Bellamy's Redemption

“Sure. You don’t have to ask me twice,” he said.

“Emma, are you feeling better? Can you stand up?” asked a producer.

“I think so,” I said, starting to sit up.

“No. Not yet. Rest a little longer,” said one of the medics, pressing his big hand against my throat.

“Who came to see me?” I asked.

The faces above me exchanged puzzled glances. No one spoke.

“Who is my special guest?” I asked.

A short, squatty guy who was leaning over me, who I had assumed to be some random French person, cleared his throat. “Don’t you remember me, Emma?”

I squinted up at him. “Are you an American?” I asked him.

“Yeah. Of course. Emma, it’s me. Richie Buffalo. Your junior prom date. From high school.”

“Richie Buffalo?” I repeated.

“Hi, Honey. It’s great to see you. You look great. Even better than you looked back then,” he said. His face was large and round with enormous pores. His eyebrows were bushy and beads of sweat were everywhere. I closed my eyes. Vanessa moved out of the way and he moved in even closer. He began stroking my hair. “Remember how you wore that awesome turquoise dress and I had a matching pocket square and cummerbund? Remember that?”

“Everybody did that. What are you doing here?” My head was throbbing.

“I’m your special guest. Your long lost love. I’m here to see if you could be tempted away from Bellamy.”

“Richie Buffalo? Why Richie Buffalo?” I asked, turning to a producer.

“Umm…” she said. She began flipping through the yellow legal pad on the clipboard she was holding, as if the answer might be there.

“So, what do you think?” asked Richie Buffalo. “Do you feel well enough to take a walk with me around Paris and talk about our feelings?”

“No. Not really.”

“No problem. So, what have you been up to?”

I shook my head. “Ugh,” was all I could say.

“Well, I’m a stockbroker now. I hate to talk money, but I’m exceptionally wealthy. Mucho dinero.”

“Huh,” I said. I turned my head away and closed my eyes.

“You’ll never work again,” he continued. “If you marry me, you will be, by your association to me, very, very wealthy.”

“Marry you?”

“Marry me.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I mean it, Emma. Will you marry me?”

“No thank you.”

“I understand. I get it. This is sudden, right? We have some catching up to do. We’ll stroll around Paris and have a chat.” He pronounced Paris like Pair-ee.

“Richie, no…” I winced and shook my head.