Page 40 of Ms. Lead

As I watch Bianca sleep next to me, her face calm and peaceful, the sun streams through the sheer curtains behind her, causing a halo to appear around her if I squint my eyes just right. It suits her. I sit up carefully and rest on an elbow, looking down at her sleeping soundly, a small smile playing on her lips as she dreams. I’d like to think she’s dreaming of me, but I’m sure that’s wishful thinking.

We spent the night discovering each other, our sexual likes and dislikes, and otherwise. Between our explorations, we had some of the most profound conversations I think I’ve ever had with another human being. We discussed everything from A to Zed, including our mutual dislike of airports to our secret love of old zombie movies. Our philosophies on religion aren’t too different to be a source of contention between us, and our taste in music overlaps enough to always find common ground. We also agree that goth and emo trends will most likely make a comeback sooner rather than later, whether we like it or not, as teenagers will always need an outlet for their angst.

I sweep her dark hair off her neck and shoulder, careful not to wake her. As inviting as her bare shoulder is, I don’t want to wake her. She’s earned her rest.

My body has been having difficulty adjusting to the new time zone, and I am still awake in London time whether I’m still tired or not. It’s annoying most days, but today I’m enjoying having the time to study Bianca while she sleeps.

I have to push away my dire thoughts of my impending departure. My heart tells me to enjoy this time with her while I have it, and my head warns me that any time I enjoy, I’ll equally regret when I leave. There is no getting out of this without pain.

We danced around it last night with our discussions, but there is a definite storm cloud hanging over us, ready to release the deluge of heartache that is inevitable when I return to London. There is no getting around it. This will have to end eventually, even though the two of us are pretending that’s not going to happen for some reason.

It’s as though we’re both living in the same fantasy world, know full well that we are, and are too stubborn to admit what it is to each other, let alone ourselves. It’s bordering ridiculous.

A noise downstairs grabs my attention. It sounded like a door shutting. I freeze and hold my breath, waiting for another sound, but I don’t hear anything. I slide silently out of bed and into my sleep pants, looking for a weapon of any kind, but finding nothing. The minimalist décor now a clear disadvantage when there’s a possible intruder downstairs.

I grab the only thing I can under the circumstances, one of my shoes, and pad quietly to the landing overlooking the great room below. I still don’t see anyone, but I have that intangible feeling you get when you know someone is around but out of sight.

I know someone else is in the house. I just know it.

Descending the stairs slowly, I grip the shoe tightly, ready to wield it at a moment’s notice at first sight of an intruder.

Crossing the foyer to the great room, I hear whistling coming from the direction of the kitchen. When I reach the sofa, I see a man in the kitchen, tall with dark hair, apparently whipping eggs in a mixing bowl.

“You know, sis, if you really want to sneak up on me, you’ll need to work on your stealth skills. You’ve lost your edge.” He turns and sees me, shoe raised in the air above my head, ready to throw, and he almost drops the bowl he’s holding. “Jesus Christ, you scare me to death.” He eyes the dangerous shoe warily. “Are you going to throw that at me? Or just threaten me with it?”

I lower the shoe, feeling foolish wielding such a poor weapon.

“You must be Enzo.” I try to smile, but I’m still embarrassed about the shoe.

He’s absolutely Bianca’s brother. They look so much alike. Dark hair, dark eyes, high cheekbones, and a squared jaw. There’s no way he could be anyone else. Plus, he called me “sis.”

He tilts his head at me, curious. “You must be the brooding British writer. Oliver?”

That reddens my cheeks even more, and I remember him calling me Bianca’s “British boyfriend” not long after we met.

“Yes, I’m Oliver Bellamy,” I say, transferring my shoe to the other hand and extending the free one to him to shake.

He practically throws the bowl onto the counter and grabs my hand with a manly grip, shaking it fervently. It’s more of an exuberant shake than a show of power. And while I appreciate the difference, it’s still a bit much.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” he says, nodding, holding my gaze, and still shaking my hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Oh, you have?” I can only imagine what he’s heard. “Well, hopefully, you won’t hold any of it against me.” I laugh only slightly nervously and pull my hand carefully from his.

“Enzo! It’s not your weekend to be here,” Bianca calls from upstairs, looking down at us in surprise. Her hair is wild, and she’s only got a sheet wrapped tightly around her, which she realizes as she catches my eye and jumps back out of view. “I’ll be down in a sec. Enzo, that’s Oliver. Oliver, that’s my brother, Lorenzo. Talk amongst yourselves for a minute.”

We turn back to each other, now awkward, as it is probably evident that Bianca and I spent the night together. I guess I should be grateful he’s not the overly possessive type of brother that would beat up anyone who touched their sister. And that thought makes my face redden if it wasn’t already.

I don’t do ‘people’ very well, especially in one-on-one moments like this.

“So, this is a beautiful home that your grandfather built,” I finally say. Somebody’s got to break the ice, though I thought for sure it would be him.

He’s still just studying me as if looking for some sort of flaw. It dawns on me then that Bianca has most likely told him of my diagnosis. Of course, she did. They are very close siblings.

His intense examination of me is unsettling now as it continues, and he hasn’t responded to my comment about the loveliness of the house. And it's then that unsettling turns into annoyance. I’m not some sort of lab rat to be dissected and studied, and I don’t appreciate him doing so.

“It’s not something you can see,” I snarl, irritated beyond belief. I wave my hand, indicating my body. “It’s an auto-immune disease, where my body internally attacks itself. I don’t have sores or rashes or even scars to prove it to you. But I assure you, it’s there.”

Now it’s his turn to turn red with embarrassment. Good.

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