Not You It's Me

by Julie Johnson

  “And to you,” Chase adds softly.

  I’m silent for a moment, trying to work up a denial but unable to do it. I can’t lie about this — not to Chase — so I lay my head against his chest and listen to his heartbeat, willing myself not to cry. He doesn’t push me; he just pets my hair in long, soothing strokes, reassuring me without words that I’ll be all right. I press my eyes closed and hug him so tight it’s probably hard to breathe, but he never complains.

  “He didn’t stay,” I whisper finally, my words hollow.

  Chase’s lips brush my forehead and his arms tighten to hold me closer.

  My voice is little more than a whisper.

  “No one ever stays.”

  A single tear escapes my eyelid and drips onto his bare chest. He flinches when he feels it, as though a bullet’s hit his chest instead of a single drop of moisture. As though that tiny tear causes him physical pain.

  I don’t let any more escape, and he doesn’t say anything.

  He just holds me in the darkness, his arms so tight they’re almost painful, and lends me his strength.

  It’s only later, much later, when my breaths have slowed and I’ve nearly nodded off to sleep that I feel lips brush against the shell of my ear and hear the echo of soft-rasped words, so distant I can’t tell whether they’re real or the fragment of a dream.

  “I’ll stay, sunshine. For you, I’ll stay.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Burn

  When I wake in the morning, Chase is gone. I register the absence of him — of his heat, of his scent, of the reassuring thud of his heartbeat — before I’m even fully conscious. Disappointment pumps through my veins as my eyes blink open, locking instantly on the empty space where he used to be. When I catch sight of the sheet of paper lying on his pillow, covered in neat lines of elegant, masculine script, I vault upright and greedily pull it close to make out his words.

  Gemma,

  You looked too peaceful to wake, no matter how much I wanted a kiss goodbye.

  I’ll settle for hoping you’re dreaming of me, instead.

  I have a business meeting across the city this morning, so I’ll be gone for a few hours. Make yourself at home. Evan is downstairs in the lobby — if you need anything and you can’t reach me, he’ll take care of you.

  I called in a few favors and the press has agreed to table the story, for now. Pissing off the Crofts isn’t good for business — and when I told them just how pissed I’d be if they upset my girlfriend, they backed off. Very quickly.

  I know yesterday was tough. But today will be a better day, sunshine. I’m sure of it. After all — no day that begins with you wrapped in my arms can possibly turn out to be anything but beautiful. I’ll see you soon.

  Yours,

  Chase

  PS: If you get bored, check my study.

  My heart pounds wildly in my chest as a grin spreads across my face, so big it makes my cheeks ache. Like a little kid with a note from the tooth fairy, I pull the paper close and hug it to my chest, feeling stupidly happy as his words melt through me, warming me from the inside out.

  I’m not sure what’s better — the fact that he worked a miracle and stopped the story, or the fact that he called me his girlfriend for the first time in a freaking note, like he thought if he casually slipped it in, it might not give me heart palpitations.

  God, he’s annoying.

  Sort of. Kind of.

  Okay, fine, he’s not annoying at all.

  I throw off the covers, jump out of bed, and race toward the door on the far wall, which I know leads into his study. I’ve barely gotten the door open, barely even scanned the space, when tears spring to my eyes.

  It’s an elegant room, with loads of windows, an imposing oak desk, and a gorgeous view of downtown, but I hardly spare it a glance. My glassy eyes are locked on the far corner, where, in a sunny nook by the windows, a stunning, antique wooden easel has been set up. There’s a blank canvas propped on it, waiting to be turned into art. A brand new set of oils sits at the ready, next to a big bottle of turpentine, a container of gesso, several brushes, and a new wooden palette. All the supplies I could ever need — including the ones I’ve never been able to afford at the expensive art stores — are there, crying out for me to use them.

  He’s thought of everything.

  It’s the best gift I’ve ever had, from anyone. Ever. There’s no way to repay him — I know from many years of scrimping and saving just how much all this costs. Not that he’d let me, even if I tried.

