From the Inside Out: The Compilation (Scorned, Jealousy, Dylan, Austin) (3 page)

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.

I
wonder
why I would even add the word ‘else’ on the end like that.

Maybe he’s married to the woman in red… with kids.

Or maybe it was just a date and he’s single and available.

Was he ever available? Truly available?

Yes
, he was once. Remembering his smile triggers my own, and how it affected me back then, how it brightened my day and made me anxious to return home to him. Memories run rampant and I hold the pillow over my face even tighter. When I open my eyes, I feel disgusted that I smiled over a memory of Dylan’s smile.

Tossing the pillow aside, I roll out of bed, deciding to skip the dramatics, and get ready. A hot shower does little to comfort me and even less than the memory of him did a few minutes before. I dress in a hurry, not taking my time, a dress pulled from the hanger haphazardly. Shoes are taken from the shelf without second guessing, wallet thrown in my work bag because I don’t want to take the time to find the ‘right’ purse for this outfit.

I leave my hair down to dry naturally, letting the waves form how they do when I don’t straighten them. When I move into the kitchen, I see the coffee pot,
our
old coffee pot. I don’t drink from it. Ever. It doesn’t come to life and percolate or provide me with the much needed caffeine to kick my ass into gear. It stands as a monument, a symbol of what used to exist here, representing the lives that used to live between these walls. It sits idly unused next to my $2,000 DeLonghi Coffee Center—my most decadent purchase A.D., After Dylan.

I’ve used the DeLonghi a total of three times, mainly because I don’t have the time to learn how to use it. I’m not home much if I can avoid it. Today is about overcoming the date’s history and making a fresh start, so I write a post-it note and stick it to the front of the machine’s gleaming stainless steel surface.
Learn to use.

Since I don’t know how to use it, I walk down the steps of the stoop and head west one block. Opening the door to my favorite local bakery and coffee shop, a calm comes over me. Other than the park, this is one of the few places where I allow myself the courtesy to relax and absorb the comfort. Maybe it’s the warm wood tones and the soft music playing in the background that eases me. Maybe it’s the homemade smells that fill the air. Or maybe it’s because my apartment and the gallery lie in stark contrast to the quaint little shop.

“Juliette?”

With my guard down, I’m caught relaxing, so without thinking, I look up. “
Dylan
,” flows from my lips as if it’s still allowed to reside there, as if I say it every day.

I think of the name often, but I never say it.

Ever.

And yet… I just did.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE
it’s you,” Dylan says, glancing around as if everyone should be as surprised as him.

I swallow—hard—left without any other words in me. He renders me speechless and that’s just not how I ever saw this going when I played this reunion out in my head.

“Was that you the other night?” he asks. “At the restaurant?”

Hmmm…
How should I respond?
Yes
, it was, but I avoided you even though I heard you shouting my name,
that
name, down the street. Or maybe,
no
, I have no idea what you’re talking about?

The lie is much more appealing right now. “Which restaurant?” My voice betrays my poor acting skills and goes up an octave.

“I could’ve sworn that was you, but I wasn’t sure. You look… you look different.”

Good different
or
bad different?
Ugh, why do I care?

“I mean, you look really great, Juliette.” There’s that name again, overshadowing what I think is a compliment. Hearing
that
name makes me cringe and melt all at once. I hate this feeling. I hate how my memory serves me too well and I feel somewhat less of myself just because he’s talking to me.

“Bistro down on 72nd,” he continues. He’s also still staring at me, seeking, searching.

I reply, “I ate there the other night.”

He furrows his brow. “So it was you. Why didn’t you…” I know what he’s going to ask, but he thinks better of it, not finishing. I think he gets the hint that I’m not really open to this conversation. “I’m sorry for bothering you.” Rocking back on his heels, he suddenly seems unsure of his own words, thoughts, of what he should do. “I just wanted to say hello.”

I angle my head gently to the side to
really
look at him. He looks good—great, in fact. Time has stood still for him. He looks happy, or at least not unhappy, like the last time I saw him before he left me.

Two of his fingers tap down on the table and he says, “I should go. It was really nice to see you again, Juliette.”
Cringe
. “Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime soon.”

“There’s a possibility since we’ve seen each other twice in the last few days when we hadn’t seen each other at all over the last three years.” I don’t know where this comes from as it bursts from my mouth, like stating some weird statistical anomaly. I should have just let it lie and let him walk away.

He seems surprised once again, but this time probably because I’ve spoken more than four words. When he smiles at me, I feel the first hairline fracture form on my outermost protective layer, my shield, as if alerting me to tread carefully. I still smile, an old reaction to him.

Speaking at a much quicker pace this time, he says, “You really do look fantastic. Life is treating you well.”

That’s where he’d be wrong.

He glances
over his shoulder, seeming to be waiting on someone. I’m sure he is, which causes a dull ache in my heart. When his eyes return to mine, he signals to the large clock over his shoulder. “I’ve got to run. I have a meeting downtown in twenty and I should’ve left ten minutes ago.”

Maybe that’s what he was looking at before. I thought the worst of him and he proved me wrong. I don’t apologize or even return the smile this time. I owe him nothing more of myself. He took all of that with him when he left years ago.

“So, yeah, I should get going.” He steps backward and has this goofy grin on his face like he actually
is
happy to see me.

I always loved that goofy grin.
The small fracture widens every time I feel anything other than scorn for this man. In a small way, I want to test the theory. But not today.

He turns, then rushes out the door and my gaze drops to his coffee he left behind on my table. I stare at it, my granola parfait long forgotten. Picking up the cup, I see droplets of coffee around the hole in the lid and I’m tempted to taste it. I don’t know if I want to taste the coffee, or him, or both, but the thought disturbs me and makes me feel stalkerish. I set it back down exactly where he left it, spinning it back to the way it was before it was abandoned.