Can't Let Go

by Michelle Lynn

  “Your word usage needs improving. It’s not as though the baby is going anywhere.” The door clinks shut.

  I tiptoe over to the bed in order to be as quiet as possible. Sitting up against the headboard, I bring my knees to my chest, and I swear I’m breathing louder than normal.

  Hearing the water on the other side of the bathroom door, the image of Dex’s bare chest comes into view. I’m right back in that moment when my fingers traced his muscles last night and the look of pleasure that filled his eyes. The water shuts off, and I hear his every act of getting ready; the towel being hung on the rack, the drawer opening to grab toothpaste, and his electric toothbrush on for the two minutes to brush his teeth. When all movement stops and it’s silent, I’m positive he’s standing there debating in his head to come in or knock. Seconds later, my eyes close when I hear his bathroom door shut and lock behind him.

  Impatiently waiting, I scoot down and hold my breath to hear him leave. Five minutes go by and then his heavy steps appear and make their way down the hall. Stopping briefly outside my own door, my heart speeds anticipating his knock. What will we say to each other? Act like it never happened? Pretend it was a blackout drunken night? When no knock happens and his footsteps continue to the staircase, relief and sadness mix within me. Confirmation that he wants nothing more from me. I guess one positive is he considers me too good of a friend than to gain sexual benefits from it, but it crushes my heart a little bit.

  Once I hear the front door click shut and the lock slide over, I rise out of bed and go into the bathroom. I allow the cascade of water to cleanse me of the alcohol and the scent of Dex. I wish it could wash the visions of last night down the drain as well. Even after I’m finished getting ready, I’m positive I can smell his cologne on my skin.

  Happy not to have Rob around the house—I can only imagine he stayed in someone else’s bed last night—I trek to the gallery. My stomach is a ball of nerves, since Jessa was supposed to train me again today. Yesterday wasn’t nearly enough for me do the job I need to in order for Ryland to believe in my capabilities.

  The door chime rings when I enter, and Ryland has his keys in his hand, determined steps to the front door. He stops in his tracks when I enter, and he stares at me briefly and then closes the gap. “I assume you heard?” he asks me.

  “I did, but even though she hasn’t had the time, I swear—” I begin to beg for this job.

  “Relax, Chrissy, we’ll have to get through this together.” He chuckles. “I was just going to go over, but maybe since you’re here, I’ll wait and we can go together after work,” he offers, and my heartbeat slows back to normal.

  “Sure, that sounds good.” I take a swallow because I’m not sure a man is supposed to look this good. A pair of charcoal slacks and white polo shirt tucked in showing off strong tanned forearms. He’s the GQ magazine poster boy for how to pull off the pro golfer look. His hair gelled as though he took the time to mold each strand in just the right place. While my eyes travel his body, I purse my lips together to keep from laughing at his soccer slide sandals.

  Following my vision, he chuckles. “Just came from golfing. Had to take off my spikes.” He talks to me like I have an idea about golf and its attire.

  “Oh … how did you do?” I ask, hoping he tells me in layman’s terms.

  “Eight handicap,” he says, and, since I have no idea what it means, I smile and make my way to the desk.

  “You have no idea what that means, do you?” he laughingly questions.

  “Sorry … not much of a golfer,” I tell him, and he laughs more.

  “So, it means I shot eight over par. Par is the average for the course—” he continues, but I raise my hand.

  “Just tell me, is that a good score?” I interrupt him, because I’ll still have no idea once he finishes.

  “Yeah, I like to think I’m a pretty good player.” He shrugs his shoulders, meeting me over by the desk.

  Raising my eyebrow, he smiles and runs his fingers through his hair. “Golf player,” he clarifies, emphasizing golf.

  “Of course,” I smirk and he shakes his head in amusement.

  “Awe … Christine Dawson … I’m not sure about you,” he remarks with his back to me, finding his way to his office.

  I file what Jessa showed me yesterday, listen to the messages, forwarding some to Ryland and noting which ones need calls back. Firing up the computer, I begin entering the data from the show last week, just like Jessa had already begun doing. When the phone rings, I freeze, scared to what the person would want on the other end. What if I can’t answer their question?

