Drawn to You

by Natalie Vivien

  “You’re beautiful,” I tell her, pushing the words out clear and strong, despite the resistant catch in my throat. Despite the skipping of my heart. Be fierce. “But you don’t make me happy. And I know I don’t make you happy. Neither of us has been happy for a very long time. I guess I…just didn’t want to acknowledge it before. But your going to Paris was the best thing you could have done for us both.”

  “Molly, I—” Juliette glances at Norine hesitantly, apologetically, then rises, rounding the pile of clothes and approaching me with her hands behind her back. She watches me for a weighted minute, just watches, red lips parted and those divinely blue eyes shining, open wide, as round as moons. “Molly…” All at once, her face crumples; fat tears slip over her cheeks, dripping off of the end of her nose, her chin. “I still love you, Molly.”

  I almost reach for her, then, can hardly stand not to touch her, comfort her, just as I always used to do. Her selfishness has torn my life apart, and I still can’t bear to see her cry…

  But, jaw tense, pulse racing, I force myself to remember the harm she has caused. I force myself to remember—God, I don’t want to remember—the wounded look in Ash’s eyes when she left… I remember, feel, my own ailing heart. And I hold my arms close to my sides, swallowing hard.

  Then I offer Juliette a gentle, if somber, smile. “I still love you, Juliette. Despite…everything. I’m not in love with you anymore, though. I can’t be with you. I can’t have any sort of relationship with you. I’m…not myself when I’m around you. And I want to be myself. And I want you to be who you are, too.”

  “I know,” she sobs, shaking her yellow head, hugging herself with trembling arms. Again and again, she repeats those words, “I know, I know, I know...” Her face is puffy and streaked, streaming with tears. She breathes out hard, says, “I’m sorry.” And then she gives me a quick, awkward hug before hurrying back to the mattress and curling up against Norine, who wraps her arms around her, rocking her softly against her chest.

  I bow my head, glance away.

  “Molly…”

  “Yes?”

  “A… Adieu,” I hear Juliette whisper, voice muffled and choked with tears.

  I bite my lip and begin to back through the doorway. “Goodbye, Juliette.” As I turn around and move toward the staircase, my vision blurs; I lose my footing and slip down a few of the steps, gripping the banister hard, before regaining my balance as I reach the landing.

  Through tears, I stare at the front door, my hands loose fists at my sides. Pride urges me to leave, to go now, without another glance behind… But the rest of me, already falling into mourning, bids me to turn around, to look back just one last time. I don’t want to exit this scene with regrets.

  Spine braced, eyes hooded, I peer over my shoulder and lift my chin.

  Juliette, leaning against the bedroom doorway frame, sheathed in a violet bed sheet, stares at me glumly and offers a halfhearted wave of her hand. She looks small and sad, but distant, too far away to be real. Like an actress on a film screen.

  Like a stranger.

  I breathe in and out slowly, just watching her as I mentally cut the ties that bind us, as I feel my heart relax and let go. Then I nod slightly, smile slightly, and, sighing, veer my gaze away.

  I move through the front door, into the gold-speckled, sun-warmed air.

  ---

  “I don’t know how to tell you this,” Georgie greets me the moment I come through the museum doors.

  It’s Monday morning, and I’m more or less prepared for battle—just so long as that battle has the same intensity as a thumb-wrestling tournament for colicky newborns. I’m armed with a steaming cappuccino, and I’m wearing my favorite tie, my comfort tie—lavender, with a repeating pattern of tiny black cats, hundreds of Mona Lisa clones. A pair of large silver sunglasses hides my red-rimmed eyes.

  But Georgie’s pronouncement sets me off-kilter. Suddenly anxious, I stumble over a dust particle—or a flea, or a granule of sugar—and catch myself clumsily on the edge of Georgie’s desk, spilling drops of my overpriced drink all over her billing paperwork.

  “Oh, sorry.” I grab some tissues out of the tissue box and dab at the coffee stains, successfully making them spread and multiply, smearing the ink. “Just… Just give me the bad news quickly. I can’t handle preambles or meaningful pauses right now.”

