by Lory Wendy
But fuck that.
“Listen.” I huff. “You’re cocky,” I remind him. “You say dumb shit, and I put you in your place. That’s how we work.” I wave a hand in between us. “I don’t know how to respond to the wounded little boy. So…” I purse my lips. “Stop doing that.”
“Wounded little boy? There’s nothing little about me, Selena. Trust me.”
“Oh, thank God.” I throw a hand over my chest and slump back. “That’s the arrogance I know. Phew.” I blow out a breath. “That was weird for a second. But, no, I didn’t grow up in Fort Collins,” I answer his previous question. “I was born there, though. At least that’s where I was left by my birth mom, so we assume.” It’s not something I allowed myself to dwell on much when I was growing up. I had a good life, great parents. My “mom” did us all a favor, to be honest. Before he can ask and push for me, I say, “What about you? What’s your story?”
“I don’t really have one.”
“I call bullshit.”
“What do you want to know?” He scratches his chin, looking away. “For real, it’s just basic shit.”
He’s full of shit, and we both know it, but I won’t push. I know the feeling of not wanting to share. I won’t hold it against him.
So to keep it light, I say, “Okay, so tell me about the guys. How long have you and Rocky been friends?”
It’s a double-headed question, and the smirk on his face tells me he sees right through it. There’s no way Julian’s going to gossip about his boy, but I hope he won’t lie for him either.
“Rocky’s a good guy.” He gets straight to the point. “I’ve known him since we were knuckleheads running around Capitol Hill instead of going to school.”
“You grew up in Capitol Hill?”
“Yes, I did.” He sits up straighter and puts his hands on the table. “It’s not as shitty as a lot of people make it out to be. Any trouble I got into was because I went looking for it. There weren’t any gangbangers or homeless people sleeping at my front door. It’s nothing like the news would like people to think.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean—”
“Never mind, forget it.”
The food and amazing coffee become my main focus. Fear of putting my foot in my mouth tends to increase my appetite. Thank sweet baby Jesus, though, that Julian takes mercy on me and launches into what sounds like a well-rehearsed recap of his life.
I hang on every word he tells me. From him growing up in Capitol Hill, then booking it out of Colorado when he was sixteen. Living in Vegas for a year followed by a small stint in New York and coming back to help take care of his mom when she got sick. I listen to all of it, intently, doing my best not to interrupt and soaking up every word, especially when the subject of his ex-wife comes up.
I stop chewing. “You have my full attention.”
“I didn’t have it before?”
Not like this, you didn’t. “How long were you guys together?” I ask.
“Depends who you ask and what you’re asking.”
I’m asking a lot of things without saying so, but I settle on, “How long were you guys married?”
“Not long.” He takes a large gulp of his drink. “A year maybe?”
“And before that?”
“A long time.”
Cryptic.
“Did you love her?”
He shifts in his chair before answering, “Of course.”
“So then what happened? You know… to cause the divorce. If you don’t mind me asking,” I add quickly.
“She cheated.” He shrugs and takes another pull of his drink.
“So she broke your heart, is that why you’re such an asshole sometimes?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. I slap my hands over my mouth, mumbling out an apology through my fingers.
Julian throws his head back and lets out a loud, obnoxious laugh.
“It wasn’t that funny.” This only makes him laugh harder. “Let me know when you’re done.”
He brings the side of his fist to his mouth as if to choke the laughter. “Oh, man. So, you do think I’m an asshole?”
“You can be.”
“How and when have I ever been an asshole to you?”
“Plenty of times!” I perk up, eager to tell him what’s what. “Remember that one time… at the club,” I pause unable to spit out the exact details. “Or when you… umm… that one time you said—fuck!” I struggle to remember a specific time, though there have been plenty. But none of them come to mind quickly enough. “Just because I can’t think of an example right now doesn’t take away the fact that I didn’t like you when we first met.”
“So you like me?”
“What? No! How is that your takeaway from what I said?”
“You just said you didn’t like me.” He points his finger at me, grinning. “As in past tense, meaning you like me now.”
“Wow. Talk about a reach.” I roll my eyes. Deny, deny, deny. That’s my plan. Deny then deflect. “So, your ex cheated. I guess that answers the question of whether the divorce was amicable.”
“Don’t think I don’t see you trying to change the subject.” He wags his finger at me. “But, as for my divorce…” He shakes his head from side to side with a contemplative look on his face. “We were young and shit happened. I didn’t kick her ass out for fucking my friend, and she didn’t knee me in my balls when I made sure she found me and his girl getting our revenge on them. So, yeah, I’d say it was pretty amicable.”
My jaw drops both at his retaliation and imagining how he must have felt to go through that kind of betrayal. No matter how much he’s trying to downplay it now, that had to sting. It probably still does sting.
“We need to work on this saying whatever’s on your mind thing. That was way more information than I needed to know.”
