Running from Romeo

  Running From Romeo

  Diane Mannino

  For Mark,

  my Romeo

  1

  I ROLL OUT OF BED and clamber into the shower. The cold water is a relief on my weary eyes. I didn’t sleep well but that’s nothing new. I never sleep well. When I walk back into my bedroom, a warm ocean breeze fills the room with a fresh, salty smell. It’s going to be a hot day in Santa Barbara. I would love to lie in bed and gaze out at the crystal blue, cloudless sky all day. But I need to get dressed. It’s the first day of school of my senior year at Santa Barbara University.

  Santa Barbara University is a small college nestled on the California coast and is located ninety miles north of Los Angeles. I have fond memories of visiting Santa Barbara with my parents. It was the summer after my ninth birthday when we flew to San Francisco and then drove down the coast.

  It was in this town that I first watched my dad surf. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was holding my mom’s hand as we stood on the soft sand and cheered for my dad as he caught wave after wave. In that moment I fell in love with Santa Barbara.

  When it came time to choosing a college it was a no-brainer for me. I always knew I wanted to go to Santa Barbara University. But not just for this cherished childhood memory, this picturesque town is blessed to have sun about three hundred days a year. It also didn’t hurt that they offered me a full ride scholarship.

  First day of school jitters used to be such an ordeal when I was young. I would try on various outfits the night before. It would take me hours to settle on one. I’d leave it out and then in the morning I would change my mind and pick something entirely different. It was the same routine for as long as I can remember.

  Now, I just grab what I pretty much wear every day. I throw on my favorite blue jeans that my best friend and roommate, Bryn Cartwright gave me. They are J-Brand jeans and I would never own such an expensive pair of denim except Bryn passed them on to me. Then I tug a white H&M tee over my head and slip on my Havaianas flip flops.

  I scrutinize my ghostly reflection in the mirror and notice my hazel eyes are terribly bloodshot from my lack of sleep. I squirt in a couple drops of Visine in both eyes and then try to brush my tangled brown hair.

  My bangs that I just got cut a couple weeks ago are already driving me crazy. They are sticking straight up so I have to wet them and hope that when they dry they will be tamed. I give myself one last glance in the mirror and decide this will have to do.

  Bryn is already in our bright white kitchen when I go downstairs. She’s sitting on one of the stainless steel barstools at the island, sipping coffee and picking at toast. She’s completely absorbed in the Wall Street Journal when I enter the kitchen so she doesn’t see me at first.

  Bryn is the first person I met at SBU. We met at freshmen orientation when I was feeling miserably homesick. She was easy to spot with her gorgeous looks and effervescent personality. I don’t know if she took pity on me because I looked so lost but she immediately approached me. In that first meeting we discovered a spiritual connection and we’ve been inseparable ever since.

  When she finally looks up from the morning paper, she beams, “Emilia, Happy First Day of School!”

  She looks gorgeous in a short, strapless sundress that shows off her long, bronzed legs. Her wavy, blonde locks are tied in a loose braid that runs down her right shoulder. She is the epitome of a California girl and I’m pretty much the polar opposite.

  Over the years I’ve tried to achieve the perfect tan but all I do is burn. Who am I kidding? I’d settle for any tan not just the perfect tan! It’s surely a tragedy because I love the sun so much. Unfortunately, I wasn’t blessed with my dad’s Italian olive skin. I take after my mom and her white as snow Irish kin.

  “Did you say Happy First Day of School?” I say with a sarcastic tone. Don’t get me wrong it’s not like I don’t like school. I love learning, reading and writing. But I prefer to do it on my own accord. It’s just the tedious routine that I find exasperating. If I could do all the work at my own leisure then that would be the best of both worlds.

  I don’t look forward to the rigorous schedule but the beginning of my last year has given me a newfound appreciation of what college has done for me. It has exposed me to a variety of people from different places and really expanded my world. But even more importantly it has flourished my knowledge and given me some confidence. I say some confidence because self-assuredness is something that I’m deficient in.

