by L.H. Cosway
She smiled. “Oh really? That’s sweet of them. Sure, I’m game for it.”
“Great, I’ll let them know.”
Yvonne took a seat on my bed while I changed into my work uniform. I had no embarrassment about stripping down in front of my aunt. We didn’t roll that way.
“So,” she hedged. “I guess Dylan managed to catch you at the bar? He mentioned he might pay you a visit.”
I nodded. “Yeah, he stopped by.”
“And?”
“And nothing. We chatted about old times. It was nice.”
“Ev, your childhood sweetheart is some sort of perfume business mogul, not to mention he’s even more handsome than he was as a boy. Surely, it was more than nice.”
“I enjoyed spending time with him, Yvonne, but I’m not interested in starting something romantic,” I replied. That big, fat lie sat heavy on my tongue.
“Oh,” she said. “Well, that’s disappointing.”
“Why? Were you hoping for a big splashy wedding or something?”
“Don’t be like that. You two had something special, but you never really got a chance to see where it might go. It’s not anyone’s fault that—”
“Look, I’m late for work,” I said. “And I need to get ready, so . . .”
Yvonne glanced at me sadly and nodded. “Of course. I’ll see you in the morning.”
* * *
Dylan left his business card with Yvonne, which was convenient because I didn’t have his phone number. What wasn’t convenient was the fact that it only had his office number, not his personal line. It also had an email, so I tried that instead. I didn’t want to call his office and get through to the delightfully hostile Laura.
Tuesday 09:43 [email protected] to [email protected]
Well, this is awkward. We forgot to exchange numbers. Yvonne had your business card, so I thought I’d try you on the old email instead. We’re free for dinner tomorrow night if you and Conor are up for it.
Let me know.
Ev.
I read the email back several times, thinking it sounded stilted, but unable to come up with a better way to phrase the message. Deciding to hell with it, I hit send. I doubted he checked this email very often anyway. If he wanted to have dinner, he knew where to find me.
To my surprise, my email pinged with a response ten minutes later. I was lying in bed, still in my PJs, when I opened it up.
Tuesday 09:54 [email protected] to [email protected]
Tomorrow night is perfect. We’ll pick you and Yvonne up at your place around eight.
Love,
Dylan.
I couldn’t help smiling at how he signed off. I enjoyed his affection, even if I was wary of returning it. I typed out a reply.
Tuesday 09:56 [email protected] to [email protected]
Eight is good. Dress code?
Tuesday 09:57 [email protected] to [email protected]
Anything. You always look beautiful.
I bit my lip and closed my eyes. Man, he was charming.
Tuesday 09:59 [email protected] to [email protected]
Seriously. I need to know. I felt so underdressed at your store.
It was true. I’d had a Julia Roberts Pretty Woman moment stepping inside that place. I didn’t want to feel that way again, especially if Dylan decided to take us to some swanky Michelin-star restaurant where men had to wear a tie to get in.
Tuesday 10:02 [email protected] to [email protected]
Underdressed sounds interesting . . .
Tuesday 10:03 [email protected] to [email protected]
That’s it. I’m not coming.
Tuesday 10:04 [email protected] to [email protected]
That would be a travesty ;-)
Tuesday 10:07 [email protected] to [email protected]
Ugh, you’re irritating in emails. Do you know that? If I wear the wrong thing, on your head be it. See you tomorrow.
P.S. This is my number if you need to get in touch: 415 561 5670
Tuesday 10:08 [email protected] to [email protected]
Thanks! See you tomorrow. xxx
I thought that was the end to our conversation, but several minutes later my phone lit up with a call from a number I didn’t recognise.
“Hello?”
“If we’re exchanging numbers, this is mine,” came Dylan’s voice. I liked how the husky quality of it sounded on my phone.
“Right. Thanks,” I replied, then paused a moment. “You could’ve just emailed me.”
“Emails are too easy to hack.”
