Scorned (From the Inside Out #1) (6 page)

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…

A taxi fund is set-up next to the phone where our spare change is dropped daily. Dylan hasn’t added any in at least a month, but I don’t say anything. He’s been stressed lately and I don’t like to upset him and it feels like a topic that might. But I can’t help but wonder if he’s buying other stuff with his spare change. Maybe a coffee from Starbucks? Maybe lunch out with his co-workers?

Maybe… I don’t know. It hurts to think about this kind of stuff, so I avoid it, pushing down the questions that fight to be asked. Our home is empty without him here. His presence mixed with mine fills it, brings it to life. It’s felt lifeless over the last month.

I’m still a saver. Old habit. Brandon says I should quit my job and travel. That’s how much I’ve saved. The art world pays well if you can find the talent like I have. My heart may not be whole, but what remains I’ve given to the artists I’ve worked with, those who are willing to put themselves on the line, the ones who are willing to be rejected and still carry on.

How do they do that? How do they carry on, follow their dreams, their passions after rejection? I carried on, but I’m still not whole. I lost myself in the work instead of repairing my insides.

Sitting at the park today, I look up from the book in my lap and smile when I see the ducks are back. It’s officially springtime in Manhattan. Seeking the silver lining after a dreary winter, I look around, hoping to see a family. It’s hard to hold onto anger for so long, so tightly. It’s exhausting really.

Tossing my book in my bag, I gather the trash I’ve collected from my lunch and stroll back to the gallery. A man in the distance, one walking toward me on the sidewalk, head down, reminds me of Dylan. Damn him for taking up more space in my head than he deserves.

It’s not him though, just someone who reminds me of the Dylan I knew before the break-up.

I need another focus. My next exhibit apparently isn’t challenging me enough. I need to get out of the gallery like I used to and go do a studio visit. I’ll visit my latest discovery. He lives in the Bronx. It’ll be good to get out of the city, so I catch a cab.

An hour later, I slide the huge metal loft door open, the loud music blares. He once told me to come by anytime, day or night. He meant it. He likes me, maybe a little too much. I don’t mind his flirtations because he’s personable, charming, not sleazy at all. He goes by Jean-Luc, but one time I saw an electric bill on his bar and the bill was addressed to John. I suppose that Jean-Luc works better in the Manhattan art scene, feeding the illusion.

Jean-Luc kisses me on the cheek before pulling me across the loft. He’s shirtless with paint splattered across his body—today blue and orange. He wears old black Dickies that hang low, and he never wears underwear. I find that oddly sexy. Jean-Luc is younger than me by a few years and enthusiastic, loves life, passionate about his work. He’d make a good lover. He promised me once, after lots of tequila, that he would be good to me and treat me well. I’ve imagined the potential several times.

Standing in front of the large windows overlooking a dilapidated manufacturing plant, he finds the realness, the rawness of living here inspirational, wanting to share it with me. I don’t argue the lack of safety in the area because he’s gifted in his visions.

I spot my picture taped to the window, centered on a pane of glass. The painting next to it is orange; an abstract woman in the center that he claims is me. She’s painted blue.

Am I blue?

He explains, “Life is happening whether you embrace it or not. You need to let go of the past, the pain, whatever holds you back from having a bright life. You need to free yourself, your mind, your heart.”

It scares me that he might know me better than I thought. But he doesn’t know about the love of my life, or the breakup, or my breakdown that ensued. He knows me in the present, what I’ve given him, which isn’t much. I would have chosen black paint, and maybe if I’m in a good mood, charcoal grey. Charcoal grey feels more like the hue of my heart.

I’ve been hurt and can’t seem to let go of the pain. I hate Dylan, but I don’t want to hate him anymore. I want to embrace life. But I have questions. Questions like—
Why?

Why did he leave me that day?

“I HAVEN’T SEEN
him since then,” I say, dragging a beet through the overly dressed Bibb lettuce on my plate.

“But you want to. I can tell,” Brandon responds too confidently, cocky and brazen.

I drop my fork and it crashes against the plate. Probably too dramatic, but I don’t care. I gave up the notion of caring years ago. Looking down at my lap, I rearrange the cloth napkin that has been slipping toward the floor because of the slick material of my dress.

He says, “You’re avoiding the question.”

“You didn’t ask a question. You simply stated—”

“The truth.”

I cock my head to the side and give him a look he’s become accustomed to. “Let’s not do this.”

“
See?
Still no response.” I hear his sarcasm. “Jules, do you want to see Dylan again? How’s that for direct?”

