Chapter Fourteen

WE HAVE BEEN TOGETHER for just over a month. I've gone home a few times, brought my car, some clothes and personal items back to his place. I can't stand to be in my house, the house I once loved so much. I'm not even as concerned about my orchids. I pay my housekeeper well to go by twice a week and care for them. But if they all died I wouldn't be crushed, as I might have been once.

I am still floating in some odd state, still spending much of my time at the beach, reading, or sitting at the little café drinking coffee. I've brought my laptop with me from home, and I take it there and cruise the Internet, looking for books: art, poetry, cookbooks. I've looked at some resource websites for troubled teens.

I've been back to see Lydia a few times. Probably not as often as I should. But I've run out of things to say. At this point I feel I have to work a lot of things out on the inside, in my head, before I can really move on to the next level in therapy.

When I was a kid there was a small playground by our house. Maybe it's still there; I don't know. I used to go there and swing on the swings. I'd go as high as I could, pumping my legs until they ached, just for the dizzying thrill of the height. I was an escapist even then. That excitement would take me right out of my head, and in those moments, nothing else existed. Nothing else mattered. I've spent my life searching for that same sensation. And I found it, didn't I?

When I'd gone as high as I could, I would jump off, flying through the air. It scared me. But I still did it every time. Those brief moments when I was sailing through the air, waiting to hit the ground, were truly terrifying.

I sort of feel that way now. Terrified, but choosing to jump anyway.

I don't know why I'm thinking of this now. Maybe because Joshua got up early this morning, too early for me; I was feeling lazy, and he went to the Farmers' Market they have in Santa Monica every Sunday. I've been tense ever since he left the house, missing him, wishing I'd gone with him. Too much time alone to think. I do enough of that during the week, when he's working and I'm alone. The house is too quiet for me, but I don't want to leave; I don't know when he'll be back.

I get out of bed, go into the kitchen, and put the kettle on for tea, decide to check my messages at home.

One from my accountant with a question I can deal with on Monday. I make myself a note on a pad of paper next to the kitchen phone, wait for the next message.

The Broker.

“Hello, Val. I hadn't heard from you. I hope you're well. I think we should talk. Come to my apartment. I'll be here on the weekend, then I'll be in London for a week. Best if you see me now.”

The royal command. I don't want to go. But she's right, we do need some sort of closure. Maybe it'll be good for me?

I take a quick shower, get dressed, leave Joshua a message on his cell phone when he doesn't pick up, letting him know I'm meeting an old friend for lunch.

The Broker could hardly be called my friend. But I don't want to say those words to him: “my madam.”

I'm in my car, heading for Deirdre's place before I realize I haven't called her to tell her I'm coming. But she'll be there.

It's a short drive up the 405 to Wilshire, then east on Wilshire Boulevard into Beverly Hills. Deirdre inhabits one of those ridiculously expense penthouse apartments on condo row, right at the mouth of Beverly Hills. It's one of those towering, pseudo-old Hollywood buildings, so picture perfect, as though no one actually lives there. This entire section of Wilshire looks this way to me. Too pristine. It's all beautiful but sterile. Just like Deirdre herself.

I check in with the doorman and he calls up. In moments he's holding the door aside for me. I walk inside, and the temperature drops, all icy marble floors, bright lighting in flawless golden fixtures. Everything so perfect. Do they know one of Beverly Hills' most successful madams lives here? Maybe not so perfect after all. Maybe Joshua is right—nothing is.

I get into the opulent, mirrored elevator and the attendant, dressed as though he's a liveryman from another era, holds the door for me, pushes the button for the penthouse, politely inquires how my day is going.

The door slides open with a heavy whisper and I step into the penthouse foyer, another cool space filled with marble and an enormous urn ovflowing with what I know must be hundreds of dollars in fresh Casablanca lilies, trailing ferns, smaller accent flowers. Very European. Very Deirdre. Everything stunning, speaking of staggering amounts of money. Which I now know is not everything I once thought it was.

