by S. L. Scott
From the Inside Out—Scorned
First Edition
Copyright © S. L. Scott 2014
The right of S.L. Scott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-940071-19-0
Cover design: Melissa Ringuette
Cover Image: Coka
Interior Design: Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
A PERSONAL NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I HATE HIM with all my soul and every fiber, muscle, and nerve of my being. Dylan Somers broke me and my heart simultaneously, destroying everything I knew my life to be. Over the course of the next year, my friend Brandon had to put me back together. Piece by piece, he glued me back into a semblance of what I used to be before I knew Dylan, or so I thought. What I didn’t realize was he was also bonding himself to me in the process. One night, my friend became my lover. Brandon never should have played that role, especially since I was still too broken to be good for anyone else. So we went back to being friends because I needed a friend more than a lover.
Dylan hasn’t seen me since he walked in and sat down in the same restaurant as me. When my hand twitches, I realize I’ve pulled my phone from my purse, subconsciously to help diffuse the panic attack before it has a chance to hit. I refuse to let his presence overwhelm me or call Brandon every time I start freaking out.
This isn’t a restaurant I frequent and being in the same place after all these years is completely coincidental. I’ve lost my appetite, so I push the plate of food away from me.
I glance over at him and her—red hair, red nails, red lips, red shoes, too tight red dress, red clutch perched on the table next to her glass of red wine. Everything about her is cliché and predictable to attract men. I roll my eyes, but then mine meet hers again and I look away. In that glimpse, I caught that her eyes are light colored, maybe blue, probably blue.
Mine are hazel—green on a good day, brown on most.
The face I really want to see is turned the other direction with his back to me. Dylan hasn’t seen me in three years. It makes me wonder if he ever did, even when we were together. I don’t know anymore and I hate to think about that time… the time when it was bad.
Sitting at this table for one, I’ve forgotten if it was ever good between us, or did I block it out? If I dig deep, really deep past the pain that was inflicted during those last few months we were together, it was blissful and perfect. I felt loved. I felt pretty. I felt whole. We were more good than bad, but now only the scar remains.
Glancing back to their table, her eyes are on me again. Quickly, I dig out a fifty and toss it on the table. That will easily cover my bill, even at an over-priced, too-trendy-to-be-considered-trendy-any-longer establishment on the Upper West Side.
My eyes meet hers one more time and I hope mine don’t give anything away. Things like: how I know what he looks like when he falls apart from an orgasm, how he liked for me to touch him there, but not go further, deeper, and how when he’s upset, his eyes match the skies right before a storm rolls in. I know all these things because I’ve experienced them with him, so I know him, the real Dylan.
Does she?
I look at him this time, just him, blocking her from my focus. His hair is styled. He always did have great hair, light brown, darker when gelled. I smirk at the thought that he still has great hair despite the hateful curses I wished upon him to go bald. The light starch to his shirt proves he hasn’t changed. He insisted on that perfection, but still wanted to be comfortable in his clothes. The large face of his watch gleams under the track lighting above. Dylan Somers was always very confident… or cocky. I’m not sure which anymore. My memories on that specific trait of his has somewhat faded, overtaken by more harmful ones.
He holds too much pain, more than I can endure tonight. I walk through the intimate tables of the dining area. When I pass, she nods to him while smiling as if to tell him silently that I’m watching, as if to tell him, he has an admirer. I’m not an admirer. I’m an adversary—the enemy—the person he hates the most in the world if I recall his words correctly.
I push the door open and the cool air hits me. We’re on the verge of spring, but it’s still chilly, so I wrap my arms around myself and head south.
“Juliette?”
Hearing his voice causes my insides to freeze, but my feet keep moving. I don’t respond to that name. Do I even know who Juliette is anymore?
“Juliette? Is that you?”
I hear his footsteps. They quicken but I refuse to respond to careless niceties he feels obligated to dole out.
Why?
Why does he try?
Why does he care?
What does he want?
“Hey!” He shouts from a distance, planting himself in a spot on the sidewalk, not willing to chase me. I roll my eyes because I’m walking in four-inch Prada, so he can easily catch me if he wants. He just doesn’t want to. That’s his arrogance showing. Everything always came so easy for him, including me back in college.
Rounding another corner, I find safety in the shadows of the building and keep walking. Memories of how bad the ending of us envelops me…
“I hate you,” he shouts. “I hate you for making me take this job. I hate you for making me buy that car. I hate this apartment and the furniture. I hate everything I’ve had to do since moving here for you.”
He used to say love, but lately, all I hear is hate. He’s used it generously in the last week and more than a few times tonight, five in the last minute. It’s ironic he’s now using the car and the job he chose against me, both of which he got without talking to me at all. He now blames me for the regret he feels. I guess the saying is true; we hurt the ones we love the most.
