“It was always an ‘accident’,” he said, and I swear I could feel the walls between us slowly crumbling. “‘I didn’t see you there,’ ‘I didn’t mean to push you that hard,’ ‘I was angry; I wasn’t thinking straight.’ It was never about the fact that he was a drunk, or the fact that he was an asshole even when he wasn’t drinking.” He shrugged. “So, I got this…” he pointed at the scar on his chin, “the night everything changed, and my dad finally drug his sorry ass to rehab.”
My stomach turned. I never would’ve guessed that any part of Greyson could match a part of me so closely, yet there it was. The hurt and pain that hid beneath our surfaces. “I’m sorry. That’s shitty,” I said quietly. It was the only thing I could think to say.
“Yeah, me too. About your mom. I had no idea.” He looked down at me, meeting my gaze. “Guess that’s something we have in common then, huh?” He laughed darkly.
“Yeah,” I said, my tone echoing his mood entirely. “Adults suck.”
“Adults suck,” he agreed, and our backs hit the wall of his pool.
We stood there, side by side, letting everything we’d shared with each other sink in. I guess we’d both learned that lesson early on…that adults were full of shit. That the preconceived notion that they have it all together and know what they’re doing, was total bullshit. Most of the time they were more screwed up and confused than we were, they were just a hell of a lot better at pretending they weren’t.
“Is that why you don’t drink?” I asked him after a while.
He nodded. “Yeah. Doesn’t really appeal, you know?”
“Yeah, I get that,” I said, and he scooted a fraction closer, his arm bumping mine in the water. I’m not even sure he was conscious of it—this physical need to be closer that he seemed to be unaware of.
But I knew it, because I felt that need, too. Every time I was with him. It felt like there was this invisible string tied around my heart that was attached to some unknown part of Greyson—his eyes, his heart, his mind, I didn’t know exactly. Maybe all of it. Probably all of it. But it pulled me in, closer, and closer, and closer every day.
Silence stretched out in front of us as we stood there in the water, and I couldn’t stop my mind from wandering. From worming through the last hour of conversation and analyzing what all of it meant. What he’d shared with me, what I’d shared with him, the three words he’d accidently said before we took a turn for the dark and ugly.
The I and the love and the you.
I fucking love you, Jess.
I turned those words over in my mind. The way he’d easily said them—with a smile on his face. The way they sounded as they fell from his lips, and the unfiltered honesty I saw in his eyes when they did.
And then the way he’d quickly taken them back in embarrassment, like maybe there was more truth in that moment than he wanted to let on.
I pushed my hands through the water, forward and back, again and again. At some point Greyson turned to face me, and when I looked into his eyes, I saw that same raw honesty in them. Like maybe he’d been turning these things over in his mind, too.
And it should have been awkward, standing there, staring at each other for that long without saying a word, but it wasn’t.
I think an entire conversation passed between our eyes.
Thank you for sharing that with me, Jess.
Yeah, you too. It means a lot to me. That you did.
It means a lot to me, too.
I took a deep breath. I really like you, Greyson.
I know. I really like you, too.
I know.
And I know I said I couldn’t do this. But…I want to, Jess.
I know.
Badly.
I know. I smiled.
And what I said before, earlier?
Yeah?
I think I might’ve meant it.
I know. And Greyson?
Yeah?
I’m pretty sure I feel that way, too.
His lips tilted in a slow smile, the color of his eyes shifting with the light of his pool, brightening and dimming into a hundred different shades of green.
My heart was racing again—for a completely different reason. It was hard to breathe, hard to swallow. I wanted to reach out and touch him, hold him, kiss him, feel him. I wanted it more in that moment than in the million times that had come before it, and the look in his eyes told me that maybe he wanted the same thing.
But instead of closing that last foot of space between us, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “I should go inside now,” he finally said.
“Why?” I asked, a soft whisper.
He licked his lips, swallowed, and when he opened his eyes…there was a heat in them I’d never seen before. And then he stepped towards me, his body gliding through the water, and I think it was all the answer I needed.
His chest touched mine, expanding with deep breaths. I could feel the pounding of his heart beating a relentless rhythm against my own. Our hearts warred with each other. Hammering, and pounding, and waiting. Waiting for whatever it was that would happen next.
He pulled his hand up out of the water and slid it across my cheek, before sliding it into my hair. I stopped breathing. Nearly choked on the knotted ball of anticipation that was lodged in my throat, because the way he was looking at me…
Was he actually going to kiss me?
I sucked in a belated breath, closing my eyes. I was severely aware of everything happening around me. The warm, rhythmic splash of water hitting my arms. The cool breeze rushing past my shoulders. The five electric points of Greyson’s fingers gently pressing into the back of my neck. The minty smell of his breaths falling over mine. The darkening shadow of his head dipping closer, closer, closer.
I waited. I waited, and I waited, and I waited, but the press of his mouth on mine never came.
“I have to go inside now,” he said instead, regret lacing his words.
The anticipation and excitement that had coiled itself inside my body fled for its life. He isn’t going to kiss me.