“Sorry.” He chuckles. “But to answer your other question, or what I think you were asking, I’m not bitter, not anymore. I mean, yeah, I was at first, but we split when I was barely twenty-one. The marriage was short-lived. It would be pretty fucking pathetic if I was holding on to that shit eight years later, don’t you think?”
“So you’re twenty-nine?”
“I just turned thirty, actually.” He winks and reaches over to grab a bite of a pastry off my plate. “Is that a problem?”
“What?”
“That I’m older than you.”
“Please, you’re a baby compared to some of the guys I’ve dated.”
“Dated?” His eyebrows shoot impossibly high up his forehead. “Is that what we’re doing?”
“You know what I mean.” I flip my hand, trying to make light of what I said. Any fumbling to correct myself would make it more awkward.
“Yes. So…” He clears his throat and sits back. The next hour passes by with a lighter tone to our question and answer game. He finds out that I went to school for management, and I find out that he has a degree in finance. He’s a hedge fund manager at a local investment firm, and it’s another example of even though I didn’t know what I’d expected, that wouldn’t have been it.
“This place is really adorable,” I add, on my second slice of cake.
“Told you.” Julian reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and darts up with a muttered curse.
“What is it?”
“I didn’t realize how much time went by. We have to go.”
“What? Why?” My voice comes out a little whiny.
“Because we have another stop to make.”
Chapter Thirteen
I let out a legitimate gasp when we step out of the car. It wasn’t clear where we were going, and Julian wouldn’t tell me no matter how many times I asked or threatened him, but if there was a word for this place, it would probably be magical. Rows upon rows of flowers surround us in varying shades of colors and blooming. Some barely rise off the ground, not high enough to reach my ankles, while some are so tall the child in me wonders if they can reach the sky.
“So what do you th
ink?”
“Wow,” is all I can manage.
“Really? I wouldn’t be able to tell how you feel by the look on your face.”
Unsure if I should be offended, but kind of halfway there, I ask, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What that means is you’re really good at acting uninterested and unbothered.” He makes a gesture toward the general direction of my face. “You’re good at playing it cool, even when I can tell you’re affected inside.”
I shrug, not sure he’s actually looking for a verbal response. He says it like it’s a bad thing, but learning to school your features and reactions is called survival.
“So tell me,” he says. “Are you trying not to have a good time or is something else bothering you?”
“I’m not trying to do anything. I’m just chilling. I am having a good time, though.” For a second I feel bad that he would think otherwise. “Sorry, I’m not peppier about it though. But the coffee date was amazing. This place is amazing.”
The skin between his eyebrows puckers. “Peppier, what’s that mean?”
“Really?”
He shrugs, staring at me blankly.
“Peppy,” I repeat like it’ll make a difference saying the same thing louder. “You know, like a cheerleader.” I ball my fists, jabbing them in the air exaggeratedly. Then I kick. “Go, team, go!”
He stares at me, unmoving for about five seconds before a laugh erupts from him, and the glint in his pretty eyes lets me know he was just fucking with me.
“You ass.” I punch his shoulder.
“No, please don’t stop.” He laughs some more. “I liked the cheerleader impersonation. The only thing missing is the outfit.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
No, I don’t.
We walk a few more feet as I attempt, and nearly fail, at taking this all in. Sure, I’ve seen gardens before, but this almost looks otherworldly.
“What is this place?” I ask as we settle down on a bench, right in the middle of the square.
Julian sits right next to me, leaving no space between our touching thighs, and throws his arm around the back of the chair. “In a few months, it’ll become a private area of the Denver Botanical Gardens.”
“What is it right now?”
Julian shrugs. “Just a place filled with flowers.”
“And how is it that you came to know about it then?”
“Because I know things.”
I snort. He’s so full of himself. In the shadows of the club, I hate it. But right here, in the middle of the ethereal garden he has some privileged access to, in which he’s also sharing with me… I love it.
“So did you mean what you said earlier? When you said I act unbothered and uninterested with you?” It’s mildly a rhetorical question. I know I act like that, but since I’ve met Julian, I’ve had this sense that I’m an open book to him. Yes, I’ve played hard to get—most chicks do—but I’ve never intentionally tried to play like I was uninterested.
He nods. “You try to, yeah.”
“What about you?” I challenge, adjusting on the bench to look in his direction.
“What about me?”
“What about the way you act? All cool, calm, and collected all the time. Is that an act?”
Pinching my thigh, he smiles. “You tell me.”
“I can’t tell,” I admit. It doesn’t seem like an act. It just seems like it’s the way he is.
“You’re different than I thought you were going to be,” Julian says, seemingly out of nowhere, but in that tone of voice that lets me know he’s been mulling over the thought for a while.
“How did you think I was going to be?”
“Honestly, I thought you’d be like your sister: high strung and kind of a bitch.”
“Watch it.”
He might be right, especially with how she’s been lately, but that’s still my sister and she’s not here to defend herself.
“I’m just saying.” He doesn’t sound apologetic. Tension creeps in for a second, but I bat it away. I meant what I said when he first picked me up a few hours ago: I’m not going to waste any of our time together talking about Blaire.
