Tens
Part III
V. Montauk Manor
(Summer, 1930)
The manor sits on the edge of nothing.
Stone and timber, old-world heavy,
new-world money.
The waves below sound like applause
or warning.
He cannot tell which.
They have been here three days.
Three days of mornings on the cliff walk.
Three days of afternoons in the wrong rooms.
Three days of nights
that are not nights at all
but one long, unbroken
yes.
She is beside him now.
On the balcony.
The ocean is a rumor below.
Her black hair is loose again
because he asked her to leave it down.
She never asks why.
She just does it.
“William.”
Her voice is different tonight.
Not the laugh.
Not the purr.
Something flatter.
Something that sounds like
a coin dropped on marble.
“Tens.”
She turns to face him.
Brown eyes steady.
Too steady.
“Are you in love with me?”
The question hangs.
Like fog.
Like the gulls that circle
waiting for something to die.
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Opens it again.
“Yes,” he says.
Because it is true.
Because the terrace proved it.
Because the train proved it.
Because every swaying mile of The Midnight
proved it.
She nods.
Slow.
Eyes steady on his.
“Good,” she says.
“Then you won’t mind.”
She reaches into her sleeve.
Pulls out a folded paper.
Thin. Blue. Official-looking.
“I’m not poor, William.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know.”
“I know you’re not poor.”
“You don’t know how not poor.”
She puts the paper in his hand.
He does not look at it.
“I don’t care,” he says.
“Everyone cares,” she says.
“I don’t.”
She laughs.
But it is not the laugh.
It is a different laugh.
One he has never heard.
One that sounds like glass
under a heel.
“Prove it,” she says.
“Look at the number.
And then tell me
you still want me
for nothing but me.”
He looks.
The number is large.
Very large.
Larger than he expected.
Larger than The Midnight.
Larger than his father’s name.
Larger than sense.
He folds the paper.
Hands it back.
“I don’t care,” he says again.
“No man doesn’t care,” she says.
“This man doesn’t care.”
“Then why are you pale?”
He is pale.
He knows he is pale.
But not for the reason she thinks.
She waits.
The ocean waits.
The gulls have gone quiet.
He could tell her.
He should tell her.
“I don’t want your money, Tens.
I have my own.
More than enough.
I never needed yours.”
But that is not the truth.
Not the whole truth.
The whole truth is worse.
The whole truth is.
He is not afraid of her fortune.
He is afraid of his freedom.
He is a man who has never said no.
To a drink. To a woman. To a city at 3 a.m.
To the next stop on the migration.
To the next hotel.
To the next pair of brown eyes
that looked nothing like hers
and meant nothing at all.
And now here she is.
Small. Dark. Real.
Asking him to stop.
To choose.
To be only one man’s hands
on only one woman’s waist
for the rest of his life.
He does not know if he can.
That is the conflict.
Not her money.
His own rotten, restless, ruined self.
“William.”
She says his name like a question
she is afraid to ask.
“I’m conflicted,” he says.
She blinks.
“That’s all? Conflicted?”
“It’s not the money,” he says.
“Then what?”
“I can’t“ he stops. Starts. Stops again.
“I can’t tell you.”
She stares at him.
Those bourbon eyes.
They see too much.
They do not see enough.
“Is there someone else?”
“No.”
“Another woman?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
He takes her face in his hands.
Both hands.
She is so small.
He could crush her.
He could carry her.
He could lose her.
“Tens,” he says.
“The only thing I’m sure of
is that I’m not sure of anything.
except you.”
“And that’s the problem.”
She does not understand.
He can see that she does not understand.
But something in her face softens.
Something that was glass
becomes water.
“You’re afraid,” she says.
“Yes.”
“Of me?”
“No.”
“Of what?”
He kisses her forehead.
Her left eyebrow.
The bridge of her nose.
“Myself,” he says against her skin.
She is quiet.
The ocean comes back.
The gulls return.
Then she takes his hand.
She does not pull away.
She does not say it’s okay.
Because it is not okay.
It is a mess.
They are a mess.
But she does not let go.
And neither does he.
The manor stands.
The waves crash.
The summer burns toward autumn.
And William stands on the balcony
with a tiny woman in his arms
and a war inside his chest
and no idea
who wins.
