From the Inside Out: The Compilation (Scorned, Jealousy, Dylan, Austin) (13 page)

TRICIA SMILES, GREETING
me when I arrive back at my office three hours later. She hands me my messages, then tells me she sent about a dozen more to my voicemail.

I walk in and drop the messages on my desk before walking to the window, pulling at my tie until it’s untied. I toss it onto my desk along with the papers I left hours ago. I cross my arms and stare out at the vast city before me, my mind not into work right now, my mind is on Juliette instead. She’s becoming an occupational hazard lately.

I hear a light knock, but don’t turn around. I know who it is. “Dylan.” Tricia is hesitant. She can read my body language. I’m not happy, though I should be after that meeting. “This package arrived for you while you were gone. I’ll just set it here.” She sets it on the bureau by the door and closes the door quietly, leaving me alone with the package.

Turning around, my concentration is broken. The box is large. I walk over and rip the tape at the top that’s keeping it sealed shut. Checking the top left corner, there’s no return address. I remove several sheets of tissue paper and lots of packing peanuts fall to the floor. It’s heavy and bubble wrapped. I pull it all the way out, then unroll it. I only get about half way before it’s revealed—
the vase.
The vase I sent Juli— Jules with the flowers.

My anger flares again, flames flicking in my chest. “God damn it!”

This woman has caused me nothing but trouble for over a month now. If I was honest with myself, which I’m not, it’s been years, but as I said, I’m not that honest with myself to admit that… yet.

I walk over and grab my keys from my desk, then lift my jacket from the coat rack by the door, slipping it on. I pick the vase back up, knocking all the protective packaging to the floor, and walk out. “I’ll be gone the rest of the afternoon, Tricia.”

Her eyes are wide, darting down to the vase in my hands then back up. I’ve never left early. I’ve never even left on time. I always work late, so I understand her shocked expression. “Yes, Dylan. Have a good evening.”

“Thank you. You can go ahead and leave now too if you want.”

I hear a quiet and happy, ‘Thank you,’ as I walk out the company doors to the bank of elevators. I hail a cab, which at this hour is a breeze, and head across town.

The cab driver pulls over a few doors down from the gallery. I pay him and walk, no, more like storm with purpose toward the large artsy entrance. I swing open the door and look around. There’s no one in sight, so I glance to the left. Jules’ office door is open, but no one is in there.

Then I hear her.
Her voice chimes through the barren white-walled space. The smell of paint is heavy in the air, drop-cloths down on the floor. The moment of pause is making me rethink my purpose and I stop, unsure if I should be here. The earlier passion I felt is fading until I see her again. She riles me up like no other. With her phone in hand, her eyes go wide. “Dylan?” she says, surprised.

Our eyes only meet for a brief second before she glances down at my hands and sees the vase. She looks away. Turning her back to me, she goes into her office.
Dismissing me.

I follow her inside and find her rummaging through papers on a table near the door. With her back still to me, she asks, “What are you doing here?” Her tone holds haste, distaste altogether.

And I miss the reverence it once held. I charge forward setting the vase down on the glass desk top, momentarily forgetting I’m handling something of value, something precious. She jumps, startled, maybe scared. It’s a blaring reminder of how I mishandled her. She was precious and valuable, but I didn’t treat her that way. But my irritation wins out. Looking her in the eyes, my voice is stern, my mouth tight. “I gave this to you as a gift. It’s rude to return a gift.”

She eyes the vase, concerned, giving me a peek at the Juliette I once knew. She wants to touch it. I can tell, but restrains herself. When her eyes finally meet mine, she says, “I don’t want your gifts. I don’t want anything from you. I don’t want you in my life at al—”

“Enough!” I yell, too loud to be appropriate for the workplace. I’ve become irrational. “I’ve had enough of this bullshit, Juliette.”

Her eyes flash with anger, anger I haven’t seen in too long, in too many years.
Passion.
I thought she was weak at the end of our relationship, but she was always passionate. I was just blinded by my own ego to notice anymore.

Her hands are on her hips in defiance as she glares at me. Pointing at me accusingly, with her teeth clamped together, she strikes back. “You’ve had enough?” Her voice goes up a notch, seething as her hands fist at her sides. “You’ve had enough! Fuck you, Dylan! Get out of my office and get out of my gallery!”

I stare at her, my heart skipping a beat or three or five.

Thump.

Thump.

Skip.

Thump.

Thump.

Skip.

I’m mad. I’m fucking offended. But I’m impressed too. Juliette Weston is so fucking infuriating and smart not to take my shit, not to put up with anything involving me, but this situation is frustrating.

Very.

Fucking.

Frustrating!

“Leave,” she starts again, her arms hanging at her sides, not defeated, but resolved. “Please.”

I feel the shift in the air. I step forward. She steps back. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I move forward again. Throwing all the past away, like it doesn’t exist, I reach out and grasp her hip… and she doesn’t move this time.

