It was well after one a.m. when Gloria finally decided enough of the right people had left so that she could, too. She tracked Nick down, finding him at the bar on his cell phone. Again. Several times over the course of the evening, he’d retreated into an alcove and pulled out the small device.
“Who are you calling?” she asked point-blank.
Nick scowled and returned the phone to his pocket. “Just checking messages,” he said evasively. He’d called Mrs. Anderson’s to check on Isobeille shortly after they’d arrived at the party, leaving a message when no one answered. Then he’d called again later, and a coolly polite Mrs. Anderson told him not to worry, that Isobeille was just fine. When Nick asked to speak with her, his neighbor told him that she couldn’t come to the phone, but wouldn’t say why. Frustrated, he’d asked Mrs. Anderson to have Isobeille call him, but so far, she hadn’t. Now it was too late to call again, but he was sorely tempted.
If he could just talk to Isobeille, hear her voice and know that she was alright, he’d feel so much better. She was like a drug, he realized, and he’d missed his evening Isobeille-fix. He had been looking forward to spending a little bit of time with her before having to leave for this damn party, maybe sharing a quick supper, but Gloria had been lying in wait for him, shooting that plan all to hell.
And that was yet another reason why he was anxious to talk to Isobeille. What exactly had Gloria said to her? How had Isobeille reacted? Was she angry with him? Is that why she wasn’t returning his calls? And where the hell was she that she couldn’t talk to him earlier? Had Mrs. Anderson even given her the message or told her that he’d called?
“Nick? Did you hear me?” Nick glanced up to find Gloria beside him, looking annoyed.
“Sorry. What?”
Gloria rolled her eyes. “I’m ready to leave.”
“About time,” he mumbled. He’d had more than enough of this; all he wanted to do was go home and see Isobeille.
He walked toward the exit, Gloria trailing a step or two behind. A few weeks ago, Nick would have waited and walked to the door with Gloria at his side. Now Nick was too interested in getting the hell out of there to care.
Nick paused outside the doors and caught sight of a man about a block down, playing Carol of the Bells on a beat-up looking acoustic guitar. Pulling a twenty out of his pocket, Nick walked straight toward him and dropped it into the bucket he had sitting next to him.
“Bless you,” the man said with a nod.
“Come on, Nick,” Gloria said, pulling at his sleeve while shooting the musician a look of pure disdain. “It’s cold out here.”
“Yeah, it is. Imagine how he feels.” Thinking of the night he and Isobeille helped that man in the alley, Nick took off his scarf and gave it to the man as well.
Gloria sniffed. “His choice, not mine.”
Nick stiffened. “I don’t think he chose to get laid off, Gloria. And the only reason he chooses to be out here at one o’clock in the morning is probably so he can make a couple of bucks to feed his kids.”
“Yeah, right. Hit the bar, more like. God, Nick. When are you going to stop letting people walk all over you?”
An excellent question, that, Nick thought. He glanced over his shoulder at the guitar player, who was now looking at him with sympathy.
“Did that girl give you some bullshit sob story, too? Is that why you gave her a job? I hope you’ve got everything locked up when you go to work. She’s probably robbing you blind.”
Nick barked out a laugh. Isobeille, steal? The very idea was ludicrous. The woman was the most giving, caring soul he’d ever met.
“My place or yours?” Gloria asked, wrapping her hands around his neck as they waited for the doorman to call them a cab. As if she hadn’t just spent the last block reaming his ass for being a sucker.
“Neither,” said Nick, removing her hands. “I can’t.” He’d had more than he could take. All he wanted to do was go home, wash away the stench of Gloria’s cloying perfume, and spend the rest of the night trying to make it up to Isobeille. Guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders; he never should have agreed to this, commitment or not. He and Gloria, it just wasn’t working. It wasn’t right. Not like it was with Isobeille.
“Can’t or won’t?” Gloria snapped, then seemed to think better of it as a cab arrived and Nick held the door open for her. Once they were inside, her voice softened and she slid next to him on the seat.
“You’re not still mad, are you, Nicky? ‘Cause I can adjust your attitude...” To accentuate her point, she placed her hand on his inner thigh and slid it upwards to cup him. Gently, but firmly, he removed it.
“I’m not mad, Gloria. I’m just... done.”
“That’s okay. We don’t have to do anything more tonight.” She nipped at his ear and grinned wickedly. “If I remember correctly, you’re more of a morning person anyway.”
“No, Gloria.” Not again. Ever.
Gloria’s grin was instantly replaced with a scowl. She pulled back, but kept her hands possessively on his arm. “What’s with you, Nick? Last month you wanted to take me home to meet your mother. Now you don’t even want to spend the night. What gives?”
Nick exhaled heavily. He’d been asking himself the same question all day. He wished he had an answer that made sense, but the one explanation he kept coming back to scared the shit out of him. So he went with what he hoped sounded logical. “Look, Gloria. You made it very clear that you didn’t want to rush into anything. And you were right. Now I’m just asking for some of the same.”
Gloria narrowed her eyes. “This is about that little redhead I found in your kitchen today, isn’t it? She’s doing more than your cooking and cleaning, isn’t she? Are you sleeping with her, Nick?”
