From the Inside Out: The Compilation (Scorned, Jealousy, Dylan, Austin) (6 page)

IT’S BEEN JUST
over a week since Dylan came by the gallery. When I demanded he leave, I’m not sure if I meant temporarily or forever. A week and three days earlier, I would have meant forever. Now I’m not so sure.

I’m still left wondering what he and Brandon were arguing about.
Maybe me? Knowing them, probably me.
I want to know, but won’t ask Brandon even though he would tell me if I did.

I’m caught in flux. The pattern of my days has changed. I used to wake up and listen to the numbing news on TV. It was background, white noise. But lately, I’ve forgotten to turn on the TV altogether, my mind on Dylan instead.

His tie was loosened at the neck and the top button undone. I could tell he had drinks prior to arriving at the gallery by the size of his pupils, and how soft the lines were around his eyes, relaxed even.
When did he get those lines? Did he always have them or has life given him those?
One thing I know for sure, I liked them more than I should.

He wears his hair shorter, not by much, but I notice the difference. It still wants to break free from the confines of the gel he’s using though. I like it a bit wilder.

I see the way he watches me when he thinks I don’t notice. I see him—always. His gaze heated my back when I shifted my head down as my buyer, Mr. Barker, embraced me. I saw Dylan out of the corner of my eye and he was staring.
He said he hated me. Those were his parting words. So it makes me wonder if he could feel something other than hate for me now?
His expression would say yes, but knowing him and how heartless he truly is, I’m probably reading too much into it.

That morning in the coffee shop, I noticed he doesn’t wear a ring or any identifying marks of having worn one, like a tan line or indentation. I don’t think he’s married, but I’m left wondering if he’s engaged, taken, or single. My bet is engaged. Most women would fall all over him for his looks alone. Add in that he looks like he might have money now…

I really fucking hate that I wonder these things. The lady in red often disturbs any nice thoughts I might be having, so I turn on the TV to distract me.

Brandon knows me too well. He knows I’ve thought of Dylan, that I still do, but he also knows how to navigate my moods. He’s not said anything yet, but it’s coming. I can feel it, building like it’s on the tip of his tongue. He knows Dylan’s gotten to me. He just doesn’t know how much.

ANOTHER WORK DAY
begins and I go to the gallery. I orchestrate the artists, make sure the bills are paid, the clients checks go through, the paintings delivered. I busy myself within my passion. I’m living my dream.

We used to talk about our dreams all the time. I used to tell Dylan how one day I would run a gallery. I wanted to discover new talent. I lost myself after I lost him, struggling to get back on track. But I never gave up on my career. I was determined to make something in my life work. Sometimes I wonder if him leaving caused me to focus on my job even more and that’s why I am where I am. I’m young to hold this position, but the gallery owner was impressed, saw the potential, and took a chance on me despite my age.

I watched as Dylan walked into
my
gallery last week. My insides flipped, but I couldn’t run, didn’t want to hide. Just like years before, he commands attention even when he’s not trying. There is still nothing ordinary about him… It’s quite frustrating actually.

He approaches art like I do and the way I view an object or painting. He even prefers paintings like I do. They seem more open, open to interpretation, open for ones own realities to be placed on the artist’s vision. Sculptures are more stated. I watched him view the exhibit on that date that I dread each year. I watched him study the art, utilizing what seemed to be the technique I taught him, walking around the room doing a onceover first. The way his body moves—so familiar, and yet somehow different as if life has had no negative effects on him at all. His body has also changed. It’s more manly—broader shoulders, sharper jaw line.

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.”