The Seven Confessions of Celia St. James

Spent Lovesick and Swollen

Celia sleeps beside me; face down, arms about the pillow. A set of heavy curtains prevent the sun from rousing her, but not my eyes from taking in her delicate frame beneath the sheets. I feel them rustle as she stirs.

"You're staring," her voice is heavy and low. She's groggy still. Before she has a chance to sit up, or reach for the pack on the bedside table, or for the phone to order us breakfast, I take the liberty and use my strength to pull her into me as I'd done time and again in adolescent fantasies. Her eyes sparkle like a girl's when she's in my grasp. She's speechless and blushing and suddenly new, blooming tremulous in my eager hands. Rolling and unrolling, coiling and emerging. She hides her face and shudders, agonal from my toil, arms akimbo, sinking only when consumed. For the first time, I see her. For the first time, she's shown herself. Suffused and shaking, she drifts back to sleep.

It's noon. I've opened the curtains. I near the bed, offering her a coffee cup on its saucer. She sits up, hiding her breasts with the covers, blushing, smiling faintly, and turning her face. "Don't shy away," I say, voice subdued and breathy. "You are so fine." This is the first time she actually sees me. This is the first time I've shown myself.

I lean, arms crossed, ass against the driver side door of our rented sports car, grinning. Through dark lenses, I watch her exit the hotel lobby looking sharp in that light denim button up and cream slacks. An attendant follows with our bags. She pulls down her Aviators, raises an eyebrow, and flashes her teeth. The soft top of our convertible is drawn down, so I jump in, foregoing the door. Meanwhile, she waits for the uniformed gentleman to open hers so she can slip in, ladylike. She waits for him to walk away to exclaim, "Show off!" We drive for an hour, her hand in mine, sun kissed faces, no music, no words exchanged. When we stop to get gas, I surprise her by unfurling the top.

"I kind of liked having it down," she says.

"I missed the sound of your voice," I rejoin, securing my seatbelt.

"Oh, do go on!" she jests, reaching over to muss up my hair. I let her do it this time, then take her hand, kiss it, and thank her.

"What are you thanking me for?"

"For this. For the trip, for telling me your story. Which is not complete, by the way. Tell me the rest."

"You're not serious? Haven't you had enough of me going on about Evelyn Hugo?"

"I want to know how you two could have possibly started up again after everything you said to her and after what she did," I pull out onto the freeway.

"Like I told you; you'll forgive anything for that kind of comfort. Almost anything. The truth is I missed her every second of every day for five years."

"What was it like?"

"I wish I could tell you that...the first month it took everything in me not to call her, that by the third month I wasn't crying every week. I wish I could tell you that by the sixth month I'd met a girl who, licking my wounds, could make me forget Evelyn for up to half a day sometimes. I wish I could tell you that a brief procession of lovers turned the sky blue again. I wish I could tell you my heart misrepaired at some point during those five years. If I told you these things, I wouldn't be lying, but I wouldn't be telling you the truth. The truth is my world became the negative of a photograph. The truth is, in the face of every woman I saw an empty mirror that would not reflect me back to myself. The truth is, I remained in love with Evelyn Hugo irrevocably and, try as I might, I never found the places I could forget her name. Despite worldly successes, pleasures enjoyed in fits of passion, laughter shared in intimate society, despite all of it, without her, life remained impossible and sorry."

"Speak the speech I pray you!" I mock good-naturedly.

"I don't mean to wax poetic."

"So you were miserable for five years. Then what?"

"It surprises me still; we lived in the same city, frequented some of the same places, and even attended parties thrown by mutual friends, yet, somehow, we never ran into one another. I mean, not once. And that's despite the fact that I eventually dated and married her best friend's lover."

"Wait. Wait. Her best friend...?"

"Harry. I married Harry's lover."

"John and Harry! Oh, that is insane. And yet you never ran into her."

"Not even once. I looked. I would search for her at parties, on the street, at restaurants. I wanted to run into her, and at the same time did not want to. The thing is. The thing is, she'd married this gorgeous man named Rex. He moved into her abominable mansion, that much Harry let slip. Part of the reason I was so heartbroken and unwilling to reach out to her is because she had told me plainly if she ever wanted to, she could have a life with a man and be happy. I knew she wasn't about to seek love in shadows again, not while she had the option to walk in the sun anyways. She was making successful movies with this hunk of a husband and, I presumed, fabulous love. She had moved on and forgotten all about me. As far as I was concerned, she was done playing whatever game she'd played with me, satisfied her curiosity, or whatever it was. One fateful year, we were nominated for the same Academy Award, right along with that witch, Ruby. I knew Evelyn would attend. I knew I would see her there. The whole day I was lightheaded. The whole day I thought about her naked body, and about the fight, and about her smile, and about her arms around me, and about her making me hide us, and about her fucking Riva. I was dizzy, but also resigned. No chance she'd do more than smile and wave," Celia lights a cigarette and lowers the window. "I certainly didn't expect her to fuck me against the bathroom door at the Oscars that night."

"What?!" I am glad I do not have any liquid in my mouth because I most definitely would have spit it out all over the steering wheel.

"Do you need to pull over? Are you okay?"

"You know, a part of me didn't want to hear the rest of your story on account of being jealous of Hollywood's most beautiful woman, as you called her. But right at this moment, I am so glad I didn't stop you. That is incredible, that is unbelievable, that is audacious, that is...Tell me everything!"

She is laughing now. "Jealous? You are so sweet. This was ages ago."

"I don't care." I take her hand and kiss it and press it to my chest. "You're mine now. In this moment. You are mine and no one else's." Right then, three words make their way from my beating heart, through my arteries, to my brain and into my mouth. I swallow the tacky cliché before it escapes my lips. I see in my periphery tenderness about her iconic blue eyes. It's possible Celia heard the scream in my mind. God, I hope not. Right then she leans in and whispers, "All yours." I smile though I want to cry. I can't act, but I can lie.

"Okay. It's the Oscars. Tell me."