Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour
CHAPTER 6
Sofi
The rain subsides and I make it home, spending the rest of the day doing what I normally do on my day off. Laundry. Straightening my apartment. Paying bills. Stocking up on groceries at Trader Joe’s. Things take longer than usual as I’m in slo-mo from my mishap. My throbbing knee is a constant reminder of it. And of him. No matter how much I try, I can’t get Roman Hurst out of my head. His beautiful face lingers in my mind, his deep velvety voice echoes in my ears, and at the memory of his touch, butterflies of my own flit around my stomach. I couldn’t stop looking at his exquisite hands, the fingers long and tapered, as he bandaged my knee. I noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding band on his ring finger and wondered if he’s married. Except for his age, there’s no personal information about him anywhere online. I had to battle the burning urge to ask him about his marital status—as if that’s any of my business. I give myself a mental kick. I’ve got to stop thinking about him. It’s unlikely I’ll ever see him again. Plus, I’m so not his type. I’m sure he goes after supermodels like that gorgeous woman in the framed photos.
Trying to forget him, I indulge in my passion—painting. There’s an easel set up in the alcove of my cramped dwelling with a tray of paints and brushes; I’ve kind of made it my studio. Because the apartment is so small, I work in acrylics to avoid the toxicity of oils. I’ve been working on a painting of a rare butterfly. The Blue Morpho, one of the largest in the world with a wingspan of five to six inches. It is distinguished by its vivid blue wings and lacy black edges. Ironically, the very shade of blue as Roman’s eye. As I apply some blue paint to the canvas, I think of him again. If Roman were a butterfly, he’d be a Blue Morpho. Unique. Commanding. Bigger than life. Oh so beautiful! Only, if only, I could get him to fly out of my mind.
A little before seven, my heart heavy, I put my paints away, change into a vintage butterfly-print dress, and head out to meet Harper at Cipriani. Though I’m not in the mood to go out, she’s dying to hear about my interview with Roman. Fingers crossed she’ll pick up the tab and come with a check from her father. After paying all my bills today, I need the six hundred dollars more than ever. My asshole landlord called me twice about my rent payment. He told me if I didn’t pay it by the end of the week, he was going to start eviction proceedings.
The restaurant, located on West Broadway, is not far from my apartment, and I’m grateful for that as I’m tired and achy. I’m also grateful it hasn’t started raining again, the late April air now mild and muggy. I’m the first one to arrive, and the maître d’ escorts me to our table after I tell him I don’t want to have a drink at the bar. A twenty-dollar glass of wine I’ll have to pay for. Nope, pass. I can live without it.
I take a seat at the white linen-covered table situated in the middle of the restaurant. It’s Harper’s favorite place to sit as it affords her a bird’s-eye view of all the action. The bustling restaurant is a favorite among the fashion crowd—filled with long-legged models, photographers, magazine editors, and designers. It’s a place to see and be seen. For sure, not a place you’d ever find the reclusive Roman Hurst.
Still trying to shove him to the back of my mind, I stretch my bandaged leg out under the table, remembering what he told me, and peruse the menu. Everything here is delicious, though I don’t have much of an appetite. As I read over today’s specials, all which start at forty dollars, a familiar rasp drifts into my ears. I look up. It’s Harper, chicly dressed in perfectly ripped designer jeans, a sharp blazer, and spikey ankle boots. Her thick auburn hair is spooled high in a ponytail and she’s perfectly made up.
“Hi,” she says, scooting into the chair across from me. “Did you order some wine?”
“No, I was waiting for you.” She’s a half hour late. Make that only a half hour late. Time management is not one of Harper’s talents.
A waiter comes by, pleased to see her. She’s a regular here. Without looking at the wine list, she orders a Sancerre. I’m sure the bottle costs over a hundred dollars. Unlike me who’s on a tight budget, my best friend has none. She has a bottomless trust fund. And an equally endless expense account.
The wine comes quickly, and after Harper approves it, the waiter pours us each a glass before setting the bottle in an ice-filled wine bucket.
“Salut,”she says brightly, clinking her goblet against mine. We each take a sip. The chilled wine is crisp and refreshing, nothing like the cheap stuff I buy.
“How was your weekend?” I ask.
“Same old same old. Derek and I discussed the wedding with his parents. I can’t believe it’s only a month away. Gah!”
