f o u r || Manipulative Actions and Sly Schemes

|21st January 2019|

IN THE SAME MOMENT AS THE ONE I MAKE IT to the outside of my apartment building, a sleek, metallic black car halts in front of me. Even with the window shades tainted dark, I can say with surety that it's Elliot in the driver's seat. He'd always wanted to own this model− Mercedes Convertible, and now he has it.

I wonder if he gets everything he wants...

Of course, he does. You still got doubts regarding that? the voice at the back of my mind asserts.

Somebody who loves him even half as much as I once did (and still do)? I ask, unwilling to stop before hearing a no.

There's momentary silence, which eventually stretches on for longer than just a moment, and I'm on the verge of heaving a pained sigh, my hopes crushed because I assume the silence isn't in my favor, when, probably not, it replies.

The brief mental conversation is enough to send my thoughts hurling back and forth between the walls of my conscience once again. Though, despite the large number of questions, I want just one answer; one answer to all my questions which can, in fact, be framed as one question itself: Why did he leave without informing?

That's all I want now, an answer; even more than Elliot himself. The reason for which is to confirm for myself that my guilt-trips haven't gone in vain; guilt arising from suspicions if I had done something wrong, be it knowingly or unknowingly, something that had triggered him to leave me unaided, unexplained, unfortunate, unceasingly. Though, bearing in mind how Elliot's sudden departure from my life had left me more shocked than sad or angry or repulsed, I'm pretty sure it's the latter.

Yes, I was shocked. Utterly, completely, fully, and unconditionally, because as far as I can recall, Elliot never used to get offended by anything I would say, not even my rudimentary remarks, and time has revealed to me that pretense wasn't a card he ever used on me; he had always been quiet, modest, solicitous, sweet− a living, walking, talking contradiction to Aric Nithercott.

Besides, as mentioned earlier, we were always surrounded by peace. Until he decided to burst our little bubble and let trauma followed by desolation rule over the peace and happiness that was our life; just like he is doing right now, by purposely pressing the horn for an extended span of time than would be considered normal, and making his mark by succeeding in dragging me out of my cognitive turmoil.

Oh, thank you for the crazy honking, Elliot. I totally forgot that I am supposed to sit inside this piece of blackened metal so it can get moving and I can experience a very torturous near-death episode.

I push my feet towards the back door of his vehicle and open it, but before I can sit in, "Front." I hear him say, his voice thick with command.

Eh, who does he reckon he is, that I have to listen to him, huh?

Funny how you put it that way, Celeste, because the sole reason you're here right now is because you're listening to him, obeying his orders because you know what he can and will do if you don't comply. And goodness, you have the spunk in you to what, throw comebacks-- and how so? not even out loud, because you're such a recreant, and that's my subconscious snickering at me.

"I'm sitting in your car, mister. Regard it equal to Queen Elizabeth sitting here if not something better than that." I snap, sitting in the backseat against his will. Say what he and my subconscious to me, there is no doubt in the fact that I will henceforth turn my ear deaf towards both of them, because they own no sort of control over me. And even if he does (which he undoubtedly does), there is no rule stating that I have to display its effects.

"You shouldn't contain so much of pride over nothing, Ms. Wilson," he comments, arrogance dripping from his tone like water dripping from a knackered fridge. Nonetheless, he puts the car to ride.

I brush his comment aside, discreetly mouthing "Asshole," to myself. I am considering jumping the gun and conceding with myself that he devours a mountain-full of edible arrogance for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day.

But this, however harsh and ridiculous a perspicacity it may seem on my part, isn't only a personal opinion, you see. Let's consider an alternate situation for an example, one where I am someone unprecedented to him, someone who hasn't witnessed his much softer side, someone who has no clue he exists until the day he steps into my office with a marriage proposal, even under those circumstances would I have felt something tingly and lightweight shift inside my chest at the straightness of his proud nose, at the valley of decisiveness in chin, at the creases of thoughtfulness in his forehead, at the unbeatable, indefatigable power his sharp eyes hold. In simpler and lesser words, I would've felt something along the lines of 'attraction at first sight' towards him.

That is, until those thin lips of his would part and he'd begin spraying hubris in the air.

His arrogance is that sickening.