My feet keep moving as the flashback continues…
“I hate this life… my life with you,” Dylan yells at me.
“Have you met someone else?”
“God damn it, Juliette! This is about us, not anyone else.”
He turns his back when he shouts. I can’t see his eyes, which makes me question his truthfulness. I’m at a loss here. Do I speak again or is remaining quiet best these days? My phone rings, causing both of us to look over at it. He’s not happy about the intrusion, though I’m relieved.
“I have to get that.” I walk across the living room and pick it up.
Before I can answer, Dylan says, “Get it. I’m done here anyway.” My eyes lift from the number flashing on the screen back to his that are looking down. “We’re done.” He leaves on that note, walking into the bedroom and leaving me to take my call.
“This is Juliette.” I walk out of the apartment to give him the time alone he seems to need right now. Time is needed to cool down so we can talk about what is happening and what I did to upset him.
After many reassurances of my return to work, I hang up the phone with my gallery manager.
Dylan’s parting words sink in. We’re done. Suddenly, I begin to understand that Dylan won’t be here when I get home. Is it even home without him? I realize he meant what he said and I’m at a loss… again. I’m losing him. I’m losing my heart. I’m losing my other half. My soul. Everything that matters.
Taking a deep breath, my heart pounding, I move even quicker to get away from him and the memories, and all that ties me to the past. There’s no more Dylan and Juliette, there’s no point in making a scene on the street.
Finally, I reach my comfort zone. My hand is shaking although I’m standing in front of my own building.
One ring.
Two rings.
Brandon answers, “Hey, Jules, it’s kind of late for a social call.”
My heart calms and I smile. “You love hearing from me and you know it.”
He laughs. “Yes, I do. Anytime, day or night for you.”
“Can I come over?”
I hear shuffling. He’s looking at the time. I know he is. It’s only ten-fifteen. Still early.
“Of course,” he replies, always overly concerned about me, “Is everything alright?”
“Buzz me in.”
“You’re already here?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s your key?”
“Buzz me in.”
The lock releases and the door is opened without further question. He knows when not to push. He’s great like that.
I climb the two flights, running out of breath after the rushed walk home. I walk in, setting my purse on the table by the window. I like the view from his apartment because it’s the opposite of mine. It gives me a new perspective. He leans against the kitchen archway and watches me. The arch is a comforting design feature in the otherwise modern apartment. “The spare room has fresh sheets oooor you can crash in my room,” he says like he’s joking, but I know he’s not.
The offer makes me smile, but just slightly because we haven’t been lovers in a long time. “We’re better as friends,” I gently remind.
He crosses his arms over his chest, and says, “No harm in trying.”
His intense dark eyes follow me around the room. His eyes are blue, but so different from Dylan’s. His are the deepest oceans and Dylan’s the sky above.
The weight of his gaze lays heavy on me, scanning my back as I look out over the street, spotting a pocket view of a lamp in the park. I turn and insist, “I’m tired.”
“You know where everything is.”
“I do.” I breeze past him as if I own the place. In a way I do. It’s a second home to me. I have some of my things, my belongings stashed around, in the bathroom, in the bedroom—the guest bedroom. My vitamins reside in the kitchen. Just things, inconsequential things.
I stop in the doorway to the guest room before I disappear for the night. “Thank you.”
“You’re always welcome here, but next time, use your key.”
That makes me smile, a real one, genuine in its roots. “Goodnight, Brandon.”
“Sweet dreams, Jules.”
Dylan’s intrusion into my life tonight has caused an imbalance in my world. My dreams aren’t sweet. I’m restless, even at his place, where I used to find solace. Memories of the night he left me flood my dreams…
Reality strikes at the exhibit. I lose my mind and my new client when I breakdown in the back room. I had just sold a painting and pulled it from the collection at the request of the buyer. Behind what I thought were closed doors, I cried. Reflexively, I rub the canvas with my hand in an attempt to wipe the tears away, but the paint smears under my touch. The tips of my long brown hair also leaving their own distinctive mark.
My tears ruined his masterpiece—a piece the artist just painted live in front of potential customers. I’m called unprofessional and careless, and in his fit of rage, the artist refuses to work with me again, my tears costing him a five thousand dollar reward for his time and talent. The loss of the love of my life cost me more. He didn’t seem to care about that. Artists can be testy that way. He broke the frame and trashed the painting when the buyer pulled out of the deal, not wanting my common problems splattered on his painting.
When a customer overheard the argument, he reassured, “It will be okay. I promise.”
At the time, it was hard to believe his words. They still haunt me because I want to believe, but can’t seem to hold onto them.
