by Scott, S. L.
“What?” she asks, feeling self-conscious.
I’m momentarily stunned by her beauty. Running my hand along her cheek, I let my fingers twist into her hair before moving down to give her a kiss. I find myself gripping her tighter, holding her closer, afraid she’ll disappear, like this might not be real.
“Dylan?” Her voice is soft. “It’s alright. We have today.” She laughs gently, looking down. “Probably tomorrow too.”
“I’m hoping by tonight there will be no probably’s in the equation.”
“So am I.”
I savor her words, then ask, “Can I take you somewhere now?”
Her smile grows. “Yes. Is it a surprise?”
“Of sorts.”
Two train hops later, we’re walking down Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. I can see her curiosity peaking and I’m nervous again. I take her hand and go to the office to check in.
“Mr. Somers, good to see you again.”
“You too, Joey. How have you been?”
“Can’t complain,” he replies, looking between us. Curious, I’m sure. I’ve never brought anyone with me before. He grins as if he’s suddenly in on a secret. “Have a good day.”
“You too,” I call over my shoulder as we walk down the corridor and up the stairs, down another long hallway to the very end. The last unit on the right.
“What’s this?” she asks, her nerves showing through her tentative tone.
I unlock the mini garage door and as I lift it up, I grip her hand tighter with my other. “I need to show you this.”
The door settles and I glance to her and then back to the ten by fifteen storage unit. Her mouth drops open as she tries to free her hand, but I remain holding it, gripping harder, afraid she’ll leave me. ‘Please don’t hate me,’ I chant over and over in my head as she takes in the stuff before us.
Stepping forward, she stops, then murmurs, “Dylan.” I can hear her gulp before she takes another step. “Dylan, this is—”
“It’s our stuff. All of it. It’s all here. Everything I took from you is here,” I whisper, releasing her hand, knowing I have to. I feel the tears form in my eyes when I see her shoulders shake and hear her trembling breath.
She looks at me over your shoulder, then turns back and sits on the couch like she might need the support. When her eyes meet mine, for a brief second, I’m stunned. “You’ve had this all along?”
“Yes. I couldn’t throw it away. I couldn’t… I couldn’t be around it on a daily basis. It was us.”
“No, it was just our stuff, not us.”
“The guy at the front desk knew you when you walked in. How long have you had it here?”
“Since the day I moved it from the apartment.”
Her eyes search mine as her eyebrows dip in curiosity, piecing it together. “How often do you come here?”
I stand still, frozen to the spot, my eyes locked with hers. “One or twice a month, at least.”
“And at the most?”
“Four or five times a month.”
Walking to a box, she lifts the flap. Then she leans her forehead against it and starts crying. I know what’s in that box. There’s a reason that box is the one closest to the couch.
“The photo albums,” she says, looking back at me once more. “Why, Dylan?”
“I needed you. I couldn’t live life without you—”
“You had me, but you chose to leave.”
“I know. It’s the biggest mistake of my life. I regret it every minute of every day. I know a million apologies won’t make it right, but it doesn’t mean I ever stopped loving you, Jules.”
Reaching for her, she swings her arms protectively in front of her body. “Stop!” She looks down again.
“I shouldn’t have taken it. I don’t even have a good excuse for taking it. At the time, I think I wanted anything to do with us out of sight, so I could move on. But the bill would come for another year on this storage unit and I would pay it, knowing I could never get rid of it.”
“Your sad reasoning hurt me, hurt my soul and now I’m here face to face with everything I never thought I’d see again. I’m gonna need a minute to process this.”
Sitting down on the couch, in the spot I usually sit in when I visit, I watch as she starts digging through boxes until she seems to find what she’s looking for—her jewelry box. She then sits down on the couch and lifts the lid. A small gasp escapes before her hand covers her mouth. Slowly, she lifts a necklace up in front of her. I gave it to her back in college. She says, “I never thought I’d see this again. What did Hillary say about this?”
It’s my turn to scoff. “Hillary knew I had the stuff, but she never knew where or what I had. She never came here. I never brought her. I didn’t want her near here or you.”
“Why’d you come here?” she asks, setting the necklace back into the velvet lined wood box.
I was hoping she’d put it on, but I know that’s too much to ask. Leaning back, I roll my head to the side to look at her pretty face. “Sometimes I would bring a bottle of Jack and take shots while staring at the boxes. A few times, I fell asleep on the couch—”
“I used to love taking naps on this couch.”
I smile because she does. “You’re letting me off, aren’t you?”
“No. I hate that you took all of this away, but it’s stuff. I had to reconcile with that years ago because I didn’t think I’d ever see it again.” She turns onto her side, tucking her legs up under her and adds, “I think it would have been very hard to live with this and know you were still gone. All of these reminders…”
Something catches her eyes and she sits up suddenly. I’ve been found out as I spot the picture frame of us at Myrtle Beach one summer we visited my family. That’s the picture I set up on top of the box in the corner. I would stare at it for hours wondering how I could have thrown our relationship away like I did.
She steps over another box to retrieve it. Running her fingers along the broken glass, she looks back at me questioning. I answer despite the nonverbal request, “I was upset. I‘d been drinking.”