"What did you want me here for?" I ask, pretending I don't already know the answer to my question.

He sighs, his stern stance loosening up and his shoulders slumping as its result. "We're gonna decide how I should propose to Olwyn," he tells me, and the way his voice is ever-so low and gentle, I cannot but fathom why he suddenly seems so tired.

"Why do you want my help in such personal matters?"

I know, once upon a time, a significant portion of Elliot's life revolved around me. But now, it doesn't. Notwithstanding how really he loved me back then, the spark that kept our relationship alive, extinguished the moment he had stepped into my cabin with an appeal to marry someone else. I would've forgiven him, really, and accepted him too, had he returned to me for me− after receiving a justified reason as to why he'd left me, of course, but that isn't what he wants. He wants another woman, and he wants me, his not-really-ex-lover (seeing as I still, kind of, maybe, might have feelings for him), to help him impress the new lady.

An incredibly pathetic situation I have put myself in, I'm well aware.

"You've already gotten yourself involved in my personal life," he pauses, and in that moment I am back-pedaling in time, assuming he is referring to our love life. "By being my marriage planner." His sparkling blue eyes zero on me through the rear-view mirror, carefully taking in my slightly out-of-order expression.

You did that on purpose, didn't you, Elliot? The way you put those words, the timing, the gauging of expression− all on purpose, no?

A scoff of disagreement escapes me before I can withhold it. "It was none but your decision to chose our services, might I have to remind you," I say, looking away from his scrutinizing gaze.

"And you, miss, just answered your own question."

If he is going to pretend to not know me, then I shall pretend too. Not to sound like a big shot or anything, but I have confidence in my mastery of the art of impersonating, enough so that I can triumph over him before he gets the prospect of wondering where on earth I have learned it all from.

"But which marriage planner helps her client propose to his to-be-wife? This doesn't even qualify as service, for your kind information." I remark, my eyes flitting from the moving buildings to Elliot's driving figure.

"Well," he drawls deliberately, turning around to glance at my scowling face. "Your firm can be the first one that counts it as one, you know." he shrugs before turning back to the road ahead of him.

I shut my eyes, gritting my teeth so hard that I am certain I hear the resulting reverberation. Self-forfeit, ladies and gentlemen, is the only way I can prevent myself from lunging forward and strangling this boy in front of me to death. Like, why does he have to be so calm? No, wait, let me rephrase that. How does he manage to be so calm? Does my presence not bother him as much as his bothers mine?

"What were you so busy doing when I called you?" he asks randomly after a few minutes, in what I guess is an attempt to start a conversation.

Oh, wouldn't you want to know?

"Cooking." I lie. It is not a very good lie, I realize only moments later, seeing as it was past lunch-time when he had phoned me, but because my mouth lacks the ability of waiting until my temporarily dumbbell of a brain can presume its lifelong function of thinking, the word springs out before I can think of a better reply.

I fix my eyes on Elliot's face through the mirror, and judging from the way his lips quirk upwards ever-so-slightly, I know he hasn't brought my fabrication. Still, for God knows what reason, he surprises me by not walking me to the dead-end like I expect him to. "And what were you planning on doing after that?"

"Eat the food I just cooked."

"And after eating?" he pushes.

"Wash my plate."

For a twenty-seven-year-old who is supposedly getting married in a month's time and whose adopted father owns a hell of a business that will, customarily speaking, be sent down to him in a few years' time, Elliot is asking rather stupid questions. Or maybe it is me who had given him this chance by lying horribly. Whatever the reason is, though, it is his current attitude that reminds me of humble old Elliot. He chuckles then, and oh, how I have missed that melody! Don't chuckle so often, Elliot. I can't afford to fall in love with that sound again. "Were you even planning on leaving that kitchen of yours today?" he asks me, the smile in his voice cracking my ribcage and entering my heart, showing no signs of leaving anytime soon.

"No," I say, my voice coming out more stubborn than intended.

If Elliot has retained in him the same street smartness he had from nine years ago, then by now he would've caught sight of the invisible words inked onto my forehead stating that I have absolutely no interest in talking to him. I don't even get why he is being so adamant with regards to talking to me. Isn't stuff supposed to be awkward and tense, and not so light-hearted and friendly (at least one-sided) after the kiss?

