by Iris Blaire
“Don’t,” I say.
He stands, and as he leaves, he reaches down, hand brushing the back of my neck. A shiver trickles down my spine.
I don’t watch him leave the library.
Instead, with newly found determination, I turn the page of my textbook. I glance over at my planner. Thumbing through it, I find May 27th of next year and write across the entire rectangle one word.
DALLAS.
And then I uncap my highlighter.
Evan
Seven Months Later
Waiting for Dallas at the airport is the most self-conscious I’ve ever been.
I realize now, standing right before security in jeans, my glasses, a zip-up Harvard sweatshirt, and the keys to our new Cambridge apartment tucked in my pocket, that over the past year and a half we’ve been separated more than we’ve been together.
This terrifies me.
It terrifies me because I might be more in love with him now than when he left back in October. I don’t know why. Maybe I’ve just built up a fantasy of the perfect man in my head because I’m delusional and can’t remember what it’s like to really be with him.
And maybe it’s not the same for him.
We’ve had a handful of Skype calls. Even fewer phone calls. His means of communicating with me in the field were next to nothing, and when I was able to talk with him when he was back in California, he sounded anxious, stressed, and overloaded with work. Maybe our time apart made him realize how trivial our romance is compared to a career. Maybe this is the last summer I’ll ever spend with him.
You’re thinking too much, Evan.
His flight is delayed. I go pee and get a coffee, realizing coffee is a terrible idea with my jitters, but I can’t help it because coffee reminds me too much of him, and I’m about to lose my mind before finally—finally—I see him at the end of the hall.
Reunions in busy airports are a strange thing. I can’t run to him because I’m not allowed to. He can’t run to me because he certainly can’t just abandon his luggage in the middle of the airport unless he wants to get arrested. His walk is relaxed, even when he sees me, the faintest grin on his lips.
I try to mirror his calm state by crossing my arms nonchalantly, even though my entire body is shaking.
I can see the electric-blue of his eyes from here. Against the new tan of his skin, he’s even more beautiful than when he left me. If that’s even possible.
As he approaches, his face grows solemn—serious. When he reaches me, he drops his duffel and cups my jaw in both his hands.
“I came here all this way to tell you,” he begins monotonously, “that I’ve fallen in love with a Costa Rican woman. Tomorrow, I will fly back, and we will ride off into the sunset together, get married on top of a mountain, and perform missionary-position intercourse on our wedding night with the lights off.”
I frown. “And your eyes closed?”
“Of course,” he says blatantly. “I can’t handle seeing a woman naked all at once.”
“And you’d rather tell me this than kiss me,” I say, hurt lingering in my voice.
The corners of his lips perk up. “I have the rest of my life to kiss you.”
“You have the rest of your life to tell me bad jokes, too.”
His hands glide from my jaw to the back of my neck, and his lips crush mine. My knees give out, but he holds me steady against him, refusing to let me fall. He pulls away and whispers, “Baby, are you crying?”
A tear drips from my chin. Forehead pressed to his, I work to memorize every fleck of his irises, hoping that one day I will have stared into them long enough to know them by heart.
It seems that every time I look into them, they astonish me just a little more.
Fingers tangled in my hair, he presses his lips to my forehead.
I whisper to him, “Let’s go home.”
Britain
Me: Don’t be mad at me.
What did you do now? Evan types back to me over IM.
Me: Can I call you?
Evan: In class. Supposed to be paying attention. Final tomorrow. Whatevs.
Me: Well, I decided that it was a shame to let all of those photos go to waste, especially after the models quit on AA and there was never a Halloween issue.
Evan: Are you saying that you’re putting out one last EPE?
Me: Can’t. Those fuckers still own the rights to the mag. But I let Andrea see the pics and she came up with a story. Like, a fucking great story, Evan. Way better than that raunchy professor one with you and Dallas.
Evan: What are you saying?
Me: Well, she wrote it and it ended up being really long. So I just went for it and pitched it to a couple publishers as a horrormance novella with photographs. Figured we’d self-publish if there were no bites.
Evan: OMG… did you FUCKING SELL IT?
Me: For money, bitch. Lots. An editor read my credentials and was a fan of EPE… can you believe it?
Evan: Shit. Class just ended and I have lab. I’LL CALL YOU IN LIKE FOUR HOURS OKAY?
Evan C. has logged off.
I wanted to tell her that she and Dallas were going to end up with fat commission checks, but I figure that surprise can wait. Quickly, I scan through the emails with my new editor, reading through the contract and the messages containing her high hopes for the book and its series potential.
My photography days might not be over yet.
When Delilah comes home from class, I close out the email. I haven’t told anyone yet, except for Andrea and Evan. The news is still fresh, and after the AA fiasco, I don’t really feel like spreading it just yet.
Although there is one more person I’d like to tell.
I walk out onto the concrete pool deck barefoot, the warm breeze grazing my skin. I call his cell. Of course, he doesn’t pick up.
He never picks up.
The last time I saw him was when EPE dismantled itself. Evan stormed out, and as the chaos and gossip arose from the other models, A.J. screamed at me to get her back. I threw my hands in the air and told him I couldn’t do anything—I no longer worked for him.
We had the manor booked for the rest of the week, but after most of my models quit, including Delilah and Adam, we all decided to rent a suite together. When I was packing my things and leaving Veda Manor, I couldn’t find him.
I called him once when we were at the hotel. He didn’t pick up.
I can only assume that Cameron contacted him and threatened him to leave. I never confronted my brother though. The entire situation was too surreal for me to even know where to begin.
“Hey, it’s Brit. Listen… I have news. I know… I know you probably don’t care. Fuck, Jaime. I know Cameron contacted you, so you know that I know what happened between the two of you. Well, between you and my entire family. But it can’t be over like this. I need to hear what happened from your mouth. I know we… we weren’t together long or anything. Maybe your feelings for me were never more than—you know—wanting to hook up. I just… I wish I knew for sure….
“I miss you.”
“Brit. It’s Jaime. Sorry I missed you… again. It is one in the morning so that would explain it. I’m also… uhh… I’m kind of drunk… Fuck. Fuck, Brit. Boston was amazing and you are amazing and you did nothing. You did nothing to deserve being ignored. I’m just… goddamnit, Brit. I’m a fuck-up, but you have to trust me that what happened at your dad’s company isn’t what it seems. I just… I wish I could explain to you. Goodbye, Brit.”
----Original Message-----
From: Britain McCulley ([email protected])
Sent: June 14th, 2014
To: Jaime Rivera ([email protected])
Subject: Fuck You.
Jaime,
Although you’re an ass, I’m willing to look past everything to give you a chance.
We all have demons. I want to hear what you have to say.
Despite everything that happened in Boston, I guarantee that you still think I’m some
delicate porcelain princess.
Leaving for home in a week, and I plan to be lounging around the pool every day. You know, if you’re in the area.
I still have that red bikini.
Love,
Britain
From: Jaime Rivera ([email protected]
Sent: June 15th, 2014
To: Britain McCulley ([email protected]))
Subject: Re: Fuck You.
Britain,
Keep your bedroom window unlocked.
See you in a week.
Jaime
Acknowledgements
Special thanks to my husband, a mighty fine source of inspiration.
To Sara and Eva, who aren’t afraid to talk smut with me. Well, most of the time.
And to my amazing fans. You know, for putting up with my corny jokes.