4. 'You with a brood of your own'

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Natalia


Phillip and I stand just as close to each other as we did when he was holding me in his arms. His tuxedo-clad frame shields me from some of the wind, but I shiver not from the cooling air but the almost touch of his body. I smell his probably expensive cologne I'm not familiar with, laced with the unmistakable whiff of menthol cigarettes.

That scent slips into the recesses of my memory. Images I buried long ago resurface. Forgotten reflexes kick in. Goosebumps speed up my arms, and I swallow to mask the trembling of my chin. My fingers prickle, urging me to rest my palm on his lapels. I clench my hand into a fist. For the first time in years, I'm flustered.

This is embarrassing.

I hold my breath to get rid of the source of this nonsense and to calm the reaction I've not had to a man since Phillip's and mine last hug at our graduation party. The naive girl of fifteen years ago thought that was the moment Phillip would no longer see me as his tutor, that he'd ignore my brain for once and register my fevered promises to keep in touch and see my silent request for him to kiss me.

The recollections heat my skin. The eighteen-year-old Nata spent two years fantasizing of Phillip Van der Heuvel suddenly telling her he was into nerdy, science-obsessed braniacs, that he was not asking her out because of how much he valued their tutor-tutee relationship, but that now that college was over, he couldn't deny the feelings he had for her. My lungs burst, as I struggle to regain control of my faculties.

The romance novels I was reading then by a heapful didn't help my longing for the guy who was so out of my league we might as well be different species. When I imagined the Scottish Laird ravaging the girl who grew up and who he finally noticed, I saw Phillip's likeness in my dreams. Those were some steamy dreams. I can't hold my breath any longer and allow myself a tentative inhale.

The cigarette smell is all around me now. That was always my least favorite part about Phillip. I cling to the thought. Phillip has never been perfect. Smoking was just one of his many other negative traits. I resurrect the list of why Phillip and I were not a good idea I created to stop daydreaming about spending days and nights in his arms: loud, loves parties, womanizer, doesn't understand the value of money, loves himself too much, and smokes.

I'm no longer that girl. I no longer judge the suitability of men by their looks or my desire to sleep with them. I'm looking for a partner in life, not a playboy to fulfill my fantasies. I still my gaze and really look at the man in front of me. "Still smoking?"

He finally blinks, glances down, and ruffles the closely cropped hair along his neck. "Still hate smokers?"

Phillip's no longer his college self I tutored, but his smile, his mannerisms of a teenager who was caught doing something he shouldn't, yet who knows he can get out of it. They're all there. Familiar. Too familiar.

"You're ruining your health. I've shown you the black lungs of the smokers." My mouth curdles at the thought of the poor women who had to kiss him and the stale smoke that probably coats his tongue. I would never be able to get over the yuck of kissing someone whose mouth tastes like licking an ashtray, not that I've ever licked one. My upper lip curls in disgust. "Don't understand how that didn't scare you."

"I don't smoke. . .that much." The Phillip of my college days always had a cigarette in his fingers or behind his ear when we ran into each other outside of our tutoring arrangement he didn't want anyone to know about. "Just when I'm stressed." He laughs without humor and glances at his empty hands.

The stormy wave in the pit of my stomach unsettles me. I'm not dizzy, but I see in triplicate. My brain scrambles to differentiate between the Phillip I tutored, the Phillip from TMZ, and this all too human and evidently stressed guy. "What are you stressed about?"

Phillip reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out a cigarette pack, clocks the expression of horror that must be on my face, and puts the offending item away. "My dad. He's been sick. Lots of changes." He peers at me. "You know how it is."

"What happened to Tom?" I don't really know how it is. I don't know this version of Phillip, but the way he falls into our familiar pattern of him confiding in me, and me craving to know more brings up my bitterness over how we parted. My fantasies were just that. Fantasies. He's never seen me as anything more than a girl who agreed to tutor him for money she desperately needed to keep her afloat.

Phillip fidgets with his French cuffs. "He had a stroke."

The gentler side of Phillip that made me fall for him has always beamed through his love for his dad. Phillip was the one people flocked to, even though in public he didn't even give me the minimum of a raised eyebrow, not to mention the nod with his chin girls coveted as a greeting.