"That's good. At least now I can stop guilt-tripping myself for not informing you of my plans beforehand."

Wait, so he can feel guilty?

Oh, thee guilt-producing gland! Were thee not inside Elliot's body when he decided to leave me? Could thee not guilt-trip him to Hell and back, then?

"So you know what guilt feels like?" I blurt the question out before I can even analyze the direction in which the conversation will move once it is out.

The inquiry takes him by as much surprise as it takes me, and he is rendered speechless for a second or two before he clears his throat. "Well, that depends on whether or not a situation requires me to feel guilty," he quips. "But you tell me, why you ask such a thing; do I not look human?"

Somebody please stop the car and give this boy a medal, for he can actually feel guilty.

I snort. "Mr. Nithercott, you're forgetting that we're residents of an era where even robots have human faces," I speak monotonously. "As for my opinion about you, I'm pretty sure you don't pay any regard to them."

"Again, Ms. Wilson," he asserts, "That depends on the nature of the situation concerning whose context you speak."

Fury races the blood in my veins at his statement, my lips parting to utter a string of acrimony unheard by him. Then, when the urge to disturb the handsomeness of his fine face gradually extinguishes, "How does you empathizing with someone who has put her heart-" I pause to breathe in and push the ugly waterworks of my eyes back to their origin. "I mean, how does empathizing with someone who has taken up the task of planning your marriage have anything on earth to do with 'the nature of the situation'?"

Here, he pauses again. There seems to be a struggle going on inside him, and I say this with surety because I feel him reduce his foot's pressure on the accelerator. His voice is soft, and almost lulling when he speaks again, "The same way as you think me too inhumane to feel guilty."

"You're changing topics."

"And that bothers you because you want to keep talking about what you presume is my inconsiderate nature?"

"Because there is a lamentable prospect in that."

A third pause lapses. But soon, when I am looking at the trees, houses, shops, offices, schools pass by in a blur, I hear the smile in his speech. "Do you always use such a complex vocabulary when talking to clients?"

"And that bothers you because you can't respond with a coequal amount of complexity?"

He chuckles, as if what I just said was ludicrous. "Just curious."

"It's called maintaining professionalism."

"More like-" he pauses again. "Never mind. Why are we even talking about this?"

This time, and for the first time, it's me who is at a pause, realizing only now that he is right; why are we talking about this? And then it clicks, where it all began. "Because you started talking about guilt-tripping yourself."

"Right," he says. There is a type of finality in the last five syllables he utters, and it is almost as if he is leaving the decision of carrying the conversation further to me.

I don't want to talk to him; I don't want him to know that I have been deriving a bittersweet yet painfully palliative pleasure from hearing him speak, yet, I can't help myself, because, for an odd reason, guilt doesn't look nice on Elliot. At least, I don't think it suits him. It feels wrong, for an odder reason. So I conclude upon apprising him of the actual plans I had for later today, ones he'd obviously disrupted by getting in the way. "Actually," I start with a sigh, propping myself in a more comfortable position on the leather. "I was planning on visiting the beach resorts later today. You know, to check for un-booked dates in February and all."

He seems somewhat taken aback by my honest answer, his lips moving to form an 'O'. "Well, I actually spoke to dad yesterday, and we've decided that the wedding will take place at one of our own beach houses."

Fine, have it your way. Get married in one of your beach houses. Like I care. Huh.

I lean back and close my eyes, choosing it best to stay silent and compress my curiosity as to where he is taking me. The sunlight isn't all raw and irritating now, and as it falls on my tilted face, I can't help but feel at peace. It's odd for someone as cautious as me to feel any emotion other than curiosity and anxiety and irritation and restlessness when around Elliot, let alone peace, but everything happening in my life as of late seems worthy of being tagged as odd, so why not build peaceful associations with oddity?

It doesn't surprise me much when the urge to see Elliot's house, his room, his closet(s), the covers he sleeps on, or even taste the food he eats, bites in. In all honesty, although I'm unquestionably certain I sound like a teenage girl stuck in a love triangle with a guy who she cannot have for herself, I highly recommend understanding that this urge is to only give myself a reality-check that he hasn't done anything wrong by leaving me so he can get a more comfortable life− a life he deserves for all that he has gone through. But at the same time, I want to confirm otherwise, because he left me to experience the sickening luxury.