I’ve heard about this fairy-tale wedding ad nauseam. For over a year. Taking place over Memorial Day weekend, it’s going to be the wedding of all weddings, complete with a horse-driven carriage for the bride and groom. I’m going to be her maid of honor, wearing a demure yellow dress she picked out for me at Bergdorf’s. At twelve hundred dollars, thank goodness she offered to pay for it after I told her I couldn’t afford to.
My bestie takes another drink of her wine. Her three-carat engagement ring catches the candlelight and glimmers in my eyes.
“The rehearsal dinner is on the Friday night before the wedding. Don’t forget about it. You need to be there.”
“I’m not sure if I can. I may have to work late,” I say glumly. Her head swivels to the left and she gawks.
“Ooh, look! There’s Anna Wintour, the editor of Vogue, and the designer Michael Kors.” She’s so busy people-watching, I don’t think she’s heard a word I’ve said. Plus, she’s admittedly got ADHD. After spotting a top fashion model, she returns her attention to me.
“I can’t thank you enough for covering my interview with Roman Hurst today. I want to hear everything! But before I forget, here’s the check my father promised you.” She reaches into her designer purse and hands me an envelope. I gratefully take it from her and sneak a peek at it. I silently breathe a sigh of relief; I’m paid in full.
She reaches back into her bag. “Oh, and here’s the forty dollars I owe you from last week. I scrounged up another hundred and was able to Uber to Derek’s parents’ house.”
Two twenties. I snatch the bills from her and stuff them into my backpack along with the check. I’m glad for once I didn’t have to ask her for the money I lent her . . . that almost made my checking account balance go negative. I’ve lost track of how much she owes me, another manifestation of her attention deficit disorder and complete disregard for time.
“Okay, now with that out of the way, tell me everything! What was he like?”
Tall. Gorgeous. Mysterious. Complex. Protective. Controlling. Caring. Sexy as sin.
I take a long sip of my wine to quell the sensations erupting all over my body. Heart palps. Flutters. Tightening. Tingles. I swallow hard past the bubble of emotion that’s swelling in my chest.
“He was very accommodating. He served tea and answered all your questions.”
“Even the one I threw in? I hope you didn’t mind that.”
“Actually, he didn’t give me the chance to ask it.” Well, that’s the truth. “He had to take a very important phone call and politely asked me to leave.”
Harper frowns. “That’s too bad. What do you think?”
“He’s not gay.” The words spill out of my mouth. Leaving little room for my bestie to challenge me.
“I was positive he was. What does he look like?”
“Kind of ordinary and unassuming.” That’s the understatement of the century. The man is breathtaking. Formidable. In a league of his own.
My companion twists her glossy red lips. “Oh, I kind of imagined him to be short and boyish. With horn-rimmed glasses. Did he let you take a photo?”
“No. Plus, I had to sign a confidentiality agreement.” Then, after another long sip of the wine, I break the news to her. “He found out that I was pretending to be you.”
Mid sip, Harper chokes. After a few coughs, she swallows and her eyes grow wide. “He did?”
“Don’t worry, it’s not a big deal. You can publish the interview with your name. I’ll type it up tonight and send it to you.”
Relief washes over my BFF. “Thank God! That’s awesome! It’s going to be the talk of the fashion world. Thanks to you, I’m one step closer to becoming the next Anna Wintour.”
And thanks to you, I’m a hot mess. One step closer to becoming an emotional train wreck. Everything in Harper’s life is so perfect. She doesn’t have to worry about money; she’s on her career path and is marrying a mega-rich guy who dotes on her. I, on the other hand, can barely pay my rent, have to worry about my aging parents, and seem to be going nowhere. And there’s no one in my life that’s close to putting a ring on my finger. Let alone care for me. Tears begin to well in the back of my eyes, but Harper is too busy checking out the who’s who of the fashion world to notice. She takes a break to peruse the menu. Half-heartedly, I do the same.
The waiter comes by and we each order. Endive salads, then a truffle pasta for her and a grilled salmon for me.
Another bottle of wine later, I’ve hardly touched my salmon.
It’s a shame this three-hundred-dollar meal has gone to waste. I don’t even want to take it home.
An hour later, I’m back in my studio typing up the interview on my laptop.
When I hit send, I know Roman Hurst is out of my life forever.