  “What’s wr—”

  “Please talk fast, Georgie.” I toss the tissues into the trash and then clutch my head; pain is blossoming behind my left eye, prophesying a stress migraine. I close my eyes for a moment, breathing out. Well, on the bright side, a migraine might provide some absorbing, if painful, distraction from my own dark, looping thoughts...

  Georgie examines the cappuccino-colored spots on her printouts, mouth slanting down with dismay. Then she sighs, stares hard at my sunglass lenses, and crosses her arms over her pink cardigan-ed chest. “All right. It happened again. Flowers, I mean. Delivered. To you. In your office. I tried to stop her, but she seemed really nice and said she’d lose her job if she didn’t complete the order, and the flowers come with a singing telegram or performance piece or something, so she said she had to wait in your office for you to arrive, and I figured maybe you could just cover your ears until she was done. I promise I’ll throw out the flowers afterward—”

  “Wait.” I grip the edge of the desk for balance, but my legs still wobble beneath me, and my stomach ties itself into an impressively complicated sailor’s knot.

  Juliette sent me flowers again? What about our conversation yesterday morning? What about the tears? What about the adieus? When I returned to the house with M.L. in the evening, Juliette was gone, along with all of her clothes and shoes. No note. She’d even picked up the feathers and made the bed, though I couldn’t bring myself to consider sleeping on it. M.L. and I dreamed on the air mattress in the living room, curled up together beneath a light fleece blanket printed with Andy Warhol’s cats.

  Dry-mouthed, I shake my head, try to focus on practical, immediate concerns. “Georgie, you let someone go into my office? A non-employee? Alone? Unsupervised?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Georgie, the petty cash is in my office. The finance records for the whole museum are in my office. My vintage Garfield mug is in my office. I’ve had that mug since my eighth birthday; it’s practically a family heirloom.”

  She gives me a sweet, if condescending, smile. “And now a beautiful woman is in your office, waiting to tell you something”—she makes air quotes with her fingers—“‘important.’ I suggest you go let her do her cute little song and then run along on her way. She’s probably got other flowers to deliver. And once she’s gone, we’ll both be able to relax and get back to work, okay?”

  “Okay,” I sigh, gesturing toward the desk, instantly regretting my peevish outburst. None of this is Georgie’s fault. I’m not quite sure whose fault it is, but I can’t vent frustrations related to my messed-up personal life on guiltless, caught-in-the-crossfire co-workers. “Sorry again about the cappuccino. And I didn’t mean to be hard on you about the flowers. I just… It’s been one of those weekends, you know? Not that that’s any excuse.”

  “It’s all right, Molly. Don’t worry about it. Anyway, I could tell you were bad off the minute you stepped through that door.”

  “You could?” I blink behind the shades, narrowing my brows. “How?”

  “Well…” She begins to tick items off on her fingers, curls bouncing as she shakes her head. “Number one: you always wear that tie when you’re down in the dumps—I figure it’s a comfort thing, or maybe a cat lady thing. You do love cats, right? I mean, you always have cat fur on your clothes. Black fur, probably a shorthair?”

  I examine my jacket self-consciously, pick off a few clumps of fur, and then give Georgie a bewildered look. “Have you deduced my cat’s name, too?”

  She taps her chin thoughtfully. “Georgie O’Keeffe?”

  “Mona Lisa.”

  “Ah. Y
ou’re just so fascinated by that O’Keeffe in the south wing. And, sadly, the Normal Museum is not in possession of the Mona Lisa.”

  “Maybe someday.” I smile weakly. “Go on, Agatha Christie.”

  “Number two: you only keep your sunglasses on indoors if you’ve been crying and don’t want anyone to know you’ve been crying. But of course we always know. Or, at least, I always know. And on those days, I make sure the break room is stocked with extra tissues and extra-extra sugar, because you take, like, six spoonfuls in your coffee when you’re really sad.”

  “That’s…awfully perceptive. And considerate. Um… Thank you, Georgie.”

  “Hey, it’s my job,” she smiles, waving her wet paperwork in the air. She pauses to glance at it, grimaces, and then tosses the top sheet into the trashcan by her desk. “I’ll just reprint it. Anyway, that deliverywoman—”

  “Right.” I straighten my tie and readjust my sunglasses, which have been sitting crookedly on my nose ever since my encounter with the microscopic tripping hazard on the clean-enough-to-lick floor. Then I inhale deeply, bracing myself for the sight of a vase full of Juliette’s dreaded lilies. “Well, be prepared for Operation: Flower Disposal within, say”—I check my watch—“five minutes?”

