know. I haven’t seen her since. I’m staying away from temptation.” He doesn’t quite meet my eyes.
“There shouldn’t be temptation,” I say. “Not if Courtney really is the one.”
“Is that really true?” He looks hard at me. “Or is that just a romantic myth?”
“It’s true,” I say, holding an image of Damien tight against my heart. “It’s the truest thing in the world.”
“Maybe you’re right,” he says, and my heart breaks a little because those words shouldn’t make him sad. Not when he’s about to get married.
He shakes his head as if clearing out cobwebs, then polishes off the rest of his drink. “I’m going to go lay on my bed, close my eyes, and feel the earth rotate. How about you?”
I think of Damien. If I go back, I’ll want to touch him, if only to reassure myself that he is there and real. But he needs to sleep, and right now that is the only thing I am capable of giving him.
“I’m going out,” I say. “I’m in need of some retail therapy.”
5
I exit the hotel and turn left, then wander aimlessly down this polished street that I have walked so many times with Damien. Like Rodeo Drive and Fifth Avenue, Maximilianstrasse has its own rhythm, its own pace. And like those equally famous streets, it also has the pristine sheen of money. Last week, I held Damien’s hand as we strolled and shopped. This street was like a magical place, banishing the dark gloom of the trial and giving us a few moments of light all wrapped up with a bright, shiny bow of luxury.
Today, I desperately want to return to that state of mind. To let the polished brass door handles and crystal-clear windows with ornate displays fill my head so that there is no room for my worries. It’s not working, though, and this street that held fun and fantasy when Damien’s hand was in mine now seems like nothing more than a crush of grasping, gaping people who are pushing and shoving, moving through the world with too much time and too little to do.
Dammit
. I should be celebrating. Hell,
Damien
should be celebrating.
I walk a few blocks, past Hugo Boss and Ralph Lauren and Gucci until I reach a small gallery that Damien and I had popped into on my third day in Munich. The manager, a reedy man with an easy smile, greets me immediately. Considering he’d flirted shamelessly with Damien but essentially ignored me, I’m surprised he recognizes me. “
Fräulein!
It is so good to see you. But why are you not celebrating? And where is Mr. Stark? I was so pleased to see that he has been cleared.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I can’t help but smile at his effusiveness. This is the kind of reaction I’d hoped to see from Damien. “He’s asleep, actually. It’s been an exhausting couple of weeks.”
The manager nods knowingly. “And what can I do for you?”
I had entered on autopilot, but now that I’m here, I realize that I’ve come with a purpose. “You can ship, right?”
“Of course,” he says, and he’s polite and well-trained enough not to scoff at my idiotic question.
“I want to look at those black-and-white prints,” I say, pointing toward the room where Damien and I had spent over an hour gazing at the brilliantly executed photos from a local Munich photographer.
I followed Damien to Germany so quickly that I forgot to bring my own camera, and even though this is hardly a trip that rates a flurry of souvenir snapshots, there have been moments when I regretted not having it. For years, a camera has been my security blanket. First, the Nikon that my sister Ashley gave me during my freshman year of high school. More recently, the digital Leica that Damien presented me in Santa Barbara, an amazing gift that reflected just how well the man understood me—and how much he wanted to please me.
Now it is Damien I want to please. Though he isn’t comfortable behind the camera, he has excellent taste in the resultant images, and we had both been impressed by the astounding composition
“There shouldn’t be temptation,” I say. “Not if Courtney really is the one.”
“Is that really true?” He looks hard at me. “Or is that just a romantic myth?”
“It’s true,” I say, holding an image of Damien tight against my heart. “It’s the truest thing in the world.”
“Maybe you’re right,” he says, and my heart breaks a little because those words shouldn’t make him sad. Not when he’s about to get married.
He shakes his head as if clearing out cobwebs, then polishes off the rest of his drink. “I’m going to go lay on my bed, close my eyes, and feel the earth rotate. How about you?”
I think of Damien. If I go back, I’ll want to touch him, if only to reassure myself that he is there and real. But he needs to sleep, and right now that is the only thing I am capable of giving him.
“I’m going out,” I say. “I’m in need of some retail therapy.”
5
I exit the hotel and turn left, then wander aimlessly down this polished street that I have walked so many times with Damien. Like Rodeo Drive and Fifth Avenue, Maximilianstrasse has its own rhythm, its own pace. And like those equally famous streets, it also has the pristine sheen of money. Last week, I held Damien’s hand as we strolled and shopped. This street was like a magical place, banishing the dark gloom of the trial and giving us a few moments of light all wrapped up with a bright, shiny bow of luxury.
Today, I desperately want to return to that state of mind. To let the polished brass door handles and crystal-clear windows with ornate displays fill my head so that there is no room for my worries. It’s not working, though, and this street that held fun and fantasy when Damien’s hand was in mine now seems like nothing more than a crush of grasping, gaping people who are pushing and shoving, moving through the world with too much time and too little to do.
Dammit
. I should be celebrating. Hell,
Damien
should be celebrating.
I walk a few blocks, past Hugo Boss and Ralph Lauren and Gucci until I reach a small gallery that Damien and I had popped into on my third day in Munich. The manager, a reedy man with an easy smile, greets me immediately. Considering he’d flirted shamelessly with Damien but essentially ignored me, I’m surprised he recognizes me. “
Fräulein!
It is so good to see you. But why are you not celebrating? And where is Mr. Stark? I was so pleased to see that he has been cleared.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I can’t help but smile at his effusiveness. This is the kind of reaction I’d hoped to see from Damien. “He’s asleep, actually. It’s been an exhausting couple of weeks.”
The manager nods knowingly. “And what can I do for you?”
I had entered on autopilot, but now that I’m here, I realize that I’ve come with a purpose. “You can ship, right?”
“Of course,” he says, and he’s polite and well-trained enough not to scoff at my idiotic question.
“I want to look at those black-and-white prints,” I say, pointing toward the room where Damien and I had spent over an hour gazing at the brilliantly executed photos from a local Munich photographer.
I followed Damien to Germany so quickly that I forgot to bring my own camera, and even though this is hardly a trip that rates a flurry of souvenir snapshots, there have been moments when I regretted not having it. For years, a camera has been my security blanket. First, the Nikon that my sister Ashley gave me during my freshman year of high school. More recently, the digital Leica that Damien presented me in Santa Barbara, an amazing gift that reflected just how well the man understood me—and how much he wanted to please me.
Now it is Damien I want to please. Though he isn’t comfortable behind the camera, he has excellent taste in the resultant images, and we had both been impressed by the astounding composition
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