From the Inside Out: The Compilation (Scorned, Jealousy, Dylan, Austin) (4 page)

Tucking my hands under the table, I grasp them together to keep from touching the offensive white to-go cup again. I tilt my head to read the order label stuck crookedly on the side:
Black
. I glance down at my porcelain coffee mug and the black, no fuss coffee that remains and remember the times we shared black coffee together.

The bell chimes and my eyes flash up. His half smile and body language speaks of his embarrassment as he returns. “Forgot my coffee, and I seriously need the caffeine this morning.”

I watch as he wraps his fingers around the paper cup. My heart races, remembering how they used to wrap around me, in me, curling, teasing, pleasing… Forcing my eyes up, I watch as he sits down in the opposite chair. He looks nervous once again, uncertain as his eyes search the tabletop for the words he wants to use. After clearing his throat, his voice is deep and hesitant when he says, “I want you to know I’m sorry.”

Sorry.

After three years of heartbreak, tears, and numbness, the power of his words is the key, turning the lock on the chest that’s buried in the recesses. Tears form in the corner of my eyes and my gaze drops down to the wood grain of the table, unable to look at him with any kind of emotion other than hurt. Waving my hand erratically in front of me, I unknowingly let him off the hook, as if to say
oh, that, that was nothing. No worries
. But my words don’t match my actions. “Don’t,” I say, all emotion that’s threatening to come back is gone again in an instant.

When I stand, he stands. His hand gently caresses my upper arm and my eyes follow it. Realizing the act of touching me is unwelcome, he pulls his hand back, and whispers, “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just want you to know how I feel.”

Struggling from being this close to him, I say, “It’s not necessary and you’re supposed to be downtown in five minutes.” I bolt for the door in a blur of words and excuses. “And I’ve got to get to work.”

The bell chimes my exit, another echoes as he follows me out onto the sidewalk. I know it’s him. I can feel his presence, his heat, his concern, his apologetic face searing my back. I rush forward, away from him, but he remains close. Finally his footsteps falter and he says, “I know what today is, Juliette.”

Cringe.
I stop, not able to take it any longer. With my hands fisting at my sides, I turn around and lose my temper altogether. “Stop calling me Juliette!”

He’s stricken with my untamed emotion, his face one of shock and horror, confusion, and still so damn apologetic.

Stepping to the curb, I flail my arm into the air to hail a cab, needing a fast getaway, an escape from him. When the taxi pulls away from the curb, I exhale as the chest is sealed tightly and returned to where it belongs.

I WANT TO
see Juliette again. I can’t stop thinking about her. She’s a beautiful woman, not a girl anymore. I miss the girl, but I threw her away, thinking the grass was greener. It wasn’t.

She’s different, on the inside. Changed. Did I do that to her? I hope not.

With my feet resting atop my desk, I have a chewed up pen cap in my mouth as I stare out my corner office window. My cell phone and call button have been silenced, so I’m not disturbed. I let my thoughts drift back to the beginning of the end…

Juliette pulls back from the kiss and whispers that she’s tired. It’s 2:37 in the morning. My ego takes the hit and I roll away from her, taking it out on her by giving the cold shoulder, by making her feel she’s done me wrong. I feel rejected. Excuses, I know, but it’s how I start distancing myself, preparing for what’s coming.

She rubs my back lovingly and apologizes. The tension eases in my body, but my head holds tight. I slip out from her reach with a groan and pretend to fall asleep.

That’s the first time I hear her cry because of me, because of the way I’m hurting her. It’s soft and quiet but her pain is apparent. We’ve never gone to bed angry and we didn’t tonight, but somehow in the night, I managed to hurt her and now here we are.

I hate myself. I hate what I’m becoming and yet it’s like I have to go after it with full intention. I’m going to break her heart… on purpose and that breaks mine.

I pick at the sandwich in front of me but I’m not hungry. I don’t want food. I want coffee, with her, at the coffee shop. The run-in was a fluke, seeing her there—a planned accident, if I told the truth.

I was shocked as hell to find out she kept the apartment. I took a chance and ventured over to the part of the city that still feels like home, even though it hasn’t been in three years. I wasn’t aware of the date when I woke up this morning. That was just coincidence, but after seeing her two nights earlier, well,
who I thought was her,
I had to verify with my own eyes.

When I googled her, it brought me back to the old apartment. I showed up early because she was always a morning person. I am too now, but I used to be more of a night owl. Today, I got there early and waited, like a stalker. Man, I’m fucked up. I waited knowing how fucked up what I was doing really was, but I couldn’t get her off my mind. Now, like then, I can’t sleep, but for very different reasons these days…

I can’t sleep because of the guilt I carry. I watch Juliette instead. There’s just enough light from the bathroom for me to see her face. She has this nightlight that she leaves on in there. She said it made her feel safe at night. I teased her because I didn’t understand and thought nightlights were childish. But now I hope she finds comfort in it. Comfort I can’t seem to give her anymore. Comfort she’s going to need if I keep going in the direction I’m going.

I carefully slide my head onto her pillow and press my nose down so I can smell her hair and her skin. I love her scent. It’s inviting, drawing me near, and gives me security.

I’ll miss that.

I’ll miss her, though I know she won’t believe me in the aftermath
.

