From the Inside Out: The Compilation (Scorned, Jealousy, Dylan, Austin) (28 page)

“Okay.” She takes a step back, releasing me, which feels all wrong. Her arms go into the air, as she continues, “I shouldn’t. I don’t owe you anything, much less another chance, but like you, I’m fucking selfish, Dylan.” With a shrug, she says, “I like the way I feel when I’m with you more than when I’m not. I know this is unfair. Judge me if you must, but this is me being honest with you now.
We
are not going to be fixed overnight or even over months. It’s going to take a long time for me to trust you again, but I’m starting to, even if just a little. I deserve to be happy and what sucks is, even after what you did to me four years ago, you make me feel like I can be happy again, like there just might be a silver lining to this whole mess.”

Her arms flop to her sides exasperated. Taking her hand, I rub my thumb over the back of it. “I know what you mean. I understand that you want to convince yourself I’m the bad guy, and I was, but I’m not anymore.” I pull her to me, my mouth to her ear, my arm around her shoulders and whisper, “I’ve never stopped loving you. Ever. Just let me show you. Give what you can give. I’m not asking for more than that.”

Her hands slide around to my back and up, holding me tight. Her lips are on mine, hushing the words that don’t need to be spoken. Words like ‘please trust me’ and ‘I’m sorry,’ ‘I love you,’ and ‘thank you.’

We have time to share those. This is about acknowledging that we will try, at the very least, we will try and maybe one day we can move beyond
least
into something
more
.

I hear her take a slow, drawn breath, then whisper, “Okay.”

Tilting my head to the side, I look down so I can see her face. When she looks up, for the first time since I saw her almost a year ago at that restaurant, her eyes are clear, not bogged down with the heaviness of the past.

“What?” she asks, feeling self-conscious.

I’m momentarily stunned by her beauty. Running my hand along her cheek, I let my fingers twist into her hair before moving down to give her a kiss. I find myself gripping her tighter, holding her closer, afraid she’ll disappear, like this might not be real.

“Dylan?” Her voice is soft. “It’s alright. We have today.” She laughs gently, looking down. “Probably tomorrow too.”

“I’m hoping by tonight there will be no probably’s in the equation.”

“So am I.”

I savor her words, then ask, “Can I take you somewhere now?”

Her smile grows. “Yes. Is it a surprise?”

“Of sorts.”

Two train hops later, we’re walking down Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. I can see her curiosity peaking and I’m nervous again. I take her hand and go to the office to check in.

“Mr. Somers, good to see you again.”

“You too, Joey. How have you been?”

“Can’t complain,” he replies, looking between us. Curious, I’m sure. I’ve never brought anyone with me before. He grins as if he’s suddenly in on a secret. “Have a good day.”

“You too,” I call over my shoulder as we walk down the corridor and up the stairs, down another long hallway to the very end. The last unit on the right.

“What’s this?” she asks, her nerves showing through her tentative tone.

I unlock the mini garage door and as I lift it up, I grip her hand tighter with my other. “I need to show you this.”

The door settles and I glance to her and then back to the ten by fifteen storage unit. Her mouth drops open as she tries to free her hand, but I remain holding it, gripping harder, afraid she’ll leave me. ‘
Please don’t hate me,’
I chant over and over in my head as she takes in the stuff before us.

Stepping forward, she stops, then murmurs, “Dylan.” I can hear her gulp before she takes another step. “Dylan, this is—”

“It’s our stuff. All of it. It’s all here. Everything I took from you is here,” I whisper, releasing her hand, knowing I have to. I feel the tears form in my eyes when I see her shoulders shake and hear her trembling breath.

She looks at me over your shoulder, then turns back and sits on the couch like she might need the support. When her eyes meet mine, for a brief second, I’m stunned. “You’ve had this all along?”

“Yes. I couldn’t throw it away. I couldn’t… I couldn’t be around it on a daily basis. It was us.”