I feel the car come to a stop, and as the motion cuts through my thoughts, I open my eyes. When I look at the place around me, I fail to hold my curiosity back for any longer. "Why are we here?" my voice is a cross between confusion and incredulity as I discern the sandy beach scenario.

Hadn't he told me that he wanted me here so I can help him with the proposal?

"Because," he says, turning the engine off. "This is where I'll be proposing to her."

You know these moments in life where your heart literally just stops doing what it has to do for its whole life, and then you're struggling to breathe, not because you can't catch your breath- no, but rather because you are drained of your energy as a result of either hearing, or seeing, or telling something you shouldn't and now you just don't want to waste any more ATPs on doing something (breathing, to be exact) that your lungs and heart will eventually catch up with, and thrust back life into your ephemerally lifeless form?

Well, that's my case after I, assuming to have misheard Elliot, look at him through the rear-view mirror and notice the desolate look on his face, at once knowing one thing for sure: he is very serious about what he just said.

"You can't." I breathe out with haste, in a voice that I hate because it cracks towards the end.

He can't do this- no, he won't do this.

He cocks a challenging eyebrow as he rotates in his seat to face me. "And why is that?" And just like that, all signs of old Elliot dissipate into thin air. Now I have to deal with the egotistic version of him. Puke, puke.

"Because−" What will I tell him? That he has no right to sell our memories to his to-be-wife? No, of course I'm not going to beg him to do otherwise. Uncaring of what I feel about this whole thing, it's his life and his wife; he can do as he pleases with the two of them, and I won- can't interfere and change his decisions because the way he carelessly discarded me from his life has left me in no place to do so. Now, I am his marriage planner and that is it; nothing more, nothing less.

I shrug at him, taking care to make it look nonchalant enough to look genuine. "Nothing, do whatever you want. Like it matters to me anyway."

He clasps his lips into a thin line. "If you're done with your rant, we can leave," he says. The presence of something frigid in his voice doesn't leave unnoticed past me. How, why, and when he became so cold-hearted, I will never know; yet, what can be done on my account to make the ice leave him, I will never stop wondering.

However, given the fragile status of our... alliance, and the very, very important fact that he will be pronounced married in less than a month, I cannot but question why I want to replace the Aric Nithercott in him with the Elliot Bryson of the old days. Why, when I know for certain that I won't be getting anything in return but a few shards of my once-upon-a-time broken heart?

I sigh at the dubiety of the situation and get out of the car, waiting for him to do the same. Soon, I am being led by him towards his resplendent beach house, and as I wander beyond the big black gates, I realize that the only chance I get to see mansions like this one is when I organize parties for exceptionally-to-the-power-ten rich people- which, to be very honest, happens rarely.

Here is newly discovered fact number two of the day: Elliot's life is so much 'grander' now.

His navy Toyota Corolla has been replaced by a metallic black Convertible, his two-roomed apartment by large and empty houses, his hoodies and sweats by dark and crisp suits, his wristbands by expensive watches, his long and shabby hair are now cut neat and short, his caring nature with an unnecessarily egoistical one. All these changes are moderately tolerable, but the two replacements I absolutely detest are the replacements of the burning fire in his eyes by a space of vast blankness and the lifelessness in his voice. It triggers me against my will to do something about them, so I can see and feel them at least once again.

We pass the neatly-mowed lawn, drinking in the sweet fragrance from rosemary, sea lavender, and several other flowers whose names I don't think I'll ever know, and then walk up a flight of stairs. There, at the end of it are two large doors carved so intricately, I can't help but finally accept that Elliot indeed belongs to a multi-millionaire family now, one that has the capability and bank balance of hiring world-class architects.

And just like that, once again, I'm wondering how and why Elliot convinced his family to choose our firm. We are great, don't get me wrong, but I can say with certainty that we have a lot more to do to win the 'The Best Event Management Company' title in the city.

"It's a lil sandy today; you can show me how to do it inside the house. When proposing, I'll be doing it on the beach," he tells me, pushing the doors open.