I swallowed thickly, clearing my throat and nodding as I opened my eyes. “Goodnight, Greyson,” I said. I was disappointed. Of course I was disappointed.
But the “Goodnight” he whispered against my lips still stayed with me all night.
Twenty-six After
HALF THE EVENING passes by in a blur. Flutes of bubbling champagne and small-bite appetizers have been passed around the room. Trays of them still float through the open space as guests mingle, discussing and studying the art around them. My art.
It never gets old. Never ceases to amaze me that people are still interested in what I have to say, expressed on each canvas that lines these stark white walls. I glance up at the exposed ceiling, at the piped lighting overhead that illuminates the room. At the steel beam supports that hold this building’s structure together.
I’m hiding is what I’m doing. Behind the reception desk. Not avoiding anyone, per se. I just like to give the viewers some space, a little bit of time to take in the paintings without the pressure of the artist hovering. I like watching them from a small corner of the room, like studying the honesty in their expressions when their eyes land on a piece they connect with. It’s my favorite part, hands down. Also, it doesn’t hurt to sneak an extra flute or two of champagne in while I’m back here.
The receptionist, and my good friend, Ricky, swipes another off a passing server’s tray and holds it down to me with a knowing smirk.
“Thank you, Ricky. Now how about one of those cucumber sandwich thingies?” I throw him a ridiculous smile, taking the champagne from his offered hand.
“You’re pushing it, baby girl,” he says, and I laugh.
“Oh, please. You know you want one too.”
He holds out for a few seconds, pretending to think about it, before admitting, “You know I do. Those microscopic sandwiches are delectable. Be right back, babe.” He leaves me with a smile on my face and a flute of champagne in each hand.
Maggie rounds the corner of the reception desk in a haste. “Okay. Don’t be mad.”
“Mags, you can’t just start a sentence like that,” I say. “It immediately sets me up for failure. Why do you look so nervous? What happened? What’s going on?” One sentence runs into the next.
She doesn’t say anything, turning to the large doorway of the gallery instead. Greyson steps through with enough grace to be a member of the royal family. Dressed top to bottom in a dark, perfectly fitted suit.
My pulse immediately picks up speed. “What the hell did you do?” I whisper, as loudly as can be deemed appropriate for a whisper. So pretty much, I whisper-yell the question loud enough that Greyson looks straight over at me. Thankfully, the rest of the crowd seems to be oblivious to my outburst. I set one of the two champagne flutes down on the counter and tug my friend into my personal space. “Seriously, Maggie, explain yourself right now, because Greyson is walking this way and you only have about three seconds to tell me all about how you’ve lost your damn mind!” I finish through a set of very clenched teeth.
Is it hot in here? It’s definitely hot in here.
And her time is up.
“Hi, Jess. I hope you don’t mind that I’m here,” Greyson says as he steps before us, all calm and confidence.
“No, of course not.” I laugh nervously. “Thank you for coming.” I reach my hand out to shake his. Like a lunatic. Except that this is my art showing, and I tend to shake hands and thank everyone who walks through those doors, so it’s completely normal and not awkward at all. Keep telling yourself that, Jess.
“Great. That’s great.” He smiles and slides his hand into mine, and it nearly kills me. Everything just kind of stops moving and pumping and circulating inside my body, ceasing to keep me alive. For at least a few stuttering seconds, I’m sure of it. “I’m going to go take a look around. Hopefully we can catch up later?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say before really thinking too much about it. I seem to have lost the ability to string more than two coherent thoughts together at once. That, and I’ve got a friend or three to grill at the moment.
He steps away and submerges himself in the crowd, and I feel a small pang of loss at his disappearance. I’d give anything to see his face when he takes in that first painting. So many of them are of him, or about him, in one shape or another. The broken pieces of myself I pieced back together after he left.
Will he see it? Will he recognize that? I guess I’ll soon find out.
I spin around on Maggie. “Explain. Now.”
She’s all wide eyes and guilt. Guilty, guilty, guilty. “Please don’t be mad. I just…I saw how sad you were at dinner the other night, and I couldn’t help myself. I figured passing the information along about the opening wouldn’t be such a big deal. Either he’d come, or he wouldn’t. I mean, you’re glad he’s here, right?”
I take a deep, calming breath. “I think so,” I admit.
“Okay, good,” she says with a nod.
Sita rests her elbows down on the counter opposite of us. “Why so serious?” she asks with a mock pout.
“Greyson’s here,” Maggie and I answer at the same time. Her with a level of calm that I’m obviously still lacking.
“What?! Where?” Sita asks.
Maggie guides her attention to an unsuspecting Greyson.
“What in the actual fuck, Jess?” Sita exclaims under her breath. “I see you failed to mention the extreme level of hot your ex was.”
“Oh my god, shut your mouth. That is not what’s important here. What do I do?” I try not to whine, but I fail miserably by the end of that sentence.
“You stand tall, is what you do,” she says, all bossy and business and the Sita that I know and love. “This is your art showing. Go out there and enjoy it. Mingle; have fun! This is your night. And you deserve it, because these pieces are wow, Jess. They’re amazing. So go out there and own it. Let the rest fall into place, okay?”