  Georgie salutes. “I’ll be ready and waiting, with a garbage bag and a can of weed killer, industrial strength.”

  I laugh. “The garbage bag will probably be enough.”

  “You’re right. But we should behead the flowers, just in case. Don’t want any zombie lilies haunting this place. It’s creepy enough with all these empty, echoing galleries.”

  “Tell me about it,” I frown, waving lightly as I walk out of the lobby and aim—head bowed, steps small and measured, like a proverbial captive walking the proverbial plank—toward my closed office door.

  But when I reach it, I freeze in place. My hand is poised on the knob, yet I can’t turn my wrist, can’t seem to get the command to travel from my brain to my fingers.

  Obviously, I don’t want to cross this threshold.

  My head falls forward, banging against the wood, which only quickens the pain behind my eyes.

  I feel so stuck, trapped in a recurring nightmare of sickly sweet-smelling lilies and—

  Hmm.

  Well, that’s…odd.

  I sniff the air for a few moments, forehead creased with concentration. And then my frown deepens—not out of misery or unease but simple confusion.

  That scent isn’t lilies. I know the scent of lilies, would be able to pick out lily perfume amidst a cacophony of scents. Juliette sent me hundreds of bouquets of lilies over the years; the distinctive scent is forever embedded in my memory, whether I want to remember it or not.

  This perfume is like a whole garden of flowers, but wildflowers… Green. And sweet.

  Familiar.

  This is the scent of fairy slippers and Johnny Jump-ups and Black-eyed Susans.

  It’s the scent of my grandmother’s garden.

  And—I inhale deeply, one brow raised—something else.

  My heart seizes, and I make an instinctive sound, something like oh or whoa. If I thought my legs were wobbly before, they’re experiencing internal earthquakes now.

  Peppermint.

  Along with the flowers, I smell peppermint.

  Ash.

  Oh, my God.

  Oh, my God.

  Ash is behind this door.

  Is it possible? Is this really happening?

  A beautiful woman is in your office, Georgie had said. She’s never met Ash, doesn’t even know about Ash… So Ash told her that she was a flower deliverywoman, charmed Georgie so much that she let the “nice” lady into my office, disregarding museum policy in the face of that knee-melting smile.

  I can hardly blame her.

  I gave her my cottage’s key without a second thought.

  “Molly?” Ash’s voice, soft, hesitant; I nearly collapse to the floor. “Are you out there?”

  “Y—” I begin but can’t finish, because my throat closes up, choking on the word.

  I feel woozy and shaky; I feel anxious and uncertain; I feel awestruck and ecstatic. I feel…like crying, and laughing, and hugging everyone. But there’s no one around, so I wrap my arms around myself and try to remember how to breathe, how to speak, how to turn a doorknob...

  But Ash saves me the trouble of initiating involuntary commands. She opens the door, and then she’s there—really there, really here, with me—and she’s tall and lean and so gorgeous that my stomach falls, and my heart thrums, and my eyes sting, and my legs—

  Oh.

  My legs don’t seem to be beneath me anymore.

  The tiled floor rises up to catch me, but Ash catches me first, her strong arms encircling my waist, supporting my weight until I gain feeling in my feet again and push up with them awkwardly. I tilt, leaning against Ash’s chest, my hands on her shoulders, my eyes fixed to hers; our mouths are a breath apart, and her scent is all I breathe, her warmth all I feel...

  But it’s too surreal, her being here. I almost laugh; this feels like a joke. A cruel joke, the cruelest. Because Ash went away. Ash left. I’ll never see Ash again… So who is this holding me, pressing her forehead so softly against mine? Who is this woman, this imposter, whispering my name like a secret, like a hallowed word?

  In one smooth movement, she coaxes the sunglasses onto the top of my head, then effortlessly eases her arm around my waist again.

