by S. L. Scott
Walking around the room, I scan all of the paintings to get a feel for the collection as a whole before going back to the beginning to appreciate them one at a time. That’s just how she taught me. The fifth painting captures my attention. I grab a glass of wine as a waiter passes, and stare into the depths and ridges of the oil.
“It’s Rusque. He painted it last year while on holiday in Cannes.”
Tensing, I don’t turn, afraid she’ll run away again. Instead, I let her voice blanket me in warmth, familiarity, comfort, and I try to relax like we talk all the time.
“If you look closely,” Juliette continues. “You’ll see lavender mixed in with the orange, black, and red in the bottom left corner. I really like the unexpected lavender.” She pauses and I glance over. She appears to get lost in the painting for a moment before she adds, “It’s something soft found within the harsh.”
That sounds a lot like how I would describe her after seeing her this morning. I keep that thought to myself though.
She giggles out of nowhere and I turn to look at her, hoping I’ve elicited the sweet sound. But I see a glass of champagne in her hands and have fond memories of how it always made her laugh. I should have known it wasn’t me.
Her back is to me as she moves to the next painting, and I can’t pretend to be respectful by restraining myself to quick glances any longer. I look at her, really look at her, watching wholeheartedly, and allowing myself this indulgence. She walks with grace, and refinement, an outer confidence. After placing her glass on a table nearby, she holds her hands behind her back, her delicate fingers wrapped around a small wrist. Her pace is slow, feeling much like an invitation to stay, so I follow.
I can’t turn back the clock and appreciate what I had, but I still feel the loss of her every day. Realizing I have nothing left to lose since I already lost her, I take a chance. “I don’t know what to call you.”
She stands there studying the painting in front of her, no anger gracing her beautiful face like it did this morning. “I go by Jules now.” She glances my way and that’s all it takes to be utterly captivated by her, just like I was years before.
“I LIKE JULES,” I reply, leaving the words lingering between us.
Juliette turns her head and looks past me. Her eyes widen like she sees someone in the distance, someone she recognizes who makes her smile. “If you’ll excuse me,” she says, not making eye contact, her gaze planted on my chest. I can see her struggle not to look up before she walks away.
Disappointment and relief covers me equally. I like the time I spent with her, just like this morning at the coffee shop. But it’s intense, heavy between us. I’m relieved to have the chance to take a breath and gather my wits back together. She throws me entirely off my game.
That makes me wonder if I’m playing a game with her. I don’t mean to. It’s not my style anymore. When did I get game anyway? Juliette loved that I had no game… when we met. I was popular, but didn’t screw with people’s heads to get my way.
With Hillary, it was all games. Life was a game to her. People were puppets to be toyed with, their emotions and lives irrelevant. Unlike my family, who are financially secure, coming from money for Hillary taught her not to value anything or anyone. People destroyed in the process were just consequences to the petty game. The first time I met her, I saw the devil in her eyes…
She was there. I think she was waiting for me and I don’t normally drink strong cocktails like martinis, so it was easy to lose my better judgment. What happened became a blur in the darkest of corners past the small antiquated payphone booth, hidden from the rest of the party.
Targeted. She had targeted me and knew she would get me eventually. I wasn’t strong enough, the liquor loosening my grip on the important things in my life, like Juliette.
Hands firmly wrap around my neck, pulling me toward the dark. My body ruled my mind in its weakened state. It was obvious that fate had already decided, it was obvious what her craving for me did. She was not shy, but like a woman possessed. Maybe obsessed was more appropriate when looking back.
Her lips found mine, but I resisted, turning my head. I’d never been with an aggressive woman before. The sudden stirrings I felt were unexpected. Somehow as she whispered the things she would do to me, for me, I knew. She was not going to take no for an answer. She would be relentless until she broke me.