Biggest mistake I ever made was leaving her. Three years later, I’ve paid a price for that decision. Now I’m paying the debt, chipping away at it little by little as I watch her during an early morning stakeout. She came out of her apartment, and from behind sunglasses I watch, from the safety inside of a small grocer’s window. She doesn’t see me, but I see her. She is nothing less than stunning but she doesn’t look happy, her mouth never deviating from a straight line as she walks down the street.

I miss the neighborhood, the apartment we shared, that coffee shop, the grocer, her… us together. I lost myself the day I walked out of our apartment the last time. It was the opposite back then. I thought I had found myself. I finally had what I thought I wanted—a shortcut to success. I quickly discovered that success comes with a price and I had to pay up.

I took a leap of faith, put everything into storage except my best suits—I had two—and knocked on Hillary’s door.

It started out as harmless flirtations in the office, but it grew into something more on New Year’s. She lit a fire in me that I hadn’t felt… I hadn’t felt since I first met Juliette. She made me feel good, like the world was ours to conquer if I’d just accept some fake destiny she laid out before me.

Hillary was a predator and I was her prey, weak to temptation. She smiled when she saw the suits in my hand. She took them from me, hung them on the coat rack that stood by the door and jumped on me, her laughter filling the corridor of her high-rise condo.

We partied—hard. I’m shocked we still had jobs, but she gave me power. Power I had never felt before. I was made a manager within two months.

She took me places and introduced me to people of society—people of wealth, people I discovered were as loyal as conmen. I was the toast of the town one day and when they were through with me, nothing. She came from money and she loved to spend it on me. I thought I wanted all that, that life. I hadn’t had money in years.

With Juliette, we had to be careful. We were young and broke because we had just started our careers. She landed an associate sales position at a gallery downtown and I had been accepted into a Manager-in-Training program for a large telecom firm. We felt like real fancy somebodies, living the high life, or so we thought: An apartment in New York City, nice furnishings, take-out three times a week, and a new car. I’d never owned a new car before. It was exciting—ridiculous in Manhattan but exciting.

That car was the start of our downfall though neither of us recognized it at the time. Over time, I resented her for keeping me from a bigger life. Back then, I didn’t know how false and fleeting that life was. I hated that new life, the life with Hillary.

My watch beeps twice, alerting me that my lunch hour is over. I swing my feet down and toss the sandwich in the trash. I depress the do not disturb button to allow calls back in and I turn on my cell. My afternoon is swamped with papers and proposals, clients and business calls. I now manage a team of sixteen at an investment firm in the Financial District. I’m making five times the money I made three years ago. One would think I’d made it big by all appearances.
I haven’t.
The money doesn’t matter to me anymore. I was happier when I didn’t have much. I was happier when I had Juliette.

I’m lonely though I’m always surrounded by people. I miss the warmth of her arms, her gentle sighs in the night. I miss the damn nightlight. I miss her, everything about her.

Hillary and I broke up after six months. We ended just as abruptly as we began. It was all fire and passion in that relationship. A tit for a tat. Heated arguments. Heated make-up sex.
It
was never satisfying.
She
was never satisfying.
She
wasn’t Juliette. She could never replace her.

My four o’clock invites me out for dinner and drinks. I accept. I always do. It’s part of my job. Dinner is on the company, which pleases the clients. We have cocktails with our meal. I have two. They each have three. Then they tell me there’s a new bar about six blocks from here—a strip club.

I agree to go because I’m supposed to. I walk, they stumble. I laugh, they crack up. I play the charismatic wingman to their antics, keeping the clients happy. On the way, we pass a party, a gallery holding an event tonight. The painting in the window grabs my attention, causing me to stop and stare.

I love art. I love looking at paintings, in particular. I prefer them to sculptures and such. Juliette was always so passionate about art and loved to talk about how art opened our minds to the endless possibilities. I loved listening to her.

Something inside the gallery draws me to this exhibit and I want to see more. Signaling for the guys to go ahead without me, I tell them I’ll meet them there. They’re too busy stumbling to care.

Walking around the room, I scan all of the paintings to get a feel for the collection as a whole before going back to the beginning to appreciate them one at a time. That’s just how she taught me. The fifth painting captures my attention. I grab a glass of wine as a waiter passes, and stare into the depths and ridges of the oil.

“It’s Rusque. He painted it last year while on holiday in Cannes.”

Tensing, I don’t turn, afraid she’ll run away again. Instead, I let her voice blanket me in warmth, familiarity, comfort, and I try to relax like we talk all the time.

“If you look closely,” Juliette continues. “You’ll see lavender mixed in with the orange, black, and red in the bottom left corner. I really like the unexpected lavender.” She pauses and I glance over. She appears to get lost in the painting for a moment before she adds, “It’s something soft found within the harsh.”

That sounds a lot like how I would describe her after seeing her this morning. I keep that thought to myself though.

She giggles out of nowhere and I turn to look at her, hoping I’ve elicited the sweet sound. But I see a glass of champagne in her hands and have fond memories of how it always made her laugh. I should have known it wasn’t me.

Her back is to me as she moves to the next painting, and I can’t pretend to be respectful by restraining myself to quick glances any longer. I look at her, really look at her, watching wholeheartedly, and allowing myself this indulgence. She walks with grace, and refinement, an outer confidence. After placing her glass on a table nearby, she holds her hands behind her back, her delicate fingers wrapped around a small wrist. Her pace is slow, feeling much like an invitation to stay, so I follow.