He rubs the light stubble on his chin. "Not a major one, but he has to take some time off." Sadness ripples across his features.

"That's awful." I give into the impulse and lay my hand on his tux, a couple inches south of his heart. "Sorry."

The tight line of his jaw slackens. My memory serves me the other Phillip. The guy who brought me fancy coffees before every session because he knew I couldn't afford them but loved the taste of the sugary drinks. The one who insisted he's starving, ordered takeout, and shared with me, so I didn't have to worry about dinner. The one who remembered my birthdays and found perfect presents for them and all holidays we ever spent on campus together. The kind Phillip I knew in private had nothing to do with the cocky Phillip everyone loved to associate with.

"He's doing well. I just wasn't ready." His eyebrows knit. "So now I'm the interim CEO." The rhythmic tapping of the toes of his shoes paired with his arms crossed on his chest isn't the body language of a person happy with his promotion.

The wind finds its way around Phillip and blows into my side. New goosebumps pebble my skin. I rub my arms and rifle through the information I have on his family. "Wasn't you being the CEO always the goal?"

"Sure, but I thought I had more time." He uncrosses his arms, takes off his jacket, and hangs it over my shoulders.

"Thanks." I wrap the tailored garment around me. The whiff of menthol intensifies, and I expect to feel the revulsion, but instead my mind calms. The mix of smells floods my nostrils and acts as aromatherapy neurons and resets my nervous system. I can think logically again. "Isn't your dad of retirement age?"

"Guess so. I'm fine with taking over his job for now. He trained me for that. But it's hard to be ready for your only living relative to get so sick." He sticks his hands into the pockets of his pants and rocks on the balls of his feet. "I just never imagined it'll still be just Dad and me at this point."

I touch the empty space where my engagement ring used to be. Mine are not the only plans that didn't come true. Phillip and I used to go on tangents planning our future. His was growing his dad's company to be the leader in the medical device world while attending every play and sporting event his kids were part of. Mine was winning a Nobel prize while raising one or two children in a suburban home with a husband who supported my career choices, earning a stable income, with a healthy savings account, and little to no travel. Raising me in so many countries as a third culture kid, Dad always thought I'd have the explorer bug he had. Science is where I love to explore. In my personal life, I want stability, not excitement.

A smile curls my mouth at the memory of Phillip's and mine heated conversation after one of our last tutoring sessions over how many children is the appropriate number of children to have. "I imagined you with a brood of your own. A soccer team."

"I think I told you I wanted four." His lips bend as he probably travels back to the same discussion. "That's not quite enough for a soccer team. How many do you have?"

My turn to glance away. "Zero." The pain between my ribs from Samson's words lingers. 'I've never said I wanted kids.'

"But what about your ten-step plan? I thought you were supposed to have one to two children between the ages of thirty and thirty-five. Can't imagine you deviating from your plan." Phillip manages to make the word plan be the most sarcastic one in the English language.

"I'm still thirty-four." I snap at him. It's almost a month till my birthday. "So there's time to have one kid before I turn thirty-six next year. That'll still fall within my original plan, so I'm not behind." I tug on the sleeves of his jacket and wrap it tighter around me.

"Yet." He cocks his head.

"I'm not behind." Irritation tickles my throat. I spit out the words I was soothing myself with on the climb up here. "I can still make it."

Author Notes

9.23. 22

I love setting up new stories and planting all the little clues you guys might not even pick up on. Yet.

Hope you got a good grasp on who Nata is and what she's after. It's definitely not Phillip. 😎 Nope.

Next chapter is back to Phillip's POV.

Did you get that Nata moved a lot as a child?

Do you know who a third culture kids are?

I'm not going to ask if you got that she had a huge crush on Phillip, becuase...yeah.

Is there anything else from their past together you are curious to learn about?

This is an ongoing story, so I'd love to incorporate what you, readers, are interested in throughout the future chapters.

One of these days I'll get around to doing aesthetics too. Do you have a good idea of what Phillip and Nata look like by now?

Time to go write the next chapter of Love Words and get Artem out of Fiji. Plus would be nice to actually post it on Tuesday for once, lol.

Love,

GR

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