  Hesitantly, I pick it up. “Good morning, Ryland Davis’s gallery. Chrissy speaking. How can I help you?” I give the rehearsed greeting we went over yesterday.

  “You sound awesome, so professional,” Sadie’s voice says on the other end.

  “Sadie,” I sigh.

  “Do you have your cell phone on? I tried to call you, but it went straight to voicemail.” I open the bottom drawer of the desk and fish my phone out of my purse. Black screen and when I press the button, nothing.

  “Crap, it must have died,” I say. “What’s up? Did she have the baby?” I ask.

  “She did. Baby girl. Adelaide Rose Bishop. She’s adorable.” She gives all of the specifics, and the hustle of everyone can be heard behind her.

  “Oh, please tell them congratulations,” I say quietly, since I’m not sure I should be on a personal phone call.

  “I will. Are you going to come up?”

  “After work, I’ll head over there. I think Ryland might give me a ride.”

  “Ohhh … nice. I’ll be here most of the day. Brady had to run to the office. Dex already left to pick up Jessa’s parents and Sam at the airport.” Silence fills the receiver. My stomach plummets with the memory of last night, thinking about those hands that explored with such precision, now on someone else.

  “That’s nice. Okay, well, I better get back to work.” I’m eager to end the conversation.

  “Chrissy?” Sadie draws my attention back. “Dex and Sam—they’re—” she starts, but the tears are already pricking behind my eyes.

  “It’s fine, Sadie. Dex and I are just friends. I really have to go. I’ll see you tonight.” I hang up the phone before she has a chance to respond.

  The small wheels slide on the wood floor when I push back on my chair. I walk quietly to the small bathroom and prop my hands on the sink counter, staring at myself in the mirror. My blonde hair needing a haircut, lack of make-up, and clothes that need updating. Who am I kidding? I’m nowhere near what Dex would want. Taking a deep breath, I leave the bathroom with no more self-assurance than when I entered and run smack into a muscled chest. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, and Ryland places his finger under my chin, lifting it up toward him.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, and I blink twice before I can answer.

  Burying all my emotions deep down, I gulp a swallow. “Jessa had the baby. It’s a girl.” I dig every ounce of excitement for Jessa and Grant I’m able, smacking a big ole smile on my face.

  He claps his hands together. “That’s wonderful. Let’s send them a boutique of flowers.” He begins walking over to my desk, and I follow.

  He stops short of my chair and sits down on the edge of my desk, swiveling my monitor so we can both see it. Hitting the internet, I begin searching the florist websites. Clicking on a few, Ryland shrugs not caring for any of the premade arrangements. “Hey, there’s a florist down the street, let’s go.” He stands up, his eyes gleam with excitement.

  Since he’s my boss, I don’t have much of a choice, so I pull my purse out of the drawer. I walk around the desk, and Ryland, always the gentleman, raises his hand for me to lead the way. We exit the gallery, and he locks it up. The sidewalk is filled with people, families, and students enjoying a nice day with the sun shining down.

  The smell of beautiful abounds from every angle when we step into the florist. Every flower imaginable sits in vases
of water from tabletops to behind the glass. Balloons float in the air, anchored to teddy bears and baskets. I would love to work here, smiling is contagious from the moment you enter the room.

  A lovely middle-aged woman greets us. “Ryland. How are you?” She puts her hand out, and he shakes it.

  “It’s nice to see you, Lily.” He peers around the room, observing the array of floral and celebration items. “This is my temporary assistant, Christine Dawson.” He introduces me, and she bears a friendly smile, turning her attention to me.

  “Hi! I’m Lily. So, am I to assume Jessa’s off on leave?” she excitedly questions, and I nod my head with just as much enthusiasm.

  “She just had her baby today,” I inform Lily, and her face lights up like a Christmas tree.

  “Oh, good for her and Grant. I couldn’t be happier for them. Is it a boy or a girl?” she asks, biting her lip.

  “A girl. Adelaide Rose.”

  “What a beautiful name.” She places her hand over her heart.

