Текст книги "Resentment"

Автор книги: Nicole London

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Chapter 24

MIA

On a quiet Sunday morning, I drag a new easel and a clean canvas up to the roof, setting up near the edge, a foggy view of the waterfront directly ahead. The sky is cloudy and there’s a light wind that brushes my skin every few seconds. There’s no chance of rain for the next few days, but the air feels slightly misty and damp.

It’s perfection.

Inspired, I mix shades of green and blue in a paper cup to create a perfect hue. I’m determined to paint something that’s non-gloomy today, something simple like a sailboat setting off on the sea. I use the green paint on my fingers to outline the frame of the picture, and then I press my brush against the center of the frame, making small blue strokes.

I finish the ocean in record time, admiring how it almost looks too real, and as I’m preparing the white and grey paint for the sail boat, soft music floods my ears.

I stop painting, realizing that the source of the music is close by. I turn around and see that Dean is sitting on the ledge behind me, strumming his guitar.

Our eyes meet, but neither of us speaks.

We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, but his fingers never stop plucking the guitar, so I slowly turn back around.

It’s the first time the two of us have been in the same space without it immediately leading to sex, as of late. It’s actually really nice to have this moment. It reminds me of the good times from years ago, but I refuse to dwell on that.

When the sun starts to set and the last of the day’s light leaves us, I take my canvas off the easel and set it onto a table. Then I start to clean my brushes.

“Are you leaving?” Dean asks, his voice soft.

“Yeah, all of the natural light is gone, so...” I look over at him and try to read his expression. “Are you staying?”

“More than likely.” He’s staring at me. “Light isn’t really a requirement for music.”

Silence.

“Well, I hope you enjoy the rest of your time up here.” I dry my last brush and set it right side up in my bag. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you later.” I start to walk toward the door, but I feel him walking right behind me.

“Mia, stay.” He puts his hands on my shoulder.

I turn around. “For what? You want to have sex out here?”

“No, but if you’re interested in discussing any new positions, we could talk about that.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

“I’m joking.” He grabs my arm. “Stay.”

“Ten minutes,” I say, but only because I feel my heart warming up to him and I don’t need that right now. I follow him over to the ledge and sit next to him.

He sets his guitar into its case and looks directly into my eyes.  “Why did you go to Harvard?”

“Because I was accepted there.”

“I’m aware of that, but from what I remember, you didn’t want to go there.”

I shrug. “I guess my dreams changed.”

“They clearly haven’t.” He gestures toward the paintings that line the other side of the roof. “Is your dream to still own an art gallery?”

“Yes.”

“Then did you at least major in art at Harvard?” He looks concerned.

“I got a minor. I majored in Finance.”

He shakes his head and sighs. “I looked you up on Facebook a few times freshman year.”

“Only freshman year?”

“A few times sophomore year as well, but you never popped up. Why is that?”

“I was never one for being social.” I smile. “I also didn’t like the idea of random people looking me up. No offense.”

He smiles back at me and I scoot a bit closer.

“I created a fake profile once, though,” I admit. “So I could look you up and see what you were doing, how you’d moved on, but you weren’t there either.”

“I deleted my account after sophomore year. Wasn’t really a fan of random people looking me up, either.”

I laugh. “Well, what about your school? Why did you go to Western Peak when you really wanted to go to Harvard?”

His eyes suddenly shift to the cold look they had when I first saw him here, but he shakes his head and hesitates before answering.

“I went there for you,” he says. “I thought you would be there.”

“After everything you did to me?”

“You mean to say that vice-versa, correct?”

“No, it came out right.” I scoot away from him a bit. “After everything you did to me, you wanted to go to college together?”

“I wanted us to make up.” He stands up as if he can’t bear being close to me anymore. “I thought a summer apart was enough time for us to forget everything that happened—”

“I will never forget what happened.” I cut him off. “But I must have been just as naïve as you back then, because you’re the only reason I went to Harvard. I honestly thought you’d be there.”

“You weren’t planning to apologize?”

