by S. L. Scott
It’s a pub. The man who is more than well-off financially takes me to a pub. “A pub?” I question.
“Not just any pub,” he starts, holding the door open for me. “McKeown’s. It’s an institution and holds its own amongst the trendy bars that have overtaken the City.”
We enter and I immediately realize it’s also a sports bar. The walls are light, the furnishings are wood, not pretentious, TV’s all around. A different game is showing on each, but I don’t look twice to find out which ones or even the sport they’re highlighting. Austin takes the lead, weaving through the tables. It’s crowded and loud and not where I expected to be taken, but I think I might like him even better for picking this place. After finding a small table in the back corner, he starts to loosen his tie. “Do you mind if I take this noose off?”
With a laugh, I reply, “Of course not.”
Leaving it to hang down loosely around his neck, he then undoes the two top buttons of his shirt. Staring, I find the dip at the base of his neck strangely erotic. I swallow hard, forcing myself to look away before I start to fixate on the smooth skin of his collarbone that I just got a peek off. Too late. I’m totally staring until we’re rudely interrupted… A waitress approaches. She eyes him with a smile.
He looks to me. “What would you like to drink?”
“Maybe a beer since the place kind of calls for it.”
“I love a girl who’ll drink a beer,” he says, eyes twinkling.
“You choose which kind though. I’m not a beer connoisseur.”
“Two Guinness.” He swivels in his chair toward me. “It’s a solid beer, heavy. Too much?”
“I think I’ll manage.” I lean back in the chair, feeling the weight of the day start to lift away.
“I’m glad I ran into you.”
Our drinks arrive, wordlessly. The waitress has set her sights on someone else, Austin not reciprocating the way she wants. I like that he doesn’t. I shouldn’t like it as much as I do, but I do.
We both take a sip, our eyes meeting once over the edge of the pint glass. My cheeks heat and I try to play it off by saying, “I’m glad we did too.”
“Cheers.” He leans forward on his elbows tapping his glass against mine.
AUSTIN HAS ME in stitches and it feels good to laugh this hard. We continue on a second beer as he tells me about some crazy deals he’s had to sort out in other countries when he didn’t speak the same language. There’s a lot of hand gesturing and facial expressions. He’s completely captivating. I giggle, feeling much like a schoolgirl when her crush says hi for the first time.
“You’re beautiful when you laugh.” He slaps his forehead. “I mean you’re always beautiful but especially when you laugh. I think I should stop drinking. Your lovely company mixed with alcohol is going to my head, jumbling my words. I hate to cut the night early, but we should probably go before I completely screw this up.”
“You’re not screwing up, not at all.” The smile falls from my face and I lean my elbow on the bar, tilting my head, feeling lighter altogether. “You’re doing quite the opposite, in fact.”
“You’re standards are too low, Ms. Weston.”
“Eh,” I tease, “it’s fun to slum it every now and again.”
“Ouch!” He chuckles, then adds, “Well, you’ve got my number. Feel free to call me the next time you want to slum it.”
“I will.” The air turns. It’s been nice, manageable between us, fun. But now, I want to kiss him and that makes me doubt myself. I know he likes me, but in that way… or just in a conquer kind of way. The man is attractive, stunningly so. He can get women without a problem, and probably dates models. Though over drinks and from what I know of him from the past, he’s never come off in a way that would make me think he’s shallow, not at all. Quite the opposite actually; his relaxed nature eases my uptight personality and makes me want to stay with him longer.
I wonder if he saw how my mind was warring inside because he says, “Before we go, we should talk about the painting since I’ve got your undivided attention.” He smiles, his calm contagious.
“You can have my undivided attention anytime you want, but concerning the painting, I’m free on Friday.” I smirk, enjoying his flirtations. I run my finger around the rim of the glass, feeling a little flirty myself.
“How can I persuade you to hand deliver it?”
I look up, my walls coming down. “Dinner would be lovely.”
“You’re lovely. Dinner it is. If you don’t mind, I could really use your keen eye to find the right spot to hang the Rusque.”
“I’d be honored.”
With his most bold move, he takes my hand in his, a foreign but very welcome touch. “I don’t cook, but I’m a damn good heater-upper.”
I deserve someone good in my life. “I bet you are.”
With a small smile in place, he asks, “I can order in or would you prefer to eat out?”
“Order in and I’ll bring the wine.”
“Sounds like a date.”
“Yes, it does.”
Bringing my hand to his mouth and placing the most gentle kiss on the top of it, I watch as his lips touch my skin. He then stands, encouraging me up. “I should really get going, even though I don’t want to. I have a meeting in the morning that I need to prepare for tonight.”
“Of course. I’m sorry for keeping you.” I pull my hand back.
“I didn’t mean it like that, Jules. I’m sorry. I like being here with you. I’d prefer to stay all night, but… I can’t.”
“No, no. It’s alright. I have some things I should take care of tonight as well and we have Friday to look forward to.”
He stands and with a big grin on his face, he confirms, “Yes, Friday.”