She brushed across my cock, just on the outside of my pants, but it shamed me that my body wanted more. She couldn’t see my anger as I grabbed her wrists and removed them from where only Juliette had been since the day I met her. She couldn’t see the guilt that was already washing through me as I spoke of the love I had for my girlfriend. She wouldn’t have cared anyway.
Taking advantage of my faltering, she dragged my hand down her body demanding that I touch her. Suddenly I realized that I wanted her. Not as a whole, but on some level, some buried part of me liked her touch, her directness, and the words she spoke in hushed tones in my ear. She had to have me and she wasn’t afraid to ask for what she wanted. She wanted to please me. She was eager. I told her no, then Juliette came to mind and I stepped back. She reached for me, started pulling me back to her, but I ran. I ran into the restroom and I threw up.
My stomach rolled as I emptied the contents along with my heart and my life into the toilet, and flushed it all away. I avoided my reflection in the mirror as I washed my hands and my face, trying to bring color back to my cheeks, not wanting to worry Juliette. I scrubbed my mouth clean with paper towels before escaping quickly while making sure she wasn’t out there again waiting to pounce. I made it back to my girlfriend just as the clock struck twelve, giving her a closed mouth kiss.
Hugging me tight, she told me how happy she was, how lucky she was that we get to spend another year together. The moment was ruined when I saw Hillary over her shoulder though. She smiled at me like she knew she already had me. I closed my eyes, trying to block her out while I appreciated what I held in my arms.
It was in that moment I decided I would trade Heaven for Hell. I still hate myself for hurting Juliette. I was never dumb, but I was obviously naïve. I see that now.
The very first time I saw her on campus I knew she deserved better than me. I would tell her that, but she would laugh, never believing me. In the end, I proved her wrong.
This morning I saw she doesn’t wear a ring on her left hand. I only went there after figuring out what the date was. I took a chance to ease my conscience and tracked her down so I could apologize. It was long overdue. I saw the fear and anger in her eyes though. She felt ambushed, her eyes telling me much more than she did.
Looking back over my shoulder, I see Juliette hug a man in a tailored suit. Is he deserving?
The way she embraces him makes me wonder about the nature of their relationship. He touches her with a familiarity that’s more personal than professional. He’s attracted to her, that much is obvious. They hold each other too long and I feel the beginnings of jealousy. When she looks down instead of resting her chin on his shoulder, I feel a small sense of relief, but should I?
I turn back to the painting before moving to the next one, needing to stop the crazy thoughts I’m having. I don’t want to invade her space, even though I completely want to.
“You have some fucking nerve.” I hear a man say from behind me.
I turn around at the crass statement only to be faced with someone that takes me by surprise. “Brandon!” I exclaim. His face is tight, eyes blazing, jaw locked, and his arms crossed over his chest. “How are you?”
“Save the pleasantries, Somers. Why the fuck are you here?”
It’s hard to look tough or feel like you can hold your own when you’re holding a wine glass. I set it down on a passing tray and cross my arms over my chest. I can see how this is gonna go down. “By that greeting, I guess you’ve still got a hard on for Juliette.”
“Fuck you. You don’t know shit about anything, much less me or her.”
His eyes flicke
r in her direction and I follow watching as she pulls a calculator from her pocket and types, showing it to nice-suit-lukewarm-embrace man. When I turn back, I say, “This is over Juliette. You’re pissed I’m here… or threatened?”
“It’s Jules,” he says. “You have no right to call her Juliette.”
“But that’s her name, and I’m still in the dark as to why she’s so insistent on being called Jules now.”
“I’m not giving you anything, asshole. Why are you even here? You didn’t do enough damage the first go round. You crawling back? What the fuck, dude. She can finally sleep at night… most nights, and here you are slithering back into her life.” He pokes me in the chest.
I don’t take lightly to the interrogation, but with the tidbits he’s dropping out about her, I’ll take it a bit longer. Knowing I have the upper hand here, I reply, “It’s all coincidental. I stopped in because I liked the paintings. I didn’t know she worked here. But why are you here? You two together?” I look back at her briefly, surprised she would date him. He was never her type and definitely not deserving of her. Jealously settles into the pit of my stomach.
