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“Well, if we don’t get some of the money we owe to the City of Los Angeles paid pretty soon, all of this will likely become property of the United States Government.
“What do you mean?” I ask, and he explains to me that there was a licensing issue with their company and blah, blah, blah, they owe extra tax money they didn’t know they were supposed to pay because of the blah blah blah. I get it… sort of.
“Lemme show you your room,” Simon tells me as he waves me up another flight of stairs, which is really going to start to interfere with being a plus-size model if I have to keep traversing up and down them. “It’s just off the library.”
“You have a library?”
“Well… it’s more of a reading room, but yes.”
“Oh, God,” I say.
“I may have just fallen in love with you,” I say to the library as we pass, which causes his head to jerk as if to see if I was talking to him.
Boys are so easy to fuck with.
When we finally do come to my sleeping quarters, I have to remember not to look too impressed. Showing so much excitement for such material things will make me look shallow.
Granted, to a degree I am. But I don’t want other people pointing it out.
He opens the door and reveals not just a bedroom… but a suite. There’s even a little den and kitchenette.
“Omigod, this is even nicer than that Ramada I almost got murdered at in high school,” I exclaim.
“I’m going to let that one be what it is and not ask questions,” he says.
There’s a big, white down comforter on the bed, black-out curtains over the windows, a giant TV mounted to the wall equidistant from the eye no matter where one might be seated, whether on the couch or lying in bed.
This is brilliant.
“Thank you so much,” I say to him. “You have no idea what a shitty situation you just helped me escape.”
“Well… we’ve got nothing but time together now, so if you ever want to talk through some of it, we can.”
“Thanks,” I say in that uncomfortable way I sometimes do, as I begin to notice other details about the room as well.
One of which— not to mention my favorite of which— is that he’s taken copies of all the photos from my camera test, framed each one in its own, one-of-a-kind picture frame and hung them around the room.
“There’s a balcony,” he says, but then he winces, almost as though he’s forgotten something.
“I’ll let you get settled in,” he says, as he begins to turn away from me.
But like I’m doing it as a reflex, my hand reaches out and grabs his wrist, pulling him back to me.
Without ever retracting his wrist from my grip, he spins his torso and points it and his head toward me. There’s a rather serious expression on his face now, one that I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man give to me before.
It’s almost as if he’s trying to penetrate each layer of skin on my forehead and then the bone and brain matter beneath so that he can siphon out the very thoughts from inside.
“What’s the matter?” he asks in a single breath, and then he holds that one in his chest.
Suddenly I’m panting. I’m not sure why; it’s not like I just came from a run or was frightened by a child jumping out from behind something concealing them from my sight.
Still, he doesn’t exhale, and yet I’m breathing in heavy, loud, wet-sounding breaths enough for the both of us.
“Do you–” I try and slow down.
“Do you, um… do you feel this too?” I ask him.
There are really words that can describe what “this” is that I’m feeling and talking about. I just know there’s something there, something like… I don’t know. I guess it’s almost like electricity, I guess.
“Feel what?” he asks, which disappoints me just enough to slow my breathing down to a normal rate.
“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” he corrects himself. “I just meant, I think so, but I don’t know how to describe what it is, and I thought you might have a word for it already.”
“Butterflies,” I say, and suddenly feel like all those clichéd women from the movies I told myself I couldn’t see myself ever becoming.
“But not really…” I say. “It’s weird, because my whole life, I was expecting the butterfly effect–”
“That’s something entirely different,” he interrupts me. “And a terrible movie. I’d recommend staying away from it.”
“Oh, I know. It’s just what I call this feeling to annoy Sarah and then the nickname kind of sticks. But anyway, my whole life I was expecting the feeling of butterflies to be so… well… scary.”
He nods his head and finally steps closer to me so that I can actually hear that this entire time, he has been breathing just as quick and short as my very own panting fits, only he’s been doing it through his nose, which has been much less audible than my own heavy, open-mouthed gasps for air.
