The ceilings were 12-feet high, loft-style, but unlike most loft-style places, this apartment was brand new, not renovated. This place must cost a fortune to rent.
I had noticed most of these things last night, but in light of some new information, my enchantment with the apartment had waned. After a full inspection, I walked back towards the kitchen island. I shook my head, and said "wow, it's like American Psycho in here." I didn't mean to sound sarcastic, but that's how it came out anyway.
He let out a short shock of laughter, surprised by that comment, but chose to take it in stride. "What is that supposed to mean?" he asked, looking up at me from the eggs he was whisking.
What did I mean by that? "It's immaculate in here," I said. "Did you hire an interior designer?" I asked.
He smiled. "No, that's all me."
I took my first sip of the cappuccino. It was delicious, of course. "I'm impressed. I get it too. This place must really attract a lot of women."
He had just finished pouring the omelet mixture into the pan but dropped the empty bowl on the counter suddenly at that comment. "Mia..." he said reproachfully, looking at me sternly, leaning his arms on the counter.
"No, I'm serious," I said. "I love it too. I totally get it." I tried to sound light, but it was obvious that I was wounded.
He sighed and placed the dirty bowl in the sink, filling it with water. "I've only been living here for less than a year, and I have all these things because I like them." He didn't look at me as he spoke, scrubbing the dishes and placing them on the drying rack. "When you spend a good deal of your childhood in crappy motel rooms, and the rest of the time in crappy apartments, you develop an appreciation for finer things."
With his remark, I felt shameful for giving him such a hard time, but I still didn't pull back like I should have, doubling down instead. "What are you and 23 up to later?" I asked.
He laughed sardonically and shook his head disapprovingly as he dried his hands and checked on the omelet, flipping it. "You know Mia, for a nice person, you can be a real jerk sometimes."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"It means that I think I've been pretty nice to you, but I don't think I'm always treated with the same courtesy," he said, irritated.
I was taken aback. "I think I'm nice," I pleaded.
"Maybe. Not to me. You were very nice to that guy who assaulted you on the street and to our cradle-robbing client," he said sarcastically.
"That's not true," I protested.
"Then why do I always get the feeling like I'm some kind of criminal? Like I did something to you? Tell me, what did I do?" He looked at me seriously and I shrank. I didn't have an answer. "That's what I thought," he said as he took the omelet off the heat. "This whole history thing." He paused. "I didn't want to talk about it. It doesn't mean anything anyway."
"Glad to hear that all your exes were disposable. Can't wait to be added to the ranks," I said venomously. I didn't want to start a fight, but it's like something, someone else took over for me. Why couldn't I just keep my mouth shut?
He was seething but trying to calm down. He exhaled loudly through his nose. "You know that's not went I meant. It has no bearing on our relationship. Respectfully, I don't care about them that way anymore, so it's like they don't exist."
"So that is what you meant, then? How do I know that it won't be the same with me?" I asked. I set my cold coffee down on the counter and crossed my arms.
He softened slightly. "It's different with you because I never cared about any of them like I do you." He paused. "I don't know what it was with you, you drove me crazy... in a good way," he clarified. "I knew that we were co-workers, and I shouldn't try, but I couldn't help it. Logically, I should have given up months ago, but I kept hoping you'd change your mind." He sounded sincere, but I wasn't done with my line of questioning.
"And these other women, they were just playthings? Something to pass the time?" I asked, not softening at all.
"No!" he exclaimed. "Jesus, Mia." He shook his head, exhaling in frustration again. "This is what I mean, you always assume the worst of me. If you want to play lawyer, need I remind you who initiated last night." He looked at me for a response, but I didn't say anything. He continued, "no, I dated them, some for several months. If I'm being honest, they usually pursued me though, not the other way around."
"So, you were just minding your business and they just fell into your bed?"
He rolled his eyes and shook his head again. "No, I flirted back. I just wasn't the instigator. I'd just go with it, hoping that I'd feel differently eventually. That'd I'd just fall in love with them at some point. It never worked that way though."
We both stood in silence for a moment. Thinking about our interactions over the past few months, I was skeptical that he didn't initiate anything. But maybe things were different between us. His answers satisfied my curiosity about that topic, for now, but I still had a burning question on my mind. "Why won't you tell me where you're going today?"
"Oh, that." He paused and sighed. "Okay, I'll tell you. Every Sunday I take Mamá to mass and then I go to her place for dinner after."
