by Scott, S. L.
“I love you too, girl.”
We’re friends, but we’re family too.
TIME.
I haven’t heard from Austin in over a week, and it breaks my heart. How does he do it? How does he stay strong? I feel weak and have called him many times, but disconnected before it went through. At night I think about him in the dark, missing the comfort he gave me when he held me, missing him altogether.
Time.
I’m supposed to give him time… or give myself time. I’m not sure anymore. It’s too much to take either way. Austin imbedded himself into my heart when I wasn’t looking. Until we broke up, I wasn’t aware of how deeply. Now I’m stuck with a wounded organ I used to recognize as my heart. It beats differently now that it’s beating alone. It’s just not the same. I’m not the same.
My breakup with Austin is different than my breakup with Dylan. I thought I would be better at this, having mastered the art of the broken hearted. I’m not. Each day feels longer and emptier.
I haven’t talked to Dylan though he’s tried to talk to me. I don’t take his calls or answer when he comes to the door. I’m lacking the motivation I once had to get the answers I thought I needed.
One thing I’m sure of is that I want Austin. I was just too foolish to realize it then. To move on with him, I may not need the answers I thought I did, but I do need closure. That means facing my demons head on. In other words, I need to see Dylan.
Picking up my phone, I call Dylan. He answers, “Jules?”
“I need to see you.”
“When?”
I glance over to the clock. “Nine at Romero’s down the street from me?”
“I’ll be there.”
Hanging up, I roll onto my back, my bed feeling like the safest haven I have since I left Austin’s apartment. Looking at the clock one more time, I exhale heavily, then get up.
I don’t care about pretension or putting on something presentable. I slip into a pair of old jeans and pull on a long sleeve T-shirt. My Wellies work since it’s been raining outside and a parka will keep me warm. I grab a knit hat to help stave off the cold front that blew in yesterday. Emotions like my thoughts run rampant as I walk down the street. It’s just two blocks but both dread and anxiety fill me, making each step harder to take.
The door to Romero’s is opened and a couple comes out. The man stops and holds it as I walk in. Pulling my hands from my pocket, I look around then unbutton my coat. Dylan sits at the bar. His head angles in my direction, the glass of whiskey spinning between his fingers. He slides off the stool, taking the glass with him. Walking toward me, I see his own anxiety through his expression. He empties the glass and sets it down on a table he passes.
Without hesitation he takes my hand in his, bringing it to his mouth and kisses it. I don’t want to see his pain or listen to his manipulative ways anymore. We can’t be friends. That much is true and I’m tired of being enemies. I don’t know where that leaves us, but I do know that he’s not healthy for me. I pull my hand slowly from his and turn away. “Don’t,” I whisper.
“Look at me. Please look at me,” he says.
When I do, I see his Adam’s apple move as the weight of what’s about to happen sets in and he gulps heavily. “We should get a table.”
Our eyes lock and he searches mine. His breathing deepens, now well aware that this isn’t going to be good or easy. “Okay,” he says. “There are some in the back.”
The bar is dim, a few lights on the wall and fake candles on a few of the tables. We find a small table with two chairs against the wall near the emergency exit. He pulls my chair out, then sits across from me. Looking over my shoulder, he nods. I glance back and see the waitress coming toward us.
“What would you like?” he asks me.
“Vodka Soda.”
“You used to drink whiskey.”
I nod. “People change.”
“I’ve changed,” he replies.
The waitress interrupts and takes our order, then leaves us alone again. Sitting back in his chair, he looks at me like he’s trying to figure me out. It’s too late for that though. We both know it… or he should.
The tension lingers between us until our drinks arrive, obviously we both need the courage liquor provides before delving into this mess. I take a sip, then say, “We can’t be together, Dylan.”
“I’m gathering.” His voice is somber, resolved is more fitting.
“Why did you do this? Why now after all the years that you had the chance? Why’d you come back to destroy the only happiness I’ve had?”
“It has nothing to do with Austin. I know you think it’s because I’m jealous, and I am. Out of control fucking jealous. But I loved you all along. I love you now. I was just too stupid to act on it before.”
I take another sip and watch a man as he passes us, not wanting to see Dylan’s pain. There’s too much in his eyes—history, love, disappointment, even hints of desperation. I feel the same unfortunately. “We shouldn’t have kissed. You had no right to kiss me and I shouldn’t have kissed you back. I hurt Austin. You hurt him too. And for what?”
“For us. For everything that fucking matters to me.”
“I didn’t matter to you three and a half years ago. Why do I matter now? Because you can’t have me?”
“No, because you’re my soul and I’m lost without you.”
“Dylan, no. You aren’t lost. You’re confused. You’re lonely. You’re everything I was three years ago, but that’s your burden now. Not mine.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, leaning closer. “I’ve said it, but you don’t seem to believe me. I made a mistake. I’ll pay for it twenty times over if you please just give me another chance.” He touches my fingers, the ones I have wrapped tightly around my glass.
Lifting my glass to my mouth, his warmth falls away and I drink. When I set my glass down again, I lean forward this time. “We’ll never be together again. You made that decision for the both of us when you walked out our door and never came home.”
