3.11.09
Heathrow was incredibly crowded, and I felt my heart catch in my throat as I stepped from the runway. A summer blast wove its way through the crowd, encasing the lot of us in a claustrophobic sauna. I could feel beads of sweat forming against my back, and suddenly feared for the state of my white dress. It was a halter, specifically designed to soothe in these constricting conditions, and yet I felt my discomfort was something that could not be alleviated. Before me, there was a tall man watching his feet. As he stood about two feet taller than me, my eyes sat comfortably at the center of his back. The fabric of his suit was heavy and uncomfortable, and the crap brown color awoke only a feeling of distaste in me. And from that distaste came self-disappointment. Who was I to judge this man by the state of his suit? And yet, who was he to wear cow hide in the middle of July? Already, I didn't like it here. I longed for hazy, purplish grey skies of Los Angeles. The pollution was calling me home. I missed the abrupt, rushed pace of LAX, full of men and women with agendas and determination to boot. I wanted home. Hell, I wanted my mother. My sandals were light and comfortable, and yet I felt as if the silver straps were weighing me down. It was an excuse - I didn't want to walk any further. I wanted to turn and run. Soon, the line of us broke, and everyone began pooling off into groups of their own. The greetings that surrounded me were formula for heartbreak. Every glance, every secret glance, felt more and more rehearsed than the one before, until I began to dread my own reunion. And then I realized I wouldn't have it.
There was an older man, mid fifties, holding a sign. "Fallon Cross". So my father wouldn't be gracing me with his presence. There was an awkward hello, and the remainder of the journey was spent in awkward silence. From the baggage claim, to the hired car, to the front porch. Remy, my father's trusty valet, hurried out the front door and pulled me into an all-encompassing hug. I grinned, comforted by his Drakkar Noir cologne - my father, ever extravagant, assured the "help" lived in style. And soon I was ushered up the front lawn, met halfway by my own flesh and blood. He pulled me into him, and I compared older, more intimate hugs to this one. It was hot and uncomfortable, and I couldn't breathe, as he pressed my nose into the lapel of his coat. I didn't like it. I broke free of the fabric, weary of his arms around me, and allowed my gaze to flit elsewhere. A few yards to my left stood a tall figure. I blinked as my gaze blurred and ebbed, and my eyes narrowed in his direction. He was looking out, as if to watch something far away, and an expression of mingled curiosity and boredom laced his features. He was well dressed in pearl grey, and had the air of someone who was coddled, but denied it. Grey eyes, supple lips. And oh, the arrogance that drifted from him in waves. He was beautiful. I almost hated him for it.
And then there was my father, the entrepreneur. When I hit age seven, I began to forget the lines of his face. His absence took a toll on family life, and every time I saw him he looked much older than before. We had pictures, of course, around the house, so I never truly forgot what my father looked like. But, as mentioned before, the creases in his forehead and the corners of his lips and the crow's feet - they all slipped from me. It was the stress that got to him. The stress of a failing marriage, a booming business, and a quiet child. A good child, though. Always well-behaved and modest. The only child. In retrospect, I find it ironic that I saw my father more often throughout the divorce than before it. Perhaps because he was free of my mother. Once the tether had been broken, Robert no longer had to dodge his fraying ball and chain. The divorce freed him, and his grey hairs halved. Mine doubled over time. He didn't know how to be a father, and I wondered if all along my mother had been coaching him. Post-divorce, he was more of an acquaintance than anything else. Don't get me wrong, I still loved him, but I didn't know him anymore. Our conversations became stale and forced, and by my eighth birthday he spoke to me like a colleague.
He deliberately forgot hsi Mexican roots, and kicked off from America with an insulting degree of enthusiasm. In England, he met his match. Again. Back at home, my father could stretch out his legs and clink glasses with what he felt were the masters of the universe. And every summer I, his faithful subject, was tagged along. He liked to 'launch me on society' (as he put it) each year with the kind of grandeur that would've once made his blood curdle. Once, we laughed at these people. Now, he was one of them.
He wasn't even sweating. His suit was an expensive pearl grey, and I couldn't believe he was wearing it around the house. Did no one in London acknowledge weather? "Well, babe, I'm headed out." Oh. He wasn't wearing it around the house. Apparently, something like disappointment tugged at my expression, for he rushed to justify himself. "I know, I'm sorry, it's just - Goldwyn and Meyer is up today, and they can't fight for the bonds without me." I didn't even allow him the reassurance of a nod. A vicious warmth twinged my tongue in my silence; it tasted of revenge. It was metallic, and impossible to get used to. I didn't like it. Like clockwork, I too rushed to justify him. I always defended him. "Yeah, of course, Dad. I understand. I have to get settled and go for a swim, anyway." I hated myself for the kind smile I offered. He didn't deserve it. Robert Cross touched his lips to my cheek with the discomfort of a first meeting. He stepped away from me, and I could feel myself relieved by it. He left me with a wink, and I could feel my face grow hot out of embarrassment. I'm not even sure why. I just knew that I felt exposed. I was home for the summer, and not even my father wanted me.
I looked over at the figure again, and my lips parted automatically at the sight of him. Grey, grey eyes. I felt naked. Suddenly, I was fuming. I was disgusted, exposed. I despised this towering figure for witnessing my moments of vulnerability. Being left was bad enough, but an audience only made it worse. The engine to my father's antique Rolls Royce startled me. I tore my gaze from him (at this point, I hadn't known if it was more fitting to call him a "boy" or a "man") and looked to the front seat. Remy was driving. Internally, I scoffed. Was he really too self-important to drive himself around? My father, the hypocrite.