Page 22 of Safer Together
~ Chapter Seven ~
Angela
After locating Kat and Drake, we say our goodbyes, wishing them all the very best for Christmas. As it turns out, they are heading off to Washington tomorrow to spend the holidays with Kat’s family.
Taking my hand in his own, we begin our descent, finally stepping off the ramp. Exiting the boat at last, we begin the short walk towards Price, who is awaiting our return. I see him exit the SUV and stand on the side closest to us. As we get closer, I see a row of yellow taxi cabs pulling up in the drop off lane, they must have been called from the ship for other disembarking passengers.
Once we are about ten or so steps from the car, someone from behind us calls out to Elliot. He turns around relinquishing my hand so he can provide his full attention. I feel sudden gratitude to this person, who I don’t recognize, for momentarily distracting him.
Before I have time to second guess myself and to really think about what I am considering, I take off, running toward the taxi. I pull open the door and get in the back seat, slamming the door behind me as quickly as I possibly can, spitting the address of where I need to be taken to the middle-aged fellow in the driver’s seat. As he nods in response, I settle back in the seat and fasten my seatbelt.
As the car begins to pull away from the curb, I see Elliot jogging toward the departing cab with an outstretched arm. I can faintly hear him call out my name; I turn my face down to look at my hands and begin to crack my knuckles as a way to distract my thoughts.
The cab has the faint smell of cigarettes mixed with perfume. No doubt the remains of other passengers from this evening. Normally the smell of smoke makes me want to heave, however tonight I don’t even give it a second thought. Instead I remember the look on Elliot’s face as I pull away from him. Shock, hurt, and even a little bit of worry.
We make our way across town; with the surprisingly light traffic this evening it only ends up being a $20 cab fare to my destination. The swanky and wealthy district of Central Park West.
When we pull up in front of the historic and well-known San Remo apartment building, I start to feel my heart beat slow. My emotions calming, here no one will find me. Here I will be safe.
I say well-known, due to it being one of those landmark buildings that tourists make sure to snap a photo of when they are in the area. The architecture, a highlight not only in this part of town, but right across the country. I slap my money into the cabbie’s outstretched hand and exit the vehicle, quickly closing the door behind me with a thud.
Bzzzzzz, I hear my phone vibrating, I look down to see Elliot’s smiling face lighting up my screen. I know why he is calling and as much as I want to tell him that he isn’t the reason why I ran, I hit the end call icon sending his effort to reach me straight to voicemail.
Seeing me approach, the doorman opens the front door. “Welcome home, Miss White.” As always, John is cheerful, wearing a three-piece suit with a top hat along with a smile that makes you feel like everything is going to be okay. He has been here since my very first visit so many years ago as a child.
I smile back at John, “Thank you, it’s been awhile, but it sure is good to be back. Have a good night,”
Once I step inside the open door, faced with the twin lobbies, I walk straight toward the elevator for the North tower. The clicking from my heels on the terrazzo floor, echoing around me. Standing in front of the art deco elevator, I press the call button. When the doors open, I enter, quickly pressing the number twenty-five, followed by my security entrance code. Once entered, the doors close in front of me. I feel the tell-tale signs that the elevator is on its way up. I’m almost there.
When the doors reopen, I walk into the open foyer space at the entrance to the apartment. It’s bare with wood paneling and terrazzo floors. Only one painting hangs here. One my grandmother painted during her final years, water lilies in a pond. I feel a tear trying to escape my eye. Being back here always brings back emotions.
Bzzzzzz, Elliot is once again phoning. I look down at my phone, contemplating answering, instead deciding to end the call again. I just can’t speak to him right now, too many emotions are flowing through my head. Knowing if I do, in fact, talk to him at this moment, I might tell him where I am and ask him to follow me.
I walk across to the internal front door of my apartment, the one that will let me into the rest of my home. I reach into my clutch bag and fish out the set of keys I always carry, holding them out in front of me. I place the key into the lock, hearing the familiar click signaling the retraction of the locking mechanism, and push the door open. I step through and close the door behind me, locking it as soon as it’s in position. I lean back against the door, needing the support that its cool, hard upright surface provides.