  “Oh, come on Emilia, you promised you were going to have fun this year. It’s our last year of college. You need to get out of the library and live it up!” She waits a beat and then asks, “You still promise to come with me to Josh’s party on Saturday night?”

  I gaze at her fondly. “I promise to go with you and I will do my best to be a party animal this year,” I laugh, trying to conceal my anxiety.

  We gather our bags and head out the door. SBU campus is just a couple blocks from our house. Bryn’s parents bought the house for her when we started our sophomore year. Her parents live in Los Angeles and thought it was not only a good investment but also a comfortable living arrangement for Bryn.

  Since I’m Bryn’s closest friend I’m lucky enough to share this life of luxury. Well, luxury for a college student. It’s a modest home but it sure beats living in the dormitories.

  “My first class is International Finance. How about you?” Bryn asks as we approach the main stone path. The path is lined with lush green hedges that lead to the main building, Campbell Hall. SBU is renowned not only for its park-like beautiful campus but also its illustrious faculty.

  “I have to tape Live from Studio One and then I head to World Lit.” I say.

  We give each other a quick hug and go our separate ways. I can’t believe I made a promise to go with Bryn to Josh’s party but she is my closest friend and I will do anything for her.

  Studio One is actually a converted trailer where we tape weekly news reports about SBU. It’s a small, cramped room with a brown, dilapidated desk where we sit and broadcast whatever stories we think our mostly student viewers are interested in hearing about. There are large bulletin boards lining both sides of the room that are cluttered with various newspaper articles, notices and future story ideas. At the front of the room near the desk sit various camera equipment and monitors. It’s kind of an organized mess.

  I step through the door and Luke Stanton unexpectedly grabs me from behind. He’s my co-anchor. He’s always been a buddy but he squeezes me a bit too hard.

  “Emilia! It’s great to see you! How was your summer?” he enthuses. I give him a quick hug back.

  Luke is studying broadcast journalism and will no doubt have a bright future in it. He’s a natural on camera. He’s also good-looking which certainly doesn’t hurt when you want a career in television.

  “Hi Luke. My summer was good. How about you?” I smile.

  But before he can answer we our interrupted by Professor Hastings. He teaches several Broadcast Journalism classes and produces our newscasts.

  Professor Hastings is a tall, balding man with warm, brown eyes. He has always been very supportive of my broadcasting abilities…even when I have my doubts.

  “Emilia, nice to see you. I need to ask a small favor of you today,” Professor Hastings remarks. I’m certain I hear an unfamiliar chuckle behind me.

  “Sure. What can I help you with?” I ask.

  “I know Erin usually does the reporting and interviewing but she hasn’t arrived back from Chicago. Her flight got cancelled because of storms. Anyway, she is scheduled to interview Logan Prescott for today’s show and I’m hoping you could do it. Logan is also a senior here, maybe you know him? Erin even emailed me all her questions s
o you pretty much just have to read them. Sound okay?”

  “Of course. But who is Logan Prescott?” I take the sheet of questions from Professor Hastings and move towards one of the chairs behind the desk. Just as I’m about to sit, I glance up and see a dazzling face with piercing, bright blue eyes gazing at me.

  “I’m Logan.” I hear a voice behind me and turn towards him. His lips are curled up in a slight smile as if he’s somewhat amused despite my blithe ignorance.

  I am so embarrassed and caught up in the beauty of this man that I blush, trip, and miss the chair. I’m on the ground hoping this is all a bad dream. Oh, please tell me that didn’t just happen. I want to crawl under the desk and hide but he extends his hand to me. I take his hand and when I do I feel a delightful tremor run through my body.

  “Um. Hi, I’m Emilia King,” I stammer when I can finally find my voice. He’s looking at me with amusement or annoyance. I’m not really sure which one, but probably the latter because I don’t know who he is and I’m supposed to interview him.

  I peek up at him once more and for some mysterious reason I feel myself blushing again.

