by Lily Foster
“You’re a hard lady to track down. I came by the store on Monday and again yesterday.”
I lied. “First I’m hearing of it.” Henry did tell me, both times. I just wasn’t ready to face him.
“Hey Vee, King Chuck’s tail’s a twitching.” Alex handed me the leash. “Better take him out for a walk.”
I shot Alex a scowl over my shoulder as I made my way towards the door. Traitor.
Dylan followed along even though I didn’t invite him to come with. So freaking awkward. He broke the silence. “You’re avoiding me.”
When I looked at him, hands jammed in his pants pockets, a pained look on his face, I softened. “I’m sorry…It’s just that things ended on such a bad note on Saturday, and then when I didn’t hear from you the rest of the weekend…I thought…”
I couldn’t finish the sentence because my head was all over the place.
“I was worried about you, Veronica. I didn’t know what to think after we spent the night together. You seemed like you didn’t want to be with me…Really be with me.”
“I—”
I shook my head in frustration, unable to verbalize what was in my heart.
“What did you think? That after you told me everything then I wouldn’t be interested in a relationship, in something pure and good with someone like you? Did you tell me about your past in the hopes of pushing me away?”
“No, I wanted you to know me.”
“I do know you, Veronica. And everything I know makes me want to get closer to you, to be with you.”
He was advancing on me. It felt good and suffocating at the same time. I blurted out, “Cecilia came to see me the other day.”
Dylan’s face paled. “I’m so sorry.”
Pain shot through me. Dylan looked stunned, he looked sorrowful, he looked maybe guilty even. “You’re sorry…Why, because you did go running back to her?” I wanted to kick Dylan in the shins and run, but Chuck was in the middle of dropping a deuce, so I was stuck. “Stupid me…I thought your crazy ex-wife was lying.”
“What? No!” Dylan grabbed my arm and spun me to face him. “What are you talking about? I wasn’t with her. She’s just hurt and angry…She found out about you. Mel told her and then,” shaking his head, he added, “you sent the flowers to her apartment, not mine. She got the apartment in the divorce settlement. She came by my office drunk and spewing nonsense on Monday afternoon.”
“After she came to see me. She had the card I sent you. I felt like a fool.”
“Well, you do screw up the deliveries a fair amount.” His attempt at humor fell flat. He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “But that card, Veronica…It gave me hope. I practically sprinted over here right after, but you were gone. Same thing yesterday. And if you weren’t here today, I would have been at your place tomorrow and the day after that. I’m not giving up.”
“I meant what I wrote, but,” I paused, shaking my head, “I need some time to think, Dylan.”
“I want you to think it through with me. Can you get away from work today?”
“No chance of that…I took off two days in a row. Alex is heading up to Fairfield for a job as soon as I get back.”
“If it’s all right, I’ll hang out at the store with you today.” Before I could tell him no, he pushed. “You can boss me around, I’ll sweep, I’ll fetch your tea—”
“Right…I’d pay to see that.”
He smiled, knowing he was warming me up. “I mean it, Veronica…I’m your bitch today.”
The half-smile that was taking shape fell. “I can’t, Dylan.”
“You mean you won’t.” Backing up a step, he fixed me with a hard stare. “Did Cecilia say anything to you that…” He trailed off, frustrated. “If there’s anything you want to know, I’d rather you just ask me straight out.”
I couldn’t even fathom how to form those questions. So, you’re into orgies? But I did want to know what his deal was, and what the hell, no time like the present. I gestured in the direction of the store. Dylan followed a pace behind me and Chuck.
Our conversation stopped and started three separate times, with customers walking in, phones ringing and shipment arrivals interrupting us. “Let’s work now, talk later,” Dylan offered. And he was true to his word. He rolled up the sleeves of his tailored shirt and donned an H&A apron. He carried stock in as it was delivered, swept discarded stems off the floor in the prep area and fetched items from the cooler for me—smart bastard actually knew which flowers I was referring to, even when I tried to stump him.