Lights flickering on take our attention away from each other long enough for the mood to lift. It’s not dark yet, though the sun has started to fade away and the combination makes the garden even more surreal.
“Come on.” Julian stands, pulling me up with him.
We walk a few more feet in silence until Julian stops suddenly.
“What are you—” I gasp when I see why we stopped. A man—waiter—in front of a table littered with candles stands right in the middle of the garden.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Julian whispers from behind me.
It’s all cheesy and cliché, but oh-so-damn perfect that all I can do is smile and literally skip on without him. “Hi.” I wave at the waiter, ignoring Julian’s chuckle behind me. I guess I can do peppy after all.
Dinner is quiet, and I don’t mind one bit. Less talking means more eating, and fuck if this isn’t the best meal I’ve ever had.
“Wow.” I slump back in my chair, tempted to sit on my hands so that I don’t pick up the plate and lick it. I like to claim I’m that girl who doesn’t like all the romance shit and have been known to make fun of scenes just like this in movies for not being realistic, but right now I’d be full of it. Julian knows exactly what he’s doing when it comes to this kind of thing—knows exactly how to evoke all those euphoric tingly feelings out of me. “You’re good at this, you know?”
“This?”
“The wooing and trying to impress girls with grand gestures thing. It’s working. I’m indeed impressed.”
“What makes you think I’m doing this to impress you and not just being myself? Maybe I like roaming around gardens and eating in greenhouses filled with candles.”
It’s a horrible attempt at a joke, but a laugh still bursts out of me.
Julian smiles the same way most people do when they hear my laugh, like now they have to fight their own laugh.
“So, tell me something,” I say after dinner as we take another stroll around the fairy-tale-like secret garden.
“Something like what?”
“I don’t know. Anything. Like, are you a glass half empty or a glass half full kind of guy?” It might seem like a silly and cliché question, but to me it’s important.
“I never liked how people make it so black and white. Most things aren’t.”
Most people that I’ve met don’t have the time to see things as anything but black or white, while I’ve always tried to see things from all sides. There isn’t a right or wrong answer for such a mundane question, but if I only had one question to ask Julian and that was his answer, and I believed in the whole happily-ever-after thing, I would fall in love with him right here.
“What about you?” He nudges my shoulder.
“Right now, I’m definitely looking at the glass as half full.” Loving our current energy, I decide I need to ask him another serious, though not as deep, question. A deal breaker if you will. “I have another question,” I prepare him.
“Let’s hear it.”
Gathering up all the seriousness I can muster, I take a deep breath and ask, “Miracle Whip or mayonnaise?”
Both of our laughs erupt into the air. The feeling that comes over me, of carefree elation, is nothing like I’d felt before.
We stop again at a small pond; a small field of nothing is off to the side.
“I was somewhere just like this when I got the name and real inspiration for my club,” he starts without hesitation.
As shallow as it sounds at first, it takes me a few seconds to catch up to the change of his voice. I turn to look at him, giving him my full attention.
“I was standing by this dirty-ass pond, just staring at my blurry reflection. I wasn’t in a good place, mentally, financially, or personally. I was probably the closest thing you could be
to suicidal without actually being suicidal. When I looked over and saw this bright-ass yellow flower thing floating around. I thought it was fake at first and that someone just threw it in, but no, it was like the rose that grew from concrete, except this was the flower that grew from muck. I was… I can’t even describe how I felt.”
“Try,” I whisper, holding my breath, scared even the slightest movement will ruin the moment.
“I guess I felt hope. Maybe even a little jealous, like if this beautiful thing can come out of some nasty water, why couldn’t I rise above the shit I was going through?”
“Why are you telling me this?” I wonder.
“Because I want you to know that I see through your muddy water. I don’t know if your wall is up to keep people out of your life or to keep your feelings in, but…” He shrugs. “The façade is not working with me. That’s why I brought it up earlier. I thought you should know that I see you, even the parts you’re trying to hide.”
Rendered speechless, I adjust my hold on the arm he has around my waist, making him pull me to him tighter, hoping that’s enough to convey the words I’m too chicken to say. I like you too. I want to be close to you.
“Look at me,” he whispers, and before I can turn, he pinches my chin, turning my head to look at him over my shoulder.
“Are you going to lose respect for me if I make out with you right now? You know, kissing on the first date and all.”
“No, are you going to lose respect for me?”
“I might.” I laugh when his face falls. “But not for sleeping with me. There are a million other things you can do to make me lose respect for you though.”
“Like what?” He smiles.
“Like…” I widen my eyes. “Like if you tell me you like Miracle Whip over mayonnaise.”
“Oh, yeah, that would be a deal breaker for me too.”
We both laugh.
“You should tell me something about yourself,” he says, almost suddenly but in a way that makes it clear the question, and maybe even the moment, had already been orchestrated in his mind. We’re both capitalizing in this moment—an occurrence of being carefree that I know is rare for each of us.