Deirdre's maid opens the door leading into the apartment, and I nod at her, try to smile. I don't know her name. I've only been here a handful of times; The Broker doesn't encourage much personal contact with her girls.

She leads me down a long hallway. The floors are done in pink, gray, and white marble laid in a harlequin pattern. There are gilt-framed mirrors on the walls, more tall vases full of flowers. The scent of lilies is a bit overwhelming, a bit too sweet. My head is pounding by the time we reach the living room.

The view is incredible: all of Beverly Hills laid out below. But the woman standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows commands even more attention than the view.

Deirdre must be in her fifties, but her figure is better than most twenty-year-olds. She is dressed in a black pencil skirt, a white silk blouse. Her skin is luminous, her fine bone structure flawless, her face perfectly made up in an understated way. That icy elegance. Except there's a certain flatness in Deirdre's large brown eyes that reminds me of a shark.

“Val, you've come.” That familiar, crisp British accent. I've always wondered if she's really as upper crust as she appears. Are any of us what we appear to be?

“Yes. You asked me to.”

“You didn't return my call, however.”

She arches an elegant brow. She does love to scold people for the smallest infraction. I used to bow down to it, I realize. But I'm not bowing now. No, now I'm a little annoyed.

“I knew you'd be here,” I say. “You told me so in your message. And you did ask to see me, for me to come here.”

“Yes.”

She seems unsure for one moment, but it's fleeting. The Broker isn't a woman anyone can unsettle easily.

“Come, Val, sit clown.”

She gestures to a delicate gold and cream settee. She has a good eye for French and English antiques, and the apartment is full of these pieces.

I sit, and she takes a large chair on the opposite side of the table; not too close. The chair appears thronelike with her elegant figure seated in it. Something she's thought out, staged, I'm sure. Deirdre is nothing if not incredibly clever. That's how she's come as far as she has.

The maid is at her elbow, and Deirdre speaks softly to her. I can't hear what she's saying. The maid hurries off.

“I've ordered tea. I hope that's alright with you.” She doesn't wait for my answer. “Tell me what you've been up to, Val. You've seen Lydia?”

“Yes, a number of times. Thank you for referring me to her. She's been very helpful.”

I have to give her that. It's true.

“I'm quite happy to hear it. And have you moved beyond this burnout stage, do you think?”

She is so fucking condescending.

“Deirdre, this isn't a burnout stage. That's not what it's about for me.”

“What are you saying, Val?”

I hate when she calls me that. Not that I really want her to call me anything else. But it grates on me. It reminds me of what I am to her.

The maid returns with a tea tray, and we spend several minutes going through the polite ritual, with Deirdre pouring, dropping a cube of sugar into a translucent china cup, handing it out to me on a saucer.

“So,” she says. “Please continue.”

“Deirdre, I'm not coming back to work.”

“Oh?” She is trying to appear calm, but the tight line of her lips betrays her. She's surprised to hear it.

“I can't do this anymore. I'm done. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner.” It feels good to say it to her. It feels fucking wonderful. But my pulse is racing, thready.

She sips from her cup, sets it carefully on a side table, taking her time. Finally she says, “You think you're done, Val?”

“I know I'm done.”

She's really pissing me off now.

“Let me tell you a story. It's not one I share often.” She pauses. A bit dramatically. I imagine I'm supposed to be impressed. “Do you know how I came to be in this business? How I came to be in this position?”

“I didn't think anyone knew.”

“Few do. But these are special circumstances.”

Another dramatic pause, and I want to roll my eyes. But I don't do it.

She goes on. “When I was twenty-one I came here from England. I had hopes of becoming an actress, as many young girls do. I'm not proud to say how naive I was. But I was quite young. One of those casting couches we all hear about, which we all know exist, led me to this business.

“There was a woman who had a house set up here in Beverly Hills. And I became one of her girls for a time. Does that surprise you? Yes, I can see that it does. It surprised me, too, at the time. I never became used to it. Luckily, one of my clients, a very well-to-do older man, was quite entranced with me. He asked me over and over to become his private mistress, but I refused. There was no security in such a position, after all. Once he realized I was serious about my refusal, he proposed marriage.”