“Dylan.” I pause as the once familiar name leaves my mouth, no longer having that distinct bad taste it used to summon.

“Yes, Dylan Somers.”

I swallow, then distract by taking a long gulp of my iced tea. Looking away, I stare out the crystal clear windows that overlook Central Park.

When I turn back, Brandon has his head down, shaking it. He’s disappointed in me, I can tell. His head lifts, his eyes leveling with mine. “You want to see him again. I know you do, but why? Why after what he did? Why would you give him the time of day? He doesn’t deserve you. He never did. You’re just affected by his looks.” He takes a sip of water not expecting me to reply… yet. He knows I will when I’m ready. Unfortunately his rant is not over either. “You’re kidding yourself if you think you’re special to him, if you think you ever were. No one treats someone the way he did you if they really love them.”

“I don’t want to keep talking, rehashing this until everything we had is twisted. You don’t know how it was. It was… it was only bad at the end, the very end.” I struggle to meet Brandon’s angry eyes, but I do it despite the tears weighing heavily in the corners of mine. “He loved me. I know he did. And I, I loved him.”

He slides his hand across the table and finds mine, taking it and gently squeezing. “Are you looking for closure or something else?” He sighs as if he’s exasperated by me. “I don’t want you hurt again. I don’t want you to end up like you were before.”

I hold his hand firmly. “I don’t know what I want anymore—”

My hand goes cold. He’s on his feet, money hitting the table before I have time to finish my sentence. I watch him leave the restaurant. I should rush after him, but I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then I make my way out the doors and into the chic waiting lounge by the escalators. “I thought you left me.” I hate how weak I sound.

Brandon’s eyes lock with mine, the venom oozing before he strikes. “I would never leave you, Jules. I’m not
Dylan
.”

I wrap my arms quickly around his middle, resting my cheek on his chest. Some of this is for him, some for me. We often confuse who’s supposed to be feeling what and when these days. Some days it makes me want to take a step back and reaffirm my own strengths. Others, I need him too much, reminding me of how we used to hang out back when I was still Juliette…

Brandon, our neighbor, has invited us to the movies. I’ve been dying to see it, but Dylan hasn’t. I know he’s stressing about his monthly quota and money, but we can afford this small luxury. Dylan says, “You go. I’m tired. I’ve had a long day and I just want to veg out.”

“I don’t want to go without you—”

“You’ve been wanting to see that movie for weeks now.”

I feel bad, guilty for leaving him alone. “I can stay home, make dinner. We can cuddle.”

“No, go. Trust me. I’m in a bad mood anyway.”

There’s a pause. “Okay, if you’re sure,” I say.

He’s staring at the TV ahead, remote pointed at the screen. “I am. I’ll see you when you get home.”

“Alright. I love you.”

“I love you,” he mumbles not looking my way.

I’m pathetic for not letting the pain go, for holding onto it while holding my best friend. Brandon is gonna hate me soon enough because right here, in his arms, I know what I’m going to do and it sucks, but I have to. Even if it hurts him.

DYLAN SPINS AROUND
in the large burgundy chair, tossing his headphones on the desk like he just got caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing.

Was he?
My stomach is unsettled by the thought, my confidence faltering.

He’s on his feet, mouth agape, and staring… but only momentarily. I have a strong suspicion he never loses his cool for long. My defenses rise in his presence.

“Julie—” He corrects himself. “Jules, I’m surprised to see you.” He stammers and for a brief second, I see the boy I knew through his discomfort, which makes me smile. He also smiles, but his breathing is heavier than it should be. “I wasn’t expecting,” he starts again, then pauses to run his hands carelessly through his hair like old times, but his fingers stop when he remembers his hair is styled. He’s messed it up now. I love that I’ve thrown him off balance. “I’m just, well, you know, this is unexpected. You visiting me.” I glance at one of the chairs in front of his desk. Noticing, he offers, “Come in. Have a seat.”

I cross the first five steps of the beige office, analyzing all he’s become since our break-up. Apparently he’s a big deal around here, judging by the corner office. Maybe the years haven’t been as hard as I had wished on him.

I watch him sit back, his hands bracing himself to the arms of the chair. Inwardly, I enjoy that his mind must be going crazy with assumptions as to why I’m visiting him at work.

Detouring to the window, I take a deep breath as the silence lengthens between us, making him more uncomfortable. I can feel his nervous energy from here, it’s palpable. Dylan is nothing like he was the other night, the false calm and bravado not crutched by alcohol.

“Jules?” he says, breaking the silence by speaking my name.