“Me?” I notice that he’s glaring at me now and stepping closer and closer to the door. “Apologize to you? Is your memory that distorted? Is your mind that fucked up?”

“No,” he says, twisting the doorknob and opening the door. “Just my heart.”

Chapter 25

MIA

There’s a popular saying about the past, something about it being best to leave all of the hurt and pain there, to move on and grow from it, but I’ve never thought that was fair.

It’s actually very, very un-fucking fair.

How can you possibly move on from the one person who infiltrates your dreams, no matter how many times you try to place him into your nightmares? How can you expect to grow without knowing the exact reason you fell apart, and as far as leaving hurt and pain behind?

I’m certain that’s impossible. There’s no stop-clock for heart-ache, and time only numbs it, bit by bit. It never heals it completely.”

I write all of those words down onto a sheet of white paper and cut them out one by one. I glue them to a board in no particular order or fashion, until my board looks like word vomit.

I cannot believe that Dean had the audacity to blame me for anything that happened between us, that he really thought I was the one who needed to apologize.

I’ve been up typing for six hours straight since, running off pure anger and confusion.

When my last word is stuck to the board, I start typing up more thoughts, so I can add more scrambled words to whatever the hell this piece will turn out to be. Then I hear a knock at my door and it slowly opens.

Dean.

“What?” I ask.

He opens the door and looks at me. “Can we do another temporary truce?”

“Are you about to get drunk? Do you need me to help you this time?” I shake my head. “I won’t be able to carry you or help you into bed, so if that’s what you’re about to propose, you should ask someone else.”

“That’s not it...” He says, a slight smile on his lips. “I was going to propose trying to start over, with you.”

“What?” I raise my eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

“Bullshit aside, I know you still care about me, Mia.”

“My heart is an idiot.”

“I still have feelings for you, too.” He steps inside and shuts the door, leaning against the wall. “And I think we can try to be friends at least.”

“Friends who have sex or friends who don’t have sex?”

“The sex is definitely still happening.” He briefly glances at my collage and looks back at me. “That’s not the point, though. I would like for us to get along, to try and move past what happened, if we can.”

I don’t say anything. I just stare at him with the cut-out word “hate” literally hanging off my fingertips.

“Are you going to say something?” he asks. “Do you think we could at least try to talk to each other outside of the sex?”

“We could try...”

“Good.” He walks over to my dresser and picks up the boxes of protein bars I stole long ago. “Do you mind if I take these back now?”

“No.” I place “hate” onto my desk. “How do we start over as friends?”

He shrugs and opens the door. “Shouldn’t be that hard. It’s not like I don’t already know you.”

“Believe it or not, ten years can change a person quite a bit.”

“I’m sure it can.” He smiles, looking me over. “However, you clearly still have a thing for wearing red bras every day and purposely color coordinating them with whatever color I mention the day before. I’m sure there’s plenty of other things that are still the very same.” He shuts the door as I blush, not giving me enough time to come up with a good excuse.

Chapter 26

MIA

“What’s this?” Eric walks into the condo days later. Much earlier than normal, almost too early. “The two of you sitting on a couch together, both alive and not arguing?” He tosses his scarf onto the coat rack. “Is this really happening?”

I roll my eyes. “Quick day at work for you?”

“Not at all.” He leans against the wall. “I have a client meeting me here in an hour.” He looks at Dean. “Did you sign for a package in my name earlier?”

“Yeah. It’s in your room.”

“Thanks.” He walks past us, still looking slightly confused. He returns seconds later and tosses both of us a pack of labels.

“What’s this for?” I ask.

“It’s for the next time you two decide not to get along. Just label your shit the second you start feeling angry and agree to not touch each other’s stuff.” He laughs and pulls his phone out of his pocket, holding it up to his ear. “Yeah, I’m here. I’ll meet you downstairs and bring you up.”

He ends the call and looks at both of us. “You two mind letting me use the living room for a few hours when I get back?”

“Not at all.” “Sure.” We say in unison, smiling at him, waiting for him to shut the door.

The second he’s gone, we both jump up from the couch and look for the condom we were trying to find before.

