Keila stared as Mark hooked his thumbs on the back pockets of his torn jeans and went to look out the window, avoiding her eyes and directing his words to the world outside instead of to her face. “You’re not into me, Keila. You’re not attracted to me.”
“Of course I find you attractive — ”
“But you’re not
attracted
to me. If you were, you’d be all over me right now. Damn it, Keila, I haven’t seen you in over a week, and then you open the door wearing nothing but a towel, and you drive me nuts because I know that, once again,
nothing’s going to happen
!” He turned to look at her, eyes blazing.
“I’ve had a strange day and I was really looking forward to seeing you. I was dying for a hug and a kiss; you’re the one who ignored me.”
“You know I’m not talking about hugs and kisses.”
“Mark … you know I have issues.”
“I’m not buying your issues anymore. So your first boyfriend told you he was gay right after your first time together, so what? That was years ago. You’re over it enough so that he’s your best friend, but you still use it as an excuse to not take the next step with me.”
“The whole thing left me insecure, okay? And you know it isn’t just what happened with Robbie. Every time I want to try and go there, I just — I can’t. I was very clear from the beginning! I told you it would take time and you said you were okay with that.” She kept waiting to be swept away by a desire for intimacy, but something was apparently wrong with her.
Mark raked both hands through his hair and closed his eyes. “Listen to me, Keila. I need you to understand where I’m coming from. I’m a saxophone player, I play at jazz clubs. There are willing women, every night, and every night I reject them, hoping that after six months you’ll finally get over your issues. But this weekend it finally hit me that you’re just not into me.” He finished his little speech, never once bothering to look at her.
“If you think that telling me all about your disease-infested groupies is going to get me into bed, then you are seriously delusional. You sound like an ass.”
“Disease-infested groupies?” Mark shot her a weary glance and Keila shrugged, picking at a loose thread on her bedspread. He walked away from the window, squatted in front of her and took her hands in his. “Look, Keila, I didn’t come here to fight. I really mean it when I say I just don’t think you’re attracted to me.”
“But we’re so great together,” Keila reasoned, grabbing onto his hands. “At least, usually we are. We’re both musicians, we like the same restaurants, the same music, the same movies. My more optimistic nature balances your occasional gloom and doom … ” Keila’s voice trailed off when Mark looked down at the floor.
“You’re describing friendship, Keila, not the kind of passion you should feel for me.”
“So, you’re really breaking up with me because you don’t think I’m attracted to you? There’s no other reason?” Keila looked into Mark’s soulful brown eyes. Of course she thought he was attractive. But out of nowhere, an image of intense blue eyes came to mind, and she felt real guilt, quickly dropping Mark’s hands.
Mark leaned in and kissed her softly, and she felt comforted, but not on fire. How could one stranger’s gaze be hotter and more moving than her boyfriend’s kiss?
The answer didn’t matter. Comfort is what she wanted, not fire.
Fire
left destruction in its wake. In very different ways, it had left parts of her sister and mother in ashes. Comfort could last forever. Fires were eventually put out.
“What I’m saying is: I think we should take a break. Maybe in three or four months you’ll start to miss me and you’ll want to throw yourself into my arms because you can’t resist me instead of opening the door as if you’ve got other things on your mind.”
Keila slowly nodded, wondering if she could wake whatever was dormant within her for Mark. But in the back of her mind, she was busy swatting a nagging thought away. He hadn’t even asked her what the other things on her mind were, hadn’t even noticed she was feeling blue. Their break up conversation had revolved around his needs and her faults.
“Fine, let’s take a break, Mark. Let’s both try and figure out what it is we really want from each other,” she agreed.
He seemed surprised, as if he’d thought she’d beg him to stay, which irked her more.
Keila closed the door behind Mark and tried to make sense of her whirlwind morning. Twenty minutes ago she’d been sure she had both the career and the man she wanted. Then, abruptly, nothing in her future was secure and she felt bewildered and alone.
