From the Inside Out: The Compilation (Scorned, Jealousy, Dylan, Austin)

by Scott, S. L.

  “Jules? It’s me… Dylan.”

  “Dylan? Dylan…” She trails off as if falling asleep, then says, “Dylan, come get me.”

  “I’m coming. I’ll be there soon, baby. Just hang on. I’ll be there soon. Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  “I’m… fine. I just can’t seem to stay awake. I’m so… tired.”

  “I’m coming.” My voice cracks, my concern taking over. I’ve never heard her like this. Something’s wrong. “Can you stay on the phone with me?”

  Silence.

  “Jules, are you there?”

  Silence.

  “Jules?”

  “Fucking answer me, Jules!” I shout, but there’s no reply. If I listen carefully I can hear her breathing into the phone. Despite wanting to stay on, I hang up, and call Brandon. “Why does she sound like that?”

  “I don’t know. She wouldn’t say. Couldn’t might be more accurate.”

  I run my hand nervously through my hair. “What’s going on?”

  “I honestly don’t know.” He’s not hiding the edge to his tone. “I just got back to the city last night. She called me and sounded like what you heard. It’s that guy Jean-Luc’s place. I don’t know what I’m walking into.”

  “I appreciate you calling me. I should be there in a half hour. I’ll meet you out front. Wait for me.”

  Thirty minutes.

  Thirty minutes of torture.

  Jules. All I can think of is her. The worst scenarios playing out in my mind.

  As soon as I arrive, I swipe my credit card through the machine and jump out of the cab not waiting for a receipt. When I turn around, Brandon is running toward me from the corner, his cab pulling away from the curb.

  Brandon doesn’t say anything but walks past me and buzzes the landlord. When he speaks to him, it’s firm, words like ‘cops’ and other threats being tossed around.

  The door is buzzed open.

  Even though the building is in a crap location, I can tell these lofts are expensive once I enter. I still can’t let my guard down.

  Brandon takes the stairs two at a time and I follow. He says, “Third door. Apartment C.”

  When we reached Jean-Luc’s door, it’s cracked open. Brandon stalls, gripping the large steel handle. He looks at me and I’ve never seen him so serious. Pissed yes, but his expression stresses me even more. “Get her out of here as fast as you can.”

  I nod, but he already knows Jules is my only priority.

  As he slides the door the rest of the way open, we enter. It’s quiet except for music softly playing in the far corner.

  We’re greeted by something unexpected—a painting of her. Dark long hair, waves over her shoulders. Creamy skin. My eyes search for clues of authenticity. Her eyes are closed, so nothing to confirm my suspicions from them. Landing on the mole, it’s there, painted exactly where it is on her body.

  Fucker!

  He painted her nude. For his sake, she better have been a willing subject. We walk around it, one on either side of the large canvas and there she is asleep on the couch, phone lying by her cheek. A blanket covers her, her coat draped over the arm of the couch. I kneel down and whisper. “Jules? Wake up. Jules.”

  Her lids lift just slightly and a small smile appears. “Dylan,” she whispers, her voice is scratchy as she reaches for my cheek. “What took you so long?”

  “I was across the city. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t mean today.”

  Sighing, I reply, “I got lost, but I’m here now.” My lips land on her forehead and I take a second to compose myself, my heart jumping out of my chest and straight into hers.

  I hear shuffling behind me and turn to see Brandon looking at a bottle on the side table. “Sleeping pills.” He picks up an empty bottle, and adds, “Vodka.”

  Turning back to Jules, her sweet smile makes me want to kiss her, but I resist knowing this isn’t the time. “Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?”

  “No. I’m not hurt. I’m tired and a little sick to my stomach.”

  “Did you take a sleeping pill?” She shakes her head, so I say, “Jean-Luc painted you. Is that why you’re here?”

  I watch as she looks down, noticing she’s only in her bra and panties. She sits up, the blanket covering her as she reaches for her clothes. Her voice starts to tremble as do her hands. “Dylan…” She looks into my eyes and I see she’s scared. “He didn’t hurt me, but… I was dressed.”

  “Where is he?” I ask.