He had proposed to me on the beach too, under a palm thatch umbrella. Elliot, I want to yell at him, it is marriage we're talking about here, not a goddamn store where you can take the liberty of selling the memories you've encrusted with your first fiancee to your second fiancee. But I quickly change my mind, choosing to wordlessly follow him. There's literally no point in trying to make somebody like him understand why all of what he is doing is anything but right.

I stick to his shadow as we make it to the inside of the house. The lights are out, but with the afternoon sunlight entering the indoors through the glass ceiling, rays of golden and orange cascading down the walls in breathtaking motifs, I might as well forget that I'm here with burden in my mind and ache in my heart, and relish in the comfort and luxury of what I feel is the most beautiful place on Earth.

I try to keep my eyes trained on my shoes so that they stop wandering from the plush couches, to the mantle pieces, to the resplended chandelier, to the pendant lights hanging from the ceiling, to the Arabic-designed rug, to the sleek staircase that runs around the center, to the garden that one side of the hall overlooks- but my efforts are in vain. Elliot, on the other side of the boat, seems unfazed, almost uncaring of the beauty that surrounds us. He keeps walking, unknowingly forcing me to stop admiring the mansion he rather modesty mentioned to be a beach house and follow him until he steps into a fancy mezzanine.

He switches the lights on, and turns out, this mezzanine alone is twice the area of my hall! Holy- okay, nevermind the godliness.

I don't see him at first, because I'm too occupied with the frame on the wall above the bean bag couch that reads together is our favorite place to be in the same scrawly handwriting that I once used to receive cheesy love letters from, but when he clears his throat, I finally turn to look at the person who has written the aforementioned.

He tells nothing after that, just stares at me. There is an exciting type of madness I perceive in his eyes, a type of restless curiosity in his stance. My lips part as he continues to ingurgitate my form without hesitation. And then, as the wind rushes in, and strands of his hair slip from their initial position and fall into disarray on his broad forehead, it registers to me that house as many antique, beautiful things as this mansion does, my heart will still be more valuable when compared to the mansion.

Because it houses Elliot.

Because he is so, so, so much more of a treasure to me than anything else.

"You... you wrote that, didn't you?" I ask hesitantly, pointing at the frame on the wall.

He employs no words in his reply, just nods, gulping. After a moment of looking away, "How do I start?" he asks.

Okay, here comes the uninvited crisis of the matter. How am I to answer that?

"Choose her favorite flower," I say, licking my lips.

"Hm," he voices, and pulls an artificial white orchid from a nearby vase. Did he purposely choose my favorite one from the vast variety? Does he still remember?

"Now?" he asks, seemingly unable to notice what I had. Or maybe he, just like me, is pretending to not make observations obvious.

"On your knees," I say, trying to keep my mind massed together.

"You can be less commanding. Customer service matters, Ms. Wilson." He retorts, kneeling before me anyway.

Déjà vu is hitting hard on me, making it seem as if all of this happened just yesterday and not nine years ago, and here he is, expecting me to be less commanding? My conscience is being driven crazy by his actions for Pete's sake! I roll my eyes, querulous. "Now propose to her," I mumble.

I avoid matching his gaze at all costs as, "Will you marry me?" he asks, his tone the same: sensual and promising, making my heart burn with a blazing ache.

God, this fucking hurts.

"She'll say yes." Obviously. Which sane girl will tell no to him? "And now you tell her why she should marry you; like, what makes you different from the others and all. This is the part where you add all the cheesy crap." -that I am sure you don't mean, but it's okay if you want to lie; you've been doing that a lot lately anyway, I want to add, because that's the truth; he doesn't love her. Yet, I leave that fact for myself to understand and relish in.

His eyes grow hooded, almost matching the color of the suit he is sporting today. "I love you," he whispers. It costs me more than I can give to look as indifferent as the phenomenal actor in me can manage, but I still am human, you see, and I cannot help closing my eyes so the pictures from nine years ago stop clouding my vision.

If only it was directed at me...

"I seriously am the luckiest one to have found you before anybody else. I mean, just imagine if somebody would've already made an impression on you-" he suddenly halts, clenching his teeth. I don't completely understand why he does it, but it is either because he now understands how his words align in a parallel with our situation, or because he is tired of lying. "I would have to break bones."

