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I would have said that’s only because of the years he spent taking care of me, but we got along from the beginning. I vividly remember the first day I ever met him. Before I fell for a selfish bad boy. Before I lost myself in untethered behavior. Before I took my peaceful, privileged life and threw it in the trash.
Caleb started working for the Worthings and was assigned to my father near the end of my freshman year of college. I had my own apartment by then, and I wasn’t hanging out a lot at my father’s house, so I didn’t meet Caleb until my summer break. My dad was working in Paris for a month, and as soon as my exams were completed, I flew over to spend part of my break with him.
It was Paris after all, and the romantic, artistic girl I was back then didn’t want to miss out.
My flight landed in the early morning, and I was determined to stay awake all day to get over the jet lag as soon as possible. So I had plans to take my easel, canvas, and paints to a scenic spot near a bridge over the Seine and stay there all day, painting. It felt like a very Paris thing to do for a nineteen-year-old girl.
My dad’s driver brought me to the hotel, and in the luxurious suite my dad introduced Caleb as new security staff. The first thing I noticed was how big and handsome he was. The second thing was that he never smiled but managed to come across as a nice, decent guy anyway.
When I explained to my dad my plans for the day, he approved—only he wanted Caleb to come along so I wasn’t wandering around all alone in a city I didn’t know very well.
I was nineteen back then. I could have told him no, I’d rather go by myself. But I had zero argument with being escorted around Paris by a guy as good-looking as Caleb.
So I took a quick shower and changed into my favorite pretty bohemian dress—a red print with a long, soft skirt and a cinch under my breasts that actually made me look like I had some sort of figure. I collected my supplies, and Caleb carried my easel until I found the spot I wanted.
I tried to chat some with Caleb but soon determined he wasn’t a talker. It didn’t bother me. He was never rude or cold. Just professional. And there was something about his eyes that made me believe he wasn’t having a bad time.
I was painting for almost an hour when a sweet, elderly American lady stopped to talk to me, thinking I was a street artist and asking if I could do a painting for her. She was so nice I hated to disappoint her, so I painted her into the landscape I was working on. I had the broad strokes of the bridge and street scene done, so it was easy enough to add her in. It was quick work, but she loved it.
When she started to pay me, I tried to say no but she insisted, so I told her to put the money into the tip jar of another artist farther down the bridge.
As I was doing her painting, a friendly Canadian couple stopped to watch, and they asked me to put them in a painting too. I’d had fun with the elderly lady, so I agreed and had them give the money they wanted to pay me afterward to a different street artist.
By then I had a line of tourists wanting paintings of their own. Caleb asked if he should tell them all to move on, but I was having a great time. Everyone was warm and appreciative and friendly. Instead, he called back to the hotel and had one of the staff members there bring us more canvases and supplies so I’d have enough.
I stayed all day, painting tourists into my simple landscapes. I met so many interesting people, laughing and chatting with them as I worked. They’d also ask me about myself, and I’d share various stories about my life. Caleb stood nearby the whole time, keeping his eye on the crowds and getting rid of a few whiners who didn’t want to wait and more than a few obnoxious men who were interested in my body more than my paintings. But I kept glancing over to him whenever something was touching and amusing. He’d meet my eyes, and—although he never smiled—we’d share something in the look.
Like he understood. Like he was in this experience with me. Like we were connected.
It might have been—even to this day—the best day of my life.
That particular memory has been drowned by all the messy years that followed, but I think about it now as I lie in bed. I once again feel that connection to Caleb through nothing more than the meeting of our eyes.
I wonder if I’ll ever feel it again.
It’s not a worthwhile thought. I’m a different person now than I was back then. Caleb might have liked me well enough at nineteen—assuming I was a somewhat decent human being to him and to other people—but he knows better now.
I spent far too long being anything but decent to him.
The turn of my thoughts is starting to depress me, so I push them away and think about ice-skating instead. My world is better now than it was, and there are things in my life I can still enjoy.
I’ve been looking forward to this, and I’m not going to let bleak reminders of my past bring me down.
I’m going to have fun today. I’m still allowed.
That thought propels me off the bed. After going to the bathroom, I stuff my feet into slippers and pull on a fuzzy robe before heading out into the hallway and toward the kitchen.
The guest room door is half-open, so I glance in automatically. I’m not surprised to see Caleb in there, sitting in the side chair and working on something on his tablet.
“Did you spend the night here again?” I ask from the doorway.
He glances up. “Yeah.”
He hangs out in the guest room a lot after one of the other bodyguards comes on duty. He says he prefers it to a hotel room, but I suspect it’s more that he wants to be close in case anything happens.
For the past week or two, he’s been sleeping there as well—at first occasionally when I was out later than normal, but now he’s spent three nights in a row.
That’s okay by me. I’ve offered him use of my guest room for whatever he needs, and honestly it makes me feel safer to know he’s near. But it still worries me. He’s supposed to have his time off, and this schedule doesn’t feel like it gives him any downtime.