With my hand still in his, I stand up, my body pressing against his strong one. In a whisper, I say, “Thank you. This was unexpected and fun. I’m glad I came.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you did as well.” A shared few seconds between us and then he continues holding my hand as he leads me through the crowded bar and out to his car. “Please let me drop you off. I’d feel better seeing you safely home.”
“I’m thinking the gallery if it’s not out of your way.”
“You’re a workaholic, Ms. Weston.”
“I have a feeling you’re familiar with that disease.”
“Too familiar for my own liking. I need a real life again.” He looks at me as the door opens.
“We all do, but I hope you find what you’re looking for.” I slide into the car.
He gets in next to me and with a confident smile, says, “Things are starting to look up.”
“I’M SORRY. I was foolish for walking out.”
“Don’t, Brandon. Let’s just make up and move on.”
“I shouldn’t have said those things to you, Jules.”
I huff in annoyance. “You can say those things because you care about me. Friends tell each other what they think.”
“Oh trust me, I thought those and more, but I shouldn’t have said them.”
“I thought you were coming over here to apologize. That’s what the message said. So why am I here trying to make you feel better about something that not only do you not need to apologize for, but you also don’t need to feel bad about?” I look up.
Brandon’s looking out my office window, mulling my words. “That was a mouthful.”
“You’re a handful. Let’s call it even and move on, okay?”
He smiles. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
“Sit down. You’re making me all anxious and stuff pacing around like that.”
He does. “It’s like being in a fishbowl, this window is so big.”
I sigh, following his gaze onto the street. “I know. I hate it.”
“Move to the back office.”
“Can’t. This space was designed to give that feeling even at the expense of the Art Director.”
“You’re snarky today.”
“I’m snarky every day.
”
“Especially today though. What’s up?” he asks. “You’re hiding something.”
I keep my head bent toward the papers on my desk, but lift my eyes only to be met by his eager ones. “I went for a drink with a client yesterday.”
“That Austin guy, right?”
“Yes, how’d you know?”
“It was inevitable. He’s been chasing you for too long. You’ve been holding off for too long… See? Inevitable.”
“I had a good time. We had a couple of drinks and it was fun.”
Brandon leans forward, resting his forearms on my desk. “You deserve happy.” I look back down, pretending to be busier than I am. “Jules? You should allow yourself this happiness. I can see it in your eyes, there’s something different, a lightness. Your mouth wants to smile, but you work so hard to hide it, fighting it. Just give in.”
As we stretch into a zone I’m not quite comfortable in, I detract. “I saw Dylan.”
“What? When?” Brandon’s tone changes, the harshness felt in a small vibration across the glass of my desktop as his hand starts tapping.
I stand up. Walking over to the filing cabinet in the corner, I duck my head to avoid his judgment. I shouldn’t have told him, but there’s no point in lying about it now. “Yesterday, I went to see Dylan. When I was leaving I ran into Austin in the elevator.”
“You what? Why’d you go see him? What happened? What’d you say? What’d he say?”
I turn around, leaning my shoulder on the tall cabinet. “Not much. I doubt we even exchanged twenty words the whole conversation. He was surprised to say the least.”
“I bet.” Brandon looks away. “I’m glad something good came out of it. The drinks with Austin.” He’s letting me off the hook, so I nod. When he stands, he adds, “I should get back.”
I walk him out. We hug goodbye, not saying the word, not needing to.
THE SUN SETS and the sidewalk outside my window is empty. People are already home or have arrived to their after work destination while I remain at my desk. The day was long, but it will be longer. I never mind putting in extra hours since I don’t have anything to return to at home.
Just a few days have passed since the exhibit, enough time to allow the worry, the stress to set in. I look over at the painting that’s cushioned in bubble wrap and covered in a protective outer layer of brown paper. It’s leaning against my wall and has Barker written on the outside.
I call my two interns in to load it onto the truck. When they don’t answer the back phone, I decide to hunt them down, but find Dylan instead. He’s standing in the middle of the gallery eyeing a Chihuly vase. I can tell he wants to touch it, maybe hold it, but he restrains himself. I understand the desire. I wanted to do the same when I first saw it.
It’s stunning.
He’s stunning.
Annoyingly so, and more than he was back then. My hate isn’t as strong as it once was, not even matching the emotions I felt a few weeks ago. Does this feeling lead to like one day or will I be living with a lighter version of this hate forever? I’m disconcerted by my kinder thoughts toward him and spin to return to my office, hoping to remain unseen.
“Jules?”
I stop, but don’t turn around while taking a deep breath before releasing a shaky exhale.
He’s in my gallery, so I must play nice, I must play hostess. It’s my job and there are other visitors, witnesses around. Instead of avoiding him like I want to, I turn with purpose as if I intended to speak to him the whole time. “This Chihuly is quite remarkable,” I start, sticking to my role. “I haven’t seen those shades accomplished this eloquently before. And we’ve had a few Chihuly’s over the years.”
He’s not buying my act. I can see it in his eyes. I worry he still knows me too well. He plays along with my game. “It’s interesting. Pretty.”
Novice description. There’s no deep emotion evoked when something’s called interesting or pretty.
