Scorned (From the Inside Out #1) (2 page)

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.

However, sometimes I slip and revisit, much to my dismay.

I open my eyes to the laughter of children playing tag nearby. Something that should make me happy makes me sad, and I feel the wall rebuilding itself, brick upon heavy brick.

MY ALARM GOES
off on time, but today is different. The weight that the date carries is already starting to drag me under. Grabbing my pillow, I bury my face under it. While holding my breath, I pray for the will to make it through the next twenty-four hours in one piece. It would have been wise to take the day off from work. I usually do, but end up there anyway needing to take my mind off other things. Things like wondering.

I
wonder
if we had broken up sooner, would it still hurt as much?

I
wonder
if we hadn’t broken up if we’d be married.

Would we have kids?

I
wonder
if he’s dating someone else.