“Oh, is your number that valuable? Is your first name Beyoncé?”
“No. I’m just security aware.” He let out a sexy exhalation. “Sassypants.”
I chuckled, mostly because I couldn’t think of anything to say, and there was another pause, a long one.
Dylan exhaled again. This time it sounded strained. “Evelyn . . .”
“Yes?” I replied, eager.
“I want to . . . date you.”
“You do?” I squeaked, then cleared my throat. “I mean, do you?”
“I want to get to know you again, if you’ll let me.”
He wanted to date me? The very idea put a big, silly smile on my face. But then, I frowned. Would it be selfish to get into a relationship with Dylan when I was still finding my feet after losing Gran? I’d made a resolution to try to be happy, but I knew I wasn’t there yet. And over the years, I always thought I needed someone else to be content, always tried to find myself in other people. If I got into a relationship with Dylan now, would I be repeating the same mistakes?
“Dylan, I—”
“Say no more. You’d prefer to be friends,” he cut me off, obviously hearing the regret in my voice. He sounded chagrined, which made me feel bad.
“No, it’s not that. It’s just . . .” I sighed. “I’m not ready for a relationship.”
“I understand, but I’d still like to hang out sometimes, if you’re up for it?”
“Yes, of course. You know I’ve always loved your company.”
“Great, so I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, Yvonne and I are looking forward to it.”
Dylan chuckled. “I don’t think any of us are looking forward to it as much as Conor. He’s had a big stupid smile on his face since he bumped into you at the apartment.”
I grinned. “Oh, don’t you worry. Yvonne will be smiling too when she sees him.”
“He’s at the gym by six every morning,” Dylan said. “I can’t keep up.”
“Bet he gets asked out all the time.”
“You could say he’s had his share of admirers.”
“I can’t wait to see Yvonne’s reaction. It’ll be priceless.”
“You think she’d go out with a younger man?”
I considered it. “Maybe.”
“We’ll just have to see how tomorrow night goes then.”
“I feel like a matchmaker,” I said, a little giddy.
“You’re so fucking cute. Now I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Right, of course. See you tomorrow, Dylan.”
“See you tomorrow, Ev.”
The next morning, I was doing laundry when I got another call from him. I picked up on the third ring, smiling as I answered, “Hello?”
I heard him exhale, his voice apologetic. “Hi Ev. Listen, I’m sorry to have to do this, but can we take a rain check on tonight? There’s some work stuff that’s come up and—”
“No worries,” I was quick to reply. “We can go some other time.”
At the back of my mind, I wondered if this was an excuse. I wondered if he’d thought better of it and decided he didn’t want to go through the rigmarole of reconnecting. And I understood. I mean, we lived in different worlds now. I was a bartender and he was the CEO of his own company. I wasn’t sure how well our lives would mesh anyway.
Or maybe . . . maybe he walked into his store
this morning and got a better offer from the pretty, scarlet-haired Laura. A sliver of jealousy ran through me before I quashed it down.
No, that couldn’t be it. He already told me Laura wasn’t for him. And Dylan wasn’t the type to make up excuses. He told you exactly how he felt. When we were teenagers he’d described himself as honest to a fault.
I think he must’ve heard the quaver of uncertainty in my voice, because his was reassuring and firm. “Evelyn, there’s nothing I’d rather be doing tonight than taking you out. But I’ve got meetings all day, and there was a mix-up on one of our orders at the shop, so I’m going to have to work tonight to correct it.” He paused, sighing again. I imagined him running a hand through his hair.
I chewed on my lip, hesitant when I asked, “Will you be taking a break to eat?”
“Well, sure, but—”
“Then why don’t I stop by with food? Say no if you’d rather not, I won’t be offended,” I went on nervously.
“No, no, that’s a great idea,” Dylan replied and my nervousness evaporated. “Are you sure it’s not too much trouble? I don’t want to put you out.”
“Of course it isn’t. I’d only be sitting at home, scrolling mindlessly through Facebook otherwise.”