  I’m shocked to feel water leaking down my face, a steady torrent of tears. The sensation is so foreign, it takes me a moment to realize I’m crying.

  Me. Gemma Summers.

  Crying like a wimpy little girl, for the first time in as long as I can remember.

  I wipe moisture off my cheeks as I walk forward, my hands shaking as they sift through the materials he left me. My gentle-flowing tears turn to full-out hiccupping sobs as I get close enough to see, stacked neatly against the wall, more than a dozen blank canvases in various sizes. It’ll take me months to fill them all. Which can only mean…

  He wants me around, in his life, for a long while.

  My tears flow faster at the thought, until I’m practically weeping. I didn’t cry when I had to drop out of art school because I ran out of money. I didn’t cry when I fell off that damn motorcycle as a teenager and broke my leg. I didn’t even cry when Mom told me the true story of my parentage.

  But this, what Chase has done for me, is enough to turn me into a leaky mess.

  The easel has been set up in the sunniest spot in the office, with the prettiest vantage, directly across from Chase’s desk. In fact, it completely blocks his own view of the windows. Sitting at his desk, looking out, he won’t see the cityscape. All he’ll see is me, painting.

  Oh.

  I’m having trouble pulling in a full breath as my eyes move from his desk to my easel. It should be strange — messy art and practical business sharing the same space — but somehow they go together. The easel is finished in warm mahogany, a perfect match for the rest of the office, as though it was designed to match. Designed to stay.

  My breath halts entirely at that thought, and I decide it’s a good idea to gulp down some coffee before I pass out from lack of oxygen. And perhaps locate some tissues before I turn into a living, breathing puddle of emotion.

  Turning my back on the office, I find my way to the kitchen in a daze and flip on the coffee machine, doing everything in my power not to think about the beautiful easel or its spot in that beautiful office and especially not the beautiful man who put it there.

  ***

  Lifting the coffee cup to my mouth with one hand, the other roots around the bottom of my purse, wincing as my fingers brush past several weeks worth of gum wrappers and half dried-out pens. I’ve just taken a sip when I finally feel the smooth plastic of my phone case. Pulling it from the depths, I press a button to power it on and nearly spit my mouthful of coffee all over the breakfast bar.

  I have seventeen missed calls and voicemails.

  Seventeen!

  Fourteen of them are from Chrissy. Two are from Shelby. The last one is from my landlord.

  I don’t bother listening to them. I just scroll to Chrissy’s name and punch the redial button. It barely even rings before the call connects and her voice crackles over the line.

  “You are in so much trouble, Gemma Summers!”

  “What did I do this time?”

  “If you’d bothered to listen to the zillion voicemails I left you—”

  “Which would’ve taken several years,” I point out.

  “—you’d know that I saw the photos of you and Chase outside your apartment last night. You’re back in the city!”

  “Yeah.” I sigh. “My mother, the traitor, called him from Rocky Neck. He came and brought me back early.”

  She huffs, outraged. “And you didn’t even bother to tell me?”

  “It wa
s late. I didn’t want to wake you,” I hedge, avoiding a fight with her at all costs. There are so many hormones running through her veins at the moment, she makes most meth-heads look sedate — I am so not about to enter a battle I know I’ll lose. “And let’s just say, things didn’t work out so well when I got to my apartment.”

  “Um, yeah, I saw the photos! Why the heck were the police there?”

  “Rat Bastard Ralph got his revenge.”

  “What?”

  I sigh, take another large sip of my coffee, and tell her about my wrecked apartment.

  “What a dick!” she screeches into the phone when I finish. “If I wasn’t seventeen years pregnant, I would totally find him and kick his ass! Actually, I could probably still kick that little weasel’s ass, even in this state. I may be the size of the Hood blimp and confined to bed rest, but he’s kind of a weakling. I can take him.”