“It’s none of your business what our relationship is, but the one thing I am that you never were is supportive,” he says, pointing at Juliette. “You don’t know what you did to her—”
“I do. I made a huge fucking mistake, but—”
“But nothing, my ass! I bet you money you know what today is and here you are rubbing her nose in it.”
Looking down, I sigh. The heaviness of the day is wearing on me. “Look, I know today is the day we broke up. I don’t need the reminder. I’m reminded every fucking day I wake up without her,” I say, lowering my voice as other patrons start to look at us.
His voice lowers to a menacing degree. “I’m warning you, Somers. Stay away from her!”
“Don’t tell me—”
“You two need to leave.” Juliette appears, seething with no patience for either of us. “You’re starting to cause a scene.”
“I’ll leave when he does.” Brandon stands tall, determined.
She looks at him and I see a slight break in her firm demand. “Don’t do this, Brandon. I’ll see you later. I promise.”
Glancing back at me, I don’t get another word from her before she turns around and walks across the gallery.
Brandon looks at me and in a hushed tone, he utters, “Fucker!”
“Asshole!” My back is to him already as I walk out. I debate if I should go home or join my clients at the strip club down the street. Turning back to steal one more glimpse of her through the window, I see her hugging Brandon. It’s warm, welcoming. She finds security in him, but I’m still left wondering when the neighbor became more. Or was he waiting for me to screw up all along?
Hailing a cab, I decide to head home. I’ll send my apologies to the clients tomorrow. I’m in no condition to entertain. After dumping my wallet and phone on the kitchen counter, I brush my teeth and strip down to my boxers. With all the lights out, it feels too dark in here. I walk to the bed and stub my toe on the corner of the frame, and hobble the rest of the way. After climbing in, I check my alarm clock and lay there thinking about Juliette… thinking about Jules.
I pull my comforter up to my neck, but it doesn’t feel like enough now, so I reach down for the throw that I shouldn’t have. It’s the one I stole from Juliette that made Hillary mad. I drag it up the bed and cover my arms, trying to sleep while the feeling warms me from the inside out.
I KNOCK, KNOWING Brandon will probably be asleep, but he’s expecting me. When he opens the door, the smallish smiles on our faces are a giveaway for how tired we are. It’s late, so no big greetings are needed. He scratches his head and I can tell he wants to ask me why I didn’t use my key. But he doesn’t, he just kicks the door open wider.
After brushing my teeth and pulling on my pj’s, I slip into his bed, foregoing the guest room. His bed is warm. He’s warm, but doesn’t fill the void and it’s better than being alone across the hall.
We don’t normally share a bed, but if I’m alone the tears will come, overwhelming my head and heart. The date hasn’t changed and he understands that tonight is different. I’m tense, wanting to escape my own body and mind, so tonight I let him hold me. I try to settle my nerves and heavy emotions, thinking I should be happy how the evening played out. Paintings were sold and big commissions were made, giving my paycheck a huge boost. A dedicated buyer bought another, adding to his growing collection, all of which I’ve sold to him. He’s persistent and dresses nicely, wealthy, single, and handsome. He’s interested in me, hopeful even. I don’t know why he waits for me. He deserves a medal for his patience. I carry too much emotional baggage to burden him with. Can he not see how damaged I am? How I’m scarred from the inside out?
IT’S BEEN JUST over a week since Dylan came by the gallery. When I demanded he leave, I’m not sure if I meant temporarily or forever. A week and three days earlier, I would have meant forever. Now I’m not so sure.
I’m still left wondering what he and Brandon were arguing about. Maybe me? Knowing them, probably me. I want to know, but won’t ask Brandon even though he would tell me if I did.
I’m caught in flux. The pattern of my days has changed. I used to wake up and listen to the numbing news on TV. It was background, white noise. But lately, I’ve forgotten to turn on the TV altogether, my mind on Dylan instead.