“You’re on Facebook?” he asked, sounding both amused and interested.
“Yep. What kind of self-respecting sad case with no social life would I be if I wasn’t?”
“You’re none of those things,” he chided. “And I ask because I’ve actually tried to look you up on there a few times but couldn’t find you.”
Hold up. Dylan was on Facebook? Not only that, he’d tried to find me? Now that was far more interesting. I’d tried to look him up on there, too, but had no luck. I wasn’t going to tell him that though.
“Oh, that’s probably because I go by E. Flynn instead of Evelyn,” I explained.
I heard typing in the background, but didn’t think much of it until Dylan asked, “Who’s the bloke with the pipe?”
He sounded baffled and I laughed out loud, because he was clearly referring to my very dapper profile picture. “That’s Evelyn Waugh. He wrote Brideshead Revisited. I couldn’t find a decent picture of myself, so I decided to look up the most famous person with the same name as me. Now I tell everyone I was named after him. It’s confusing, because anyone who knows my mam knows the woman hasn’t read a book in her life.”
Dylan laughed softly. “You are so odd.”
“And by odd you mean inspired?”
“That is exactly what I mean,” he confirmed with a smile in his voice. “Also, I just sent you a friend request.”
My phone buzzed then pinged in my ear, announcing I had new notification. “Hmm, not sure if I should accept.”
“And why’s that?”
“I kinda suspect you’re one of those people who vague-books all their petty personal grievances.”
Dylan chuckled. “Well, how else am I supposed to let people know to watch their backs because I finally discovered who’s my friend and who’s my enemy?”
I barked a laugh. “You see. I don’t have room for that drama in my life.”
Dylan’s fond tone spread a warmth through my chest. “I’ve missed talking with you, Evelyn.”
I was silent a moment, not sure how to reply. In the end, I awkwardly ignored what he said entirely, “Do you like Asian food? Yvonne took me to this place that does amazing noodles.”
“I love it. Come over around seven and we’ll eat.”
“Right, see you then,” I said and hung up. I set my phone on the countertop and questioned what I was getting myself into. A night out with Yvonne and Conor was one thing, but sharing a meal in the confines of Dylan’s office was something else entirely. I’d felt so disappointed when he had to cancel. It made me realise how excited I’d been to spend more time with him.
I wore my hair in a ponytail, alongside some jeans and a long-sleeved top when I made my way to Dylan later that evening. It was chilly out, so I wore my long winter coat and a scarf, too. I didn’t want to dress up and give Dylan the impression I was after anything other than a friendly, platonic meal with an old friend.
Thankfully, there was no Laura to greet me at the door when I arrived, just a handful of staff closing up for the evening. I nodded to one of them, and Dylan must’ve told him I was coming, because he didn’t stop me from heading upstairs.
I gave a quick knock on his office door and waited until I heard him call, “Come in,” before I stepped inside. Dylan sat at his desk, his laptop open and his phone plastered to his ear. I shot him a friendly smile and held up the bag with the food. He smiled back warmly and gestured for me to sit.
I removed my coat and scarf, then began opening the noodle containers while Dylan finished his phone call. When he finally hung up, he rubbed at the space between his eyebrows and let out a weary breath.
“That smells amazing.”
I pushed a container towards him. “Stressful day?”
“You could say that. Oh my God, these are delicious.” He paused to savour the food then continued. “Laura ordered several hundred units of the wrong scent from our factory in California. E.V. is our most popular product, but we’re completely out of stock until the new order arrives. I might’ve lost my temper a little with her over it,” he admitted, sounding regretful.
“Oh,” I frowned. “Is she okay?”
He rubbed his jaw. “She cried. It was . . . uncomfortable.”
Man, now I felt bad for her. I’d never cried in front of a boss before, but there had been times when I’d come close, so I definitely empathised. Then again, she and Dylan didn’t have the most conventional employer-employee relationship, which sort of added a whole extra layer of awkwardness.
