Step F*#K: Part Four (Stepbrother #4) (5 page)

I decline a second helping when my plate is finally clear, and then ask Dad for the keys, saying that I’d like to go out now and get back so I don’t have to rush to get to the airport. But right as I’m about to leave, I realize that I don’t actually know where Emma lives. I turn and go back into the dining room and Stephanie writes down the address for me.
 

“Tell her to give me a call when she can, will you?” she asks, and she looks mildly irritated. “Tell her we’re all a little worried and would just like to know that everything is fine.”

I nod and slip the piece of paper into my pocket. “I’ll tell her.”And along with that, there’s a million other things I want to tell her, too. I want to tell her that I’m sorry for blowing up the way I did the night before the wedding, for being so impatient with her. I want to tell her that I’ve never felt this way about another girl before, and that though it may not seem like it on the outside, it’s a little scary for me, too. But that I’m falling in love with her. I
am
in love with her.
 

That’s it.
 

If I get to her apartment and I only have the chance to say one thing, it’ll be that.
 

Emma, I love you.
 

But right as I pull up in front of the building, I see Megan there, unlocking the door, about to go in. I throw the car in park and jump out, nearly getting run over by a passing car as I do so.
 

“Megan!” I say, hurrying over to her. She turns and jumps.

“Oh!” she says. “What . . . what are you doing here?” She fiddles with the key in the lock, her purse slipping off her shoulder as she does so. It falls to the ground, spilling open. “Shit,” she mutters, bending to pick it up. I kneel down and help her, though she snatches the tube of lip gloss and a crumpled receipt from me as though I’ve got some sort of communicable disease. She stuffs everything back into her purse and continues to fiddle with the lock until the door finally opens. She starts to go in. “I don’t think I should be talking to you.”

“What? Why not? I just wanted to see Emma. Is she home? I just wanted to talk to her for a second. I didn’t realize she’d left last night and . . . well . . . there’s just a few things that I wanted to talk to her about. I’m actually heading back to London later today, so I figured I should just come over and talk to her in person quickly.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I don’t know what Emma told you but it’s not—”

“Listen, Jai—I don’t want to get in the middle of this, okay? This is between you and Emma, and I happen to know—for a fact—that she doesn’t want to talk with you. SO I think it’d be best if you just left, okay?”

“But—”

“And don’t even think about camping out here and spying and being a stalker. Because she’s not here. She’s not here, and I’m not going to tell you where she went, other than it’s far away. So you should just forget about her, okay?”
 

And then she goes inside, letting the heavy door swing shut behind her. I stand there, shoulders slumped. So this is what it feels like. I am not used to feeling like this, I’m not used to having no other options. Really, the only thing that I can do right now is to get back in my dad’s car, drive to his house, and get ready for the airport. Whether or not Megan’s telling the truth about Emma being here doesn’t matter; she’s not going to come out if she is inside, and if she isn’t, then . . . who knows where she actually is.
 

I start to walk toward the car, but stop to pick up a card. It’s a business card, and it says
Megan Cole, screenwriter
, on it, with her phone number. It must’ve fallen out of her purse. I should just leave it, or throw it away, but I slide it into my pocket next to the slip of paper Stephanie wrote their address down on. I might need it.
 

I drive back to Dad’s place, the only thing on my mind an endless loop, like horrible song lyrics you just can’t get out of your head.
 

She’s gone. She’s gone, and there’s not a thing that I can do about it.

Four Months Later

Denis sat next to me in the oil painting workshop and I couldn’t help but be completely impressed by the life-like African animals he was able to paint on his canvas. You’d almost think they were photographs if you didn’t know better.
 

But now, he’s poised above me, and his skills in the bedroom vastly pale in comparison to his skills on the canvas. He’s propped himself up on his forearms as he pumps his hips, his head thrown back, eyes closed. I know enough French to be able to get by, but he says something totally unintelligible and then pulls out and, lo and behold, comes all over my chest.
 

He opens his eyes and looks at the puddle. “Wow,” he says, breathless. His gaze finds me and he grins, as though he’s just given me the best gift in the world. “That was incredible.” He rolls off of me. “Wasn’t it?”
I grab the first thing my hand happens to brush against—his Gucci shirt—and I wipe his come off of my tits.
 

“I think it’s time for you to go,” I say. He’s about to fall asleep, probably with the idea that he’ll wake up after a short nap and we’ll have an encore. No thanks. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.” I hand him the shirt.
 

“Oh,” he says, taking the shirt, looking disdainfully at the wet spot now covering the front of it. “I thought we might—”

“No.” I shake my head. “It’s really time for you to go.”

I lie there while he gets dressed. He stands there for a moment, in my tiny studio apartment, looking completely flummoxed.
 

“Can I give you a kiss good-bye?”
“I don’t think so.”
 