At six o’clock I turned the key in the lock. Taking in his wide grin, I asked, “What is it?”
“Nothing…Just that I actually enjoyed today. It’s pretty nice working in a place like this,” he added, gesturing around at all the flowers. “I can see why you like your job.”
“I kind of love it.”
“Why do you sound apologetic when you sat that?”
I shrugged. “Maybe because a lot of people in my family are overachievers. It’s expected that you breeze through school with a perfect GPA, get a college scholarship, go onto graduate school and then do impressive things.”
“You’re referring to your cousins.”
I nodded. “Everyone’s a lawyer, an executive, a business owner. Me? I lost that college scholarship my first semester.”
“But you run this place,” he said, looking around the store and then back to me.
“I’m a glorified shop clerk, Dylan.”
“Well then I’m a glorified plumber, because I’m up to my ears in crap all day long.” When I smiled, he asked, “Can I make you dinner tonight at my place?” When I hesitated, he said, “We’re talking, nothing else. We need to talk. And I know my ex…I think the questions you want to ask me shouldn’t be said aloud in a public place.”
“Okay.”
He untied his apron and laid it on the counter. His hopeful look and sweet smile melted my heart. “All right, I’ll send James for you in an hour? I need to head back and get started on dinner.”
“Can I bring anything?”
Chuck leaned into Dylan when he knelt down and scratched behind his ears. “Just bring this little guy. I have a feeling you have lots of questions…We might be a while.”
I pulled the sleeves of my sweater down over my hands during the drive over to the West Side, so on edge that I was in danger of gnawing my own fingernails off.
“Miss Veronica,” James said, “is something wrong?”
“Hmm?”
I was so in my own head that I didn’t realize James had pulled over and was now standing with my door open and his hand extended, waiting to help me out of the car.
“No, James, I’m fine,” I said, recovering as he led me out, “just daydreaming. Thanks for the ride.”
“It’s my pleasure. Have a good night.” Looking down at Chuck, he said, “Don’t you waz on Cole’s floor now, you hear? He’s a bit of a neatnik.”
Dylan lived in one of those buildings that had serious security. The doorman wasn’t wearing the standard topcoat and hat ensemble that you saw at most high-end residences. No, this guy dressed like an investment banker but looked more like a secret service agent. Another employee manned a desk viewing surveillance camera footage. Even though I’d never been here before, I was greeted as Miss Petrov when I entered the lobby and was then directed to an elevator separate from the others. The doorman pressed the only button in the elevator and then bid me goodnight, exiting before the door closed. It wasn’t creepy but it wasn’t quite normal either.
The elevator door opened to a vestibule done in wood paneling that had a sleek, modern look. It was minimalistic and masculine. The glass door, which spanned from floor to ceiling, was left ajar. I realized this when King Charles broke free from me and scampered in on his own, yapping away. I followed, calling out to Dylan but got no answer. Looking around, I noted the modern art prints dotting the walls, but the first large piece stopped me in my tracks. I was suddenly nine ye
ars old again.
There’s an oversized, goofy portrait of a nerdy guy with a toothy grin hanging in the Metropolitan. I was amazed at the time to realize that it wasn’t a photograph because the detail is just so realistic. I remember standing in front of it that day, transfixed. Kasia turned me around at one point, put her glasses on me and snapped a picture—totally against the rules in the museum. I had a wide-eyed look of surprise because I couldn’t believe Kasia would take a chance like that, and I was laughing. With her big glasses on and the offbeat clothes she liked to dress me up in, I looked like the subject of the painting’s wacky kid. We laughed ourselves silly when she had the picture developed.
I wonder where that picture is now.
I focused on the piece before me, swallowing back the emotion, because I didn’t want to be missing her so badly in this moment. My life, and this situation in particular, was bizarre—to be wanting a man who was so intimately and utterly in love with Kasia once upon a time. I still wasn’t entirely comfortable with even the idea of me and Dylan.