  I laugh, picturing Chrissy waddling down Comm Ave, her swollen ankles shoved into motorcycle boots, a leather jacket not quite closing over her protruding belly, on the hunt for my asshole ex-boyfriend.

  “Thanks, but that won’t be necessary. Chase has it covered.”

  She screeches into the receiver again, this time out of excitement rather than outrage, and I pull the phone away from my ear to prevent permanent hearing damage.

  “Please warn me next time you’re gonna do that,” I mutter.

  She totally ignores my grumbles. “So, does this mean you’re dating him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, how long are you staying there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you going to the Croft gala thing tonight?”

  Chase had mentioned it in the car yesterday, but he hadn’t invited me.

  “Chrissy, I don’t know.”

  “Is there anything you do know?”

  I think about it for a minute. “Not really, no.”

  “Ugh.” She groans. “I can’t properly interrogate you over the phone. Can you come over? My glare is much more effective in person.”

  “The paparazzi are apparently camped outside, stalking me.”

  “How intense is their presence? Say… on a scale of one to Britney Spears?”

  I tilt my head in thought. “Are we talking teenage-dream Britney or bald, off-her-rocker Britney?”

  “Either.”

  I sigh. “Probably somewhere in between — think Crossroads press-tour Britney.”

  “Ahh,” Chrissy murmurs in complete comprehension. “Gotcha.”

  “I’d invite you to come here but…”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Preterm labor bad, bed rest good. I know the drill.” She huffs. “I really don’t think I can manage two and a half more weeks of this. My love for daytime TV is vast, but even it has its limits. Ellen is great, but at this point even her daily dance parties aren’t enough to cheer me up. And I’ve watched so many telenovelas, I’m practically fluent in Spanish, now.”

  “Maybe the baby will pop out bilingual. That’d be cool.”

  “Truth.” She pauses. “Damn, now, I’m craving Mexican. Maybe Mark will get me a burrito or four from Anna’s on his way home from work…”

  I snort. “Goodbye, Chrissy.”

  “Wait!” she snaps. “You’re not getting off that easy. You still owe me details, woman!”

  I should’ve known she wouldn’t be easy to shake.

  Sighing, I rack my brain for something I can tell her. I don’t want to get into the saga of my father — it’s way too early in the day to unpack that much familial dysfunction — so instead, I take a deep breath, make my voice as casual as possible, and say, “Chase bought me an easel and replaced all my supplies. It was nice.”

  Total silence from the other end of the line.

  “Chrissy?” I ask. “You still there?”

  “Ohmigod,” she breathes.

  “What?” I ask, my heart pounding a little too fast.

  “You love him.”

  “What?!” I screech. “Where did you possibly get that from? All I said is it was nice!”

  “I know!” she screams. “You totally love him!”

  “Chrissy! Did you fall and hit your head? Because if you don’t have some kind of cerebral hemorrhage, you’ve definitely gone insane.”

  “Gemma, honey, don’t bother denying it…” She makes a tsk sound. “I can hear it in your voice. You’re totally falling for him. No — you’ve totally fallen for him.”

  “That’s not possible. I’ve known the man a week! I can’t possibly—” I shake my head in denial. “No. No way.”

  She giggles. “It’s cute — you trying to talk yourself out of this.”

  “Chrissy!”

  “Gemma!”

  “People don’t fall in love in a week.”

  “I fell in love with Mark in five seconds,” she reminds me, her voice a little dreamy. “All he said was ‘I’m Mark, I’ll be your TA for the semester’ and BAM! I knew, right then, that I was in love with him.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “He made me look forward to biology.” I can almost hear her shrug through the line. “True love is being so excited about seeing someone, you don’t even care if you have to dissect a frog to do it.”

  I laugh. “Well, it’s not like that for me.”

  “Do you have butterflies?”

  “No,” I lie immediately, pressing a hand to my stomach where the fluttering creatures have practically taken up residence since I met Chase.