  “Lily,” Ryland interrupts, and she shifts her concentration back to him. “We’d like to pick out a bouquet to send over to the hospital.

  “Sure. Right.” She composes herself and glances around the shop. “Let’s start over here.” She motions for us to follow.

  Ryland ushers me forward.

  “Jessa doesn’t scream super girly, so maybe we mix it up and do pink, white, and purple?”

  “Sure,” Ryland responds clearly disinterested. “Chrissy will take the lead on this.” He nods toward me.

  Lily smiles, and then we discuss the difference of flowers. Since I’ve never received even a single rose let alone a bouquet, I have no idea how to mix them together. She grabs a vase, and before I figure out what we should do, there are magenta roses, white lilies, and small purple and white daisies pouring out of it. Reaching over, she grabs a ribbon and twists it into a bow to position right in the middle.

  “Do you want a balloon?” she asks, and I glance over my shoulder to Ryland who just nods.

  “Yes, please,” I say. Lily reaches below a shelf and moves over to the helium tank.

  A huge Mylar balloon with ‘IT’S A GIRL’ outlined swells, and I can’t keep the smile off my face. “What an amazing job. You make people happy just by showing up at their door,” I remark, and Lily nods.

  “It’s pretty great, but flowers aren’t always used for happy times. She points to the small cards stacked in the plastic holders by the counter. Get Well and Our Sympathy triggering her meaning immediately.

  “Oh. That must be hard.” I empathize, and she nods in agreement.

  “I remember my florist opened right after Grant’s mother, Mindy, passed. He and his dad came in here to pick out the flowers for his mother’s casket. Although I didn’t know Mindy, my heart broke for the little, blond-haired boy that didn’t speak when his dad asked him to pick out some flowers for his mommy.” She glances over to the back of the store and then back to me. “Now I get to send them to him and his wife in congratulations on their baby. I was there for him in one of his darkest moments and now I’m able to be there for one of his happiest. It’s nice.”

  I wipe the few tears and stare in admiration at this woman. “That’s truly wonderful.” I’m otherwise speechless.

  She reaches over and pats my hand in a mom mannerism. “Oh, sweetie, you make me feel like a miracle worker or something.” She giggles, bringing Ryland’s attention back to us.

  “What did I miss?” he asks, putting his phone back in his pocket.

  “Nothing.” I quickly disregard our moment as Lily rings up the order.

  Ryland pulls his credit card out and slides it across the counter. “I’ll get it there this afternoon. Did you want to sign a card?” She points to a display I just observed a few moments ago. Ryland picks out a congratulations card and begins writing an inscription.

  I peek over his shoulder after he’s finished and notice my name on the card. “Why did you put my name on there?”

  “You’re part of Ryland Davis Gallery now,” he replies, and I guess he’s kind of right.

  Lily says her goodbye, and I push back my urge to hug her, but instead follow Ryland’s weaving path through the overfilled display tables with different bouquets. After we hit the sidewalk, he turns to me. “Lunch?”

  “That’s okay—” I politely decline.

  “I wasn’t asking if you wanted to go. I was asking where you wanted to go,” he clarifies, and I bite my lip. Swimming in my own thoughts of whether this is crossing a business to personal line, I remain quiet. An impatient Ryland breaks the silence. “Okay, I’ll decide. Let’s go.” He nods for me to start walking. Always the gentleman.

  WE END UP at a nice restaurant called Filgree’s about five minutes later. The minute we step through the doors, I straighten my blouse down and smooth out my black slacks, as though my hands could iron out the wrinkles. This is by far the fanciest restaurant I’ve ever eaten at. White linen tablecloths with silverware stuffed in linen napkins dress the tables and small plates to the left, two forks, a knife, and a spoon. I silently pray I can get through this meal without embarrassing myself.

  The hostess leads us to a table overlooking the small river that runs through Western. Ryland pulls my chair out, and I take a deep inhale of nervous breath when he steps around to his seat across from me. Staring out at the water slowly rippling down the stream, I watch a few geese fly down to rest on the water and float along the low currents.

  “We could have gone to a sandwich place.” I follow his example in unwrapping the silverware and then placing the napkin in my lap. Then a guy comes around with a pitcher of water, filling up the glasses next to our plates. I quietly tell him thank you and his lips turn slightly.