“I’m coming home now.”
“It’s not your home anymore.”
“Is it Austin’s?”
“You’ve convinced yourself that Austin is the enemy. But you’re wrong. You’re your own worst enemy, Dylan.” I finish my drink and set the glass down harshly before standing.
He stands, panic in his eyes. “Don’t go yet. Please. Let’s talk this out, Jules.”
“You make it sound like we’re going to work through this to come to a satisfactory conclusion. What would that conclusion be?”
“We’d be together.”
I smile, it’s small and genuine, but it’s one of empathy. I remember feeling that way—when hope turned to desperation. Moving closer, I wrap my arms around his middle and his arms wrap around me, squeezing me. After a few seconds, I back up and say, “You won’t see me again. Goodbye, Dylan.” Turning on my heel, I walk away from him without looking back.
Outside, it’s sprinkling. This time, as I walk away from him, there is no chase or scene out on the sidewalk. I pull my hat down a little so my ears are covered. While walking home, it hits me. I don’t need answers from him. They won’t change the past. They will only cloud my future with doubt. Each step is quicker than the last until I’m running and smiling, feeling free for the first time since that fateful day.
I run up the stairs and into my apartment. As soon as the door shuts, I’m calling, not caring about the hour or that I’m wet from the rain. I just need to talk to him. While it’s ringing, I think about where he is or might be and if he’ll hold true to his promise.
… Then my call goes to voicemail. “This is Austin Barker. Leave a message after the tone. Thanks.”
“Austin, please call me.” I hang up just as disappointment sets in.
He doesn’t call me for a week.
MY EYES ARE heavy from the alcohol. I’ve been hanging around the bar all night, not wanting to feel anything. She said numb, but I can’t seem to reach that le
vel of devastation. I still want to call her every damn second of every damn day, but I don’t. My pride keeps me strong when I feel weak, except the third night in London…
The nightclub is loud, sirens going off and lights swirling overhead. It’s cheesy. The music is thumping and I don’t recognize the song, which doesn’t surprise me since I don’t listen to the popular stations. I follow my Director of Expansion in Emerging Markets through the crowd and around the dance floor to the bar. Chip is in his mid-twenties, a Cambridge grad with honors, and judging by the attention he gets, popular with the ladies. I’m no slouch, even next to him, but I’m also not looking. He is. I see the way he scans the room. It’s similar to how he takes his job, very seriously.
“Scotch?” he asks, yelling so I can hear.
I nod instead of bothering with a verbal response. When he hands me a drink, we walk to the end of the bar and get seats just as a couple leaves. He says, “The hottest women in the city flock here on Tuesday nights.”
Turning to look over my shoulder, I check out all the women on the dance floor. Leggy, blondes, brunettes, a few redheads sprinkled in. Models and some actresses I suspect. They’re a unique breed and usually easy to spot. My heart’s not into it though.
“You’re single man. You want to get laid? You’ll have plenty of opportunity tonight.”
“How did you know I was single?” I ask.
“Word spreads fast. Office gossip.”
I don’t know how anyone knows, but there’s no point in pretending it’s not true. “It’s recent.” I shift uncomfortably.
His hand grips my shoulder. “Three months ago I broke up with the girl I dated from university. We were together almost four years. I used to think I’d marry her.”
“What happened?”
“The job took over, opportunities presented themselves when I went out. I was a geek all through school. But that’s changed. It’s not about the Captain of the Lacrosse team or the rich royals. Women see money when they see me. I’m not afraid to treat a woman to a fancy dinner or charm her with champagne and flowers. Geek is now cool. Women want money and security. I can provide that, so the tortoise wins, leaving the hare in its wake.”
“What happened to the girl?”
He takes a few gulps from his glass and checks out some women walking by before looking at me. “What girl?”
“Your girlfriend from university.”
“Oh. Not sure,” he shrugs, “We’ve lost touch.”
Lost touch with reality seems more fitting in my opinion. The song changes and some of the dancers leave the floor and head to the bar. Two women approach and stand behind us. One waves at the bartender, but he doesn’t see her.
“Can I be of service?” Chip asks. “What would you ladies like to drink?”
They look to each other and smile before the brunette answers, “Two Chocolate Martinis.”
Chip lifts up and gets the bartender to come over. He places the order just as the blonde says, “Do you come here often?” Her accent is strong and more Cockney than refined Londoner. She’s pretty—straight hair, low-cut top, and really short skirt that doesn’t leave much to the imagination. She’s beautiful, but typical and unoriginal.
Bottom line is… she’s not Jules.
I reply, “No, I’m American.”
That intrigues her enough to lean closer. “Are you here on vacation or business?”
“Business,” I say, not wanting to go into the fact that it’s business that could have been done from Manhattan. She doesn’t need the dirty details of why I’m really here.
It doesn’t take much—three drinks and a few laughs and she’s pulling me into a cab with her friend and Chip. We end up at the brunette’s flat. I have no recollection of her name. The blonde is Keira and has her hand running up and down my inner thigh. My cock is a traitor, betraying my feelings for Jules.