“I never knew you were married.”

“Again, this sort of personal information is not something I often divulge to my girls. It's not necessary, is it?”

“Why do you feel it's necessary now?”

“You'll understand once I finish my story.” She sips from her tea, holds the cup in its saucer on her lap. “My husband, as you can imagine, was not faithful to me. I didn't love him; it never bothered me on that level. But after a time it became too well known and it was humiliating, which I refused to put up with. I divorced him. But he hadn't handled his finances well and there wasn't as much money as I would have liked. So I went into business for myself. And of course, this is the only business I knew.”

Yet another heavy pause in which her flat, dark gaze meets mine. “So you see, Val, there is never truly any getting out of this business. It is always a part of us. It becomes so deeply ingrained, it is a part of our very nature. If you think you're simply going to walk away, well, I assure you, it does not work that way.”

She looks so self-satisfied with this little speech, I want to slap her. But of course, I would never do anything like that.

My hands itch. I clench them, the nails biting into my palms.

“Deirdre, I'm sure everything you've said is true. For you.”

“Don't be so arrogant as to think you're any different, Val. A woman in your position cannot afford such foolishness. You've become used to a certain lifestyle. And you've become used to a certain kind of sex. Don't think I don't know everything about you, Val. I make it my business to know.”

I'm fucking furious now.

“You don't own me, Deirdre. What do you think this is, the Mafia?”

“Of course not. And I take no credit for what is in your blood.”

“No. That's bullshit.”

She flinches at my language. I don't care.

“Be very careful about the bridges you burn, Valentine.”

“Don't call me that.”

She stares at me, her gaze hard on mine. Her beautiful face is tight. She is waiting for me to back down. I'm not going to do it.

“Very well. You've had your say. I do wish things had ended on a better note. But that was your choice.”

I nod my head. I'm not going to deny it. I'm not going to defend my actions. I am certainly not going to apologize.

She stands, cool and elegant once more. Restrained. Regal. “I believe we're done here.”

I stand, watching her. And I see for the first time how this cold, hard armor she wears is just that. And I feel the slightest bit sad for her.

I extend my hand to her and surprise flashes across her features for one brief moment before she takes it. Hers is cool and dry and perfectly smooth. It hardly feels like flesh to me.

“I wish you well, Deirdre. But I won't be back.”

She nods her head, lets go of my hand. Her maid appears at her side as if magically summoned.

“Lucia will see you out.”

Back in my car and heading toward the freeway, I feel a strange combination of things. I didn't expect to feel sad, but I do. Sad for her. Sad for myself. For all of us call girls. Hookers. Whores.

I play again in my head what she said to me about how we can never free ourselves entirely of what we've been. But I refuse to believe I am permanently tainted. I'd rather believe in what Joshua has told me. And seeing Deirdre has only made me more clear about what I want for myself and what I absolutely don't. I am more done with my old life than ever.

My new cell phone rings and I see Joshua's number on the screen, smile as I answer.

“Hey, baby.” His voice makes me melt a little, as always. “I just got a call and I have to be at a job site in San Diego later today, see an anxious client for dinner, but I want to take you to lunch first. Where are you? How are you?”

“I'm good. I have something to celebrate.” I am still flying from my conversation with Deirdre. I feel victorious.

“What?”

“I went to see Deirdre today. My … madam.”

He pauses, and I hurry to explain. “I had to tell her in person that I'm done. Not that I was any less done before I saw her, but seeing her was … different. More final.”

“I think I get it. How did she react?”

“She was coldly furious. Trying to tell me I can never escape that life. It felt pretty damn good to tell her she was wrong. It felt like … the end. Do you know what I mean?”

“I think so. Sometimes we have to face our demons head-on.”

“Oh, she's an old demon, alright.”

“How do you feel now? ”

“Good. Stronger.”

“Yes, let's celebrate. I'll order a bottle of champagne.”