This piece was different, but another by Chuck Close, a self-portrait made up entirely of a series of dots. I stood close to see the detail and then backed up several feet to take in the image in its entirety. It was amazing, and I realized as I moved in close a second time, it was an original. Holy shitcakes.
I drew in another breath, acknowledging that Dylan’s wealth was another thing that threw me off balance. It’s not like I grew up destitute—my father, while he wasn’t as successful as others in the family, earned a good income from his rental properties. I knew my aunt and uncle’s real estate holdings were very valuable and Kasia was an extremely wealthy woman in her own right. But we were a family of immigrants at heart. My people came from economic hardship, political unrest and suffering. Even when you made your fortune, maybe you were still wary of the floor dropping out from beneath your feet. So you invested in what was tangible—real estate, gold bars. I don’t ever recall my mother or father writing a check or swiping a credit card; they dealt in cash. I bet that to this day, my father doesn’t even have a bank account. The gun in his nightstand and the safe in his bedroom closet offer more security. And while the second-generation is different, people like me still don’t spend money impulsively, indulging in whims.
“You like this one?”
“Mmm,” I murmured incoherently, nodding as I stood before what was probably a high seven-figure indulgence.
He moved in closer, placing his hands on my shoulders and giving them a light squeeze, the heat of his body and his scent rendering me lightheaded. “Some people hate it. I guess he does kind of look like a wild man. Cecilia had this one banished to my office when we lived together, so now that I’m on my own I decided to bust him out of captivity. Every night when I walk in, it’s that look on his face…It’s like he’s saying, ‘What’s up?’ like he actually cares.”
I nodded, taking in the cigarette dangling from the subject’s lips, the scruff on his face, and the way he was looking down on you, but not in a way that was critical. “Yeah, I can imagine that too. This one’s an early self-portrait, right?”
The intercom buzzed. He walked towards the door, looking over his shoulder when he said, “You know your art, Veronica.” Opening a concealed panel to retrieve a phone, he said absently, “Yes, have it sent up with Rupert.”
“That surprises you?”
He raised his hands in a gesture of defeat, closing his eyes for a moment and shaking his head. “Easy, killer…That wasn’t meant as an insult.” He asked, “Why are you always prone to assume the worst when it comes to me?”
“I don’t assume the worst. I just…don’t know how to be around you sometimes.”
He went to speak but was interrupted by a knock on the door. A tall, imposing hottie dressed in a dark, fitted suit stood on the other side of the glass door holding two large bags.
“Thank you, Rupert. I’ll take those.”
“Anything else, Mr. Cole?”
“No, we’re good.”
“Have a good evening then.” Looking to me, he added, “Goodnight, Miss Petrov.”
Taking in my confused expression, Dylan said, “You, um, met Rupert the night I took you to your aunt and uncle’s house.”
“He’s—”
“My driver…One of my drivers.”
“Oh.”
He called out from the kitchen over the sound of paper bags being opened and unloaded. “I actually can cook, Veronica, but I had to take care of some emails and phone calls when I got back here before. I know my good intentions don’t amount to shit and all, but I was planning on blowing you away with my maple glazed salmon.” I still hadn’t moved from the painting. “Hey.” He was behind me again now, his hands back on my shoulders, his voice uncertain. “I really did want to put some effort into tonight, to impress you.”
“I don’t care about the food.” Raising a hand up to cover one of his, I added, “Whatever you ordered actually smells great.”
“Then what’s up? You seem unsettled.”
“Is this an original?”
“An original what? Are we still talking about this painting?”
“Yeah,” I said, turning around to face him. It wasn’t just the painting. The art was a symbol of the differences between us: our upbringing, our lineage, every facet of our lives. I mean, I didn’t view us on the level of some Pygmalion type mismatch, but maybe I did see something of Eliza in me and Higgins in Dylan. And even though I’d made an odd habit out of choosing older men, everything in me bristled against being schooled, taught—being told what to do in any way, shape or form.