Nick’s features hardened. “No. And leave her out of it. She has nothing to do with this.”
It was a huge lie. Isobeille had everything to do with this. Because of Isobeille, he was finally seeing things clearly. Because of her, he finally knew what he wanted.
What was really important.
And it wasn’t Gloria, or getting into med school, or fancy parties with hors d’oevres and designer clothes. It was hot chocolate and taking long walks and caring enough for someone to put their needs and wants above your own.
“She’s the one from the video, isn’t she, Nick? The one you pushed out of the way of that bus! I knew that little bitch looked familiar! Jesus, Nick! What are you going to tell me next, that she’s living with you?”
Nick clenched his teeth together so tightly he was afraid a few molars might snap. “Shut up, Gloria. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“This is all about her, isn’t it?” she pressed.
“No, it isn’t. This is about you only having time for me when it’s convenient for you. This is about you getting everything you want without giving anything in return.”
“I don’t know how you can say that.”
“You don’t? Then let me enlighten you, because I’ve been giving this a lot of thought lately...”
* * *
Ian remained quietly just inside the door while Isobeille gathered a few things. She’d had every intention of returning to Nick’s apartment, but changed her mind when she had seen the state of things: buttons all over the floor, flowers laying crushed and wilted among them; the lamp on the table just inside the door, knocked askew, a square condom packet in plain view next to it.
Mrs. Anderson, of course, was more than glad to have Isobeille spend the night, and Ian felt better about it, too.
“Ian?” Isobeille stopped him at the door before he left.
“Yes?”
“Thank ye.”
“For what?”
She gave him a sad smile. She knew that their after-dinner activities had had nothing whatsoever to do with Ian getting his first carriage ride and everything with providing a distraction, to keep her from thinking about Nick and what had transpired. “I want ye to have this. ‘Tis not much, I ken, but ‘tis all I have te give ye.”
“Isobeille, you don’t have to give me anything,” he protested, but he felt her press something cool and heavy into his hand. He opened his palm and looked at the coin, his eyes widening.
“Since ye are a professor and all, this might have some meaning for ye.”
It took a moment for Ian to find his voice. He knew what he held in his hand. “Isobeille, this is... priceless.”
Isobeille closed his fingers around it with her own. “I want ye to have it. Please.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say ye will take me te see the ocean tomorrow, Ian.”
“It would be my great pleasure, Isobeille,” he said with a smile. Then he saw her safely into his mother’s apartment and wished her a good night.
* * *
By the time Nick got back to his place, he felt drained, but better. Lighter. He’d broken things off with Gloria; he hadn’t realized how much that had been weighing on him. It had been a hellish day, and he was more than ready for it to end. It was time to move on, and he was going to start with a hot shower and hopefully finish on the couch with Isobeille – assuming she wasn’t too angry with him, that was.
The apartment was dark and quiet. He knew the moment he walked in that Isobeille wasn’t there. The place felt emptier than it ever had. He’d become so used to her presence, so accustomed to walking through the door to find her waiting for him with a smile, it felt strange to be in his own apartment without her.
He flipped on the light, no longer worried about waking Isobeille. What he saw made him wince. The flowers he’d bought for Isobeille lay wilted and crushed just inside the door, along with his belt and the scattered buttons from his shirt. The roast she had lovingly prepared for him sat burned and dried atop the stove, forgotten.
He hoped upon hope that Isobeille had not come back to the apartment tonight; that she had just elected to stay with Mrs. Anderson, because he didn’t want to think about her seeing any of this. Even though he knew nothing had actually happened, it sure looked like it had. As he righted the lamp, he spotted the unopened condom – no doubt placed there by Gloria in preparation for her surprised seduction - and groaned.
Postponing his shower, he went about cleaning up the mess first instead.
He threw open the windows, letting the icy air clear away Gloria’s lingering, heavy perfume. He swept up the wilted flowers and buttons, emptying the dust pan into the trash. Then he tipped the remains of what would have been his dinner into the trash and did the dishes. When that was all done he tied up the trash bag and carried it down to the bin, not wanting any reminder of the evening in his apartment when Isobeille returned in the morning. If she even wanted to.
Well, he told himself, if she didn’t, he was going to do his damnedest to convince her otherwise.
He looked at the tiny Christmas tree sitting in the corner and sighed. It was what his mom would have called a “Charlie Brown tree”. Isobeille stared at that thing for hours; she’d asked him to place it where she could see it as she fell asleep at night and be the first thing she saw in the morning.
It seemed wrong to have it sitting in the dark like that, so Nick plugged in the strands of lights. So simply decorated, with its tiny little lights and hand-crafted bows, lovingly made by a woman who knew the true spirit of Christmas and held it in her heart every day of the year.
And yet, despite its size and its simplicity, it was quite possibly the most beautiful tree he had ever seen.
Only then did he take a shower and crawl onto the sofa, pulling the pillow and blanket up to his nose. They smelled like Isobeille – like snow and wildflowers.
Sleep was a long time in coming. The events of the day kept rolling around in his head. There were so many things he should have done differently, but there was little he could do about that now. All he could do was try to make everything right again.
Eventually he fell into a tormented sleep around dawn.