Chip and the brunette are in the bedroom before the front door shuts. Keira takes her shoes off, complaining that the heels hurt. She’s much shorter than I thought, but still taller than Jules. She puts on a seductive smile and says, “Come here, Austin.”
I go, but I know I shouldn’t. She runs her fingers down my neck and over my shoulders. “Sit down,” she says. When I do, she hikes her skirt up the remaining few inches, exposing her pussy, and straddles me. “Touch me.” She places my hands on her ass and closes her eyes as she begins a slow gyrate.
The curse—it’s impossible to hide an erection. I toss her to the side of me onto the couch and stand up. I run my hand through my hair this time. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s not you,” I start to say as she pulls her skirt back down.
“I’m in love with someone else.”
She looks irritated. Folding her arms, she asks, “Then why did you come back with me?”
“I don’t know.” The truth.
She raises her voice. “I want you to leave.”
“I apologize.” With that, I leave the flat without saying anything more.
I grab a taxi and head back to my own flat. When I walk inside, I look at the bare walls. I was going to surprise Jules with this place. I bought it for the great wall space, the location, and spectacular windows. I wanted her to fill it with her favorite art and to help me decorate it. I never had a chance to show her though.
After tossing my keys on the table by the door, I go to the fridge. I down half a bottle of water before I lean against the counter wondering what the fuck I’m doing anymore. Everything was perfect and on the right track until Dylan derailed us. Fucker.
Pulling my phone from my back pocket, I flip through my photos from the last few months. It only takes seeing five of her to know I’m not over Jules. Not at all. Moving to the couch, I pick up my laptop and log on. It started off as a therapeutic way to get the words down, get them out. An hour later, I look at the letter I wrote to her and never sent, rereading it. I take a deep breath, then save it to my drafts folder again. I close the computer and lie there, wanting to fall asleep before I do something stupid like sending it to her or worse, calling her.
Tonight I’m lucky and fall asleep.
SHIT. GRABBING MY head, I’m groggy as I look around. I’m on the couch, my laptop on the coffee table in front of me. Memories from the night before come back in fragments— Chip. The nightclub. Keira. Jules. The email. Sitting up abruptly, I grab my computer, log on, and check my sent folder. Nothing was sent last night. Thank God. I breathe out in relief when I move to the drafts folder. It’s still waiting there, challenging me to send it, to end this madness. My rational side hits me full force when the memory of her kissing Dylan comes back.
Closing my computer down, I decide to get up and shower. I’m tense, stressed, and fucking lonely. I miss her and that pisses me off too. I take hold of my cock, needing to find relief under the warm water. It’s not the same like when I was with her, but it feels good to release some pressure, in any form. I should probably take up boxing.
I’m in the office an hour later. I don’t have any messages from her, but I do from Jacqueline wanting to go over the latest financial reports. It’s the middle of the night in America, so I can’t talk to her until the afternoon sometime. I get lost in papers and reports, suggestions for tightening up expenditures in the South American markets.
During my late lunch, I stare out the window, eating mindlessly. Food has lost flavor, my motivation for work shifting as well. It used to be easy before Jules came along. I worked. A lot. I played. A little. I got by, not content, but moving forward, my work dictating my direction. That changed with a chance encounter in an elevator and spending time with her at a pub. For me, she finally broke her own rule of not dating clients, but maybe we were only meant to be for a brief time. Maybe she was right and she’s too damaged to love me the way I love her.
My phone rings, and I glance toward it. With half my lunch still untouched on the desk in front of me, I answer and hear, “Aust
in, good afternoon, it’s Jacqueline.”
“Hello, how are you?”
“Well, and you?”
Avoiding the question, I say, “I looked over the report you sent. I have few questions.”
“Great. Is now a good time to go over it?”
“Yes.”
“Before we get started, I wanted to let you know that Dylan Somers has stepped down from your account. His workload and other clients were not permitting him to stay on top of the requirements needed for your company. We want you to have the best team in place, but we agreed for the sake of quality and accountability. On the plus side, I have freed up my client list to focus fully on your account.”
“Thank you,” I reply, feeling my jaw tighten just from the mere mention of Dylan. “Shall we go over the reports now?”
“Yes…”
I spend the next forty-five minutes looking at financial reports and forecasts for the first quarter of next year with her.
When we’re wrapping it up, she asks, “Business keeping you in London for much longer?”
Business? No. Personal. Yes. “I’ll be here another week or so.”
“That’s too bad. I was hoping we could do lunch or a drink and catch up sooner.” My pause must make her anxious because she adds, “Anyway, maybe when you return.”
“Oh, um, yeah, maybe when I return,” I say. “Thanks for the update and make sure to go over everything with my CFO. We’ll be in touch soon, Jacqueline.”
“You’re welcome. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.” When I hang up the call, I lean back in my chair, lifting my feet up onto my desk. The Gherkin building stands spiraling outside my window and I follow the lines. I’m reminded of Jules’ body and the times I would run my hand from her breasts down her side to the dip of her waist and over the curvature of her hip. Sex with her was phenomenal. For someone with so many walls built up, she had none when it was the two of us alone. She made me feel something more significant than the sex itself, something I hadn’t felt in a long time.