Jules lowers the frame, defeated, and asks, “Why didn’t you ever call me, Dylan?”
“I,” I start but stall, my words jumbling in my head, making me feel stupid. “I thought you hated me.”
“It’s strange, but I never considered the fact that maybe you were feeling the same way I was. So much pain. The difference is that I did hate you, but I think you hated yourself more.”
I nod, knowing she sees me much clearer than I thought.
AS I STARE at the broken picture frame, I have an epiphany. Dylan’s suffered too. He’s still suffering, just like I am. I turn around and see him leaning forward, resting his arms on his knees, his face covered by his hands. Seeing how broken he is, I sit down next to him.
Broken, just like me.
So much needless pain. That’s what I used to think. But now I don’t think it was needless. I think it was necessary in some twisted fucked up way. I rub his back, leaning my head against his shoulder. His breathing is harsh, stubbornly unsteady. “Dylan, it’s okay. It’s okay.”
He looks up at me, unsure of what I mean.
Taking his face between my hands, I kiss his forehead, then his nose. I kiss a tear away on his left cheek, and his lips. This isn’t about sex. This is about forgiveness, comfort, love. I love him and even though I may not be able to totally forgive or tell him how much I care about him, I can comfort him. This is something I can do for him and something I want to do.
Selfishly, it’s also for me.
I deepen the innocent kiss and when my tongue enters his mouth, he adjusts so we’re in a more comfortable position. Not knowing fully where this inner urge is coming from, I shift on top and straddle him. Dylan’s hands go to my hips and a slow, low moan comes from his mouth right into mine, causing me to react the same.
In one whispered word, he pulls back, being so careful with me, questioning, “Jules?”
W
anting to confide, I want to tell him everything, like how my heart skips a beat every time I see him, how he makes me feel safe though he hurt me and I shouldn’t. I want to tell him I think he’s even more handsome with age. And yet, when he smiles, he looks like his younger version, the man I knew and loved so passionately. I want to tell him how scared I am to trust him and of getting my heart ripped apart again.
I want to tell him so much but the words don’t come, kisses do. The way his arms slide up my body and hold me to him, I feel all the words he wants to say.
Running my fingers into his hair, I pull him closer and kiss him, taking all the bad and flipping it around to create a perfect moment. A quick spin and I’m pinned underneath him, the cushions of our old couch soft beneath me. He’s between my legs, pressing into me in a way that makes me want him in ways that aren’t proper in a storage unit.
A small grind against me and my head goes back, mouth agape, eyes closed as he sucks on my neck. Right now, in this moment, I realize it wouldn’t matter if we were in the middle of Times Square. I want this. I want him. Not just because I’m horny. Or lonely. Or desperate. But because Dylan Somers does things to me that no one else ever has. Or ever could.
Irrational thoughts cloud my mind as our breathing exaggerates and I feel his erection against me.
“Jules,” he sighs, painfully so. Pushing himself up, looking away, he closes his eyes and shakes his head, shamed. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” I ask, “I’m not.” I want him— wholly, flawed and all, just like he wants me with my flaws—flaws that we earned over the years apart. Flaws that make us who we are now. Flaws that have defined us just like how he has defined me, and I him.
“I feel like I’m taking advantage of yo—”
“You’re not. I want you, Dylan.” I sit up, not begging, but wanting to be understood. I look into his eyes, and I see the hint of a spark returning. “You’re letting the bad take over the good. Don’t. We deserve good, babe…” Before I can stop myself, it slips out just like old times. Babe. I wait for his reaction, not sure where his head’s at with us, hoping we’re on the same page.
He clears his throat, then smiles. “You really mean that, don’t you?”
“About the good?”
“Yes.”
“We should go, Jules. I don’t want to do this with you in a dirty storage unit. You deserve better.”
“You’re right, I do,” I say not because of the storage unit, but because I deserve to be treated better than our past. “It’s time to go.” Straightening my clothes, I look around at our stuff, our old life together, and my heart starts to hurt.
Taking my hand, he leads me back into the hallway before sliding the garage door back in place and securing the lock. Holding the key in front of me, he says, “Here. This is for you.”
Taking the key from him, I ask, “What do you mean?”
“A couple of weeks ago, I signed over the contracts into your name. It’s yours and paid for, for another full year. It’s always been rightfully yours. I’m sorry I took it.”
I stand there staring at him. Closing my hand around it, I grip the key tightly, pain surging from the teeth digging into my skin. “It’s mine?”
“I’ll also pay to have it moved to another facility or to your apartment or a donation center if you want to get rid of some of it. I owe you.”
Thinking about the key, the unit, and his offer, I take his hand and we walk down the hallway together, down the stairs, following the other corridor until we see Joey at the front desk. “Joey, this is Jules Weston. She has the key to the unit. It’s in her name now, so help her out if she ever needs any.”
“Nice to make your acquaintance, Ms. Weston.”
I can’t resist friendly smile. “You too, Joey, and you can call me Jules.”
“Will do. Goodnight and Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year,” Dylan replies while opening the door for me.