Her words instantly help me reach a level of calm I can be comfortable enough in. Because she’s right. She’s absolutely right. “Okay, yeah,” I say, feeling more myself than I did before her speech. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Thank you.” I give her a tight hug and slip off into the crowd.
Twenty-seven After
THE REST OF the night passes the same. In a blur.
Almost all of my paintings have been sold, and the food and champagne has dwindled along with the crowd. But while I should be wholly ecstatic and ready to celebrate the success of tonight, I can’t help the disappointment I feel curling in my stomach and tightening in my chest. Because Greyson is gone.
I lost track of him hours ago. He said he wanted to catch up, but somewhere in the midst of everything he must’ve decided it was exactly what he didn’t want to do.
Did I scare him off?
I try not to dwell on that thought as I thank and bid goodnight to each guest as the night continues to wind down.
It’s only when the lingering crowd has thinned out to a straggling few that I spot him at the back of the gallery, eyes hooked on my favorite painting, rapt. He sits on the white bench across from it, closed-off to the world. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His shirt is taut across his broad shoulders, his jacket lying over the bench beside him.
I’m ashamed at the level of relief I feel at the sight of him. But it’s there whether I like it or not, so I swallow it down and accept it for what it is.
I slowly make my way over to him, taking in his expression of deep concentration, watching as at least a dozen thoughts and emotions flit across his eyes.
To be a fly on that wall, is exactly how I feel right now. To be inside his mind and know exactly what he’s thinking. To know why he’s drawn to that painting in particular.
Does it remind him of being overseas?
Does it remind him of his own wars? Both literal and figurative?
He tears his gaze away from the piece as I step closer, his eyes raking up and down my body before meeting my own. His Adam’s apple slides up and down his throat with a slow swallow as he shifts his body towards me, just barely.
It didn’t escape my attention that the last time I saw him, I was in ripped jeans and a loose, paint-streaked shirt, so his obvious appraisal and appreciation of my strappy heels and curve-hugging black dress makes my stomach flip.
I sit down next to him, running my hands down the short skirt of my dress, and look up at the painting. “You seem drawn to this one,” I say.
He shifts his posture slightly, straightening a bit. “Yeah,” he replies. “I’m not sure what it is about it, exactly…but I feel a definite favoritism towards it…
“…Reminds me of a lot of things.”
What things, Greyson? I want to ask, but I don’t.
“You, mostly, if I’m being honest,” he answers anyway.
I swallow thickly, taking in an unsteady breath.
“There was always…” he pauses a moment before continuing, “It always felt obvious to me, the undercurrent of sadness in you, even before…” He inhales and exhales a deep breath, gesturing towards the painting. “But I never imagined it felt like this.”
And there it is.
Pegged.
Just like that.
By the only person in the world I imagine could do so.
And what is there to say to that, really? So I find myself simply nodding, silently agreeing with his words. I honestly don’t think I even saw it myself back then—the weight of it. Felt it, absolutely. But understanding the depth of it, and the amount of therapy and art it would take to get me through it, not even close. I had no clue.
“It’s my favorite, too,” I eventually say. “I’m having a hard time letting go of it.”
He turns to me fully, and I allow my eyes to sweep over his face without restraint. To linger on the curves of his full lips, and the small scar on his chin buried beneath the scruff of his five o’clock shadow. His nose
, his cheekbones, his jawline—the strong definition of each of these features that make up his perfectly imperfect face.
When my eyes meet his once more, I realize he’s been studying my face just as freely.
He smiles. Uneven, hesitant. “Maybe you’ll come by my house sometime, then. See where I’ve hung it on my wall.”
It takes a few lingering seconds for his words to sink in, but when they do, I suck in a quick breath. He bought it? “You—”
But Ricky walks over, interrupting me before I can finish that sentence, and the dozens of others running quickly behind it. “We’re done, baby girl!” He sweeps me up and spins me around until I can’t help but laugh. “We’re going out to celebrate!” When he spots Greyson, he has no shame in asking, “And just who is this delicious slice of man cake?” low enough that only I can hear.
Please don’t show a reaction; please don’t show a reaction.
“Ricky, this is Greyson, an old friend,” I introduce. “Greyson, this is Ricky, my crazy and amazing newest friend.”
I can see the way Ricky almost chokes on his next words. “Oh? So nice to meet you, Greyson.”
Greyson stands with an amused curve to his lips, and they shake hands.
Ricky turns to me, bugged eyes. So much for not showing a reaction. I hide my smile and hold back a snort of laughter. He turns back to Greyson, smooth mask of feigned nonchalance in place. “The girls and I are going out to celebrate our lovely Jess here. Would you like to come?”
It doesn’t surprise me that he asks. Nothing with Ricky does at this point. I look to Greyson with a soft smile, waiting for his answer. Expertly hiding the fact that so much of me is hooked on his impending response, waiting on bated breath. I want him to come. Desperately.
“Of course, absolutely,” he says, eyes glued to mine. “If Jess doesn’t mind,” he adds.
Before & After You Page 9