VI. Montauk Manor — What She Hears
(Summer 1930)
He says: “Yes.”
She hears: “For now.”
He says: “I don’t care about the number.”
She hears: “I care about something else. Something worse.”
He says: “I’m conflicted.”
She hears: “You are not enough.”
The ocean pretends to comfort her.
It is bad at pretending.
She stands very still.
She is good at standing still.
She learned it young.
Small girls should be seen and not heard.
Small girls should not want.
Small girls with black hair and brown eyes
should not ask why Daddy
comes home smelling like gin
and someone else’s perfume.
But she asked anyway.
And now she is asking William.
And he is telling her nothing.
“Is there someone else?”
“No.”
She hears the no.
She believes the no.
That is not the trouble.
Then what?
And then his hands on her face.
His thumbs on her cheekbones.
His breath. His silence.
His I can’t tell you.
She hears: “I don’t trust you with the truth.”
She hears: “The truth would hurt you more than the lie.”
She hears: “There is a door inside me you will never open.”
He kisses her forehead.
Her eyebrow.
Her nose.
Like she is a child.
Like she is breakable.
Like she is already halfway out the door
and he is saying goodbye
with his mouth.
She does not cry.
She never cries.
Crying is for women who can afford
to look ugly in the morning.
She is not one of those women.
She is Tens.
She is always a ten.
Even when her heart is a fist
punching the inside of her chest.
“Myself,” he says.
“I’m afraid of myself.”
She hears the truth in that.
She does.
But she also hears what he means
and what he means is:
“I am afraid that I will hurt you.”
“I am afraid that I will get bored.”
“I am afraid that one night in Atlantic City,
or one afternoon at The Breakers,
or one swaying mile on The Midnight,
will not be enough
to turn a playboy
into a husband.”
He does not say playboy.
He does not say husband.
He does not say
“I have loved dozens of women
and left all of them
and I will probably leave you too.”
But she hears it.
Every word.
Every ghost.
Every woman who came before her
with longer legs or blonder hair
or a laugh that cost less.
He holds her.
His arms are strong.
His chest is warm.
His heart is a drum
she cannot tell is marching
or retreating.
She wants to ask
“How many?”
How many before me?
“How many will there be after?”
She does not ask.
She is afraid of the answer.
Not because the number will be large.
But because she will stay anyway.
She will always stay.
That is her secret.
That is her shame.
She fell in love with him at Jacksonville.
At a train platform.
At a nothing stop.
And she has been falling ever since.
Through Palm Beach.
Through Atlantic City.
Through this stone manor
on this stupid beautiful cliff.
And he is “conflicted.”She pulls back.
Just enough to see his face.
He looks miserable.
Good.
She is miserable too.
“William,” she says.
“Yes.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
“Don’t lie to yourself either.”
He flinches.
She sees it.
He thinks she didn’t see it.
But she sees everything.
She has been seeing everything
since she was a small girl
with a small voice
and a father who came home smelling wrong.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she says.
“Not yet.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Neither do I,” she says.
“That’s the point.”
He looks at her.
Really looks.
Like he is trying to memorize her face
in case he loses it.
In case he loses her.
She lets him look.
She is good at being looked at.
She is Tens.
She is always a ten.
Even now.
Even here.
Even with her heart bleeding
onto the stone balcony
of a hotel that will outlast them both.
He says nothing.
She hears everything.
She hears: “I love you but I love myself more.”
She hears: “I want you but I want every woman I never had.”
She hears: “Stay. Go. Stay. I don’t know.”
She hears: “I am not safe. I am not steady. I am not yours.”
She takes his hand.
She does not know why.
She should let go.
She should walk inside.
She should pack her bags.
She should call Radiant
and have it ready by morning.
But she doesn’t.
Because she hears one more thing.
The thing he did not say
but maybe meant
somewhere deep
where he does not even go himself:
“Save me.”
And God help her
God help her stupid, hopeful, small, believing heart
she wants to.
to be continued … Part IV… Palm Beach
Did you miss the first two parts…
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Hortense is deciding what to do. She wants to love him. Will he let her?
I really like the way that the dilemma and both of their thoughts and interpretations played out.
I'm really enjoying this and looking forward to the next part.