“That's perfect. Where should I meet you?”

Twenty minutes later we're at The Lobster in Santa Monica. The place is right on the pier and is all soaring glass with a stunning ocean view. The waves, shades of green, gray, and blue, sparkling in the sun, thunder on the sand below us. And the sun is lighting up Joshua's hazel eyes as he sits across from me, smiling as we drink our champagne, waiting for our food.

Lunch is lovely, relaxed. Gorgeous seafood and this gorgeous man across from me, holding my hand between bites. Impossible that he loves me, but he does. I can feel it in every look, every gesture.

I have never been so happy in my life. I have never even imagined this.

After our meal we have dessert, a nice chocolate mousse, which he feeds me with his spoon. We drink more of the sparkling wine, talking about inconsequential things. Like normal people, after all.

I just want to get him home, to strip our clothes off, to lie beside him, to touch his naked skin. It makes me smile that I will, eventually, later tonight when he's done working. That I can actually have what I want.

We get up to leave, and Joshua comes around and wraps my sweater over my shoulders in an old-fashioned gesture I love.

The place is really filling up now with the late-lunch crowd. We're making our way through the throngs of people toward the front door, Joshua leading me by the hand, when he stops.

“Greg, hi.” He turns to me. “Valentine, this is Greg Stockton. We worked together on the Seal Beach restoration project.”

“Nice to meet you,” I get out, offering my hand, before I realize who this man is.

My client.

Elegant in his gray suit that matches his hair, with his shiny arm-candy wife beside him.

The champagne bubbles in my stomach like a witch's cauldron.

Somehow, I manage not to let my smile falter, to shake his wife's hand, to shake his hand, which makes my skin crawl. His flesh is cool to the touch, too dry, like a reptile's. He is uncomfortable, but hiding it fairly well. If only he'd stop looking at me like that. Like I'm a piece of meat.

That's what you are to him.

I hang on to Joshua's hand tighter, and he turns to look at me, a question in his eyes.

I feel dirty standing next to him, with this man, this client, in front of me. With him eyeing me this way, probably remembering fucking me on the dining room table in his weekend house in Playa del Rey a few months ago, handing me a pile of hundred-dollar bills.

“I'm sorry. I'm not feeling well. I have to go.”

I let go of Joshua's hand, leaving mine cold and empty, and walk outside, take a gasping breath of the sea air. Joshua is right behind me, catching up to me in the parking lot.

“What just happened in there?”

I can barely breathe. I can barely stand to look at him.

“That man …”

“What?”

“He's … an old client of mine.”

“Shit.”

He takes a step back, recoiling.

Somewhere down deep, I always knew this would happen. That at some point, the reality of what I've done will hit him full force. I guess I just didn't expect it to affect me this way.

I can't even say anything to him. All I can do is stand there helplessly, watching his face shut down.

Finally, he reaches out for me, pulls me into him hard, wrapping his arms around me.

“Valentine. Shit. Okay. It's going to be okay.”

“Will it?”

I just don't know anymore.

“That was … bad. Hard. But it doesn't change anything.”

“I don't know if that's true. For you or for me.”

“It doesn't have to, Valentine.”

I burrow into his chest, hiding my face, rubbing my cheek into the comfort of his fresh, crisp shirt. I take in a breath, breathe in the scent of him. So precious to me.

“Damn it. I have to go, get on the road. I can't be late. Valentine, just go home, to my place. Wait for me.”

I nod my head. He tucks his fingers beneath my chin, lifting my face to his, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are blazing. “We'll talk. Okay? As soon as I get home.”

“Yes. Alright.”

But I am already going dead inside. All but my heart, hammering out my panic at a thousand miles an hour.

He kisses my forehead, then my mouth. Is he really as distant as he feels, or is it just me? My fear?

“I love you,” he whispers before he lets me go, helps me into my car. “Go straight home, alright?”

“Yes. I will.”

