by Scott, S. L.
I lay there, thinking. That’s when I smell her all over—the pillow, the sheets, my skin. The air in my room altered to accommodate her presence. Now, lack thereof. I don’t regret what we did. Not at all, but hell if I don’t feel like I took advantage of the situation. Did I screw up the potential for a second chance? I hope not.
I should have been here to listen, to answer her questions, but I couldn’t. She was so tempting, like she always was, always will be to me—my weakness. Seeing her last night was like the first time I ever saw her, but the need was different. Back then, I was determined to talk to her, to know her, to kiss her. Last night I was desperate for her forgiveness or forgetfulness, and a second chance.
I got more than I expected because I got all of her—her mind, her body, her soul by the time we ended up in bed. I could feel her need for me, her own desperation as our souls reconnected. I wonder if she recognizes what really happened. It wasn’t just sex. It never was with us. But waking up alone… maybe the daylight scared her, the reality of what happened yesterday.
Fuck! I grab my stomach sitting up in bed. I hope she didn’t go back to him. I hope she didn’t realize he’s the better man.
He is.
Even I know that, but I’m the better man for her.
An hour later, I’m taking a cab to Jules’ apartment. I slog up the stairs, my shoes feeling like weights as I walk. What if she rejects me? Last night might have been it for us, but after feeling her… being that close again, I have to try.
When I knock, there’s no answer. Two more raps on the door and still no answer. I press my ear to the door like the fucking low life stalker I am and listen. Nothing.
I return twice over the next few hours before heading home, her decision not to see me again, obvious at this point.
Come Monday morning, I’m sitting at my desk and still in shock that Austin didn’t have me fired. At least not yet. I sit idly by waiting for it to happen, but it never does.
Not today.
Not the next day.
Not even the day after that.
I’m still working here, moving up the ladder, but I removed myself from his account. Jacqueline is disappointed when I tell her. She questions, “I think the bruises on your face might have something to do with this. What did you do, Dylan?”
I remain silent, not wanting to lead her on in any way. I never have. I’m not starting now.
“You like her, don’t you? You like his girlfriend, Jules.” She laughs, flipping her hair over her shoulder, then says, “Holy shit! Austin did this to you.” She drops the papers in her hands as she stares at me with her mouth wide open. “You make it so obvious, so now you’ve piqued my curiosity. Why’d she pick Austin over you?”
Shaking my head, I stare out the window of her large office. I don’t have the answer to that. I don’t even know if she chose Austin, but she didn’t choose me. That is glaringly apparent. I walk to the door as she calls to me, “Dylan? It’s her loss. I think you’re a great guy.”
“Thanks.” I leave, not wanting to discuss this with anyone, but especially not at work. Trying to escape the office that seems to confine my thoughts to the past, I go to the park every day, hoping to see her, but she doesn’t come.
I try not to go by the gallery, but I’ve been and watched her from afar. Through the office window, I see her. She often seems to be staring at the vase I gave her, touching it, examining it. Sometimes she looks out the window as if she’s looking for someone. I hope she’s looking for me, but I hide. I don’t want to be a distraction to her, to cause her anymore pain. I tried to force my way back in once, twice, and it backfired. If we’re supposed to be together, we will.
IT’S BEEN A month. My mind still wanders and wonders, so today is the last day I knock on her door. The last time I’ll go to the park. The last time I’ll bother her.
She doesn’t answer. Brandon comes out unexpectedly though. “Hey man,” he says, eyeing me warily. “She’s not home.”
“Yeah, I gathered.”
“So you’ve been coming here, what every day?”
“Most days.”
“She’s been working a lot, not home much.”
“You don’t have to find excuses, Brandon. I know she’s avoiding me.”
“She told me what happened.”
I’m curious what she told him. I cross my arms over my chest defensively; worried that what she told him might hurt me more than her blatant avoidance. “What?”
“That you two were together that night.” He looks just as uncomfortable as I feel right now. “I think what she feels for you scares her. Like me, she needs to know you won’t hurt her again.”
“Never.”
He takes my response and mulls it over, gauging me momentarily. “She’s not with Austin. They broke up. She’s running on autopilot these days thanks to you.”
“So am I.”
“You look like shit.” He shifts, stepping back into his apartment, grabbing his phone from a table by the door. “Give me your number. Maybe we can talk over a pitcher sometime.” Jules’ best friend is offering to tell me what she can’t. It’s an opportunity and a death sentence all in one.
I give him my number and ask, “Why are you doing this?”
“Because as much as I want to help her through this, I can’t this time. It’s something she’s going to have to do on her own when she’s ready.” He shakes my hand, which seems oddly out of place, but strangely appropriate. “She’s not ready, Dylan.”
“She’s stubborn. More than she used to be.”
He laughs dryly. “Yes, that she is.” He steps back into the doorway to his apartment. “She’s still that same girl from years ago, the one you were with. She’s just more protective of her heart now. Give her some time.”
“How much do you think she needs?”
He shakes his head, laughing vacantly. “I don’t know. I don’t want her to hurt at all. I know you don’t either. Let’s grab that beer in the new year if you haven’t heard from her.”
