Close to Heaven

It had been spring for what felt like an unusually long time this year, Nick Santino thought to himself. He assumed it was because the trees had begun to green particularly early that year, or perhaps that because for the first spring in two years he wasn’t stuck in a van with seven other men. No, instead he was home-Braintree, Massachusetts-and quietly flicking through an edition of AP Magazine that he’d had since 2007. This had been the issue his band had first been featured in, a small mention in the beginning sections. He enjoyed the silence of having the house to himself. Nobody was home at the Santino residence, his mother was still at work for the day and his elder sister, Erin, had moved out with her boyfriend several years back. It would be only a month until they were married and Nick found himself scoffing at the idea. After seeing Erin’s behaviour through high school and half of college, he was surprised she’d stuck with anyone long enough to hold hands. He distinctly remembered her (in all her drunken stupor one night she’d stumbled home from a senior party) telling him that she would never marry, because marriage meant having to change.

The sharp and flustered knock of bone on wood caught his attention. His father hadn’t believed doorbells were necessary when you had perfectly fine hands to knock with, a philosophy Nick didn’t agree with. One had never been installed, even after Nick been locked out by Erin in his early childhood years, only to have nobody hear his seven year old hands knocking tirelessly on the door. If they’d had a doorbell, he would have been let in much earlier out of the Massachusetts winter. He’d gotten terribly sick that winter, and Erin had gone on to be grounded for two months since she was five years older and “immaturity is embarrassing” as his mother had so eloquently put it. He stumbled to the door, stepping on the loose toe of his sock and opened it to the unexpected and very emotional face of Loretta Waldorf. She had been crying, her face red and her eyes bloodshot. Nick hadn’t talked to her in a good eight months, since the last time he’d been back in Braintree.

“Nick,” she gasped breathlessly, enveloping her arms around him. A tad shocked but pleased to see his friend after so long, he slowly hugged her back softly, careful not to squeeze the petite girl too tight.

“Hey, Ret...are you okay?” Nick asked an obvious question, one he knew the only answer to would be no. Loretta looked back at him, taking a small sniff and shook her head.

“No, I don’t mean to be a pain...that’s the last thing I want, honestly. But Cass is at the Vineyard and I heard you were home...” she looked at him hopefully. As he ushered her in, Nick realised she hadn’t changed much, her long brown hair still halfway down her back and her clothing still designer brand.

“What’s the matter?” Nick turned and shut the door, feeling below inadequate in her classily dressed appearance. His worn track pants and bright yellow shirt that clashed with his freshly dyed orange hair were fine for wearing around the house, particularly when no company was about. In fact, once he quickly inspected himself in the large mirror that his mother loved so much in the hallway, he noticed a hole in the crotch of the pants that wasn’t large but big enough to notice. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, wondering why he hadn’t chosen jeans this morning.

“It’s Alec!” Loretta cried. Her voice was exasperated and more tears spilled over her eyelashes. “I don’t even know why I bother so much with him!”

Nick knew why, and he knew Loretta did too, despite her proclamation. Her family was well-to-do, ancestry tracing back to the Mayflower and very rich. They were very well known in Massachusetts, owning a large insurance firm that extended most of the Eastern coast. The Waldorfs lived in a large house in the rich suburbs of Boston, a sprawling estate that only family money could buy. Eric and Vivienne Waldorf had three children; Laurence, Emily and Loretta, all educated (or in the process of being educated) at Harvard per family tradition. Laurence was soon to be taking over the company, Emily had moved to Connecticut with her husband and Loretta was the apple of Eric’s eye. He adored the youngest child of his, wanted nothing less than perfection for her. And that’s why she was dating Alec Rockefeller.

Their family histories were perfect for each other, both rich and successful, proper families. Alec and Loretta, however, were not. Alec was too focused on keeping his father pleased, and Loretta was unfaithful. Of course, he would never know and neither would the families. Not when the boy she was unfaithful with was from a middle-class, single parent family. Not when he was gone from his home for months at a time. Not when her family nor almost-fiancée didn’t even know she knew Nick Santino. “What happened, Ret?” he asked softly, sitting next to her on his fake leather couch. He was sure somewhere in her family mansion, she had a couch made from real leather.

“He-he-he asked me to marry him!” Loretta attempted to contain her sobs, but they managed to overpower her, it seemed. Her entire body shook right into Nick’s arms, and he cringed mentally as his arms wrapped around her small frame. Usually, marriage proposals are a good thing, but Nick knew that this meant a fight had ensued between the “happy” couple. “I told him, I said ‘I can’t marry you’, and he was like, ‘Why not?’ And so then I was like, ‘Because I’m too young, and they’ll want an October wedding’ and he goes, and get this, ‘What’s wrong with that? Do you not like October?’ Can you believe that?” Her imitation of her partner was comical, but he didn’t laugh.

Sometimes, Nick didn’t understand Loretta at all. Other times he understood her perfectly, in fact, he did most of the time. This was one of those times where he couldn’t understand what was so bad about an October wedding. Unsure of what to say, he frowned.
“Oh, it’s fine Nick. Just shake your head and pretend like you realise that an October wedding would be rushing things,” she snapped. Nick frowned some more, not sure of what to ask.

“Well, I think I’d be angrier about the fact that he forgot October was your favourite month,” he smirked. Loretta playfully shoved him, knowing full well that wasn’t the issue are hand. “Seriously though Ret, you’ve been with him since you were 18...you’d think you’d be welcoming this.”

“Well, I’m not, Nick. I can’t marry Alec, I just can’t. He’s too much of a business driven pig, what kind of woman wants to marry that? Oh, I forgot. Only my mother, and my sister, and every other female I know!” Loretta threw her arms into the air and slumped back onto the sofa. “Fuck my life, Nick. Fuck my life.”

“It’s not that bad. He earns a lot of money...” Nick was sure that was the only positive he could think of about Alec. He’d never met the man, but he’d seen him from afar. Dark hair, blue eyes, his arm firmly attached to Loretta’s satin dressed waist. They’d been in uptown Boston, getting out of a Mercedes to go to a charity gala. Nick had happened to be on the other side of the street, casually dressed and attracting stares. If he hadn’t realised it was Loretta this arrogantly stood man was holding onto, he would have assumed they were a perfect couple.

“So? I don’t need money, my family has plenty. I’ll never have to work, ever. These jeans alone were $450.” Loretta wrapped her arms around Nick’s waist, leaning her head on his shoulder. He knew what she wanted; he would have been lying if he said he didn’t want her just as much. He knew there would soon be a gesture, something small, but something that was big enough to offset the usual chain of events that happened most times they met. Surely enough, it came in the form of a kiss upon his neck, the pressure forceful enough to indicate what she wanted him to do.

Nick glanced down at her, Loretta’s blue eyes looking up at him through her lengthy eyelashes. She moved her lips up to meet his, move with his. He responded, lowering himself onto her as she slid down on the couch. Their breathing grew rapidly between kisses, the only noise that could be heard was that and the rustling of the removal of clothes. They didn’t talk, they didn’t make eye contact.

She was out of her $450 jeans and he was out of his yellow shirt, her teeth digging into the muscle of the crook of his neck and her nails dragging down his tattooed arms. Soft moans, audible only by the close proximity of her throat to his ear, were made. He had gone eight months without this, without her. Every time he got her back, he didn’t know how he managed to go so long. Nick knew it was wrong, but he didn’t care. For this time, for however long it took, she was his and he couldn’t go wrong.