by J. J. McAvoy
“Rough day?” she asked me.
It was funny, but I couldn’t laugh. “Yes. You all right?”
“Yep,” she said when the door opened, and we just went into our separate apartments.
Chapter Seven
We Are Not Okay
Guinevere
I was just deciding whether or not to knock on his door when he opened it wide, a first aid kit in his hands.
“What are you doing?” His eyebrows furrowed together and he took a slight step back.
“I don’t have a first aid kit yet, so I was going to ask to borrow yours,” I said quickly. “But never mind, I will just buy one tomorrow.”
“I figured.” He laughed, though he didn’t seem to find it funny. He held up the first aid kit. “I was going to give this to you.”
“Oh, thanks—” I reached for the kit.
He pulled it back, staring down at my ankle as I balanced on my other leg. “How bad is it?” He knelt in front of me. “Did you feel anything pop?”
“No, it’s fine.” I put my foot all the way on the ground, only to wince and lift it up again.
“That is not fine. Come in.” He took my elbow, helping me inside.
“Eli—”
“Keep walking.” He guided me toward his gray sofa.
Everything in his apartment was either navy, gray, or off-white, and annoyingly clean like one of those show homes or…well, like a hospital.
“Sit,” he commanded when we reached the sofa.
“I’m not a dog—”
Sighing, he just pushed me back slowly.
When my butt hit the couch, I felt the urge to just lean back into it. The thing was so soft. “This is nice…” I whispered, running my hand over the cushions.
“Isn’t it? It’s called a couch, a marvelous invention really. With all that empty space in your place, I wasn’t sure if you knew about such items.” He sat on his wooden coffee table, lifting up my leg.
“You are not funny—ah.” I winced as he pressed around my ankle.
“What happened?” He finally looked up.
“Why do you care?”
“Because if people see you coming in like that, the value of this place might go down.”
Reaching up, I tried to smack him.
He squeezed my ankle.
“Ouch! What happened to 'do no harm'?”
“Sorry, just checking to see if you tore anything.” He shrugged, a small smirk on his lips betraying the lie. “You're going to need to ice this first,” he muttered to himself, taking out a large, square instant ice pack. “After the swelling goes down, I’ll compress it. Hand me that pillow.”
Reaching over, I handed him the navy pillow.
He put it under my leg. “Is there some possible way you could mange to keep still for about twenty minutes? I know it might be hard, but—”
“I don’t know, Dr. Davenport. I am five years old.” I rolled my eyes, shifting my foot again when he left it on the pillow and walked around the couch. “Thank you,” I muttered.
“What was that?” he pressed, even though I was sure he had heard me.
This man is trying to annoy me to death. “I said thank you!” I shouted.
“Okay, jeez, no need to yell.”
Shifting, I turned to look back at him.
He gave me a blank look, holding up a bottle of beer and waving it. “Want some? I also have Coke, and—”
“Do you have vanilla ice cream?” I sounded so excited, I could tell he was fighting back a comment.
“Sadly, I hate vanilla, so that would be a no.”
“How do you hate vanilla? It’s the cornerstone of ice cream.”
“No, that would be chocolate. So, are you saying no to the beer then?”
He was being too nice. “Does it come with a catch?”
“Tell me what happened?”
“No, thank you, I’m fine.” I faced front again, where he, like all guys I knew, had a massive television hanging on the wall.
“Suit yourself.” He took a seat beside me, popping off the cap and flicking on the TV to a man trying to walk across a tightrope between two mountains.
I turned, not looking at the screen.
“What?”
“Nothing?”
“Why are you looking at me, then?”
“Sorry.” I shifted, staring up at the clock.
“Are you afraid of heights? It’s so bad you can’t even look at it?”
“No.”
“All right. Right now, he’s about 180 feet off the ground—”
“I have a fear of heights.”
“Seriously?”
I glared at him.
He changed the channel to Animal Planet.
“Better?” he asked, nodding to the sea turtles.
“Much.”
“So demanding,” he muttered, drinking his beer.
We were silent for a while, watching the turtles swim slowly across the bottom of the sea. The silence, and him comfortably drinking without me, made me sing like a canary.
“I hurt my ankle running away from a restaurant. I thought I saw Bash—Sebastian and Hannah together, so I tried to leave, but knocked over a waiter who spilled ice cream on me.” I sighed.
He didn’t say anything, just rested back against the couch and handed me his beer. “But it wasn’t them, right? He and Hann—they weren’t on a date?” he asked softly, watching the sea turtles on the screen.
“No, I was wrong, which made me feel like even more of an idiot, so I just limped my pitiful self back home and took a shower. That’s my story.” I handed the bottle back to him.
He took a long sip, and then stared at the bottle. “I actually saw her today. It wasn’t a mistake; she was really there. She’s been at the hospital for a week, and I didn’t know. When I saw her, I almost had a panic attack in the elevator. So, which one of us is actually more pitiful?”