  I blink and lick my lips, lower my sore eyes: her gaze is too intense; it makes me lightheaded. “Is it really you?” I whisper, moving my fingers from her shoulders to touch the red bowtie at the base of her neck. It’s then that I realize Ash is in costume, dressed like an old-time singing telegram girl: white button-up shirt under a short blue jacket with gold buttons, flat-topped felt cap pulled down over her hair. Her bottom half is classic Ash, though: tight-fitting jeans and purple high-top sneakers.

  The overall effect does little to solidify my wobbly legs.

  I suppress a swoon.

  “Molly,” Ash says again, slicing me open with her pointed grey gaze. “Can…” She sighs, glancing to either side of the hallway and loosening her grip, allowing her hands to slide down to my hips. My lips part, and everything within me stills: my heartbeat, my blood, my vaulting thoughts...

  “Can we talk in your office?”

  “Yeah. My… Um, yeah. Of…of course.”

  And she lets go of me, taking her warmth and half of my heart with her. She strides through the doorway, moves a few steps into the room. I shut the door and stagger behind her, still blinking, breathless. “Ash, I thought—”

  “I’m an idiot, Molly.”

  “You’re—what?” I step in front of her, shaking my head, shoving my hair back from my face. As per usual, Ash’s mere—albeit alarmingly sexy—presence transforms me into the stereotype of a gawky, gangly teenage boy. A very inexperienced teenage boy. I don’t know what to do with my hands; I don’t know what to say. I’m nothing but limbs and bottled-up hormones, and I feel clumsy and shy, so frightened, so smitten. I can almost see the cartoon bluebirds and floating hearts making slow circles around my baffled head.

  I just…find this so hard to believe. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe Ash’s sudden appearance is a hallucination, a delusional dream. It would make sense, my brain at last breaking with reality, conjuring up a mirage Ash to enjoy while I’m straitjacketed and drugged, the newest lifetime resident of the Broken Hearts Asylum for the Romantically Doomed.

  But hallucination or not, Ash’s hand is now in mine, warm and familiar, and she tugs me gently, drawing me near.

  “I messed up, Molly.”

  I swallow, dry-mouthed with disbelief. “You…did? But—”

  “I didn’t give you a chance to explain—not that you had to explain. I mean, you never promised me…anything.” With her free hand, she removes the cap from her head, tosses it onto my desk behind her, and rakes her fingers through her dark hair. Her face is sober, its
angles sharply outlined by the fluorescent lights; her dark eyes flash like polished steel when they clamp onto mine. “You told me you were still figuring things out with Juliette. I should have respected that. I should have given you time, space—”

  “Ash.” I swallow again, willing my cobwebbed mind to clear, to focus, to think. This is my chance, my second chance. I rehearsed this moment in miserable, self-indulgent fantasies, planned out the speeches I would give if Ash—by miracle or mishap—crossed my path. And now that she’s here, I’m tongue-tied, flailing.

  But let’s be honest: I’m often tongue-tied and always flailing. I told Juliette just yesterday that I wanted the freedom to be myself, and I have it, and this is myself—a graceless goof; a fumbling, lovesick fool… And I’m so afraid that I’m going to fall flat on my face—literally and figuratively.

  I mean, literally, I could deal with. After all, broken noses lend a certain je ne sais quoi, an alluring intrigue, to a person’s features. It’s the figurative possibilities that steal my breath away, that strangle my words before they’re spoken, as if I have a noose around my neck. Ash’s return doesn’t mean that she’s interested in reconciliation. Maybe she just wants to tie up loose ends, part on better terms—as I, naively, had hoped to do with Juliette…before my life unraveled at the seams.

  Maybe Ash just wants to say goodbye before disappearing for good.

  I draw in a gulp of wildflower-scented oxygen and square my shoulders, gazing hard into Ash’s cool grey eyes.

  Regardless of her intentions, I have to tell her the truth. I have to tell her that Juliette lied, yes, but more importantly, more urgently, I have to tell Ash that I’m falling in love—no. That I’ve already fallen in love with her. That the thought of going through my days without her sends my mind into a hopeless tailspin; that my heart is numb, a lumpen, limping thing in her absence. That, even if she doesn’t love me back, I don’t want to lose her friendship, can’t bear the pain of not knowing her at all.