  “I want to leave,” she says, her voice gathering strength. “Let’s just leave.”

  “Did he do anything to you?”

  “Dylan,” she snaps. “He wouldn’t hurt me.” Her conviction wanes. “But I know he wanted to paint me. I remember him saying that before I fell asleep.”

  Brandon stops pacing, and says, “I’m gonna kill this guy.” His hands fisted, his face as tense as his arms.

  I feel the same but I focus on Jules. “We should call the police,” I say to him.

  “No!” Her hand goes out to stop me. “I remember him talking to me about putting my demons on the canvas or something like that. I might have told him he could. I can’t remember now.”

  Brandon stops and asks, “How much did you have to drink?”

  “I don’t know.” She puts her feet on the floor and says, “I want to get dressed.” She stands there waiting until we both turn around. Right when I turn my back on her, I feel her hand on my arm. “Dylan. Please don’t hate me.”

  Looking back, I say, “I could never hate you.” Wishing I could take away her pain and regret, I stroke her cheek. “I tried. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

  “I’ve tried too, but I couldn’t because I think I love you too much.”

  “There’s that too much again.” I lean back, looking directly into her eyes. I can tell the drug has worn off for the most part. “Get dressed. I want to get you out of here.”

  I take her coat and hold it out, shielding her to give some semblance of privacy.

  “Jules, get dressed before this asshole returns or I guarantee I will fucking crush his hands so he never paints again,” Brandon snarls from the front door.

  I would do more than crush his hands.

  Unsteady on her feet at first, she grabs a hold of my arm and slips her shirt and skirt on. I help her with her coat, then we walk to the door. “Get the painting, Brandon,” I say when we pass.

  She looks between us before turning around. A sharp intake of air is heard when she sees the canvas. “That’s me.” There’s disappointment to her tone as if she’s given up something she wanted to hold onto.

  I pull her out the door, not wanting to be here any longer. The elevator is large and industrial in nature, so the painting fits. Jules stares at it, intrigued, her fingertips sliding cautiously over the bumpy, dried paint. “It’s good. Accurate. He even caught the tears.”

  “Why were you crying?” I ask, looking at the streaks down her painted face.

  “I always cry in my sleep.” She states this so matter of fact, as if everyone does that. Her response makes a lump form in my throat as a thousand more questions enter my mind.

  Out on the sidewalk, I hear a harsh cracking. When I turn around, I see the broken frame on the ground. Brandon is rolling the loose canvas up as she slides into the taxi.

  “Do we need to go to a hospital?” I ask, wrapping my arm around her shoulders when I get in.

  Brandon is getting in when she replies, “No, he didn’t hurt me.” She glances at me. “He didn’t touch me either. I promise.” Her voice is just a whisper on the last part as she buries her head into the nook of my neck and closes her eyes.

  JULES FALLS ASLEEP in my arms on the cab ride to her apartment. When we arrive, she insists she’s fine and can walk on her own. I stifle a smile because I’ve grown to like her stubbornness. Actually, I like everything I’ve discovered about the new Jules. It’s more authentically her, not for me, or who anyone else wants her to be. She’s created her own life a
nd I respect that.

  Brandon follows us into our… her apartment and leans on a stack of boxes. “So, what do you want me to do with this painting?” He holds the rolled canvas up in his hand, careful not to let it fall open.

  Jules turns from within the confines of the bedroom and tilts her head, leaning against the doorframe. “Just leave it.”

  “I’m gonna go,” he says to me, his eyes then meeting hers.

  She has her coat off and is unzipping her skirt when she stops and walks back into the living room. Her voice is soft, caring, grateful, “Brandon, I don’t know how to thank you for being there, for being my friend when I needed you most.” Her hands are on him, one on the chest, one on his arm.

  I should be jealous by the intimate touch, but I’m not because I know where the intimacy between the two of them begins and ends. He hugs her and whispers, “You don’t have to thank me, just don’t pull that disappearing crap again.”

  “I won’t. I’m sorry,” she says.

  Brandon leaves, leaving us alone. I’ve made myself at home on the couch, watching her.