When I return home late that night, the car is not parked out front and the apartment is bare. Dylan hated that car, he hated the furniture, he hated his life. Yet, he still took it away. He took everything he hated, except for me.
Nothing remains in the place we called home except a twenty-five dollar coffee maker and my clothes dumped on the floor because he took the dresser.
I kick off my shoes and go to make myself a cup of coffee, but he took the beans that I had freshly ground this morning. Now I have a coffeepot with no coffee to go in it. I drop to the floor in the kitchen and fall apart, completely apart, my heart shattering into a million pieces. The gallery breakdown was just the predecessor of what was to come. This is the remains of my life, the end as I know it. In the course of a ten hour absence, my life was packed and moved to another location never to be seen again.
All the love we shared has vanished like Dylan, the coffee, and the dresser.
Was this planned?
For how long?
Movers on the same day?
A storage unit or another apartment waiting for this day?
It seems too organized, premeditated.
I hold the black coffee maker in my arms, cradling myself around it, needing to have something tangible and this is all that is left. This is all I have to show for a life born from love but died from misunderstandings and lies.
WANTING TO LEAVE before Brandon rises, I start the coffee pot before I go. It’s a small gesture to show my gratitude. I used to love surprising Dylan with breakfast in bed and a hot cup of coffee years ago, but now my damaged side wins out and small gestures seem to be the only kind I’m capable of these days.
OPENING THE INDUSTRIAL back doors, a gust of warm air enters the gallery with me as I walk inside. The first warmth of spring I believe. I should take my lunch down to the park today. I bet the buds of the crabapple trees are blooming. The deep burgundy flowers are my favorite, but I’m sure I’ll only see the white. The white are more common in the city. They’re blander, more normal, more acceptable, conform more, less vibrant, less life lives in them, cheaper. I leave the doors open, knowing others will soon arrive for work.
My heels clack against the wood slats of the floor as I make my way. My office has a window in the front, facing the street. I don’t like sitting in a fishbowl, but it’s en vogue, so I deal with it.
We just had the floors redone, but I still see scuff marks as I walk. I usually try to avoid looking at the floor, but then that leads my gaze up and I only notice the marks on the white walls. They have to be white. Stark white highlights the art. This concept seems foreign to those who work here since no one else makes the effort to care like I do. I focus on my office ahead instead, so I don’t continue counting all the spots that need retouching, driving me mad.
I call for Frank, but he’s not in. It’s too early, two hours too early. He’ll spend his morning touching up the painted walls. It’s been at least a month and completely unacceptable at our gallery’s art price point to let that slide another day. Paint is cheap. Talk is cheap. Words are meaningless to me. Actions are everything. A hard lesson to learn, but now it’s ingrained.
Holding my chin up, I don’t let my emotions show. Emotions are a weakness I’ve worked hard to suppress the last three years—a detriment to not only my heart, but my job that I had to overcome.
I won’t make that mistake again. Now I like predictable, reliable, responsible. Those don’t toy with your emotions or wound you. I live according to a plan that was put into action two years ago. It was the only way I could see surviving. If I didn’t have to think
about things too much, I wouldn’t have to think about Dylan. It all made sense at the time. But a black plague of questions shrouds me daily in regards to my plan.
Can plans change?
Should they change?
Does time change them?
Or do we change in time?
I should talk to Brandon about this. He can be very insightful when it comes to my quirks.
The morning flies by with tedious office tasks. I hurry to the park at lunchtime to lull the hour away in the peaceful surroundings. After I find an empty bench, I sit in solitude. While eating, I close my eyes, letting the chirping of the birds fill my ears and feel the breeze against my skin. The shield that usually protects me slips and for a brief moment in time, I feel serene. In times like these I realize how much effort I put into pretending to be normal.
My hand drops to my lap and memories of picnics, playing Frisbee, laughing all come back. Central Park in the springtime is a sight to behold, an experience to be had, a way to wile the hours away frivolously. I loved lazy Sundays. I loved them with Dylan. I know he loved them with me as well. He just forgot how good it could be, how good we could be together.
I haven’t willingly indulged my desire to think about Dylan since seeing him at the restaurant the night before. I’m not strong enough to do that, so I refrain. Every time he wants to make an appearance in my thoughts, I think of her, and that puts the façade right back in place. Her—with her red everything. Her—that had the pleasure of his company last night. I wonder if she asked him who he was chasing and if he told her the truth. I wonder if she went home with him and erased all lingering thoughts he might have had of me.
I wonder so much and won’t be privy to answers, so I store these thoughts in that place where I push all my memories of him. I lock them away in the dented and damaged chest that lives in the recesses of my mind. It’s dark and dangerous, so I don’t venture there often.