“What would you say to her if you came face to face with her? I’ve thought about it so many times, that big confrontation. That moment where I could just walk up to him and tell him how badly he hurt me, how…how I felt.”
He drank again. “Hi.”
“What? You'd just say hi?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Telling her I was hurt or showing anger just means I still care. It means in some way, I’m still connected to her. That’s why I want to just say hi, not like nothing happened, but like it is so far removed from my current reality that it no longer matters.” He looked proud of that thought, but the pride faded from his eyes. “I don’t think I will be able to do that, though, which is why I’m pitiful.”
“I still have you beat today, though,” I said.
He finally looked at me. “Why?”
“Because I embarrassed myself in front of the future true housewives of New York. What’s worse is, in three weeks I have to go to a wedding with all of them there. You would not believe how out of place I looked—”
“Oh, I can, believe me.” He laughed, finishing the rest of the beer.
“Hey! We are supposed to be helping each other here.”
“I thought we were just sulking.”
He had a point. “Can’t we do both? How do you know I looked out of place?”
“Well…” He tilted his head back.
“Well what?”
“You don’t really scream ‘I’m a millionaire’, now do you?”
“What does that mean? Am I supposed to wear a t-shirt or something?”
“That could help.” He laughed.
My hands rose and clenched in his face before I dropped them.
“No, but really. You have your own style; you wear combat boots with dresses. That’s fine, but don’t expect to be treated like an equal by people who live and breathe Prada.”
“I have heels.”
“But are they designer?”
I crossed my arms. “Why in the hell would I spend that much money on shoes?”
“That is it.” He pointed at me. �
�Your first thought is the price, even though you could afford it. For people like them, their first thought is: does it look nice? You don’t fit in because you don’t fit in. You don’t see the world like they do.”
“You say them and they, but last I checked aren’t you filthy, stupid rich?”
He shook his head. “My family is rich. I, Eli, am just financially stable.”
“You know that's exactly what a rich kid would say, right?”
He shifted, looking back at the television. “So what do you do with all that money you con off…I mean, earn from your art?”
“Don’t think I don’t know that slip was not by accident, and to answer your question, I run a few charities—what? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“A few charities?” His eyebrow rose. “Really? Who are you, Mother Theresa? You have to have something you use that money on. One thing you splurge for; everyone has something.”
“I guess it would be…” I paused.
“Are you going to continue your sentence or just keep staring off into space?”
I turned to watch the sea turtles.
He turned off the TV.
“What do you spend your financially stable money on, then?”
“Nice clothes, watches, mostly cars…”
“Rich.” I coughed, placing my hand on my throat. “You are just like them.”
“I never said there was anything wrong with them. I just said you were different, and don’t pretend like there is anything hotter than a well-dressed man…a well-dressed me, for that matter.”
God, could his ego get any bigger?
“So what do you splurge on? Share.”
“It’s nothing, traveling and…” I drifted off.
“Guinevere I-would-say-your-middle-name-but-I don’t-know-it Poe, what do you splurge on?” He sat straighter. “It can't be…”
“What?” I felt like his eyes were piercing through me.
A grin spread across his face like he knew, and he turned on the TV again. “Nothing.”
“What?”
He shrugged. “It's just, the only thing a woman like you would be nervous to admit would have to be sex.”
“It’s not sex!”
“You’re getting really defensive right now.”
“It’s romance novels.” I had a collection in my room that would make some women jealous.
“Knew it.” He smirked.
“That isn’t sex.”
“Please, you're telling me you splurge on Dickens? Let me guess, you’ve got everything from Pride and Prejudice to Fifty Shades of Grey.”
I hate this man so much. “They are books—”
“Oh come on, it’s porn on paper, and you had the nerve to knock on my door, telling me I was too loud.”
“You won’t let that go?”
“Some of us like to actually experience sex in the real world and not just in our heads, thank you very much.”
My hands lifted as if to strangle him, but I dropped them.
“At least you're not as prudish as I thought, you're just a closet—”
I slapped my hand over his mouth. “First, whatever you were going to say, don’t say it. And second, just because I’m not screwing men against my wall doesn’t make me a prude.” I took my hand off his face.
“Why not? You're not married, not engaged, you are a free person. No point in not living it up and enjoying yourself—”
“Those women you slept with, did they make you feel better? And I don’t mean while you were doing it or right after. When they left and you were alone, did you feel better? Tell me you did, and I will go out tomorrow night and bring a guy home.”
He got up, taking a seat on the coffee table again as he grabbed my ankle and started working on the compression wrap.
I didn’t flinch this time. “I guess that’s my cue to le—”
“I felt nothing.” He looked me dead in the eye, emotionless, his face almost scary. “You're right. I brought them back, stripped them down, fucked them every way I could think of until neither of us could walk, and I still felt nothing afterward. But what would you have me do, Guinevere? Pine after her? Read books about some perfect person who doesn’t exist? I was ready to give her my life, my name, everything I was, everything I owned; I was about to give it to her, and she threw it back in my face like it meant nothing. So yes, I fuck women, and in that moment, I feel great. I'd rather have that moment than nothing, because nothing hurts. You should know.” When he finished, he gathered up everything on the table and walked into his kitchen.
