by Scott, S. L.
I type back: You’re up late.
My phone dings: Can’t sleep.
My fingers are in motion, typing again: Can I call you? This time my phone rings, making me smile. “Hi,” I answer.
“Hi.”
“Austin, I’m sorry about earlier. I just assumed—”
“Sounds like I have competition, Jules.”
“You don’t.”
“We’re new. We haven’t talked as much as we should have. I get it. I might not be the only one you’re seeing.”
“You are. Please don’t think I’m dating anyone else. I’m not. My best friend is a guy, but it’s not romantic.”
“I’m gonna be honest with you. I’m afraid the word exclusive will scare you. I’m not seeing anyone else and I don’t want to. We can move at your pace, but I need you to set that pace.”
“Exclusive doesn’t scare me with you, Austin. Misunderstandings do.”
He sighs. “I agree. Misunderstandings can be a problem. Jules, I told you before that I’d be honest with you.” His voice strains a bit, sounding uncomfortable. “I’ve been lied to and used many times. I won’t, I can’t do that again.”
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes in the dark room, and holding the phone to my ear. “I don’t want that either.”
He chuckles lightly. “It’s funny that we’re having this conversation when thousands of miles and a large ocean separate us.”
“I like that we can talk like this, even with the distance.”
He whispers, “So do I.” The weight of the conversation lifts. “You look better than I imagined in that set too and I have a pretty damn good imagination.”
I laugh this time. “Oh I know you do.”
We talk for another twenty minutes, our more responsible sides eventually winning out at the late hour. After a short but sweet goodbye we hang up, all doubts and hesitations settled as we move forward as a couple.
“WHAT DO YOU not understand about do not disturb, Tricia?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, my irritation peaking, then dumping it all on her.
She sits there wordless, anger in her own eyes, but smart enough not to say anything back. I turn away from her, others watching this play out. I close my eyes knowing the source of my real annoyance is not my longtime secretary, but the messed up emotions fucking with my head. Immediately spinning around, I apologize to her. Loud enough to where the others can hear because she deserves that respect and I deserve to look like the ass I’m acting like. I lower my voice then. “Please hold my calls for the next hour. I have a meeting on the forty-seventh floor.”
“Yes, sir.” She calls me sir when she’s mad at me. She normally calls me Dylan.
I ride down the elevator and am greeted by the Junior Vice President of Finances. She takes me into the meeting, and the door closes.
TRICIA SMILES, GREETING me when I arrive back at my office three hours later. She hands me my messages, then tells me she sent about a dozen more to my voicemail.
I walk in and drop the messages on my desk before walking to the window, pulling at my tie until it’s untied. I toss it onto my desk along with the papers I left hours ago. I cross my arms and stare out at the vast city before me, my mind not into work right now, my mind is on Juliette instead. She’s becoming an occupational hazard lately.
I hear a light knock, but don’t turn around. I know who it is. “Dylan.” Tricia is hesitant. She can read my body language. I’m not happy, though I should be after that meeting. “This package arrived for you while you were gone. I’ll just set it here.” She sets it on the bureau by the door and closes the door quietly, leaving me alone with the package.
Turning around, my concentration is broken. The box is large. I walk over and rip the tape at the top that’s keeping it sealed shut. Checking the top left corner, there’s no return address. I remove several sheets of tissue paper and lots of packing peanuts fall to the floor. It’s heavy and bubble wrapped. I pull it all the way out, then unroll it. I only get about half way before it’s revealed—the vase. The vase I sent Juli— Jules with the flowers.
My anger flares again, flames flicking in my chest. “God damn it!”
This woman has caused me nothing but trouble for over a month now. If I was honest with myself, which I’m not, it’s been years, but as I said, I’m not that honest with myself to admit that… yet.
I walk over and grab my keys from my desk, then lift my jacket from the coat rack by the door, slipping it on. I pick the vase back up, knocking all the protective packaging to the floor, and walk out. “I’ll be gone the rest of the afternoon, Tricia.”
Her eyes are wide, darting down to the vase in my hands then back up. I’ve never left early. I’ve never even left on time. I always work late, so I understand her shocked expression. “Yes, Dylan. Have a good evening.”
“Thank you. You can go ahead and leave now too if you want.”
I hear a quiet and happy, ‘Thank you,’ as I walk out the company doors to the bank of elevators. I hail a cab, which at this hour is a breeze, and head across town.
The cab driver pulls over a few doors down from the gallery. I pay him and walk, no, more like storm with purpose toward the large artsy entrance. I swing open the door and look around. There’s no one in sight, so I glance to the left. Jules’ office door is open, but no one is in there.
Then I hear her. Her voice chimes through the barren white-walled space. The smell of paint is heavy in the air, drop-cloths down on the floor. The moment of pause is making me rethink my purpose and I stop, unsure if I should be here. The earlier passion I felt is fading until I see her again. She riles me up like no other. With her phone in hand, her eyes go wide. “Dylan?” she says, surprised.
Our eyes only meet for a brief second before she glances down at my hands and sees the vase. She looks away. Turning her back to me, she goes into her office. Dismissing me.
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 t
o 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, taking 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?”