She tried to concentrate on the fact that in just days she’d be home.
Home
. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to be eating her mom’s famous sweet, coconut
tembleque,
with her older sister’s fiercely protective arms around her and her niece beside her, making her laugh.
She thought about calling them now, but she knew they’d only focus on the fact that she’d be moving back and brush aside the detail that she didn’t really have a job.
So instead, she called her best friend, Cate Nowak. Cate was pragmatic and realistic, and she’d understand why Keila was feeling ambiguous. But when Cate didn’t pick up, Keila left a message and decided to pack, to give her hands something to do. For once, she didn’t feel like practicing.
Yanking her suitcase from the minuscule closet and wrenching a few drawers open, her mind wandered off to the months ahead as she steadily worked on packing. Would she and Mark work things out or break up for good? Would she be a regular member of Second City Symphony, or would she be applying for teaching positions and auditioning for orchestras in other cities?
Before she could gauge how she would feel about the negatives, Cate called. And, Cate being Cate … she already had a great idea.
One week later …
A stack of papers fell with a neat
smack
on Jake Kelly’s desk. “Internal polls,” Cate Nowak, his press secretary, said.
Jake didn’t bother to look up. “I already went through them. I’m still behind in a number of key constituencies but I’ve made significant progress; the community meetings are working,” he summarized dismissively. “Eighteen communities down, fifty-nine to go before February 5th. We’ve got time.”
Tyrone, Jake’s best friend and campaign manager, walked up to him. “Did you happen to see how low support for you is among working middle class voters, especially Hispanics, in
every area
except the South Side and parts of the West?”
“Unless the pollsters get to the root of the problem, there’s nothing I can do except continue to get my message out. My numbers are up in the neighborhoods I’ve visited. Let’s concentrate on what’s working.”
“
The root of the problem
is a long memory. Your father’s shady real estate deals and his no-holds-barred push for gentrification, Jake. He would’ve razed a popular Hispanic neighborhood if they hadn’t fought back. Every one of his deals benefited the wealthy and
stuck it
to the rest. People are having a hard time separating you from your father,” Tyrone explained, not mincing words.
Jake almost flinched at the mention of his late father.
“It’s an unfortunate history that has helped shape people’s
image
of you,” Cate agreed, subtly weaving her favorite word into the conversation.
“I can’t help where I come from any more than the next person. What I want to know is how we can get them to focus on the fact that everything I hope to accomplish is well thought out and out in the open?”
“They won’t listen until we fix your
image
, Jake!” Cate argued. “Socialite-toting playboy, born with a diamond encrusted — and possibly stolen — spoon in your mouth. How do you expect them to listen to you with an image like that?” she asked, more gently.
“How can you be sure that’s how people see me?” Jake asked, masking his vulnerability with a hard look. He got up and walked toward the window in front of his desk, focusing his attention on the large, restored brick mansion directly across the street where the first of his two nonprofit centers was housed.
Filip Nowak, Cate’s grandfather and the man who’d been like a real father to him, was sitting on the sun-spangled front steps, sharing a bag of chips with a few local kids.
Jake usually felt comfortable in his office, the blue-grey walls, white molding, plush black leather seating, and tempered glass conference table and desk all inviting him to focus on work. But today he wanted to be outside, under the warm sun, instead of in here, worrying about his
image
.
A fourth generation Chicagoan, Jake felt his city was as much a part of him as his family. He loved Chicago’s dramatic history, storied cultural diversity, rich architecture and most of all, its vibrant communities — no two neighborhoods were alike. His entire adult life had been dedicated to giving back to the city that had allowed him to hide out and disappear, and learn and discover, when things had been too miserable at home.
He’d taken plenty of heat from his father, first majoring in Social Policy at the University of Chicago instead of attending Ivy League colleges, and then taking a philanthropic route.