I squinted at him. "Why didn't you just say that?" I asked, frustrated.
"I don't know." He shrugged. "One of my exes told me I was such a mommy's boy and gave me a lot of shit for it. I just started keeping it to myself until I knew things were serious."
Of all the things he said today, this is the one that made me the most irrationally angry. "And you think I was just like her? That I would say the same thing? You know how much I'd kill to see my mother again, why would I ever say something like that?" I argued contemptuously.
"Damn it, Mia!" he yelled out suddenly, slamming his fist on the counter. I was startled. The contents of my coffee sloshed around in the cup from the vibration. I could hear him muttering something quietly to himself in Spanish. "You're right, I'm such a damned idiot and a notorious pickup artist. I don't know why you even deign to associate with me," he said sarcastically, angrily. "Look, I don't have time for this. I have to shower." He went to leave, but returned, removing the omelet from the pan, tipping it onto a plate, and setting it down hard in front of me. "Your food's getting cold," he said shortly before storming off, slamming the bathroom door shut.
I looked at the omelet, lovingly prepared and perfectly folded, but I was so queasy, I couldn't eat it nor drink the rest of my coffee. Unlike our last misunderstanding, Reina coaching me through the scenario, I knew I was in the wrong this time all on my own. I felt so ashamed. I knew that I was being unreasonable, but it was like word vomit. Every vitriolic comment that entered my head couldn't be left. It just had to be spewed out. Years of insecurity and fear had built up over time and started toppling over and spilling out.
Once I calmed down, I started pacing around the hallway, in front of the bathroom, wanting to greet him when he came out. I heard the shower turn off and stopped pacing, waiting right at the door. A wave of hot air and steam flowed out of the bathroom as he opened the door, and he stepped out wearing a fluffy white bathrobe, the kind you'd get at a fancy hotel, with the initials "D.A." monogrammed on the left side of his chest. I guess he wasn't lying when he said this apartment was all for him. I can't imagine that a fluffy monogrammed bathrobe would be a real hit with the ladies.
"Diego..." I said hesitantly. He walked right past me and across the hall to his bedroom. "Wait." I walked after him. He stopped, his back turned to me, facing the wall. I sat down on the edge of the bed, grabbed his arm, and gently pulled him to sit next to me. He sat down but, while I was looking at him, he was looking straight ahead. "I'm sorry for being so cruel to you," I said softly. "It's just..." I fumbled to find the words. "I guess, if I messed everything up first, it'd hurt less when you throw me away later."
He finally looked at me and I had to look away, too embarrassed to make eye contact. I worked so hard the past few years to not be vulnerable in front of anyone and had basically undone years of work in the span of two weeks. "Why would I do that?" he asked.
"I don't know," I said plainly. "That's what everyone does to me eventually."
He paused thoughtfully. "Look at me," he said. I turned my head. "I'm never going to do that, I promise. But you're going to have to learn to trust me. Can you do that?" I nodded. "I'm sorry I got so angry. It just felt like no matter what I said, it was always wrong." He sighed. "And I'm really sorry that I got around so much. If I could go back in time and take it all back, I would."
"I don't know if I believe that," I said skeptically. "You'd be okay with being a 27-year-old virgin?"
"Of course," he said. I sneered. "If I had my way though, I would have met you a long time ago." I smiled demurely at him and leaned on his shoulder, grabbing him by the waist. He wrapped his arm around me.
We sat like this in silence for a few minutes until I said, "that robe is so soft, it's incredible."
"I know!" he said excitedly. "Did you want one too? I have a guy."
I laughed. "Of course you do." Another beat. "You go to mass? I didn't realize you were religious?"
"Unh," he said ambivalently. "Mamá is. It makes her happy when I go, so I take her."
"What a mommy's boy," I said teasingly.
He laughed. "See, I knew there was a reason I didn't want to tell you."
"How long until you have to leave?" I asked.
He looked at the alarm clock. "A little less than an hour."
"Good. That's enough time."
"Enough time for what?" he asked.
"For me to properly apologize," I said, unbuttoning the first two buttons of my shirt.
He smiled. "You think you can just sleep with me, and it'll make it all better?" he asked flirtingly.
"I'm sorry, my mistake," I said matter-of-factly, re-doing the buttons on my shirt.
"Wait," he said, throwing me backward on the bed, before climbing over and kissing me. "You're on thin ice," he said, smiling. "But I'll let it go, just this once."
I smiled and kissed him again.