This Crazy Rich Boy

What has gotten into you, Claire? Why did you have to do that? It's not like you didn't enjoy Gabriel's kisses?

Claire stomps through the dark path exiting the park, and out onto the main city avenue, her head on a spin. What she has are not simple feelings; they're hopelessly entangled, as though each thread of thought is entwined with ten more.

She yelled at Gabriel, in public, in front of everybody. In front of Miguel. Not only that, she also SLAPPED him. Take a moment to appreciate the gravity of that word, "slapped." Slapped across the face. The face of her boss, who's now standing there, wondering where she got the balls—balls, that's a funny word for a woman—to do that.

But then again, she was in a state of panic—her mouth was on fire, and everything seemed a blur. The moment she felt Gabriel's mouth was on hers, she acted on reflex—and everything else was a follow-up meant to justify the slap.

She stands at a street corner, wondering if she should call up her chauffeur, then realizes it is not "her" chauffeur, but it is Gabriel's employee, the man she just slapped and left. Jesus Henry Christ. Not ten minutes have passed and already Claire regrets her action. Maybe she should walk back to the amusement park and just say sorry? But if she does that, then how about her dignity? After all, he did take advantage of her in her moments of vulnerability. In fact, he has done that a number of times in the few days she has been in his employ, and in her moments of dark honesty, she wonders if that had been proper. Should she have allowed that, even if secretly she enjoyed every moment of it—and actually craves for his kisses even now?

For a split-second Claire thinks of walking into the path of incoming traffic and just end everything right there. But as soon as she thinks that, she takes it back—there's so much she must still accomplish. "Focus on what matters, Claire," she mutters to herself. "Focus. And for now, all you need is get home."

Even the word "home" is currently a paradox to her, mainly because even the place she calls home right now is, you guessed it, owned by the man she just slapped. More and more, Claire realizes that her world, as much as she's under contract with Gabriel, is entirely limited by what Gabriel gives her, nothing more, nothing less. It is her entire reality. And there's no point in rebelling against it. She can quit…but will she?

So what she does is walk. Good thing, she doesn't have a mobile phone even now. Gabriel doesn't seem to mind it, although there were times he almost got irritated by her "unreachability." "Who doesn't use a mobile phone in this day and age," he once chided her.

"I can't afford it," she simply said, although her real reasons were a bit more complicated than that.

"I'll tell Mrs. Gomez to issue you a company phone," he said, but that was it. He seems to have forgotten all about it.

Having a mobile phone would have made her impulsive; she would have called him up by now, saying sorry, saying things she would later regret. She would have said things even before she could think about it. What's more, she would always be a mere phone call away, no matter where she is or what she's doing. And she would have hated that—she's always valued her distance, her ability to take a few steps back and re-consider things from a certain perspective. If he'd call her up every time he wants, then that would really shake her sense of calm at its very foundation.

Before she realized it, she's standing right in front of the Residence. She'd been thinking deeply as she walked that she didn't notice how much distance she has covered. Could it really have been five blocks already? She walked that? After what happened at the amusement park, all that excitement, who knew the night would end like this, back to her lonesome, with no one to say goodnight to, except Dale.

"Good evening, Miss Claire," Dale actually greets her. "You seem quite…lovely tonight."

"Thank you, Dale," she says. She feels good upon seeing a familiar face, and one that doesn't seem interested in taking advantage of her. "It has been quite a day."

"Oh, I'm sure whatever your day had been, it was far more interesting than mine." He smiles.

"Maybe. But I'm sure you'd had some fun, too, right?"

Dale giggles, as if he remembers something that fits the description of "fun."

As she enters her penthouse suite, the sense of delicious bliss envelops her. Ah, this has become her sanctuary. Why is it that the past few days seem to end with her almost crawling back to this sanctuary with all the weight of the world on her shoulders? What's going on?

And of course, the night wouldn't be complete without a few minutes spent in the Jacuzzi overlooking the city. Right now it's night, and the city's lights seem to tell her everything's alright, that all is fine in this world. As the warm water massages her tired body, Claire gazes at the city's evening skyline, her mind playing the events at the amusement park in an endless loop. She relives that moment on the rollercoaster, when she was trying to comfort him from his fear then he suddenly kissed her. That was…weird…and exciting and unforgettable at the same time.

She's thinking about what happened in the horror booth, inside that tunnel, when suddenly the phone rings. She doesn't think of getting up and answering it, so she lets it ring and ring. But after the tenth or so ring, she rises from the jetted tub, wraps a towel around her nȧkėdness, and dripping, paddles to the living room. She stares at the ringing phone for a minute, deciding whether or not she should answer it. It's either Gabriel or Miguel, and she doesn't have the heart to speak to either. But then maybe she needs closure, too. Gingerly, she picks up the phone and waits for someone to speak. On the end, she hears someone breathing; a song plays in the background, some old music she once heard when she was young.

"Hello?" she says. "Who's this, please?"

But no answer.

Claire sighs, then says, "Miguel, is this you?" Because after all it was Miguel who had asked her out on tonight's little date.

Gabriel is in a bar downtown, the kind that still has a jukebox machine. The song, Nina Simone's "My Baby Just Cares For Me" currently plays on the jukebox, and Gabriel's thinking about the lyrics moments after he's put the phone back on the receiver. He almost said sorry. What kind of a man couldn't say sorry to a woman he likes, perhaps even loves? This is the dig he frequents when he wants to be anonymous, when he wants to feel like he's not Gabriel Tan, a place where only the bartender knows him but keeps his mouth shut. And this is where he tried to call up Claire to say something, only for him to change his mind, the supposed words lodging in his throat. It could have been simple. It could have been good. But he said nothing and hung up. Ain't that grand?

After all that has been said and done, today has shaped up to be one of the "best" days of his life.