The beach is fogged in when I get back to Joshua's house, after a quick stop at a convenience store to buy a bag of gummi bears. Silly, I know. But I plan to crawl into bed, to make my escape, and this is part of the old ritual. I just need a break, some time to breathe.

I let myself into the house—his house—undress quickly, and crawl into bed in my underwear, the small plastic bag in my hand. Curling up beneath the sheets, the heavy weight of the comforter, I tear the bag open, spill a few of the candies into my palm, put them in my mouth.

That familiar sweet sensation, so sweet it almost hurts. I am trying hard not to think about what just happened. I don't need anything right now but to make my mind go blank, this small shock of sugar on my tongue, and then, blissful sleep.

But I smell his scent all over the pillows, almost as though he is there with me.

Joshua.

I am too much in love with him.

Each day I feel closer and closer to him. Even our little argument drew us nearer to each other. And yet there is this part of me, locked away inside, that's like a hard lump of granite, and even I don't know what's in there. But I know it's ugly.

I am afraid to let it out. I know I can't do it in front of Joshua. And I know I won't be able to really heal and move on until I take that dark place apart, expose it to the light, and deal with it.

Yeah, I know, I sound like some self-help guru. I sound like Lydia. That doesn't make it any less true.

Running into a client today made me realize just how much I am going to have to deal with. Maybe I knew it before, on some level, but having it shoved in my face like this … It does change things, regardless of what Joshua says.

Too much. Don't think about it now.

I close my eyes, let the candy melt in my mouth, the bag clutched to my chest. Pulling the covers over my head, shutting out the misty mid-day light, I drift off.

I don't know how long it is before the telephone wakes me up. I'm afraid to answer it at first. Reaching over to the extension on the nightstand, I see that it's Joshua, and I am more afraid than ever. He'll know something is wrong and I can't explain this to him. Not now. But I answer anyway.

“Hello?”

“Hey, baby.”

It almost hurts to hear his voice.

“Hi.”

“You sound sleepy.”

“I was … napping. Sorry.”

“You don't have to be sorry. Do whatever you want. Whatever makes you happy. I'm sorry I woke you.”

“No. No, it's fine.”

“I was calling to tell you I'll be home late. I probably won't get there until after ten.”

“Oh. Alright.”

“Valentine? You okay?”

“What? Yes. Fine. I'm fine. Just… I'm not quite awake yet. I'll be fine. Go finish your meeting. I'll see you when you get home.”

“Okay. I'll get there as soon as I can. And we can talk. Or not. We can wait until tomorrow, when we're not tired. We can talk whenever you're ready. This place makes a great tiramisu; I'll bring you some dessert.”

“Yes, I'd like that.”

We hang up, and I immediately curl back into the bed.

I have been playing house here with him for weeks. But it's not right. I have no right. He is too good. But I cannot figure it out right now. My head is fuzzy, heavy.

Settling into the pillows, I bite back the tears and pop another gummi bear into my mouth before I fall back into a dreamless sleep.

I SENSE HIM IN the room even before he says my name.

“Valentine. Wake up, baby.”

Then he's there next to me on the bed. I reach for him in the dark and find he's undressed already. Ah, the smooth texture of his skin beneath my searching hands, the fine, strong muscles of his shoulder, his chest. His nipples stiffening when I brush my fingertips over them.

He leans in and kisses me and my hands go into his hair, pulling him down into me. He kisses me hard, sensing my need. And his hands are everywhere, hot, skimming over my skin, lighting me up all over.

I am wet for him; I always am. All it takes is a single touch, a look. Oh, yes, the way he looks at me, really looks at me, as no one has ever done before. And I don't have to think right now, not with him this close to me.

He is climbing in with me now, pushing back the covers, slipping my panties off, and laying his body over mine. I love this, the sweet weight of him on me. So sentimental, but I can't help myself.

His cock is a hard length resting at the apex of my thighs, and I open for him, arch up against him. Reaching down between our bodies, he strokes me with his hand, and I sigh into his mouth. I am trembling already, suffused with pleasure. And my chest is tight with emotion. But it is all sweetness and tenderness: his caressing fingers on my cleft, his lovely mouth on mine.