He cocked his head to the side, challenging me. “It is, but why is that important to you? Does it give you more ammo to use against me?”
“It’s just weird, that’s all.”
“Define weird.”
“When you walk into my apartment, there’s a crappy table that needs refinishing, an uncomfortable couch, mismatched chairs, and posters…tiny replicas of art, not—”
“The Lovers.”
Shitfuckdammit. This man was always one step ahead of me. Why did I even mention my place? The “artwork” affixed to my walls with two-sided tape was a window into my screwed up soul. A barren barn out in the middle of nowhere by O’Keefe, Wyeth’s rendering of a paralyzed girl sitting on the grass reaching for home in the far-off distance, a golden haired beauty cradling her infant by Klimt. Every picture spoke of loneliness, longing or feeling deserted. I might as well have had a giant mural of a rudderless ship painted on my wall, because that’s what I was.
The print he was referring to though, that’s the one that revealed the worst of me. And like a cornered alley cat, I was readying to sharpen my claws. He didn’t have to say anything else because that one picture told me everything. Now I knew how he saw me.
“I always knew you were special…unlike anyone else I’d ever met, Veronica. And from the moment I saw you,” he looked down, shaking his head as if he was in pain, “acting like you had it all under control, wearing that skimpy dress those assholes put you in your first night working in that shitty club…I wanted to shield you. But the other night when I saw that print, I had this feeling that overwhelmed me. It still kind of doesn’t make sense, but it was as if you were the one protecting me. It’s like I imagined in that moment that you already knew my bullshit, all the fucking awful things I’ve tried to bury and hide about myself, and you still wanted me, flaws and all.”
Sucking a breath, I stood speechless. He saw himself in that picture? Yes, he did. He was the one kissing me. Just like me, his face was wrapped tight, hidden behind a veil.
“I picked that up at a flea market one day for three bucks. It was right after I started up with French. I didn’t give it much thought that day…Just knew I wanted it. But it is about hiding, being close without letting the other person really see you. I get angry at myself when I look at it now.” Looking away, I busied myself fiddling with a loose thread on my sweater. �
�I thought you were about to call me out on it.”
“That would be pretty hypocritical on my part, don’t you think? I’ve been an imposter in every romantic relationship I’ve ever had. It was always like that…Even with her.”
“You can say Kasia’s name in my presence.”
“But it’s another one of those things that’s weird for you, right?”
My shoulders sagged, no fight left in me. “It is, but then it’s not.” I walked around Dylan and took a seat at the kitchen island, suddenly exhausted. “Pour me some of that wine, please, and give me a spring roll.”
He stood across from me, studying me as I ate. “God, I love spring rolls,” I gushed, in desperate need of a subject change. “The greasier the better. And duck sauce? I could put it on everything.”
But he wasn’t having it. “Ask me.”
“What?” I asked with a full mouth, feigning ignorance.
He fixed me with a pointed look. “Ask me.”
I took one gulp of wine, fortifying myself. “You cheated.”
“Every time.” He chewed on his lip to the point where it looked painful. “Never… I’ve never been completely faithful.”
“Why?”
“First, let me say that I’ve only been in two relationships I’d consider serious.”
“Kasia and your wife.” He nodded. “So, the woman at the vineyard?”
“Nothing…A fling.”
“She was beautiful.”
He shrugged. “Lots of women are beautiful.”
“From where I was sitting it looked like you two were pretty close.”
“Then I’d say you need glasses.” He poured himself a glass of wine and took a sip. “She was a business associate. I know it makes me sound crude, but she was there to scratch an itch, nothing more.”
“Crude? Makes you sound like a bastard.”
“I grew up knowing that people wanted to be around me for different reasons. When you made a friend at school, it was because the other kid genuinely liked you, right? But I never knew if the kids liked me because of me, or they liked me because I had the tricked out house, the best video games, tickets to the playoff games, or because I threw the craziest parties. And with girls it was worse. You tend to start using people before they can use you.”