By her own admission, he was allegedly
handsome and she would’ve tried to pawn me off on him had Barbie not been
waiting on the sidelines.
C
aution swept over me and I
began
walking on eggshells,
weary about who and what awaited on the inside.
The grand arched foyer of the house was flanked on either side by
mahogany-railed winding ivory marble staircases. Shimmering beneath the
hand-painted dome ceiling, hung a radiant crystal chandelier above
mosaic-tiled
floors. The
smell of fresh hydrangeas and tulips lured me in with a sweet welcome home. The constant in my life.
Time stood still there. My childhood bedroom
was up the stairs to the right, untouched and filled to the brim with the
milestones of my life. All four yearbooks chronicling my ups
and downs of becoming a woman. The letterman jacket with patches from
cross-country and tennis, pins from the honor society, and my tennis badge that
read
,
“There’s no love
in tennis.” My own wall of fame, featuring my trophies and
awards. The shoulder pads that I wore to homecoming to give my b-cup an
extra boost—and give Chrissy Hamilton a run for
her money. More than anything else, the timeline of my life up until now, seen
through picture collages lining the walls. This house had been my safety net
and the reason I could always move forward without worry of falling back. If
life got to be too much, there was always somewhere for me to go.
Despite my reservations, it felt good to be home. By the looks of
things as I rounded the corner, I could tell Dad was in the den and Mom was exactly where I pictured her,
comfortably in her favorite chair, reveling in the latest tittle-tattle. Only, not alone. Looking curiously at the mystery guest and
then back at Mom expectantly, I waited for an introduction.
“ Laila , this is the photographer I was
telling you about. Myles this is my daughter, Laila Smart. She’s the eldest. Not the one that’s getting married,” she expertly executed her meddlesome master
plan, oblivious to the dumbstruck look, locking our gaze.
My mouth malfunctioned and I couldn’t talk, but hers worked just
fine. She went on bragging about him being a war hero. Just a few of his many
great qualities that she continued to list. He was a photojournalist for the
Air Force and his photos had been featured in the New York Times, People, and
National Geographic. She might as well have been his publicist, the way she
raved about his accolades.
When she finally noticed that she was the only one talking, Mom
turned to see our faces. He must’ve been as shocked as I was
,
because both of our mouths
hung agape, waiting for the words that refused to come. Eventually, she
recognized the looks on our faces as recognition.
“You two know each other,” she stated as if she was the last to be
let in on an inside joke.
“Ah…no. I don’t think so,” he muttered, but the inflection in his
voice was more of a question. He didn’t look away. “Although, you do look
awfully familiar. Have we met?”
He could play coy all he wanted, but I was just waiting for the lightbulb to go on. “Not officially,” I said, with contempt
dripping from each word, like wax from a burning candle. Though, my reaction
seemed to make him even more confused. Scratching his head, he looked into the
distance, bewildered, scrolling through images to place me.
“I’d like to think I’d remember, but can’t manage to place you.”
As much as I should’ve scorned him, I couldn’t stay focused. My eyes
kept drifting toward his full lips,
which
continued to curl with perplexity. He
was
rough
around the
edges. Two days of stubble climbed his jagged jaw, but all I could see was the
smoke billowing from his steamy eyes. They were different, flecked with
silvery
dust
and jade
—
changing
with the whims of his mood. I was tempted to believe in the innate niceness
exuding from them, but I was cautious not be misled, again. “You are Myles
Donovan, Correct? The Myles Donovan that lives
handsome and she would’ve tried to pawn me off on him had Barbie not been
waiting on the sidelines.
C
aution swept over me and I
began
walking on eggshells,
weary about who and what awaited on the inside.
The grand arched foyer of the house was flanked on either side by
mahogany-railed winding ivory marble staircases. Shimmering beneath the
hand-painted dome ceiling, hung a radiant crystal chandelier above
mosaic-tiled
floors. The
smell of fresh hydrangeas and tulips lured me in with a sweet welcome home. The constant in my life.
Time stood still there. My childhood bedroom
was up the stairs to the right, untouched and filled to the brim with the
milestones of my life. All four yearbooks chronicling my ups
and downs of becoming a woman. The letterman jacket with patches from
cross-country and tennis, pins from the honor society, and my tennis badge that
read
,
“There’s no love
in tennis.” My own wall of fame, featuring my trophies and
awards. The shoulder pads that I wore to homecoming to give my b-cup an
extra boost—and give Chrissy Hamilton a run for
her money. More than anything else, the timeline of my life up until now, seen
through picture collages lining the walls. This house had been my safety net
and the reason I could always move forward without worry of falling back. If
life got to be too much, there was always somewhere for me to go.
Despite my reservations, it felt good to be home. By the looks of
things as I rounded the corner, I could tell Dad was in the den and Mom was exactly where I pictured her,
comfortably in her favorite chair, reveling in the latest tittle-tattle. Only, not alone. Looking curiously at the mystery guest and
then back at Mom expectantly, I waited for an introduction.
“ Laila , this is the photographer I was
telling you about. Myles this is my daughter, Laila Smart. She’s the eldest. Not the one that’s getting married,” she expertly executed her meddlesome master
plan, oblivious to the dumbstruck look, locking our gaze.
My mouth malfunctioned and I couldn’t talk, but hers worked just
fine. She went on bragging about him being a war hero. Just a few of his many
great qualities that she continued to list. He was a photojournalist for the
Air Force and his photos had been featured in the New York Times, People, and
National Geographic. She might as well have been his publicist, the way she
raved about his accolades.
When she finally noticed that she was the only one talking, Mom
turned to see our faces. He must’ve been as shocked as I was
,
because both of our mouths
hung agape, waiting for the words that refused to come. Eventually, she
recognized the looks on our faces as recognition.
“You two know each other,” she stated as if she was the last to be
let in on an inside joke.
“Ah…no. I don’t think so,” he muttered, but the inflection in his
voice was more of a question. He didn’t look away. “Although, you do look
awfully familiar. Have we met?”
He could play coy all he wanted, but I was just waiting for the lightbulb to go on. “Not officially,” I said, with contempt
dripping from each word, like wax from a burning candle. Though, my reaction
seemed to make him even more confused. Scratching his head, he looked into the
distance, bewildered, scrolling through images to place me.
“I’d like to think I’d remember, but can’t manage to place you.”
As much as I should’ve scorned him, I couldn’t stay focused. My eyes
kept drifting toward his full lips,
which
continued to curl with perplexity. He
was
rough
around the
edges. Two days of stubble climbed his jagged jaw, but all I could see was the
smoke billowing from his steamy eyes. They were different, flecked with
silvery
dust
and jade
—
changing
with the whims of his mood. I was tempted to believe in the innate niceness
exuding from them, but I was cautious not be misled, again. “You are Myles
Donovan, Correct? The Myles Donovan that lives
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