“No, it was just our stuff, not us.”

“The guy at the front desk knew you when you walked in. How long have you had it here?”

“Since the day I moved it from the apartment.”

Her eyes search mine as her eyebrows dip in curiosity, piecing it together. “How often do you come here?”

I stand still, frozen to the spot, my eyes locked with hers. “One or twice a month, at least.”

“And at the most?”

“Four or five times a month.”

Walking to a box, she lifts the flap. Then she leans her forehead against it and starts crying. I know what’s in that box. There’s a reason that box is the one closest to the couch.

“The photo albums,” she says, looking back at me once more. “Why, Dylan?”

“I needed you. I couldn’t live life without you—”

“You had me, but
you
chose to leave.”

“I know. It’s the biggest mistake of my life. I regret it every minute of every day. I know a million apologies won’t make it right, but it doesn’t mean I ever stopped loving you, Jules.”

Reaching for her, she swings her arms protectively in front of her body. “Stop!” She looks down again.

“I shouldn’t have taken it. I don’t even have a good excuse for taking it. At the time, I think I wanted anything to do with us out of sight, so I could move on. But the bill would come for another year on this storage unit and I would pay it, knowing I could never get rid of it.”

“Your sad reasoning hurt me, hurt my soul and now I’m here face to face with everything I never thought I’d see again. I’m gonna need a minute to process this.”

Sitting down on the couch, in the spot I usually sit in when I visit, I watch as she starts digging through boxes until she seems to find what she’s looking for—her jewelry box. She then sits down on the couch and lifts the lid. A small gasp escapes before her hand covers her mouth. Slowly, she lifts a necklace up in front of her. I gave it to her back in college. She says, “I never thought I’d see this again. What did Hillary say about this?”

It’s my turn to scoff. “Hillary knew I had the stuff, but she never knew where or what I had. She never came here. I never brought her. I didn’t want her near here or you.”

“Why’d you come here?” she asks, setting the necklace back into the velvet lined wood box.

I was hoping she’d put it on, but I know that’s too much to ask. Leaning back, I roll my head to the side to look at her pretty face. “Sometimes I would bring a bottle of Jack and take shots while staring at the boxes. A few times, I fell asleep on the couch—”

“I used to love taking naps on this couch.”

I smile because she does. “You’re letting me off, aren’t you?”

“No. I hate that you took all of this away, but it’s stuff. I had to reconcile with that years ago because I didn’t think I’d ever see it again.” She turns onto her side, tucking her legs up under her and adds, “I think it would have been very hard to live with this and know you were still gone. All of these reminders…”

Something catches her eyes and she sits up suddenly. I’ve been found out as I spot the picture frame of us at Myrtle Beach one summer we visited my family. That’s the picture I set up on top of the box in the corner. I would stare at it for hours wondering how I could have thrown our relationship away like I did.

She steps over another box to retrieve it. Running her fingers along the broken glass, she looks back at me questioning. I answer despite the nonverbal request, “I was upset. I‘d been drinking.”

Jules lowers the frame, defeated, and asks, “Why didn’t you ever call me, Dylan?”

“I,” I start but stall, my words jumbling in my head, making me feel stupid. “I thought you hated me.”

“It’s strange, but I never considered the fact that maybe you were feeling the same way I was. So much pain. The difference is that I did hate you, but I think you hated yourself more.”

I nod, knowing she sees me much clearer than I thought.

AS I STARE
at the broken picture frame, I have an epiphany.
Dylan’s suffered too
. He’s still suffering, just like I am. I turn around and see him leaning forward, resting his arms on his knees, his face covered by his hands. Seeing how broken he is, I sit down next to him.

Broken, just
like me.

So much needless pain. That’s what I used to think. But now I don’t think it was needless. I think it was necessary in some twisted fucked up way. I rub his back, leaning my head against his shoulder. His breathing is harsh, stubbornly unsteady. “Dylan, it’s okay.
It’s okay
.”

