by S. L. Scott
I follow her inside and find her rummaging through papers on a table near the door. With her back still to me, she asks, “What are you doing here?” Her tone holds haste, distaste altogether.
And I miss the reverence it once held. I charge forward setting the vase down on the glass desk top, momentarily forgetting I’m handling something of value, something precious. She jumps, startled, maybe scared. It’s a blaring reminder of how I mishandled her. She was precious and valuable, but I didn’t treat her that way. But my irritation wins out. Looking her in the eyes, my voice is stern, my mouth tight. “I gave this to you as a gift. It’s rude to return a gift.”
She eyes the vase, concerned, giving me a peek at the Juliette I once knew. She wants to touch it. I can tell, but restrains herself. When her eyes finally meet mine, she says, “I don’t want your gifts. I don’t want anything from you. I don’t want you in my life at al—”
“Enough!” I yell, too loud to be appropriate for the workplace. I’ve become irrational. “I’ve had enough of this bullshit, Juliette.”
Her eyes flash with anger, anger I haven’t seen in too long, in too many years. Passion. I thought she was weak at the end of our relationship, but she was always passionate. I was just blinded by my own ego to notice anymore.
Her hands are on her hips in defiance as she glares at me. Pointing at me accusingly, with her teeth clamped together, she strikes back. “You’ve had enough?” Her voice goes up a notch, seething as her hands fist at her sides. “You’ve had enough! Fuck you, Dylan! Get out of my office and get out of my gallery!”
I stare at her, my heart skipping a beat or three or five.
Thump.
Thump.
Skip.
Thump.
Thump.
Skip.
I’m mad. I’m fucking offended. But I’m impressed too. Juliette Weston is so fucking infuriating and smart not to take my shit, not to put up with anything involving me, but this situation is frustrating.
Very.
Fucking.
Frustrating!
“Leave,” she starts again, her arms hanging at her sides, not defeated, but resolved. “Please.”
I feel the shift in the air. I step forward. She steps back. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I move forward again. Throwing all the past away, like it doesn’t exist, I reach out and grasp her hip… and she doesn’t move this time.
Our eyes never leave each others as I gently squeeze, knowing she’ll only allow this for so long. She moves, turning rapidly and escaping behind her desk, putting the security of furniture between us. “You need to leave,” she says, her voice is softer, her gaze falling from mine as she sits down in her chair.
My insides are twisted, fucked up, my emotions are all over the fucking place because of that woman. Wordlessly, I go, making it into the main hall of the gallery before she’s there, behind me, calling to me. “You forgot your vase.”
My anger returns when I look back at her. “I want you to have it. Keep it.” My words may be terse, but my desires are true.
There’s no anger in her eyes though as she holds the vase cradled in her arms, protecting it. Only questions remain. That’s all I see when I look at her, the emptiness from lack of answers. I wish I could give her everything she needs, but I can’t. I can’t fill the blackness I’ve instilled in her heart. I can only alter it into something beautiful again. And right now that means leaving, because she wants me to.
I wish I could stay and see her passion again. I’m ready for her wrath. If we can get it out and over with, we might be able to do something other than hurt each other. We’re caught in a cycle. Wonder if she sees that, if she feels it like I do. Hate binds us to the past and we’re stuck in an unwanted emotion. But there’s more to us than hate. There’s something profoundly deeper.
I don’t just know it, I feel it. I feel it morphing inside of me. I see it morphing inside of her when I look deep into her beautiful brown eyes.
THE VASE CATCHES the light and I look over at it by the window, my legs crossed under my desk, the end of a pen between my teeth—a bad habit I picked up from Dylan years ago.
I don’t keep flowers in the vase he gave me because they take away from the beauty already there, the artistry in form. I should have insisted he take it back, but I love it too much. When he brought it back, I was happy to see it. Secretly, I was happy to see him again too.