His tie was loosened at the neck and the top button undone. I could tell he had drinks prior to arriving at the gallery by the size of his pupils, and how soft the lines were around his eyes, relaxed even. When did he get those lines? Did he always have them or has life given him those? One thing I know for sure, I liked them more than I should.
He wears his hair shorter, not by much, but I notice the difference. It still wants to break free from the confines of the gel he’s using though. I like it a bit wilder.
I see the way he watches me when he thinks I don’t notice. I see him—always. His gaze heated my back when I shifted my head down as my buyer, Mr. Barker, embraced me. I saw Dylan out of the corner of my eye and he was staring. He said he hated me. Those were his parting words. So it makes me wonder if he could feel something other than hate for me now? His expression would say yes, but knowing him and how heartless he truly is, I’m probably reading too much into it.
That morning in the coffee shop, I noticed he doesn’t wear a ring or any identifying marks of having worn one, like a tan line or indentation. I don’t think he’s married, but I’m left wondering if he’s engaged, taken, or single. My bet is engaged. Most women would fall all over him for his looks alone. Add in that he looks like he might have money now…
I really fucking hate that I wonder these things. The lady in red often disturbs any nice thoughts I might be having, so I turn on the TV to distract me.
Brandon knows me too well. He knows I’ve thought of Dylan, that I still do, but he also knows how to navigate my moods. He’s not said anything yet, but it’s coming. I can feel it, building like it’s on the tip of his tongue. He knows Dylan’s gotten to me. He just doesn’t know how much.
ANOTHER WORK DAY begins and I go to the gallery. I orchestrate the artists, make sure the bills are paid, the clients checks go through, the paintings delivered. I busy myself within my passion. I’m living my dream.
We used to talk about our dreams all the time. I used to tell Dylan how one day I would run a gallery. I wanted to discover new talent. I lost myself after I lost him, struggling to get back on track. But I never gave up on my career. I was determined to make something in my life work. Sometimes I wonder if him leaving caused me to focus on my job even more and that’s why I am where I am. I’m young to hold this position, but the gallery owner was impressed, saw the potential, and took a chance on me despite my age.
I watched as Dylan walked into my gallery last week. My insides flipped, but I couldn’t run, didn’t want to hide. Just like years before, he commands attention even when h
e’s not trying. There is still nothing ordinary about him… It’s quite frustrating actually.
He approaches art like I do and the way I view an object or painting. He even prefers paintings like I do. They seem more open, open to interpretation, open for ones own realities to be placed on the artist’s vision. Sculptures are more stated. I watched him view the exhibit on that date that I dread each year. I watched him study the art, utilizing what seemed to be the technique I taught him, walking around the room doing a onceover first. The way his body moves—so familiar, and yet somehow different as if life has had no negative effects on him at all. His body has also changed. It’s more manly—broader shoulders, sharper jaw line.
I can’t speak to the internal changes. I hope there are some. I hope he’s different from the person I knew at the end our relationship, but deep down, I also hope he’s still the person I loved three years prior.
Dylan showing up twice in the same day has messed with my head again. My thoughts aren’t clear, they’re fucked up.
He did this. He did this to me.
Why is he back in my life?
Why does he seem to be in every part of my life again? Is it planned or coincidence?
I’m pretty done with all of it, with everything. I’m fucked up because I don’t care about anything anymore, least of all myself. I dress the part though. I make a pretty package. I wonder if Dylan still finds me pretty.
I’ve made a lot of money over the last three years, so I can afford nice things. My shoes are more expensive. So are my clothes, but that’s all superficial stuff. I don’t spoil myself. I wear my dresses to more than one event even if I’m photographed. I’m not shallow. I just have a few nice things. I deserve them and they make me smile when I wear them.
But I do take cabs. That’s where I splurge. Cabs were always a splurge when we were together. We had this change jar…