“Okay.”
I walk away from her building feeling the same emptiness I’ve felt for a month. In reality, I’ve felt it for years, but deep inside, an inkling of hope remains. Finally, I might have someone else on my side, someone on her side that cares about her enough to know that I just might be the guy she should be with.
THERE’S SOMETHING FUNNY about hate. It seems to be the only emotion you can’t hold onto. I used to think it was happiness. It’s not. It’s hate. It slips through your fingers before you’re aware it’s gone and you find yourself feeling something else, something new, something different. It manipulates itself. You think you can rely on the emotion like you once did so readily, so easily, but it changes.
It may be numbness that carries you forward now. Or, maybe it’s an emptiness that suddenly exists in your belly, in your chest, in your heart. Or maybe you find yourself feeling the opposite and catch yourself smiling at something you hadn’t noticed before.
Hate is funny like that.
I tried to hold onto it.
I tried to hate Dylan again.
I tried to hate him for making my life complicated when it seemed… not complicated. When it seemed obvious which way I should go. I tried to control the hate, bring it forth again, summoning it. To own it. Possess it. But it turned, altered from within. It left without my permission. Just like Dylan had years earlier, drifting out of my life without my consent.
Months after I went to Dylan’s apartment, I continue to work long hours, trying to block him from my mind. He lingers… in my mind, sometimes even outside my apartment. I know he’s there even when he doesn’t knock. I can feel him, his hand, his heart just on the other side of the three inches of wood that separates us.
Something inside me won’t let him in. Maybe it’s a deep-seeded emotion that seems to dwell inside, overpowering my weaker ones, scolding me for wanting him again.
Maybe.
By mid-afternoon, work is tedious, which is
unusual. I love my work, but it’s not what I need right now. I need to feel something different. I’m craving a new emotion.
Tired of punishing myself, I leave. I grab my wallet out of my bag and shove it in my coat pocket. I tell my assistant, Sergio, I’m going to check on Jean-Luc’s showcase. I’m determined to distract myself and my pesky heart that longs to be somewhere else, that longs to be with Dylan.
I hail a cab and slip inside. The drive is uninteresting. The view of the working city is uninspiring in browns, winter grays, and dirty whites. I knock even though he tells me I can walk in every time I visit. It’s not my home and I don’t like to intrude though my unannounced visit may be considered an intrusion in and of itself. It’s not to him though.
He answers with a joint hanging from the corner of his mouth as his smile widens and he ushers me in. He sets it down on the nearest window sill of the large loft, then returns to hold me by the face. He’s never touched me like this before and though it might be considered too much, too close for some, I’m not worried. I know where we stand. He cares about me, but he doesn’t love me, not like Dylan does. He’s comforting in some ways though that are different and easy.
“You want a hit?” Jean-Luc asks hesitantly, seemingly unsure if what he’s asking is appropriate.
Taking the joint in hand, I inhale while closing my eyes and let it infiltrate my being, taking over for a while. Doubts and pain, regret, and everything but numbness flood my mind, overpowering me with loss. I want to let go. I cough which turns into hacking since I’ve never smoked pot before. When the coughing ceases, I smile, feeling lighter already. Maybe I should be a bad girl. Maybe that would suit me better.
I know this is a manufactured diversion. The marijuana has created this façade of a feeling. I decline another hit, knowing it would be better to feel nothing than something false.
I walk the room, gazing at his latest works, thinking about the differences in style from his earlier pieces. Jean-Luc is established on the scene and his work needs to evolve as much as his reputation has.
Higher expectations.
Costlier price tags.
Progress in the movement.
I’m not seeing it in these, which worries me.
“I’ve missed your pretty face, Jules.”
I glance, he smiles—ruefully.
I return to the third painting propped against a chest of drawers and critique, “This one needs a response to the question it poses.”
“That’s the point. There is no response, no right answer to give. This is art.”
“Art has a purpose or you couldn’t set it apart from a drawing done by a child. You had a point, a motive when you painted it. What was it? I need to see that motive or I’m left empty. That’s not a reaction you want when you use such bold colors.”
“I’m the new generation of standards. They love me, Jules.” His hands go into the air, expressive, overly-dramatic, “I’m Jean-Luc, damn it! I don’t have to have a point or motive. I just have to paint my name at the bottom.”
“Anyone can paint. Greatness is born from desire and your desires are following a different path right now.”
He walks closer, his hand running the length of my arm. “You’re too uptight today.”
“Arrogance is unattractive, even in art.”
Sidetracking the conversation, he says, “Maybe you need something stronger.” He holds up a bottle of vodka. He’s right. The drink will give me a new perspective, then I will look at the paintings and reassess. I nod, relaxing on the couch that faces an easel and the back of a large blank white canvas. He presents the glass. “It’s the afternoon, so I thought we could start with something lighter.”
My eyebrows go up that vodka is considered lighter. I sip after a quick tap of my glass to his, the burn rushing my system and easing me.
Sitting back, I close my eyes, lost in memories. I find Dylan frequenting my thoughts again. I don’t regret making love with him that night. I can’t. It felt right. He felt right. Still does, but I can’t go back into something blindly. I did that the first time and caused more harm than good. I believe I’ve given Austin another chance to find true love, something that I couldn’t give him. I loved him, but not the way he deserves.