Something about his comment makes me wonder what the date is, but a cab is driving by, so I concentrate on waving it down instead. He doesn’t stop, so we start walking toward the closest train station. We’re quiet for a moment. The cold wind picks up and I wrap my arms around myself to fend it off. “Why’d you show me this place? Why give it to me after all these years?”
Dylan grins while looking around, but I can see the protectiveness in the way he scans our surroundings. “Um,” he starts, “I’d been meaning to send you the key for a couple of years, but I thought you might throw it all away and I didn’t want that.” He peeks over at me before moving closer and putting his arm around my shoulders. The warmth feels nice. “I knew I had to give everything back eventually. I just hoped for better circumstances.”
“Is this a better circumstance?”
“Even if we only have today, it’s better than the last four years of my life.”
“It doesn’t erase what happened between us.”
“I know. It wasn’t about that. It was about you having a say in the matter. A say that I originally took away.”
Tinges of anger well inside, but I push the emotion down. “I deserved a say, but that wouldn’t have changed your mind. You would have still left, even if I had begged. As we walk up the steps to the platform, I stop, stalling, and ask, “Would it have made a difference if I had begged, Dylan? Begged you to stay?” I’ve wanted to ask that for so long. Just releasing the words lifts a bit of the burden from my soul that I’ve carried around for so long.
Taking two steps down and standing in front of me, eye-level, he holds me by the elbows. “I want to tell you it wouldn’t have. I don’t want you to feel one iota of guilt because of something you did or didn’t do back then. I had made up my mind. I was careless. I’m the only one to blame here, Jules.”
In his words, I find truth. I didn’t try. I didn’t try to stop him. I let him go. I let him go without a fight, like I didn’t love him at all.
“I loved you,” I demand. “I loved you so much. You were a part me in every sense of who I was. That may have been wrong, but it’s the truth. I’m sorry I didn’t fight for us.” He closes his eyes as I cup his face, and say, “I need you to know how much I loved you.”
He grabs me, eyes wide, taking my breath away when he suddenly embraces me. “Please don’t apologize. It makes me feel like shit. You never have to apologize.” A sharp intake of breath and then he continues, “You deserve better, then and now, Jules” Looking away from me, he whispers, “You deserve someone like Austin and I ruined that for you. I’ve ruined your happiness twice.”
“You didn’t ruin my happiness with Austin. I loved him,” I whisper while people walk by staring at us. They don’t matter though. They only exist beyond our world, our bubble. “But I wasn’t in love with him. I wouldn’t have married him, Dylan. I never loved him or anyone like I’ve loved you.”
He looks up, and although he’s not smiling, his eyes are clearer, the truth seeping in, and he says, “I don’t want to lose you, but you have a choice at the end of today—to love me or destroy me. It’s completely up to you and if you pick the latter, I won’t blame you.”
“I don’t want to destroy you. Even when I hated you, I loved you deep down. I know that or I wouldn’t be here with you now.”
He releases a deep breath—both of us feeling a weight lift a little more from our heavy hearts. I relax as he walks, guiding me to the train that just arrived. When we step on, there’s only one seat available. He leads me to it, but I don’t want to sit there alone. I need to be close to him. I have him sit and then I settle onto his lap, my arms going around him and kissing his temple.
Something is different between us. The lies and truths that kept us apart for so long are bringing us back together and I feel a hint of forgiveness filling me. I breathe it in, needing it as much as my need for Dylan.
At each stop, more people exit, leaving open seats. I notice a lot of them are dressed up—suits, party dresses, to the nines, but don’t give it a second t
hought because I’m with him, healing. Feeling tired, I turn sideways, bring my knees up and let him hold me as I rest my head on his shoulder. “I’m so tired.”
“Emotionally exhausted,” he adds, sounding just as tired.
I smile. “Exactly.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Yeah.”
“I am too. Do you want to go out or do you want take-out?”
“Can we go to your place?” I ask, not wanting to face my apartment. There are too many memories and boxes, not enough life, to support us being there right now.
“Yes. Do you want to stop by your apartment and grab anything for the night?”
I nod.
He asks, “How about something spicy like Thai?”
“How about something comforting like Italian?”
“I can always eat Italian.”
“Formaggios,” we say in unison.
My head pops up to look at him and we laugh. I say, “You always did like that place.”
“So did you. I can run down there and grab our order while you get an overnight bag packed.”
“That sounds very efficient.”
He smirks and I laugh. Reminiscing, he says, “I’ve missed Formaggios living so far away.”
“Is that all you missed living so far away?” Lifting my eyes, I dare to look into the deep blues of his.
His lips part as he stares back. “I missed you, Baby. Is that what you want to hear?”
“I want to hear the truth.”
His arms tighten around me and he kisses me. “Like you said earlier, you always were, and are still a part of me. I missed this. I missed you.”
They’re words that have consequences, but he says them anyway. He says what he feels because it’s what I need to hear and I’m warmed from the inside out.
I LEAN MY hands on the counter and catch my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. A smile appears, one I can’t hide, one that knows I’m a lucky bastard.