Irritated for having that thought or feeling, I toss the pen down, watching as it skids across the surface of the desk. I’m not sure how to classify this emotion since I don’t allow myself to dwell on such novelties and irresponsibilities.
STARTING WITH THE opener I’ve rehearsed, I say, “Please don’t judge me, okay?”
Brandon stops, the bottle opener in hand, the cork halfway removed. He tilts his head like he knows what’s coming, but I don’t think he does. I’d be getting more than a raised eyebrow if he did.
Confessing, I add, “I’ve been thinking about him lately.”
“Jesus, Jules. Talk about a masochist.”
“I like the way I don’t even have to say his name and you know exactly who I’m talking about.” My dry humor is wearing on him tonight.
He must be tired. Tending to the wine again, his eyes focus on the bottle instead of me. He’s disappointed, but doesn’t want to say it. Then he explains, “If you were talking about Austin or someone else you wouldn’t have to preface that statement with ‘Please don’t judge me’.” The cork gives and the wine is poured.
I walk closer to get a glass, and reply, “True.”
He turns and leans against the counter, crossing his legs at the ankles. “Lay it on me. That’s what we’re doing right? You want to talk about Dylan?”
“Talk might be too strong of a word. Maybe mention works better.”
After rolling his eyes, a small smile appears. “Okay, whatever.”
We stay silent for a few seconds, then I finally give in. “Fine.” He looks down, away from me, disapproving of the topic, but I continue, “I saw him last week. He was… a complete mess. It was fun to see, actually.” I giggle, which makes him laugh.
“You’re so weird sometimes,” he says.
“You knew that coming into this relationship, so no running out on me now.” I narrow my eyes, teasing him.
“I’m not going anywhere. Are you?” His eyebrows rise up, waiting.
I know he’s referring to me moving in with Austin, although he doesn’t say it. I sit on the couch, leaning on the arm.
“You’re avoiding,” he remarks.
An assumption on his part. “I’m thinking.”
“It shouldn’t be that hard to answer,” he says, settling in at the other end of the couch, legs spread wide, his arm across the back, hogging more than half. I don’t mind though. He drinks his wine while watching me.
I close my eyes and reply, “That would be presumptuous of me at this stage.”
“Would it? Seems like you and Austin are moving pretty fast.”
“And?”
“And, well, I don’t want to see you hurt.”
Sitting up, I look him directly in the eyes. My mood softens. Brandon does that. He still calms me. “I’m not going anywhere… yet.”
“I knew you’d throw in a yet. A yet to you is like a hall pass. You can do whatever damn well pleases you because you haven’t committed one way or the other.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.” He smirks.
“I do love you. I just hate that you know me so well.”
“Inside and out.”
“Ewwww! Don’t say that.” I laugh, hard.
“You went there, not me. Mind in the gutter much?”
“All the time.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Brandon?”
“Yeah?”
“Start the damn movie.”
“Happily. My favorite part is coming up.”
“I’m Sally,” I call out.
> “You’re always Sally. I want to have the orgasm.”
“I’m the girl. The girl always gets to play Sally. You’re definitely more Harry.”
“Fine. I’ll be your Harry.”
SATURDAY MORNINGS SHOULD be lazier. I wish I could sleep in like I could in college, but my body is too programmed. Rolling over, I try to go back to sleep, but twenty minutes later, I’m up and showered. I throw on my yoga pants and a T-shirt, grab some money, and my keys.
The coffee shop is empty on Saturday mornings, especially at this early hour. It’s only me and two other people, who obviously can’t sleep in either. I decide today is about change. I’ll try new things, so I order a frou-frou coffee just to see if I like it any better these days. When I taste it, I quickly decide it’s not my favorite. It’s overly sweet and doesn’t seem to give me the same kick that my usual black coffee does.
I sit and drink it anyway over the next fifteen minutes, watching customers come and go. Then I see Dylan—and he sees me.
Awkward.
Uncomfortable.
I should leave but that would seem rude. Whoa! Since when did I start caring how I seem to him?