He looks up at me, unsure of what I mean.

Taking his face between my hands, I kiss his forehead, then his nose. I kiss a tear away on his left cheek, and his lips. This isn’t about sex. This is about forgiveness, comfort, love. I love him and even though I may not be able to totally forgive or tell him how much I care about him, I
can
comfort him. This is something I can do for him and something I want to do.

Selfishly, it’s also for me.

I deepen the innocent kiss and when my tongue enters his mouth, he adjusts so we’re in a more comfortable position. Not knowing fully where this inner urge is coming from, I shift on top and straddle him. Dylan’s hands go to my hips and a slow, low moan comes from his mouth right into mine, causing me to react the same.

In one whispered word, he pulls back, being so careful with me, questioning, “Jules?”

Wanting to confide, I want to tell him everything, like how my heart skips a beat every time I see him, how he makes me feel safe though he hurt me and I shouldn’t. I want to tell him I think he’s even more handsome with age. And yet, when he smiles, he looks like his younger version, the man I knew and loved so passionately. I want to tell him how scared I am to trust him and of getting my heart ripped apart again.

I want to tell him so much but the words don’t come, kisses do. The way his arms slide up my body and hold me to him, I feel all the words he wants to say.

Running my fingers into his hair, I pull him closer and kiss him, taking all the bad and flipping it around to create a perfect moment. A quick spin and I’m pinned underneath him, the cushions of our old couch soft beneath me. He’s between my legs, pressing into me in a way that makes me want him in ways that aren’t proper in a storage unit.

A small grind against me and my head goes back, mouth agape, eyes closed as he sucks on my neck. Right now, in this moment, I realize it wouldn’t matter if we were in the middle of Times Square. I want this. I want him. Not just because I’m horny.
Or lonely. Or desperate.
But because Dylan Somers does things to me that no one else ever has.
Or ever could.

Irrational thoughts cloud my mind as our breathing exaggerates and I feel his erection against me.

“Jules,” he sighs, painfully so. Pushing himself up, looking away, he closes his eyes and shakes his head, shamed. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” I ask, “I’m not.” I want him— wholly, flawed and all, just like he wants me with my flaws—flaws that we earned over the years apart. Flaws that make us who we are now. Flaws that have defined us just like how he has defined me, and I him.

“I feel like I’m taking advantage of yo—”

“You’re not. I want you, Dylan.” I sit up, not begging, but wanting to be understood. I look into his eyes, and I see the hint of a spark returning. “You’re letting the bad take over the good. Don’t. We deserve good, babe…” Before I can stop myself, it slips out just like old times.
Babe
. I wait for his reaction, not sure where his head’s at with us, hoping we’re on the same page.

He clears his throat, then smiles. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

“About the good?”

“Yes.”

“We should go, Jules. I don’t want to do this with you in a dirty storage unit. You deserve better.”

“You’re right, I do,” I say not because of the storage unit, but because I deserve to be treated better than our past. “It’s time to go.” Straightening my clothes, I look around at our stuff, our old life together, and my heart starts to hurt.

Taking my hand, he leads me back into the hallway before sliding the garage door back in place and securing the lock. Holding the key in front of me, he says, “Here. This is for you.”

Taking the key from him, I ask, “What do you mean?”

“A couple of weeks ago, I signed over the contracts into your name. It’s yours and paid for, for another full year. It’s always been rightfully yours. I’m sorry I took it.”

I stand there staring at him. Closing my hand around it, I grip the key tightly, pain surging from the teeth digging into my skin. “It’s mine?”

“I’ll also pay to have it moved to another facility or to your apartment or a donation center if you want to get rid of some of it. I owe you.”

Thinking about the key, the unit, and his offer, I take his hand and we walk down the hallway together, down the stairs, following the other corridor until we see Joey at the front desk. “Joey, this is Jules Weston. She has the key to the unit. It’s in her name now, so help her out if she ever needs any.”