I shake my head. “No idea. Right now I’m looking for either a doctoral program or an internship of some sort—whichever one grabs my attention first.”
“What kind of internship?”
We’d avoided discussing anything of this nature all weekend, possibly for this reason. “Not sure yet. I was thinking maybe of trying to work with an historian researching a book. Or maybe a television show, perhaps something associated with PBS. The other alternative is to go the academic route. Maybe teach as an adjunct professor while I scout out the right doctoral program. I’m just not sure.”
“Why were you in L.A.?”
“Honestly? I didn’t know where else to go. The unexpected windfall from the book provided me with a lot of options… but in giving me all those choices, it makes decisions considerably more difficult. And I’m indecisive by nature.”
“Could have fooled me, Ella. You seem exceedingly directed to me.” He reaches over and caresses my chin, his fingers butterfly soft. “I’d like to see you again soon. Is that a possibility?”
“Yes. I’m not going anywhere for the next two weeks, at least.”
“Next weekend? Can you stay with me again?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice so faint and breathless I’m surprised he hears me. But he does and smiles in response, kisses me softly.
“Good night, Ella. Thank you for a wonderful weekend. Come, I’ll walk you to the door.”
So now I have a week to think, to mull, to obsess—before I see him again. First things first: it’s time to face certain truths and the biggest one is that, for better or for worse, I’m in love with Ian and I have been probably since the day he strode into Archipelago all those months ago.
I also need to contemplate all the drastic changes I’ve seen in him in the past few weeks. The radically important question for me is whether or not these changes are real and going to last? Has he truly evolved or is he playing at something? With Ian, I never can tell.
When I met him, he was so… distant; perhaps inaccessible is the right word. He held himself apart from others, locking himself away in that ivory tower of his, the glass bubble set high up in the clouds, looking down on everyone else, both literally and metaphorically. He had staff to do everything for him—to keep him at a remove from everyone else in the world and provide a protective buffer zone between him and daily, messy life: grocery shopping, car parking, errands—all these activities wherein one might actually have to interact with other human beings. I snort, thinking it’s surprising he bathed and dressed himself. Wonder why he didn’t have a personal valet to do it for him, a Mr. Bates-type staff member?
Even the most intimate of encounters—sexual relationships—he’d conduct within the strict confines of BDSM. One doesn’t need to be a psychologist to see why he found that lifestyle attractive, perhaps even necessary. Let’s face it—he’s a young, healthy male who wants sex. But he doesn’t want emotional entanglement. What better way to get one without the other than by restraining your partner—both literally and figuratively—from getting too close?
Plus, it’s very clear he has a dominant personality—it’s quite evident in his business dealings. When I first met him, after a small argument about negotiation and compromise, I ducked into a bookstore on a rainy day to buy him a joke gift, a book called Negotiating for Dummies. I began chatting with another customer who noticed me buying the book and as fate would have it, she used to work for Ian. She told me that when Ian Blackmon walks into a board meeting or conference, the whole room goes silent, as if he sucks all the oxygen out.
And controlling? Ha! There’s probably a thumbnail picture of his face next to the definition of the word in Merriam-Webster. He just cannot function unless he has complete control of himself and everyone around him.
Ian’s twenty-eight—twenty-nine now—and he wants to be master of all he surveys. The impressive yet also frightening part is that he’s actually managed to accomplish it—and rapidly. But something happened last year. Something happened to Ian to make him take a long, hard look in the mirror. It was now for me to ponder what that something was. Could it possibly have been me?
He’s given up his luxurious and cavernous house in the sky for a considerably smaller, friendlier, and more accessible houseboat. I saw him laugh and talk with friends at his club, so relaxed, so different from the Ian Blackmon I had known previously. Has he really changed or am I witnessing an anomaly, a blip in his normal routine? One thought repeatedly niggled at me though I continually dismissed it as preposterous: was I responsible for the sea change in him? Did losing me force him to do some serious introspection?