  “It’s Saturday. I don’t have a showing tonight. It’s a leisurely day. Try the Chicken Fajita salad; it’s Jessa’s favorite.” The thought that he brings Jessa here, too, puts me to ease that he’s not thinking a fancy lunch means I’ll fancy him later. Not that he seems to flash that type of guy, but where I come from, not a lot of guys do nice things for girls without an expectation of more. Dex may be the only one I know.

  A waiter greets us and spouts off the specials with ingredients I’ve never heard of and positive I can’t pronounce. I order the Fajita salad with the house dressing, and Ryland orders a buffalo chicken sandwich with sweet potato fries.

  “Are you a student?” he tries to lure me into conversation while we wait for our food.

  “No. I had been taking a few classes at a community college, but I recently moved here.” I want to smack myself on the forehead for divulging unnecessary information. Sometimes being an open book isn’t the best.

  His head slowly moves up and down, I assume absorbing the fact that he hired a trashy girl with no education. “I dropped out. Went for a few years, got into an argument with my parents over my love for art,” he reveals, as though he’s letting me know he doesn’t care if I’m on my way to a degree or not.

  “What did they want you to do?”

  He stares up at the ceiling, “Lawyer, doctor, psychologist. Any job that gave you those extra letters after the name.” He makes eye contact with me.

  “Were your parents those? I mean, is that why they wanted you to become one?”

  He chuckles. “No. My dad works in a factory and my mom’s a cashier at a grocery store. It’s the classic case of wanting more for your children. They worked their asses off to send me, their only child, to college, and I failed them when I wanted to pursue art instead of something more ‘collegiate’.” He raises his fingers up in air quotes.

  “I can understand that. I want my kids to be so much more than me,” I blurt out, wishing I could take that back. I’m devaluing myself in front of my boss.

  “I’m lucky. When I dropped out to not ‘waste my parents money’, an art teacher I had, started teaching me after hours. She saw some sort of potential in me and wanted to be my mentor. I opened my gallery four years ago,” he
admits.

  “How old are you?” I inch forward, showing an eagerness for the answer.

  He chuckles. “I’ll spare you the guessing game. I’m thirty-two.”

  “Oh,” I say, and he cocks his head to the side.

  “Younger or older? Do I dare ask?”

  “Younger,” I answer, and he laughs.

  “Good. Like you’d say older. I have to keep reminding myself you’re my employee.” He shakes his head with his smile getting wider.

  “No … really, I would have thought younger,” I plea to convince him, but he waves his hand.

  “I’d ask you how old you are, but my mom told me never to ask a woman her age.” He raises both eyebrows, as though he won’t ask but he’s curious.

  “Twenty-two,” I answer honestly because he’ll know as soon as I finish filling out the paperwork he gave me for employment.

  His head moves up and down slowly, and, as the lull happens in our conversation, our meals arrive. We both eat, minimally talking here or there, mostly about the food’s preparation and tastiness.

  Wiping my mouth, I place the napkin on the table when I finish, and he does the same. Raising his hand slightly so that the waiter comes over, and he hands him his credit card without ever looking at the bill.

  “Let me.” I reach down to retrieve my purse.

  “You’re my employee. I pay for lunches when we go out,” he says, and I happily accept because if memory serves, the salad was fifteen dollars alone.

  “Thank you,” I graciously accept.

  “You’re very nice company, Chrissy.” He positions his elbows on either end of the chair, linking his fingers together while he studies the river out the window. “Did you want to go to the hospital now?” He twists his head my way again.

  “Okay,” I answer.

  We stand up, and he places his hand on the small of my back to nudge me forward to the door. Walking the couple blocks to his car, I’m surprised to find it’s an SUV that beeps open when he clicks his remote. Opening the door for me, I climb in. I quickly snoop around before he joins me, finding his golf shoes behind the driver’s seat with a pair of socks shoved inside. He walks behind the SUV to the driver’s side, and as he turns the key in the ignition, his head shifts my way. “By the way, you’re off the clock now.”