  “Miss King. Shall we try this again? I’m Logan Prescott. I was asked to do this interview to discuss my family’s business – Prescott Hotels.”

  That’s when I realize that I’m still holding his hand. I withdraw my hand and quickly jump into the chair so I can gather my thoughts. He gives me a quick smirk and then sits in the chair next to me.

  Professor Hastings asks if we are ready to roll sound. I ignore him and drop my head so that my hair hides my face. I twist in my seat, feeling Logan’s heated gaze and fumble with my small wireless microphone. I glance at Erin’s questions and when I finally gather up the nerve to look at him I can tell he’s enjoying my awkwardness and discomfort.

  “You sure you are ready, Miss King?” I can feel my face redden. Is he toying with me or is he really irritated? I can’t quite pinpoint his demeanor. Why does he keep calling me Miss King? Is he always this formal? I decide right then to take control of this awkward interview.

  Ignoring him, I shift in my chair and look straight into the camera. I attempt to look the role of a confident broadcast journalist.

  “Hi SBU and welcome back to a new school year. I’m Emilia King and we are excited to introduce you to one of our very own students. Logan Prescott. He’s a senior and is the son of Pierce Prescott – of Prescott Hotels. Mr. Prescott, thank you for your time.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Miss King,” he says a bit too smoothly. The way he says pleasure makes me flush and for some reason I already feel like I’m losing my brief moment of control. Oh what’s come over me – this interview is going to be on television.

  I shift in my chair, sit up straight and look down at Erin’s notes.

  “Can you tell us how your family started such an immensely successful business?” I ask.

  “My grandfather, James Prescott, built an inn in Boston, Massachusetts. The inn became an overnight success. It flourished over the course of a couple years and this enabled him to buy a hotel in New York. This was his first high-rise hotel. In partnership with my father, they began purchasing properties all over the world. Now we have numerous hotels all over America, Europe, Asia, Africa and even the Middle East.”

  “You must feel an overwhelming sense of comfort knowing that you will never have to want for money.” It bothers me that he is so presumptuous that these words almost spit out of my mouth. His eyes blaze with astonishment.

  He clears his throat and with a long, fixed stare asserts, “Miss King, is that a question?”

  I fidget in my seat. “Oh. Sorry. Do you feel an overwhelming sense of comfort knowing that you will never have to want for money?”

  “My family has worked hard and has made many sacrifices to get to where they are today. I make no apologies for their fortune. Yes, I don’t have to want for money but there are many other things that I do want?”

  He gives me a slight smile and then takes my pen that’s sitting in front of me and brushes it against his lip. Oh, my. Did he have to draw attention to his beautiful lips?

  I stop myself from staring and he says, “ Does that answer your question?”

  I feel my heartbeat pounding through my t-shirt, and my face redden. “What other things do you want, Mr. Prescott?” The words are out of my mouth before I realize that I’ve said them.

  “I want many things.” He continues softly, “For one, I want to secure my family’s successful hotel empire and expand into other areas of real estate. I want the name Prescott to be known by everyone.”

  “You are very cocky.” I can’t believe I just said that. I can see Professor Hastings out of the corner of my eye and he does not look amused.

  He raises an eyebrow and clenches his jaw. “You say cocky as if that’s a bad thing. I’m very confident in everything I do. My GPA is above a 4.0. I’m student council president. Even if I didn’t want to go into my family’s business, I would have no problem finding a job and being successful at whatever I set my mind to.”

  I’ve never met someone so frustrating. Is it because he is drop dead gorgeous? Is it the way he’s watching me? It’s like he’s casting a spell on me. I must not stare into his beautiful blue eyes for too long. His hair is a dark brown and this draws even more attention to his glorious eyes.

  He seems disinterested or maybe just bored with my less than gracious questioning. I look down at Erin’s notes trying to regain my composure. I decide to change my approach.

  “Your parents must be very proud. Can you tell us about your upbringing? Do you have any siblings?” I ask. I’m trying my best to be polite.