Perhaps I should feel bad about treating him this way, but I don’t. Since arriving in Paris three months ago, I’ve had a handful of sexual encounters, ranging from serviceable (I got off) to downright mediocre (instead of getting off, I get come all over my tits).
 

Denis’s shoulders droop a little, but then he straightens and gives me a little wave. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he says, and then he’s gone.
 

I get up and go into the bathroom. I’ve been renting this little studio in Paris’s 7
th
arrondissement, and it’s tiny but perfect—I’ve actually come to think of it as home, even though I’m on a month-to-month rental and the money that Zack loaned me will be running out sooner rather than later.
 

I think about this as I stand under the warm water, washing all traces of Denis from me. I’d like to stay in Paris—maybe I could get a job at an art gallery or a café. I could continue taking classes, and maybe even enroll at the
École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts
—
that is, if I was accepted.
 

But as an American girl, my time so far in Paris has been pretty wonderful, aside from the mediocre sex I’ve been having. That isn’t the reason why I came here though, and I frequently remind myself of this. I came here to focus on art, on my painting, and I’ve actually been able to do just that. My days are spent working on my paintings, going to the workshop, taking a break for lunch at one of the many cafes, and then getting back to work.
 

It is a bit of a fantasy, an extended vacation that I’ve been living, and I know that I can’t keep doing this forever. I will have to get a job, I will have to enroll in school, or something. But returning to L.A.? Who knows.
 

I’m less worried about it now anyway, since one of Megan’s friends has been subletting my room, and I deferred my enrollment for a year, but I’ve realized that I don’t actually want to be an architect. Sorry, Dad, but it’s just not the path for me.
 

That is one thing that I leaned from Jai, whether or not he was aware that he was teaching it to me. You shouldn’t live your life based on what other people think, you shouldn’t try to mold your existence so it conforms to some socially or culturally acceptable idea of who you’re supposed to be or what you’re supposed to do. And it’s hard not to think about Jai, to wonder what he’s up to, if he’s got a new girlfriend, if he ever thinks about me.
 

And I will have to see him at some point, I suppose, but maybe not. Maybe I can keep putting it off. Mom’s on the phone right now, and though she’s called under the pretense of just having a chat, I know that she’s eventually going to ask me if I will be coming home for Christmas, which is in less than a week.
 

“And how is life in Paris?” she asks.
 

“It’s good. I’ve been doing a lot of work with my painting. It’s just been really great to be able to spend so much time focused on it.”

“I’d love to see some of your work. So would Zack. In fact, he was hoping that we’d be able to be your first customers. Do you have anything for sale?”

“No, not yet. And I wouldn’t
charge
you guys.”

“I’ve seen some of your paintings, Emma, and you’re very talented. And I know the stuff I saw wasn’t even anything you were taking seriously. I can just imagine what the quality of your work is like now. And remember, sweetheart, if
you
don’t take your work seriously, you can’t expect anyone else to, now can you?”
“No, I guess you’re right.”

“I am very proud of you. I will admit, it was surprising at first,” Mom says, “you just up and leaving like that. But at the same time, I’m proud of you for going after what you want, even if you had previously started down another path. A lot of people would have just kept on doing what they were doing, and maybe regretted that for the rest of their lives. I am proud of you, Emma. I want you to know that. And I’m happy you’re doing what makes you happy.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I say. “It means a lot to me that you feel that way.”

“That being said,” she continues, “I’d still like it if you would come home for Christmas.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
 

“I want to see you! I want to hear about Paris, but I want you to tell me in person. I want us to be all together as a family. It’ll be our first Christmas all together.”

That’s what I don’t want to hear, but of course I can’t tell her that. Perhaps if she had said
It will just be Zack and me and your sister this Christmas
then I would have given it some consideration, but if there is even the slightest chance that Jai will be there . . . no way. I just can’t do it.
 

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I say. “I don’t want to disappoint you, but I just don’t think I’m going to be able to make it home for Christmas this year.”
 

She sighs. “Okay, Emma,” she says. But even though the disappointment in her voice is undeniable, there’s no way I can explain to her why I can’t come back. “And am I still keeping your exact whereabouts a secret? It seems a little odd, seeing as this much time has elapsed.”

“Well, it’s not like you have to guard the information with your life or anything, but . . . yeah, I guess, if you wouldn’t mind not broadcasting it to the world, that’d be good. I like being anonymous. I like feeling as though I am out here and very few people know where I actually am.”

“Both your sister and Jai have been wondering.”

I bristle at the sound of his name. “Oh, really?”

“Yes. Your sister especially—you know she doesn’t like secrets like this. She thinks she’s missing out on something. But I know Jai would like to know, too. I don’t see what the harm is in telling them.”

Really, there probably wouldn’t be any harm in her telling them I was in Paris, but I really do like the sense I get that no one knows where I am. Especially these days, with Facebook and Twitter and Instagram, people always knowing everything about everyone else. I haven’t been on any of those sites since I left. And I certainly haven’t visited any online dating sites, either.