“Did you apologise?”
“Yes. Then I suggested she take the rest of the day off, which is why I had to cancel our dinner.”
“Big softie.”
“Tell me about it. I should’ve just told her to chin up and get on with things.”
“That might’ve made her cry more.”
“Which is exactly why I didn’t do it. Anyway, let’s not talk about work. How are you?” He lifted another forkful of noodles to his mouth and ate.
I shrugged. “It’s my day off, so I did laundry and watched TV, because you know, I’m one of those exciting, creative types.”
Dylan chuckled. “You self-deprecate, but you are creative. Remember your allotment? All those flowers were like your art.”
I stiffened and twisted some noodles around my fork. “Yeah well, like I said, I don’t do that anymore.”
“You really should think about getting back into it. There are lots of flower farms outside the city.”
I shook my head. “Dylan, I know your heart’s in the right place and all, but don’t waste your energy trying to convince me to garden again. It won’t work.”
He studied me. “And why not?”
“Because I said goodbye to it a long time ago. After Sam died, that part of me went with him.”
Dylan flinched visibly at the mention of our lost friend.
“Wow,” I breathed as I came to a realisation. Surely he doesn’t . . . “You still blame yourself.”
He didn’t meet my gaze, the only sign of his discomfort his throat moving as he swallowed. “Some things are hard to let go of,” he said finally.
“Yes, but if you don’t, you’ll die with them hanging over your head. It took a long time for me to get over Sam’s death. I mean, I’ll never fully be over it, because I think about him every day, but I’m not letting it rule me anymore. Or at least I’m trying not to.”
“What made you decide that?” Dylan asked with interest.
I ate more noodles, my eyes resting on the dark wood of his desk. “Just something Gran said to me before she died.” I paused and glanced up at him. His attentive gaze urged me to continue.
“It’s funny, but even before she died, I think she knew she wasn’t long for the world. She
told me that once she was gone, I wouldn’t have any more excuses. I asked her what she meant, angry at how she was so accepting of her fate. She said I used my love for her as an excuse not to live my life. I told her she was being ridiculous, that I was living my life just fine. She shook her head and said, No love, how can you be with that dark cloud hanging over your head? When I’m gone you’ll have no other choice but to find the sun.”
“Poetic,” Dylan mused, absorbed by my story.
I inhaled a deep breath, scraping my fork around in the container. “And then when she did die, I stood by her grave and thought, No, Gran, you were wrong. I can’t find the sun, because the clouds have gotten so much thicker. But then days turned into weeks. I was alone in our flat, and suddenly, I couldn’t stand to live there anymore. The place was too quiet, and everything in it made me sad just to look at. I felt lonely. So, when Yvonne made her offer for me to come and live with her, like she did every month, I finally said yes. Gran was right all along. She knew I couldn’t stand to be without a purpose, and without her I didn’t have one. I decided if she was right about that, then maybe she was right about me finding the sun, too. Maybe I should finally just . . . you know, try to be happy. Try to be the girl I was before I lost Sam.”
When I finished speaking, Dylan’s eyes were misty. I stiffened, uncomfortable with his show of emotion, and also because I’d revealed far more than I intended. He blinked and the glossiness disappeared.
“I hope you succeed,” he said, then focused on eating his food.
We ate in quiet for a while, both of us almost finished when his phone rang. He shot me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”
I waved away his apology. “No, go ahead.”
He held the phone to his ear while I slurped down the last of my noodles and listened to his side of the conversation. “Hello?” A pause.
“Yes, that’s correct.” Another pause.
“And to confirm, we need eight hundred bottles of E.V., five hundred Synaesthesia, and three hundred Limerence. When is your estimated delivery?”
“Next Tuesday? Perfect. Yes, talk soon.”
He put the phone down and fiddled with his shirt collar. “The order all fixed then?” I asked, amused by how business-like and professional he was on the phone.