The debate warring in his head is obvious by the way he shifts as he glances between me and the coffee counter. Surprisingly, I win this round, but I wonder by how much.
“Hi,” Dylan says tentatively, no smile, testing the waters.
“Hi.” I look down and he walks away.
The barista flirts with him. That brings back so many memories, so many naïve dreams of us that I once held onto so tightly. I’m free of such frivolous notions now. Wiser.
Completely distracted by him, I watch his exchange with the barista. He’s friendly to her, smiling. I wonder if he’s flirting? We didn’t flirt much, we didn’t have to. We were a couple the minute we met. I don’t tell the story that way because it felt like it evolved over those first few months, but it didn’t. There was no other—just me, just him, us, a couple.
I determine he’s not flirting, just being polite, not overly, but appropriately so. When he turns back to me, his expression is more controlled and he slowly walks over. He sits down at a table near mine, but we don’t talk.
As he plays on his phone, I can hear the Words with Friends bubbly sounds projected, his move accepted. Makes me wonder who his friends are these days. Do I know them?
Turning to the window, I notice how empty the street is. Empty—a lot like the feeling between us now. I steal a glimpse back at him and then look down at the untouched scone in front of me. I thought I wanted it, but I don’t.
“Do you play?” he asks, drawing my attention.
I glance at his phone displaying the game on the screen, then up to his eyes. “Are you trying to make casual conversation, Dylan?”
Leaning forward, he puts his elbows down on the table and scrubs his hands over his face, frustrated. “How about I’m trying, period?” He snaps.
“If it’s for my benefit, you don’t need to.”
“Why not?”
I don’t face him, not feeling strong enough to do that just yet. I sip my coffee, hoping to find some strength in the weak brew, but reply, “Because we’re both here at the same time doesn’t mean we need to talk.”
“What if I want to talk to you?”
“I don’t owe you anything.” I stand up, grabbing the scone and my mug with me. I put the mug in the dish bin and toss the scone in the trash on my way out the door.
“Jules?”
Here we go again. “You don’t take a hint, do you?”
He laughs, catching up and walking beside me like he has the right to do so. “Hints aren’t needed. You’ve been more than obvious about how you feel about me. But I have things that I want to say.”
I stop, crossing my arms and look at him. “You have some nerve showing up here. You think because we ran into each other at a restaurant that suddenly what? We need to be best friends? Boyfriend? Girlfriend? What are you doing? Why are you here? Did you come to the coffee shop because you knew I would be here? I don’t understand this sudden interest in me? What are you doing, Dylan?”
He looks deep into my eyes, exactly where I’ve tried so hard to keep him from going. No one is allowed to that place inside me anymore, especially not him. I instantly drop my gaze to his shoes. They’re casual sneakers, but nice.
“Jules, I’ve said before. I don’t know why I’m here. I just want to be near you. You’re on my mind, fucking with me.”
“I’m fucking with you?” I walk away too annoyed to stay and listen to any of this bullshit.
“Jules.”
“No. Don’t!” I yell over my shoulder.
He doesn’t… and when he doesn’t I start questioning his motives, sincerity, everything he’s been trying to tell me. His words are hard to believe when his actions mean the opposite. I stop on the corner and look back. He still stands there watching me. I throw my arms in the air and scream not caring that it’s still early in the morning. “What? What do you want, Dylan?”
He runs as if I called him to me. I didn’t. I just want answers, but he seems to want answers to questions we don’t even have yet. Confusing. And fucked up. He’s messing with my mind, too. I wonder if he realizes or if he’s doing it on purpose. He grabs my wrists as if we know each other these days. His thumbs graze over the underside of my wrists, my lifeline pulsing beneath his touch. I want to pull away, but I can’t. I like his touch too much.
“What do you want from me?” I whisper scared to see what he’s feeling but dare to look into his eyes anyway.
He doesn’t waste the opportunity. “I want us to start over.”