“Joshua, come on,” I whisper against his lips. “I don't want to wait.”

He reaches into the nightstand and finds a condom, sheaths his beautiful cock. And in moments he is poised at the entrance to my body, while I lay trembling with need, sharp and bright, beneath him.

“Ah, Valentine.” His voice is a low murmur in my ear, his cheek resting against mine.

And when he slides inside, it is like silk against velvet: that smooth, that fine. My body clenches around him, my legs wrapping around his waist. Reaching up, I take his face in my hands, holding it above me, needing to feel his gaze on me. I need to see that small glimmer of his eyes in the dark, with only the fog-veiled stars and moon to show him to me.

He begins to move, a lovely, stroking rhythm, and pleasure builds inside my body. I pull him closer, until my breasts are crushed against his chest.

“More, Joshua.”

He thrusts deeper, but slowly, his body grinding against mine. And with each thrust he burrows farther inside me, pleasure swarming me in a warm current.

My arms tighten around his neck. “Come on, Joshua. Deeper. Please …”

He pushes into me, and still, I can't seem to get enough. He cannot go deep enough.

I am shivering, with desire, with yearning. I have never yearned this way for anything, anyone. He reaches down between us once more, his fingers stroking my clitoris. I don't want it to be over so soon, but I am lost in pleasure, my body filling, bursting in a flood of blinding heat. My mind goes blank, and I am only these sensations, his big body against mine, inside me, his scent in my head.

He calls my name, thrusting, thrusting. And then he tenses, his lips coming down to crush mine, his sweet tongue in my mouth as he comes into me. And it is almost as if we are, for those brief moments, one being.

Except that we are too separate, he and I. I can't quite believe that we are meant to be.

Even in this moment, that fear is in my heart, which shatters into a thousand jagged pieces.

I MUST HAVE SLEPT. Through the window I can see the pale orange glow of sunrise. I hate this time of day. I always have. It is the most lonely time, too dark, too empty.

Joshua sleeps beside me, his breathing regular and shallow. He is lying on his stomach, as he often does, and I can see the outline of his body, so damn beautiful. Fucking glorious in the cool, silent dawn.

Why do I feel lonelier than I ever have in my life?

No matter how much I sleep, no matter how many times he makes love to me, I cannot get the truth out of my head. The truth that Deirdre spoke to me, that Regan tried to. That slammed into me like a brick wall running into Greg Stockton yesterday.

I should never have let this happen.

I have to stop before … before what? It's too late already, far too late. It's not fair to Joshua. How can I do this—condemn him to a life with a woman like me—to someone I claim to love? Do I even know what that means?

I shake my head, sit up in bed. He is so peaceful. He has no idea what I am about to do to him. What I have already done to myself.

My throat is closing up on me, but I cannot cry. Not here. Not now.

I slip out from under the covers, the warmth of his body leaving my skin immediately. It's painful.

Finding my clothes from yesterday, I get dressed quickly, silently. In the living room, I find my purse, and slip out the door and into the still-dark morning.

My mind is absolutely numb as I drive north, then east, heading away from the rising sun. If I drive fast enough, maybe I can escape the new day.

I head into Beverly Hills, drive the familiar streets until I am in front of Louis's place. It's beautiful, imposing behind the tall iron gates. I stop, letting the motor run, just watching the house for a while.

How many times have I been with him over the years? How many more times would I have been if I hadn't ever met Joshua? And how would it have ended, as it inevitably would have?

I'm done with hookers, thank you very much, here's a thousand dollars for your trouble.

I know I soothed Louis, made him feel good. But I was never anything else to him. I couldn't be.

I rev the engine, shift and pull onto the palm tree-lined street. A sharp pang as I drive by the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, where I always see Enzo. But I can't face this place, not today. I have no idea what I'll say to him. I know The Broker has called him, told him I'm no longer available. But Enzo brought me to her. Our connection predates her, has nothing to do with her. I need to talk to him myself, eventually.