I start to turn back around, since I have nothing more to say, but apparently he does, “Wait. Please. Can you spare a few minutes?”
The interns provide a happy diversion. They’re sloppily dressed, which is unacceptable, but when I look at my watch, they don’t have time to change. I lead them into the office and point at the painting, reminding them of the delicate nature of the piece they’re handling.
Stepping into the doorway, I reply, “Only a minute.” I sigh as if he’s interrupting my important business of avoiding him.
He’s cautious in his expression, realizing that him needing to speak with me is not a mutual desire. In thought, he eyes the wood floor beneath his feet, drawing my gaze down with him. His shoes are Gucci, easily identifiable in design. I look him over as I scan back up to see his face. His suit is tailored to fit… in all the right ways. He’s too handsome to be such a bastard, his looks wasted because of his lack of soul.
Catching me appreciating the physical package he presents, his smile turns hubristic and I shrug, silently admitting my act. Owning it, I cross my arms over my chest and raise my chin a bit. I look him directly in the eyes and wait for him to say his peace.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” he says. “It’s as if I was already here before my reasoning kicked in. I know you don’t want to see me. The other day at my office, I could tell. I could also tell how much I’ve hurt you, the pain I’ve caused. But ever since I saw you…” He runs his hand through his hair, then gets this determined look on his face.
I grip the doorway not sure if I want this conversation to continue, but the silence holds me captive. His eyes hold me prisoner. I’m statue still when he steps closer. My breath caught in my chest. I grip harder, my fingers curling around the casing.
“I should go,” he says, then rushes out the open front doors.
My fingers release and I push off the wall, running after him. “Wait!”
Suddenly being face to face with him like this, I’m not sure what to say. He waits for me to speak this time, for me to say something. Expectations I falsely gave him when I chased him down. I have nothing left to say, nothing except, “You didn’t finish. What were you going to say?” I shift uncomfortably, keeping five feet between us. “Ever since you saw me? What, Dylan?”
His face contorts and this time I see the pain in his eyes when he replies, “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
My response is automatic, not rehearsed. “You must.”
“I tried. I’m trying, but I’m failing—miserably.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t stop.”
“You left! And you’re trying to not think about me?” My anger peaks. “Fuck you!” Years of pent up emotion building and releasing together. “You’re all I’ve thought about for 3 years.” I turn abruptly and go inside, grab my purse from under my desk, and march straight toward the back door. The severe click of my heels against the polished floors exposes everyone in the room to my mood. I yell for the evening manager to lock up, then quickly escape out back, slipping into the waiting van. I have a short ten minute ride to pull my shit back together before this delivery, before my date with Austin begins.
THE ELEVATOR DEPOSITS us right into Austin’s apartment—the penthouse.
He isn’t there when the shiny silver doors open in front of us, but then he is, rounding a corner with a gorgeous smile and warm greetings, welcoming and surprisingly, bare foot. So casually dressed and so sexy. He kisses me on the cheek as his hands hold my shoulders, professional, yet I feel the tingling of something more developing.
I wonder if he does.
I have staff with me, so I must behave. He winks at me before greeting them. I stand and wait for instructions. He’s the client. He should make the decisions.
“How about setting it over there against that wall? I haven’t quite decided and would like to get Ms. Weston’s professional opinion on how to best highlight the painting.”
After setting the painting down, the interns look to me, so I thank them be
fore walking them to the elevator with a reminder to drive safe and that we have an employee meeting on Monday morning. They leave and we’re alone. Austin’s turned on some music, classic rock. Another pleasant discovery about this charming man.
“Wine? Or…” He jogs into the kitchen and comes back out just as quickly to show me. “I found this great Gossett champagne. My wine guy pulled it from the reserves for me.”
He has a wine guy. I’m impressed. His excitement is contagious and I smile, relaxing. “The champagne. We should celebrate.”
“We can drink to the Rusque finding a home.” On a mission to open the bottle, he goes back into the kitchen. “Make yourself at home, Jules.” His voice travels from the confines of the other room.
I study his décor—clean, neutral palette, highlighting the artwork. I like that. I used to be more eclectic, warmer in my taste… back when I was with Dylan. I had a much more carefree style. Over the years, I’ve learned that clutter is confining and never replaced any of the knick knacks he took the day he left me.
Looking at the walls, a large painting hangs above the couch. It seems to be the one piece I didn’t sell him.
Handing me a glass of champagne, he says, “I picked that up in Europe four years ago. It caught my eye and I had to have it. Do you like it?”
“It’s lovely,” I reply, studying the bright colors up top that fade to a gradient mix with the muted base tones. “It’s a great find. I’ve not seen anything like that here. It’s unique in its composition.”
“That’s exactly how I felt when I saw it, but could never put it into words so perfectly.” Tapping the fluted crystal against mine, he toasts, “To new friends and amazing art.”
“To amazing friends and new art,” I add, the crystal chiming between us.
We sip, then he says, “Let me show you around and you can help me find a place to hang the new one.”
Most of the paintings he’s purchased from me hang gallery style down the long and wide hallway. He says, “I had it designed this way to showcase the paintings.”