“Start what over?” My tone is harsh, incredulous.
“Friends. We can start as friends.”
Glancing to the street, then back, I state, “We were never friends, Dylan.”
“We were. You were my best friend, Jules.”
The tears start coming, building in my chest, and seeping into my eyes. “You were my best friend too,” I admit, weakened by the moment, by the feel of his skin on mine.
Tears fall between us. When I look down, I attempt to close my eyes before another falls, but one falls too quick. But that one isn’t mine. It’s his.
I look up, needing to see that he feels something, that maybe I meant something to him or even mean something now. Maybe I’m beyond repair, my emotions permanently damaged, but when I look up, I don’t see the person I hated for years. I see the person I once knew standing before me, caressing my wrists and my heart starts to race, so I drop a confession of my own, “I have a boyfriend, Dylan.”
My wrists are dropped. The last of his tears are wiped away onto the back of his sleeve. “Since when?”
After wiping away my own weakness, I stand strong once again, my heart and emotions closed off just as fast as his. “Since none of your business.”
“You’re impossible, Juliette!” His voice and words sickened with hate as he uses my full name.
I strike back not willing to let him hurt me again. “I hate you, Dylan. I hate you so much.” Anger causes tears to fill my eyes again and my face heats.
“You’re so far removed from the person you once were that I don’t even recognize you anymore,” he says, “you’ve lost your soul—”
“I didn’t lose it! You stole it just like everything else you stole from me. You took it with you that day. And if I’m such a horrible person, then why do you keep coming around? I mean, who does that? Who keeps going where they’re unwanted? It’s insane.”
“Call me what you want, but at least I feel.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, Juliette, fuck you.” He turns his back and leaves.
I scream in fury at the frustrating man. “You’re a bastard, Dylan Somers.”
He laughs. “Yes, baby. You’re not telling me anything I don’t know already.”
“Don’t you ever call me baby again and stop calling me Juliette! You have no right—”
&n
bsp; He’s suddenly in front of me, towering over me. “I have rights. I used to make love to you. I have a lot of fucking rights that come along with that.”
“No, you don—”
He grabs me and kisses me. Hard on the lips. Holding my face between his hands, so I can’t escape. The kiss is a surprise, but the feelings we’re sharing so familiar… and wanted… welcomed. Then I remember Austin. Dylan is not him. Dylan is not mine to kiss any longer. I shove him on the chest, our lips separating from the abrupt interruption.
My arm flies through the air, but is caught before my hand makes contact with his cheek.
Toe-to-toe, his eyes narrow on me. “You will not slap me for something that I could feel you wanted just as much.”
I give him one last hard look before I yank my arm from his tight grip. No words. No words can capture how I truly feel about him right now. And hate and anger have been overused, so I turn and walk away. By the time I reach the corner, I’m running and this time, I hear nothing behind me except a car backfiring in the distance.
Seeking comfort from my bed, I snuggle on my side, squeezing a pillow as my mind reels. Despite how restless I am, I don’t give up on trying to sleep until ten o’clock at night. By midnight, I’m wandering the apartment because my brain is in overdrive. This place holds so many memories—good and bad.
A small circular crystal prism hangs from the window. During the day it catches the light and sends a rainbow of color across the nearby wall and the painting above the couch.
Dylan gave this to me.
At first, I thought he only left me the coffeepot. But a month later, in the back of the closet on the floor, I found it. The string was broken. He didn’t see it or choose not to take it. I don’t know which, but I’m glad I have it some days, others not so much because it carries a heavier weight than its own with it. Most nights it’s just a clear ball of glass and it’s more bearable to be around. Tonight it means more.
After retrieving my phone from the nightstand, I discover I missed Austin’s call while I paced in the living room. He left a message that makes me smile and feel warm inside. Those are the feelings I want. They come with certainty and I like knowing what to expect. I like him. I call him because regardless of the time. He said, anytime—day or night.