  “I was born and raised in New York. I have wonderful parents and a younger sister. I went to Trinity Boarding School in Connecticut. We traveled a lot. Nothing too extraordinary.”

  “Sounds extraordinary to me. You’ve had quite the pampered life,” I murmur. My politeness is short-lived.

  He’s glaring at me. “Yes, Miss King. My sister and I come from a lot of money – a lot of money. But our parents suffused in us important values. They taught us to appreciate what we have not just materialistically but inside ourselves. We had chores. We were expected to excel in school and in all our endeavors.”

  “Sorry.” I say and miserably twist in my seat. I don’t know what’s come over me. I have no filter and this is so unlike me. He is getting under my skin and I just want to end this interview and run from the studio.

  “Well, I just want to thank you from all of us at Studio One for your well, um, enlightening interview.” I glance at him and get ready to move from my seat.

  “Oh, not so fast, Emilia.” He raises an eyebrow and smirks. Did he just call me by my first name? Where is this going?

  The smug look on his perfectly chiseled face makes me feel very uncomfortable.

  “I think it’s only fair that I get to ask you a few questions.” He says coolly.

  “Um. No, that’s not how it works…that’s not really fair.” I murmur because I don’t know what else to say.

  I’m trying to figure out a way to get out of this. I look uncomfortably down at the ground, at the ceiling, at Professor Hastings. Help. Please?? But no such luck. Professor Hastings is grinning from ear to ear. Men!

  Logan turns towards the camera and calmly announces, “Fair? Who said anything about fair? And, I’d have to say some of your questions weren’t so fair. Besides, I think all of the viewers would like to know more about you, Miss King.”

  I feel like I’m going to get sick. The blood drains from my face. The studio seems unbearably hot. My heartbeat has accelerated.

  I quietly mutter, “There’s not much to tell and we are out of time.”

  I am literally saved by the bell. It’s time for next period. I politely say, “Thank you, Mr. Prescott.”

  I look to the camera, “Thank you for tuning in. I’m Emilia King and I’ll see you next time on ‘Live from Studio One.’” Thank God that�
��s over. I take a deep breath and look to make a quick getaway.

  Logan leans towards me as I’m trying to make my fleeting escape. His eyes are wickedly amused and he has a curious smile on his lips.

  “When will I see you next time?” he whispers.

  I’m not sure what he means. His hand catches mine and I’m astonished to feel like it’s been stung. It’s as if an electric current has passed through us. Maybe he’s not familiar with Live from Studio One.

  Is he wondering when it airs? Is he really wondering when he will see me again? I shove that thought to the back of my head. Who am I kidding? He would never be interested in someone like me. I’m so boring, plain and he’s so…well, out-of-this-world gorgeous.

  I’m holding his hand and he says, “Let me help you out of your seat.” He’s making fun of my earlier tumble.

  I snatch my hand from his and hiss, “I don’t need any help, Mr. Prescott.” Why am I still calling him Mr. Prescott? He is so frustrating, I can’t even think straight as I scurry out the door.

  The fresh ocean air brings me back to reality. I close my eyes and inhale. Breathe – Emilia – breathe. Maybe Bryn is right about yoga. Maybe that would help calm me. Why do I feel so agitated? I take a couple more deep breaths and when I finally feel like I’m back to Earth I head to my Literature class. Yes, that’s what I need. I need to read and surrender myself to complete ignorance.

  The rest of my day is uneventful compared to my morning. It’s Wednesday so I only have World Literature and Advanced Shakespeare. I try to put my morning behind me but I can’t help but think about the way Logan Prescott has affected me.

  I can’t believe I called him cocky and spoiled. How embarrassing! Oh, I hope I never see him again. But that thought makes me a little sad. Do I want to see him again? I decide not to dwell on it because I won’t see him again. We run in different circles. I’m usually holed up in the library and…well, Logan Prescott, I’m not sure what he does with his free time but with his exquisite good looks I’m sure he has quite the social life.