Right now, though, he knew there was only so much he could do with his organization if the city’s government wasn’t working to its full potential. The next step was to work on the inside, as the city’s mayor. But he couldn’t get there without enough votes. And he wouldn’t garner enough votes if he didn’t fix his
image
.
Sucking in a frustrated breath, he turned from the window and blinked when a cell phone was placed inches away from his face. “Here, don’t just take our word for it,” Tyrone said before hitting
play
. “Meet Charles and Edith Mallard.”
A grainy video popped up on the small screen and Jake watched a confused elderly couple sway in and out of focus before beginning to speak, the man too close to the speaker. “He seems earnest when he talks about his ideas, but in general, his demeanor is cold and distant. Every week I see a picture of him out with a different woman, and that tells me something about his level of commitment to people in general.” Charles put his arm over his wife. “How can a man who can’t commit to one woman at a time commit to a whole city?” The time on the video ran out just as the man’s wife was going to speak and her frozen image stared back at Jake, her lips puckered in what seemed like disapproval.
Tyrone hit a button, went back to a thumbnail screen, and expanded another video. “Miriam Gutierrez,” Tyrone said, and a good looking, older woman with short, reddish brown hair and dark brown eyes got closer to the camera, hesitated, and began to speak. “I just don’t connect with him. He’s too … Hollywood, I think. Some people like that, but I prefer someone more human. Even the women he escorts around town don’t seem human; they don’t even have meat on their thighs.”
“And this is Javier-”
“I get it,” Jake interrupted just as Cate held up a page taken from the society section of
The Chicago Tribune
. The paper displayed a full-color picture of him wearing a tuxedo, escorting a leggy, busty, golden-haired woman, who, he had to admit, didn’t have much meat on her thighs.
“Supporting the arts shouldn’t affect my approval ratings in a negative way,” Jake pointed out, trying hard not to grin. He’d had a
really
good time with his date
after
the art show.
“It’s not the event, it’s your
date
. You took a local socialite, and damn it, Jake, a well-known airhead.”
“Hey! Lots of men prefer women who don’t put pressure on them, okay? And honestly, Cate, I date around because I don’t have time for a relationship, yet I have all these events I need to attend. And I don’t have time for a relationship because I’m devoted to the city. That’s a
good
thing. The people around
here
know that.” Jake gestured to the neighborhood just outside the window, where he had set up his foundation eight years before.
Tyrone sighed. “The people here know you well and they’re immune to the Jake Kelly image the media portrays. But others haven’t had the chance to get to know you and when they listen to the media describing you in ‘most-eligible-bachelor’ terms, you really do come off as, well, way too Hollywood, man. It makes people believe Mike Summers’s camp when they make those subtle remarks, about The Chicago Youth Project being another tax haven for one more power-hungry Republican on the rise.” Tyrone looked up and their eyes locked.
“I’m running
as a conservative independent, and Mike Summers doesn’t have any concrete ideas on how to fix this city’s problems,” Jake shot back.
“But they know you lean right, and a Republican hasn’t won a mayoral election here since 1927.”
Cate took advantage of the moment. “Listen, Jake, Mike is a family man and he includes those toothy kids and wife of his in every single photo op. The fact that you’re young, single, and good looking puts your personal life under extra scrutiny.
You
have to be more careful. Family men only get that extra scrutiny when there’s a scandal involved, that’s just the way it is.”
“All right, I get it.” Jake put his hands up. “What can I do to fix this?”
“Finally,” Cate exhaled and wasting no time said, “First, you can go on — ”
“
Except
go on
She Said, She Said
,” Jake clarified. Cate had been nagging him about going on the popular women’s gab fest disguised as an afternoon talk show for weeks.
“Why not?” Cate asked. “Mike Summers and his wife have been on, and every Illinois politician looking to drum up local support has gone on.”
“Because those women are sneaky,” Jake circled his finger in the air. “They ask way too personal questions and they try to get you to talk about your
feelings
.” The last word was spoken as if he were talking about a killer airborne disease.