Looking into almost pitch-black darkness, I reach out beside me and flick the light switch located beside the front door. As the lights flicker on and come to life, I cast my eyes around the gallery, wooden panel walls, stained to bring out the grain in the wood, eleven-foot ceilings, rising high above me, antique chandelier hanging from the center of the room. It hasn’t changed at all since I was here last, over a year ago now. Why would it change when I am the only one with a key?
I inherited this very apartment along with several other properties scattered about New York from my grandfather when he passed away. I, alone, being his sole grandchild, received quite the inheritance, both money and properties, along with trust funds that still haven’t been accessed.
I am technically a very wealthy person; however I don’t see myself that way as I haven’t earned any of it. Instead it was gifted to me when two of the people I love the most in this world passed away. I would give up every cent and every inch of space in these properties for one more day with my grandfather and grandmother.
I have kept the apartment almost the exact same way that they had it when they resided here. The only touches that I have brought in myself are the colored kettle and toaster and my few clothes hanging in the wardrobe.
If this were my full-time residence, I would hang some photos on the walls and bring back Grandma’s sewing machine, but since I only come back once a year, it’s best off remaining this way.
Although this apartment is close to eighty years old, you wouldn’t tell just by looking at the interior. Through the years, renovations have been completed. The kitchen has all the new whizz-bang appliances you need and the bathroom has been brought into the here and now. The remainder of the house has been done sympathetically. The wood paneling remains, the terrazzo floor has been polished a few times and the carpets have been replaced along with a few light fittings. The internal walls are still all erected, so open-plan living doesn’t exist in this apartment, a building of a bygone era.
I walk into the kitchen dropping my handbag onto the counter, pulling my cell phone from within and turning the volume all the way up. I place it face down on the counter. Turning the light on, I fill the kettle with water from the faucet and replace it to its cradle, then switch it on to boil. Reaching up into the cupboard above, I retrieve a mug; turning around I open the pantry and find the box of tea bags, making quick work of making a cup of tea. I lean back against the stone countertop and take a sip, the hot liquid warming my insides and feeling the calm, that only a good cup of tea provides, completely wash over me. I step away from the counter and deposit my empty cup into the sink, rinsing it before I go.
I exit the kitchen and make my way to the living room, reaching the closed curtains. Grabbing the wand in my hand, I begin to pull them apart. Once fully open, they reveal the night-time view of Central Park. Turning around I see the familiar sight of all of the furniture items covered with sheets, I pick up the cover from the sofa and flick it high with my hands pulling it towards me when it’s in the air. I fold it quickly and deposit it on the floor next to the arm.
I look at the newly revealed sofa and run my hand along the deep red crushed velvet fabric. I close my eyes and remember sitting here with my grandfather, back when I was just a child, reading me stories, showing me plans of buildings. The memories come back as though it was yesterday. Opening my eyes again, I let myself flop down and take up prime position, angling myself best so I can look through the floor to ceiling windows of glass. Although I am too high to see much of Central Park from this height, I can see the twinkle of lights in the skyline of this city, which was once my home.
Being back in my safe haven, I allow myself the opportunity to reflect on the happenings from this evening, and it’s not long before I am bursting into tears. Of all the people that Dylan could work for, it had to be Elliot. Of all the places that are in this town, he had to be on that boat tonight, and because he still elicits the same reaction and stirs the same feelings inside of me, I ran. I ran away from Elliot, without so much as an explanation. I ran from someone who has done nothing but be kind to me. I ran from the man who I am falling in love with.
Why? Because seeing Dylan brought back up all of those feelings that I have tried my hardest to bury over the past four years. Even though I truly believed that they were buried deep enough, seeing him tonight proved they are still just under the surface. Looking at him brought back fear, brought back dread. My heart stammered and then almost stopped when I first heard his voice behind me.
When Elliot called out to me on that boat deck tonight, asking me to meet his associate, I considered yelling back that I don’t need to, that I already know who that is. I also almost fainted, instead I kept both of those reactions at bay, keeping my composure, I said hello to Dylan and then took the first opportunity to walk away, not caring if either of them found my behavior rude.