He hasn't called me. I know he's respecting my need for silence. But suddenly I need to talk with him. Maybe more than anyone right now. Enzo is where this all started for me. He is so much a part of what I am. He saved me from that sad, terrible life I'd found myself in at twenty years old, helped me find something better. Maybe I need him to help me make this new transition? It sounds all wrong, but still… maybe …

I let the hotel pass with one glance into my rearview mirror as it disappears, lost in the pink and red glow of the rising sun behind me.

Yes, go home and call him. Maybe go see him. Go to Rome.

I keep driving, though. I'm not certain of where I'm going until I'm in Hollywood already, pulling onto Sunset, then following some of the side streets until I find it: that faded hotel where I met Colin a few weeks ago.

On the corner in front of the building are a pair of working girls in their short, candy-colored skirts, their long legs and platform shoes. They look cold, tired. Miserable. It must have been a long night, and it's too cold now to be out there in their skimpy clothes.

That could have been you. It could have been worse. So much worse. Be glad for what you have.

But I am still grieving for what I can't have. Fuck it. I haven't even begun to grieve yet, have I? Things are going to get much harder.

I'm starting to cry as I head home. But it doesn't feel like home. I know even before I get there that it is no longer the safe haven it used to be. It may never be again.

When I walk into my house it feels like a mausoleum: that cold, that empty. As though no one has lived there for years, rather than weeks. My footsteps echo on the hardwood floor as I drop my purse on the console table in the entryway, walk into the kitchen. I don't know what to do, where to settle.

I pull a glass from the cupboard and pour a shot of gin, not even bothering with ice or tonic water, take it, and stare out the window. The sun is up now, but the day is gray still. The light is fighting its way through, touching the tips of the leaves on the big eucalyptus trees. The rest is still in shadow.

I am in shadow.

I take a slug of the gin and it burns going down.

I do not want to think. But I know my usual escapes will be denied me now. I have gone too far for such easy relief.

Lifting my glass, I swallow again. The gin warms me a bit, but it is a shallow warmth and dissolves quickly. And it only makes me hate myself, this stupid drinking. I set the glass down and don't touch it again. This is not what I need. It never has been.

I walk into the living room. My orchids are there, lovely and graceful on their spindly stems. They have been doing fine without me. Pacing the living room, I feel as though my body is filled with adrenaline, but I have no place to go. I feel fucking trapped. Here, in my house. In my head, which will not stop spinning. No matter how I try to shut my brain down, those ugly voices fill it, practically shouting at me:

You will never change. You will never be good enough.

And Deirdre's voice, that spiteful bitch. But I can't fight the truth, no matter how much I don't want to hear it. That's why I had to leave him. That's why I have to get the hell out of here now.

I pick up the phone and dial the airline, make my plans. Then I call Lydia. It's early, but she picks up the phone. I tell her I'm leaving for a while. She's kind to me, calm, tells me to do what I need to do and to call her when I get back. When I'm done, I sit down, and wait.

It's only an hour later when he arrives at my house, pounding on the front door.

“Valentine! God damn it, open up!”

Oh, he's furious. I knew he'd be hurt, but his anger surprises me.

Moving like a zombie, I open the door. Even with him standing there before me, his face full of pain and fury, I am half numb. I step back and he brushes past me.

“What the hell is going on?” he demands.

“I had to go, Joshua. I had to.” I shake my head. I am hanging on to my sanity by such a narrow thread, I'm not able to explain any further.

“That's not good enough. Try again.”

“I'm sorry.”

He grabs my arms, and it hurts. I won't fight him. I couldn't even if I tried. I am too full of my own pain.

“Valentine, you explain to me right now what the hell is going on in your head. Tell me why you left in the middle of the night. Just because we ran into one of your clients … Shit, it was bound to happen. We have to deal with this.”

I can't look at him. My gaze lands on a spot just beyond his shoulder, my vision blurred by a thin sheen of tears. “Joshua … I've just realized that I have to do this on my own.”

“No you don't. That's what I'm here for. That's what love is for!”