Our eyes never leave each others as I gently squeeze, knowing she’ll only allow this for so long. She moves, turning rapidly and escaping behind her desk, putting the security of furniture between us. “You need to leave,” she says, her voice is softer, her gaze falling from mine as she sits down in her chair.

My insides are twisted, fucked up, my emotions are all over the fucking place because of that woman. Wordlessly, I go, making it into the main hall of the gallery before she’s there, behind me, calling to me. “You forgot your vase.”

My anger returns when I look back at her
.
“I want you to have it. Keep it.” My words may be terse, but my desires are true.

There’s no anger in her eyes though as she holds the vase cradled in her arms, protecting it. Only questions remain. That’s all I see when I look at her, the emptiness from lack of answers. I wish I could give her everything she needs, but I can’t. I can’t fill the blackness I’ve instilled in her heart. I can only alter it into something beautiful again. And right now that means leaving, because she wants me to.

I wish I could stay and see her passion again. I’m ready for her wrath. If we can get it out and over with, we might be able to do something other than hurt each other. We’re caught in a cycle. Wonder if she sees that, if she feels it like I do.
Hate binds us to the past and we’re stuck in an unwanted emotion. But there’s more to us than hate. There’s something profoundly deeper.

I don’t just know it, I feel it. I feel it morphing inside of me. I see it morphing inside of her when I look deep into her beautiful brown eyes.

THE VASE CATCHES
the light and I look over at it by the window, my legs crossed under my desk, the end of a pen between my teeth—a bad habit I picked up from Dylan years ago.

I don’t keep flowers in the vase he gave me because they take away from the beauty already there, the artistry in form. I should have insisted he take it back, but I love it too much. When he brought it back, I was happy to see it. Secretly, I was happy to see
him
again too.

Irritated for having that thought
or feeling,
I toss the pen down, watching as it skids across the surface of the desk. I’m not sure how to classify this emotion since I don’t allow myself to dwell on such novelties and irresponsibilities.

STARTING WITH THE
opener I’ve rehearsed, I say, “Please don’t judge me, okay?”

Brandon stops, the bottle opener in hand, the cork halfway removed. He tilts his head like he knows what’s coming, but I don’t think he does. I’d be getting more than a raised eyebrow if he did.

Confessing, I add, “I’ve been thinking about
him
lately.”

“
Jesus
, Jules. Talk about a masochist.”

“I like the way I don’t even have to say his name and you know exactly who I’m talking about.” My dry humor is wearing on him tonight.

He must be tired. Tending to the wine again, his eyes focus on the bottle instead of me. He’s disappointed, but doesn’t want to say it. Then he explains, “If you were talking about Austin or someone else you wouldn’t have to preface that statement with ‘Please don’t judge me’.” The cork gives and the wine is poured.

I walk closer to get a glass, and reply, “True.”

He turns and leans against the counter, crossing his legs at the ankles. “Lay it on me. That’s what we’re doing right? You want to talk about Dylan?”

“Talk might be too strong of a word. Maybe mention works better.”

After rolling his eyes, a small smile appears. “Okay, whatever.”

We stay silent for a few seconds, then I finally give in. “Fine.” He looks down, away from me, disapproving of the topic, but I continue, “I saw him last week. He was… a complete mess. It was fun to see, actually.” I giggle, which makes him laugh.

“You’re so weird sometimes,” he says.

“You knew that coming into this relationship, so no running out on me now.” I narrow my eyes, teasing him.

“I’m not going anywhere. Are you?” His eyebrows rise up, waiting.

I know he’s referring to me moving in with Austin, although he doesn’t say it. I sit on the couch, leaning on the arm.

“You’re avoiding,” he remarks.

An assumption on his part. “I’m thinking.”

“It shouldn’t be that hard to answer,” he says, settling in at the other end of the couch, legs spread wide, his arm across the back, hogging more than half. I don’t mind though. He drinks his wine while watching me.

I close my eyes and reply, “That would be presumptuous of me at this stage.”

“Would it? Seems like you and Austin are moving pretty fast.”

“And?”

“And, well, I don’t want to see you hurt.”

Sitting up, I look him directly in the eyes. My mood softens. Brandon does that. He still calms me. “I’m not going anywhere… yet.”

“I knew you’d throw in a yet. A yet to you is like a hall pass. You can do whatever damn well pleases you because you haven’t committed one way or the other.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.” He smirks.

“I do love you. I just hate that you know me so well.”

“Inside and out.”

“Ewwww! Don’t say that.” I laugh, hard.

“You went there, not me. Mind in the gutter much?”

“All the time.”

“That’s my girl.”

“Brandon?”

“Yeah?”

“Start the damn movie.”

“Happily. My favorite part is coming up.”

“I’m Sally,” I call out.

“You’re always Sally. I want to have the orgasm.”

“I’m the girl. The girl always gets to play Sally. You’re definitely more Harry.”