  “I think I want a nap. Will you sleep with me, Dylan?”

  “Sleep?”

  She smiles and the laceration in my heart starts to heal. With a hand on her hip, she says, “Yes, sleep. Only sleep.”

  I stand and walk into the bedroom with a shrug. “I can nap.” I find myself following Jules room to room not wanting to be too far, feeling very protective of her. She pulled a new toothbrush out of a moving box in the living room, handed it to me, and then we ended up in the bathroom, brushing our teeth together. Watching each other in the reflection of the mirror, I feel at home and yet, a little nervous. Our eyes take in the other, reticent but right.

  I use the restroom in private after she does, then go into the bedroom. The curtains have been pulled. It’s bright outside, but the drapes do a good job of blocking out most of the light. She’s on the left side of the bed. We haven’t spoken in a few minutes and the weight of the world seems to be heavy between us. I walk over and slide under the covers, dressed only in boxers, hoping she doesn’t mind me taking off my undershirt. I’m lying on my back and she immediately scoots closer. Lifting my arm, she takes up residence there without words, without questions, without hesitation. Just like old times.

  Draping her arm across my chest, she closes her eyes and I kiss her before closing mine. Our breaths even, steady and slow, syncing together.

  Three hours. I wake up three hours later, surprised, considering I wasn’t tired. That’s a lie. I’m always tired. I don’t sleep well these days, haven’t in a long time… Not since that night at my apartment.

  I’m still holding Jules, wrapped around the back of her. I close my eyes again and push my nose into her hair. Silky. Tropical in scent.

  I smile, and she whispers, “Hi.”

  “You’re awake?”

  “Your sniffing woke me up,” she says flatly, but I can tell she’s just teasing.

  I lean up on my elbow to lean over her. When she turns onto her back, she’s under me, and I say, “Hi.”

  A sweet stroke on my cheek, down my neck, and over my shoulder and she’s smiling too. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “I am too.” I want to tell her more, but save it for a conversation out of bed, not wanting to ruin this.

  Her voice is still coarse with sleep when she asks, “Will you spend the day with me?”

  “I thought I was.”

  She laughs lightly, looking down. When her eyes meet mine again, she asks, “Will you go somewhere with me?”

  “Anywhere.”

  Moving quickly from bed, she says, “Well, come on. The day is a wasting.”

  While she dresses, I go into the bathroom. She didn’t mention my boner. What a relief. It’s going down, but it was obvious when I was pressed against her.

  Finishing before her, I go into the kitchen, needing a cup of coffee. She has this amazing coffee maker on the counter too. It looks expensive, but doesn’t seem to have been used much. I pull the ground coffee from the freezer, old habits of both of ours, and start messing with it.

  “That thing is too complicated,” Jules says, walking in behind me. “I’ll buy you a coffee down the street if you want one.”

  “I’d like to figure this one out. Do you mind waiting?”

  “Have at it. I’ve had it for years and can’t really figure it out.”

  I laugh while messing with a lever on the side. I think that’s the steamer. I get a glass of water and fill the tank, switching the machine on, then twist two knobs adjusting the levels. She hands me a mug and I place it under the spout I think the coffee will come out. I flip the lever backward and steam rushes out of a metal tube, then I twist it again. “I hear brewing!” I announce proudly.

  She leans in closer, listening carefully. “So do I!” The molten liquid sputters a few times before draining into the mug. “It’s working,” she says, laughing.

  When the cup is three-fourths full, I stop the press and pull the mug out. “Voila,” I say, presenting it.

  “I’m so impressed, Dylan.”

  Shrugging, I reply, “Eh, it was nothing.”

  “You should have the first cup since you got it to work.”

  “No, I insist. It’s your fancy machine and coffee. Try it and let me know what you think.”

  Bringing it to her lips, she blows before sipping. First it’s her nose, then her eyes. Her face contorts, struggling to swallow what’s in her mouth. Maybe I should have tried it first.

  “Um, yeah, I’ll buy you a coffee down the street.” She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door. “Get your jacket.” With a wry smile in place, she asks, “Do you want to go by your place and change clothes?”

