He looks like he just stepped off the end of a runway and strutted right toward me. His age shows in the crinkle around his eyes, the shadow of hair on his face that he never seems to fully shave, but he carries it well. He doesn't make me feel as young as I am, or as young as he probably should make me feel. When he looks at me, I don't feel like an eighteen-year-old girl, freshman at NYU, still trying to find her way.
When he looks at me, I feel like a woman, a woman worthy of the look he gives, worthy of his admiration, worthy of a designer gown, and a dinner party, and whatever the hell is in the box in his hand.
He opens it without saying a word. My eyes leave his to look at it. It's simple, relatively speaking, nothing like the one Edward gave to Vivian, but that was a movie and this is real life, and I'm starting to wonder if I will ever deserve any of this.
The necklace is beautiful, the gold chain sparkling under the soft lights. There's a small pendant on the end of it, completely round, a crystal stone surrounded by gold. Something is written along the shiny metal but I can't make it out from where I stand, and I want to step closer, to see what it is, but I can't move.
I'm afraid I'll bust my ass in these heels.
He pulls the necklace out and sets the box aside as he walks around behind me. My hair is already pulled up and pinned-Melody's handiwork-so it's easy for him to slip it on and fasten it. He leans down, kissing the back of my neck, as I grasp the pendant to gaze at it.
Carpe Diem. Seize the Day.
"Why me?" I whisper as he steps back around to pause right in front of me. It's a question I've asked before, but one I just can't understand. Out of all the women in the world, why would he choose me?
He answers the exact same way he did the other time. "Why not you?"
Smiling, I let go of the pendant and meet his eyes. "You spoil me, you know."
"No, I don't. Not nearly enough, anyway." He reaches out and cups my chin, making it so I can't look away. "It could be like this all the time, Karissa, every moment of every day. I can give you the best of everything. You just have to let me."
"Why would you?" I ask. "What do you get out of this?"
He leans forward and lightly kisses my lips. "I get you."
"You act like I'm a treasure."
"Aren't you?" he asks. "The way I see it, I hit the jackpot."
I laugh. "I'm more like a five dollar scratch-off than the mega-millions lottery."
"You just don't know your own worth."
His phone rings, shattering the moment. Pulling it from his pocket, he glances at the screen. "Time to go. The car's here."
"You're not driving?" I ask.
"No," he says. "Drunk driving is reckless and stupid."
"You've driven before after you drank."
"I didn't drink enough to get drunk then."
I scoff. "We shared a whole bottle."
"Did we?" he asks. "Because I remember you drinking three quarters of it on your own both times."
My face flushes. "No way."
He nods.
"Ugh." I make a face. "So, what, you're going to drink your fair share tonight?"
"I'm going to drink more than my fair share," he says. "As much as I paid for these tickets, I intend to drink every drop of alcohol they have in the place."
My eyes narrow at those words. "Tickets? What kind of dinner party is this?"
"It's more of a fundraiser, but I figured calling it a party would make it more appealing for you."
"Fundraiser? What kind?"
"The political kind."
I'm stunned, and stammer a bit, but have no idea what to say. He's taking me to a political fundraiser? I'm imagining formal speeches and tuxedos and uptight old men with bitter young wives wanting to bomb other countries and trample civil liberties. Are those the kind of people Naz hangs around? Are those the kind of people we're supposed to be?
But that's not me, and it never will be, and I'm not so sure that could ever be him. I'm imagining a room full of Santinos, judging, deriding, and pointing their sticks at people who they think don't belong. "I don't think I can do this."
"I think you can," Naz says, taking my hand as he leads me outside. There, parked in front of his house, is a stretch limo. The driver opens the back door and Naz ushers me inside. The leather seats are cool, the air temperate, a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice in front of me.
"This is absurd."
Naz merely laughs as he pours a glass of champagne and hands it to me. "Drink. Relax."
I take the glass and sip it as he pours himself one. "I'm only eighteen, you know, in case you don't remember."
"I haven't forgotten."
"I can't be drinking." Contrary to my words, I guzzle my champagne, downing it so fast that he pours me a second one before he takes his first sip. "I'm not old enough."
"Don't worry about it," he says, relaxing back and putting his arm around me like it's nothing. "It's fine."
"It's illegal."
"Does that bother you?"
"What?"
"Breaking the law," he says. "Do you feel remorse? Do you want to do penance? Ask for forgiveness? Turn yourself in? Beg for leniency? Swear you'll never do it again, that you'll be a good girl forever, that you'll never so much as litter or speed or steal Wi-Fi or jaywalk or pee outside again?"
I laugh. "I've never peed outside."
"But you've done the rest?"
"Yes."
"All illegal," he says. "No big deal."
"That's easy for you to say."
"It is," he admits, clinking his glass with mine. "I'm practically aiding and abetting a criminal right now."
"But-"
He cuts me off. "I don't live my life by someone else's rules. I'm my own boss, my own judge and jury, my own authority. The government calls you an adult, and expects you to pay taxes, but they can't let you enjoy a glass of wine to unwind? I don't agree. I don't care what they say."
"Yet you won't drink and drive."
"That's not because it's illegal," he says. "It's because I'd like to live to see tomorrow so I can take full advantage of another day. I have purely selfish motives. I'm a selfish man."
"You don't seem very selfish to me."
"Ah, but I am. I'm selfish, and possessive, and I have a tendency to be a little controlling … and impatient … and I'm a bit of a neat freak."
"I've noticed-the latter, anyway. I don't know about the rest, but you definitely are a neat freak. Your house is spotless. How often do you have someone clean it?"
"Never," he says. "I clean it myself."
That surprises me, and I think he has to be joking, but his expression is serious. I just can't imagine him on his hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor once a week. "Why?"
"I don't like people coming into my house. I don't trust them."
The drive into Manhattan flies by, as the champagne once again seems to evaporate right before my eyes. By the time we make it to the party, I'm a little lightheaded, and his hands are already doing crazy things to me. Just a simple stroke of my arm, his thumb caressing the clothed skin, seems to set my entire body on fire.
The fundraiser is at a swanky hotel on Park Avenue. The limo drops us off and Naz puts his arm around me, pulling me close to him. I feel him press a kiss to my hair before he whispers, "You're going to do great."
I hope he's speaking the truth.
He hands over our tickets and the second we're through the door, Naz's face lights up, his dimples out in full force, as he greets people by name. He introduces me as simply 'Karissa' as we make our way through a sea of large round tables to one toward the center of the room. Name cards are placed at every seat, and I spot his easily. Ignazio Vitale. Beside it, the card also bears his name with the word 'guest' beneath it.
He pulls the chair out for me, and I sit down, eyeing the other cards at our table but not recognizing any of the names. The seats fill with people Naz seems to know. He introduces me to them, but they pay me no mind, too engrossed in striking up conversation with my date.
My date.
It sounds so weird.
A waiter fills my glass with champagne when he reaches our table, not asking my age, not even hesitating as he looks at me. I pick up my glass and sip it right away, earning a chuckle from Naz. He puts his arm around me, and leans closer, nuzzling into my neck, kissing the shell of my ear as he whispers, "my beautiful little jailbird."