Getting up, I said nothing, glancing back to him only once before I left his apartment. When I entered mine, Taigi came up to me, rubbing against my legs and following me into my bedroom. The only things in there were the bed and my floor-to-ceiling wall of books. Sitting in the center of my bed, I stared at it all. My books weren’t nothing…they were all different little dreams.
He had sex to provide his moment of relief.
I read about it, and the characters' lives.
We were just the same.
Eli
How was it possible? Even with raging music in the background, she was still in my head. When Guinevere left, I got dressed and called Logan, heading to Rue 83, which was currently the hottest club in the city; I figured it had another two or three weeks before people found something new. This was New York; nothing was “cool” for long.
“You were the one who invited me here, and yet I’m having all the fun. What’s up with you?” Logan asked, resting against the bar, his eyes on a pretty brunette behind me.
“Don’t have fun, be miserable,” I muttered to him, downing my scotch.
“Whoa. No seriously, what is wrong with you?”
“Guinevere Poe,” I said, grabbing another shot. “By the way, what is her full name? I can’t curse her properly when I can’t say her entire name.”
“How the hell would I know?”
“You were the one who put her in my face. Don’t you remember? You invited her fiancé to my wedding, and when they ran off, all that was left was Guinevere and Eli, les misérables.” Why are there two of him? I felt…drunk. “So you shouldn’t be having fun, you should be miserable like us.”
“Mom said you saw Hannah today. Is that what this is?”
“No.” I smiled, patting his shoulder. “Everything can’t be about Hannah. I can’t have my life revolve around her. My anger is toward Guinevere tonight, for making me self-analyze when I didn’t want to. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to seduce a woman because that’s what I do.” Spinning around in the chair, I tried to find someone, anyone, really. However, no matter where I looked, it seemed like all I could see was her heart-shaped face and big brown eyes everywhere.
Did it make you feel better? Her voice replayed in my mind.
Sighing, I turned back to the bar.
“What happened to seducing—”
“Just go have fun, Logan.” I nodded for the bartender to pour me another glass.
Note to self: just stay away from women. They can fuck with your head and heart way too easily. There must be a school for it or something.
Chapter Eight
The Cat's Meow
Guinevere
A week had gone by without Eli and I speaking, or seeing each other, for that matter. After that night, we did our best to avoid each other. It rained almost every day, and it was just easier to put a hood up or hide under an umbrella until I was safely within my apartment. I wasn’t sure why I kept thinking about him. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him: laughing at me, or helping me, or just listening. What I missed most of all was him just being there and listening. I felt bad that even though I didn’t mean to be judgmental, I often came off so. I couldn’t help it, but that wasn’t really an excuse either.
I could see him today.
Why do I care?
Because I need to apologize.
“Guinevere, you made it.”
The sound of Mrs. Davenpor
t's voice pulled me out of my mental battle. She wore a nice, simple beige dress under a white coat, with her gray-auburn hair pinned back. “I’m sorry it’s taken so long for me to get back to you about this mural—”
“It’s fine, I wasn’t expecting you to drop everything and come straight over to me. How are you, my dear?”
“I’m well, thank you. I was wondering, should I call you Mrs. Davenport, or Dr. Davenport?” She was the chairwoman after all, and she was wearing a white coat.
“Whichever makes you more comfortable. Please, let me show you where I would like the mural.” She turned to lead the way.
I followed, closing the distance as we walked. I found my eyes shifting from the nurses, doctors, and patients, to the floors and walls, the different blues, whites, and grays.
Like Eli’s apartment. I snickered at that. I was right; he had set up his apartment to match the hospital. I wonder if he even realized it. Why do I care?
“Guinevere, did you hear me?”
Crap. “No, I’m sorry, what were you saying? And please, call me Gwen.”
Nodding, she repeated herself. “I asked, have you thought of anything to put up? Or done a mural before?”
“Yes, I have done a few, but never for a hospital. My first work was painting a mural at my high school; I think it is still up. I probably won’t know what to paint for a while, and my ideas might even change, unless you have thought of something?”
“Sadly, no.” She frowned, crossing her arms as we stopped before a large black and white wall with the hospital logo hanging on it. “For years, I’ve walked past here always feeling like something is missing. It’s so cold, but I can never think of what should be here instead. So if you have any ideas at all, I’ll leave it up to you.”
Having a client tell you to 'do whatever' was both an artist's dream and worst nightmare. Yes, it gave me creative freedom, but what if they hated it? Stepping forward, I ran my hands across the wall before looking up.
“Is it too big? You don’t have to cover the whole wall—”