  “I’d like to get out of this suit. And just so you know, I’m going to master that machine.”

  “I have no doubt you will, Dylan. You were always very good at conquering anything you put your mind to.” She breaks away and looks down the hall, shifting uncomfortably. When she looks back at me, she whispers, “I need to take this slow, okay?”

  I nod. I want fast, but I’ll do slow. For her.

  After a visit to my place, I’m in clean clothes and we’re on the subway heading to a restaurant near the gallery. “So you recommend this place?”

  “Do you trust me?” she asks.

  Tilting my head, I narrow my eyes at her. “With my heart.”

  Leaning her head on my shoulder, she smiles again. That’s four that I’ve counted since we woke up and I love every one of them. I move my hand to her lap and she places hers on top of mine, our fingers fold together, entwining. A rough start to the day brings an unexpected, but happy ending.

  AFTER DINNER, WE walk outside and I finally say what I’ve wanted to say all day, “He left you there. The door was wide open.”

  “Jean-Luc wouldn’t have hurt me. He probably went to his friends place. He lives across the hall. He wouldn’t leave me to be attacked or anything like that.”

  “I don’t want him coming near you again.” I close my eyes trying to rid myself of what I saw— the painting, the feelings.

  I feel her hand soothe over my back and look, meeting her soft gaze. “I wasn’t thinking,” she says, shaking her head as if scolding herself. “I went there for work… But I knew deep down that he wanted more. He always has. Dylan, I hate to admit how weak I was, but I wanted to feel wanted without pain and baggage. I wanted simple. He’s simple in his affections.” She scoffs under her breath. “He’s very open with his wants. I went over there hoping to feel like my old self, needing the attention.”

  She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes, steeling herself for what’s to come and I feel my nerves heighten. With a hand on my arm, she starts to turn, then wraps her arms around me. As I hold her, she speaks to my chest, but I hear her, “My old self after you. I wanted to return to the life where I was in control and hated you. I can’t though. I… my heart.” She sighs, then goes quiet.
>
  “What I did was wrong, Jules. Fucking wrong on so many levels, but I’m here now. I’ve been here, trying to make up for even a portion of the pain I caused. But now, I need to know how you really feel.” I hold her tighter; both of us unable to look at the other while these words come out. “I’m not asking for a life with you. Though you know I want one. I’m asking you for today, for right now. That’s all. One day—”

  “One day,” she repeats.

  In that moment of silence between us, I pray once more that she gives me this request.

  “Okay.” She takes a step back, releasing me, which feels all wrong. Her arms go into the air, as she continues, “I shouldn’t. I don’t owe you anything, much less another chance, but like you, I’m fucking selfish, Dylan.” With a shrug, she says, “I like the way I feel when I’m with you more than when I’m not. I know this is unfair. Judge me if you must, but this is me being honest with you now. We are not going to be fixed overnight or even over months. It’s going to take a long time for me to trust you again, but I’m starting to, even if just a little. I deserve to be happy and what sucks is, even after what you did to me four years ago, you make me feel like I can be happy again, like there just might be a silver lining to this whole mess.”

  Her arms flop to her sides exasperated. Taking her hand, I rub my thumb over the back of it. “I know what you mean. I understand that you want to convince yourself I’m the bad guy, and I was, but I’m not anymore.” I pull her to me, my mouth to her ear, my arm around her shoulders and whisper, “I’ve never stopped loving you. Ever. Just let me show you. Give what you can give. I’m not asking for more than that.”

  Her hands slide around to my back and up, holding me tight. Her lips are on mine, hushing the words that don’t need to be spoken. Words like ‘please trust me’ and ‘I’m sorry,’ ‘I love you,’ and ‘thank you.’

  We have time to share those. This is about acknowledging that we will try, at the very least, we will try and maybe one day we can move beyond least into something more.

  I hear her take a slow, drawn breath, then whisper, “Okay.”

  Tilting my head to the side, I look down so I can see her face. When she looks up, for the first time since I saw her almost a year ago at that restaurant, her eyes are clear, not bogged down with the heaviness of the past.