Lol. So funny. Not three days ago, you told me that this is an arranged marriage; yet, here you are, lying about loving her endlessly and willing to break bones were somebody to steal her from you. Such a terrible liar you are, Elliot. Still, I can allow my heart to suffer only so much. "That's enough. I don't need to hear everything. You can keep all your promises to yourself." I interrupt, blinking tears back into their dams. "Get back on your feet now."

He complies. "Is that all?" he asks then, a dangerous vibe edging his alluring eyes.

Even though I am unaware of why Elliot, the guy who can get the entire female population at his feet without even having to try, is inclined to do such a thing as pretend not to know how to propose, if he has a good memory, then he won't be very impressed with the way I've been directing him.

Because, ladies and gentlemen, I am directing him the same way he had proposed to me.

Because considering how he's willing to sell our memories without any regard whatsoever for the beautiful days we've shared, there's no reason why I shouldn't too; even if it means I'll have to detach my heart from my body for quite a while.

"Pull her close," I order. My voice has turned raspy for God knows what reason, and there's a slight beam of hope that I hate for shining on my confidence when his tongue touches the tips of his upper incisors in contemplation of my words, eventually deciding to go with the flow of the unrealistic orders my mind has for him on this not-so-unrealistic day.

I look down, away, elsewhere as he raises a cynic eyebrow, stepping closer, and closer, and closer until his arm can slither around my waist without him having to struggle to tame my scampering form, encircling it fully, ultimately jerking me towards his athletic body. I can feel his queer gaze on my physiognomy, and with lots of trouble,

I keep mine maintained on the top button of his sky blue shirt, pulling on an indifferent look, fearing he being the human emotion-detector that he is, will in no time see what I don't want him to, despite my guard being raised high. "Now?" he whispers gently.

I think some twelve seconds pass after he poses his question, but even then, neither am I able to find my voice nor let myself think coherently. There's a thing though, about self-degradation that really gets to me in the moment of standing this close to him without looking at the sapphires fit in his eyeballs, and I, despite knowing what a doom this idea can lead me to, slowly look up. His face is deadly calm, a huge contradiction to his eyes which fight heavily amongst themselves due to the various emotions rushing through them. Even the faintest spark of the fierce fire can be seen.

My heart dithers at the sight and the realization it brings.

The fire is returning.

Oh Elliot, if only you knew that your eyes aren't like you! They would never betray me, even if it means that they'd have to go against their owner for the same.

I decide it about right time to push my feelings aside and get to business, when a stellar idea crosses my mind.

Leaving the 'selling memories' part out, this is, no doubt, a marriage for Elliot. But what if I turn this deal into a multipurpose, foolproof recipe where I get the answers concerning why he abandoned me, especially when I needed him the most, and subsequently avenge myself?

Woah, I love this dirty scheme already.

Delirium drinks the coherent side of my brain, and a small, calculating smirk causes my lips to tug upwards. "A kiss will do."

Elliot's thick brows unfurrow as soon as they had furrowed. He tries gulping discreetly but I see the disquietude in his eyes anyway. A lovely walk down the memory lane, isn't it, sir?

I purposely bit my lower lip, every vein in my body bursting with victory as his unexpectedly unstable gaze lowers to my lips. He leans in, a tense breath fanning my face as his gaze continues to linger on my lips with an intensity that might as well be illegal. I'd be lying if I said I didn't worship the age-old feeling of conflagration inside my body. And then, just as his lips are close to touching mine, I move back, a soapy grin on my glossed lips. How does it feel to not be able to catch a hang of the game you're playing, mister? -hurt? -aggrieved? -or let down?

I can bet on my life that whatever negative emotion you're currently experiencing is nothing in comparison to the one I felt when nine years ago, you'd vanished into thin air, leaving no trace whatsoever.

"So that's how you propose, Aric Nithercott." I bob my head, looking so solemn I'm sure I would feel like an angel had the situation been elsewise. "And don't forget to slow dance with her after that." I throw a wink at him, enjoying the slightly broken look on his face as if he'd anticipated for a kiss to actually happen.

Always remember, Elliot, even bulletproof masks aren't fully bulletproof. And, you, Aric Nithercott, just wait and watch how I turn the table and place my winning cards on its upside.

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