  “O-kay, whatever you say, Pinocchio.”

  I narrow my eyes even though she can’t see me. “I don’t like you.”

  “Oh, you’re just full of lies today.” She giggles. “Have you slept with him yet?”

  I hesitate.

  “Ohmigod, you haven’t!” she exclaims. “That just proves it!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “If you weren’t falling for him, you would’ve slept with him ages ago. Given him the Gemma Special and sent him packing.”

  My eyebrows go up. “The Gemma Special?”

  “One night. No cuddling. No personal details. Gone by sunrise. I hate to break it to you, honey, but it’s your modus operandi.”

  I roll my eyes. “So not true.”

  Even though it kind of was.

  “Whatever you say,” she singsongs. “But I have one last question.”

  Dread churns in my stomach. “What?”

  “Are your pants on fire right now? Because you are lyyyyyying.”

  “I’m hanging up, now.”

  “Oh, fine.” She laughs. “But I’m only letting you go because I really have to pee and the last time I brought my cell into the bathroom, it ended up at the bottom of the toilet. And since I can’t really bend over… Let’s just say, Mark wasn’t a happy camper when he got home.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Anywho, call me tonight!” she demands, clicking off mere seconds later.

  Shaking my head in exasperation, I take another large swig of coffee and do my best to forget everything Chrissy just said. Because as outrageous and off-the-mark as she is, I can’t help but wonder if she’s also kind of…

  Right.

  ***

  Five hours later, I’m starting to understand why Chrissy is such a loon, these days. Half a day of house arrest, and I’m going out of my mind with boredom.

  After hanging up with her, I called back my landlord, who didn’t answer, followed by Shelby, who did answer and, after a little arm-twisting, agreed to run a much-needed errand for me: shopping for some replacement clothes and dropping them off here ASAP. Which, in Shelby-time, means anywhere from ten to twelve hours from now.

  In my short day of incarceration, I’ve showered, dressed in a pair of Chase’s boxer briefs and one of the too-big, ultra-white button-down dress shirts I found hanging in his massive walk-in closet, drank three cups of coffee, watched four reruns of FRIENDS on TV, and cursed everyone from Estelle for g
iving me time off, to Ralph for wrecking my apartment, to Chase for putting me under house arrest. I tried to paint, but my mind is too crowded with worries about too many different things to create anything worthwhile.

  Eventually, I settle in on the couch and start reading The Art of War, mostly as a joke, a first, but after a few pages, I have to admit Chase was right — it’s kind of engrossing.

  Not that I’ll ever admit that to him.

  When the elevator chimes open around two, I jump to my feet so fast, the book in my lap tumbles to the ground. I’m barreling in Chase’s direction before he’s made it two steps inside the apartment.

  “You’re back!” I yell, seconds before impact. I don’t slow when I reach him. At full speed, I hurdle my body against his — arms going around his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist — and hold tight. He grunts as my body-slam knocks the breath from his lungs, but his arms slide around my frame as he accepts my weight and pulls me close. Face tucked into the crook of his neck, I breathe him in and feel the low chuckle vibrate through his body.

  “Missed me, huh, sunshine?”

  I squeeze tighter in confirmation, pulling back to look into his eyes.

  “No, I do this to everyone.” I grin teasingly. “I greeted Evan this exact same way when he came up to check on me at lunchtime. You should’ve seen his face.”

  His eyes narrow on mine. “Very funny.”

  I drop my forehead against his and let my eyes droop half-closed, my gaze locked on his mouth. It’s so close to mine, if I move just the tiniest bit forward, our lips will brush.

  “Thanks for the easel,” I whisper.

  “You’re welcome sunshi—”

  I don’t even let him get the word out, because I can’t wait anymore. Suddenly, my mouth is pressed against his, my hands are twining into his hair, and I’m pressing closer, as close as I can get, until our bodies are flush together. He responds instantly, growling low in his throat as his grip tightens and his mouth claims mine in a passionate kiss.