“No. Not for people like me. I'm too … damaged.”

“You can choose not to believe that, Valentine.”

“That's what I've been trying to do, but it's all a sham.” I look at him then, into his green-and-gold eyes. His pupils are huge. “Don't you see? You were the catalyst that led me to all of this self-exploration, but I can't get everything I need from you. In the end, I have to do this myself. And I have no idea where I'll end up when it's over, or how long it'll take. I can't drag you along with me. It's not fair. And let's be honest, Joshua. Okay? Let's be perfectly honest, all of this love stuff aside. All of these lovely fairy-tale scenarios. I am a hooker. A hooker!”

“Don't make it any more harsh than it has to be,” he says through clenched teeth, his fingers digging into my flesh.

“The situation is harsh. It's real. Wishing it away isn't going to work. You can't tell me that it will. And you can't tell me you've ever dealt with something like this before.”

“No. But neither have you.”

“I've been a call girl for almost ten years, Joshua.”

God, I hate saying it to him. Rubbing his face in it. But we both have to face it. It's time.

“That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about love. Don't you think that has any value? Any power?”

“You are not going to convince me that love will get us through this.”

“Actually, that's exactly what I'm trying to tell you. Christ, Valentine.” His grip on my arms tightens even more. His eyes are absolutely blazing. “It's a God damn good place to start. Can you think of anything else that would even come close?”

I can't stand to see him this way, to feel the tension in his hands, to feel them on my skin.

“Maybe not. But any relationship between us is … a house of cards, Joshua. It's too fragile, because I'm just learning how to do this. The obstacles are fucking enormous. You can't tell me they're not. It's too much for me to go through on blind faith alone. Faith I'm not even sure I have. I've said it before. It's still true, more true than ever, maybe.”

He drops his hands, takes a step away from me. His voice still holds some anger, but mostly what I hear is defeat. “You have to believe in something, Valentine. Why can't you believe this? That I love you. That you love me. That it's enough.”

I just shake my head, trying not to stumble while my whole world crashes down around me. I am too overwhelmed with fear and pain and longing to really let any of it surface. If I do, it will swallow me up. The pain sits in my chest like a cold, hard stone, weighing me down. I don't know how long I'll be able to stay on my feet.

“Joshua, please understand. It's not that I don't love you …” My breath hitches hard in my chest. “But I have to do this on my own. I have to figure this out, why I can't even trust how I feel about you. It's not something anyone can help me with. It's up to me. Can't you see that?”

“No, I can't.” He pauses, his voice lowering. “But I can't make you stay with me. I can't force you to let me help you.”

I'm quiet, staring at the floor. I don't know what else to say. I only know what I have to do.

“What happens now, Valentine? We just go our separate ways?”

I nod. “I'm going away.”

“What? Where are you going?”

“To Europe. I need to … I need some distance to figure things out.”

“And you expect me to wait for you?”

Some anger there, still. Not that I blame him.

“Oh, no. I don't expect that. How can I, when I don't even know what will happen to me while I'm away? I have no idea what conclusions I'll come to. But I need to find out.”

God, it hurts, saying these things to him.

“Fuck, Valentine. Fuck!”

He turns away, paces the floor, a hand going into his hair.

I know the silk of his hair beneath my fingertips …

Don't go there.

Tears sting my eyes. I really cannot take much more.

“Please just go. Joshua. Please. Let me do this. I have to … I can't simply decide to turn my back on what my life has been and pretend it never happened. I have to resolve my past, who I am now, who I'm going to be. I understand that… you might not be here when I get back.”

Fucking awful.

Even worse, the hurt on his face.

He shakes his head, his eyes full of shadows.

“Alright. I'll leave. You go to Europe, figure your life out.”

So much pain in his voice, defeat. And no promises. But what can I expect after what I'm doing to him?

I nod, stare at the floor once more, and when I look up, he's gone, leaving the door open behind him.

I am in hell. But I put myself there. Every choice I've made has led to this moment. I hate myself more than ever.