I know I’m hurting Dylan as well, but maybe that’s how it has to be for now. Maybe time will give me a new outlook that alcohol hasn’t.
I’ve been alone a lot lately. Brandon has a girlfriend now who surprised him with a ski trip for Christmas. I think she wanted him away from me, but that’s just my opinion.
It’s fine because he has earned more than a lifetime of happiness from his good deeds as a best friend. It’s just… his girlfriend is a model. I’ve met her four times and I can tell she already wants to marry him, even after just two months. I’m not jealous. I’m bitter. And happy for him.
My mind is fucked.
I shouldn’t be allowed near people when I’m like this, when I’m past hate and leading back into feelings this intense. These feelings hurt.
Painful emotionally.
Physically painful to my body.
I sit down on Jean-Luc’s couch, sloppy already, my mind going fuzzy. He joins me. The straight alcohol hitting me harder than expected. I look down at the glass and it’s empty, but then he’s refilling it. When did I drink the whole glass? I should stop. I lean back, closing my eyes, hoping to disappear for awhile.
He whispers what I want to hear as I fade away…
“Beautiful.”
“Smart.”
“Sexy.”
“Is this okay?”
I open my eyes as his hand slides up my thigh to the top of my legs. My skirt is up, revealing too much for his eyes, more than I want to show him. “No,” I murmur, then watch as he stands, moving slowly to the easel.
He takes his shirt off. “I’m going to paint you, Jules.” His pants drop down, no underwear, and I watch silently. “I paint best in the nude. Do you want to be naked with me? Let me paint you bare, my beauty.”
His words cautionary, but intriguing. My better judgment gone just like the men I’ve loved who have loved me the most. He comes closer, setting the paintbrush down on the coffee table in front of me. Confident, he reaches for the strap of my blouse. My body and mind move like quicksand, unable to save myself. He whispers of freeing the demons that live within. He promises to put them in the girl in the painting and let them reside there instead, liberating me from the burdens of feeding their egos. He promises to paint me broken, so I can be whole again.
His words are therapeutic when you’re mind plays tricks on you.
After standing, he walks to the easel that seems to be waiting to be filled with my image. I don’t grant him the permission he seeks because I’m too tired. Twisting onto my side, I find comfort in holding myself, eyes closing, unaware if it’s been five minutes or five hours. I lose track of time…
Of Dylan…
Of myself.
While he paints.
“MR. SOMERS,” TRICIA calls quietly, peeking her head into the conference room.
I look up, surprised by the interruption. She knows how important this early morning meeting is. Twelve men. Eight women. Eyes all on me as I smile, excuse myself, and hurry over. I shut the door quietly behind me, questioning her. “Tricia, you know I’m not to be disturbed. What is it?”
“There’s a Mr. Paine on the phone. He says it’s an emergency. He tried your cell, but obviously you didn’t answer.”
“I don’t know a Mr. Paine.”
As my mind tumbles through names and faces, everyone I know, it finally registers—Brandon Paine? “Which line?”
My heart starts pounding in my chest. There’s only one reason he would call me—Jules. Something’s wrong. I can feel it. It’s seven-fifteen in the morning. Not exactly time for a social call.
She replies, “Line ten.”
“Can I take it up here?”
“Sure. Just press the red button and you’ll be connected.
”
I dash to a cubicle where someone else sits but hasn’t shown up to work yet. “Brandon?”
“Dylan?”
“What’s going on?”
“She just called me. Jules just called me and she needs help.”
“Where is she?”
“Some building down in the Bronx.”
“Call me on my cell in ten minutes. I’m heading out the door now. I’m in the financial district. It will take me a while to get there.” I don’t think I even hang the phone up. I think I just toss it and run.
Tricia calls after me, “Dylan?”
“Tell them I have an emergency,” I shout over my shoulder while running for the elevator.
The adrenaline makes me want to run the whole way, down forty-six flights, but the elevator will be faster. I step inside and press the lobby button. The tranquil music is in polar opposite of how I feel.
I run out and straight for the line of cabs dropping people off at the curb, people arriving for work. “The Bronx,” I demand.
The cabbie looks at me in the mirror, eyebrows raised. “That’s gonna be a big fare from here.”
“I don’t care. Just start the meter and drive.”
“The Bronx is a big place.”
“I’ll have an address in a few minutes. Drive, it’s an emergency.”
“Okay,” he says, closing his mouth and pulling into traffic.
I’m holding my phone, willing it to ring when it lights up. “Where am I going?” I ask.
“Calm down, Dylan. I think she’s fine. I just texted you the address. I just need to have back-up—”
“Why do you need back up?” Shifting, I’m anxious as shit to get to her and he now tells me he needs me as back up. “What the fuck? Give me her number, Brandon.”
He rambles it off and I hang up after telling him I’ll call him back. I give the address to the driver in the meantime.
It rings three times before Jules answers and when she finally does, my heart drops into the pit of my stomach. “Hello?” Her voice is weak. She sounds drowsy.