“This is exactly why we should’ve gone to your room,” I say. “And this is exactly why ‘friends’, especially friends who used to be more than friends, shouldn’t have sex.”

“Do me a favor and remember that the next time you start shit between us and slip your hands into my pants.”

I blush and flip over a couch pillow, finding it. I point to it and he rolls his eyes, as he picks it up and throws it into the trash.

The ping of the elevator returning to our floor sounds and he looks at me.

“Are you going to stay out here and watch him work?”

“No, I wasn’t planning to. Why?”

“I think we should go get dinner together, then.”

“Dinner?”

“Yes, as friends.”

“Then we’ll go half and half?”

“No.” He looks offended that I would even suggest that. “I’ll pay.”

I look at my watch. “As long as you promise we’ll be back by ten. I have an early day at the gallery tomorrow.”

“I’ll have you back at nine.” He walks toward the door and grabs our coats off the rack. “That way we can be ‘friends’ in my room before you go to sleep.”

“You’re ridiculous and insatiable.”

“Always when it comes to you...”

***

The next day at work, I watch the clock above the register, counting the minutes as the time slowly ticks by. Although having sex with Dean yesterday was amazing, my body hasn’t had enough time to recover, so I’m beyond exhausted.

Only seven minutes until close.

Our conversation over dinner last night was shockingly emotion-free. We discussed surface stuff only—movie, films, books, and there were very few personal anecdotes. (I’m assuming this is the way it’ll have to be for us to get along long-term.)

As the second hand on the wall ticks past the twelve, I grab the “now closed” sign, tempted to hang it now, but the last time I did, the bell above the door chimed with only seconds to spare. The walk-in was an older gentleman, dressed impeccably well in a three piece suit, and I knew without asking, that he was “old money.” He introduced himself as Ethan Bradley and insisted that I give him the “official” tour, stopping to admire each and every single collection, admiring the skill and inspiration of the various artists. That night, I didn’t get home until well after midnight, but luckily, the commission I earned from Mr. Bradley’s purchases was enough to cover my savings for the next few months.

I glance at the clock again.

Three minutes...

I walk to the front of the Gallery and slowly lower the shades one by one, crossing my fingers, praying like hell that no one walks through the door.

Less than a minute...

I lower the last shade and shut down the monitor at my work station. As the clock finally strikes seven, I deposit all the cash into a lock box, set the alarm, and switch off all the lights in record time.

As I double check the locks on the door, I hear the sound of a familiar voice calling my name from behind me. And then I feel someone touching me.

Startled, I drop my keys and turn around.

“Shit, Dean!” I say, trying to calm my heart that’s now beating frantically in my chest. He stoops down to help me pick up my belongings, as I return everything to my purse.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He hands me my purse.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m about to hang out with a friend,” he replies with a small smile on his face. “We’ll probably be out all night.”

“Glad you felt it necessary to come all the way here to tell me that.” I cross my arms. “I hope you have fun with your friend.”

“I’m sure I will. What are your plans for tonight?”

“I have a ‘friend’ I’ll be hanging out with as well.”

“Who?”

“Trevor.”

“The guy you had at the apartment that day?” he asks. “I’m pretty sure he would not be open to hanging out with you after what I said to him.”

“Goodbye, Dean. Enjoy your night.” I feel jealous about him hanging out with someone else, but I don’t, technically, have the right to be.

I walk away and feel him clasping my hand minutes later.

“For someone who’s well versed in literature, your inability to pick up context clues is very sad.” He looks down at me with a smile. “I was referring to going out with you.”

I blush. “I knew that.”

“Sure you did.”

“Where’d you park?”

“Two blocks over,” he says as we approach the corner. “But I was thinking we could take the bus today.”

“You don’t strike me as the city bus-rider type.”

“I’m not.” He pulls me toward a bus shelter. “I’m a I-remember-you-once-said-you-wanted-to-do-this type.”

As we wait for the bus, I swear up and down that I never said that to him, that I’m pretty sure he’s making that up, but he won’t admit he’s lying. He even tries to bet money on it.

I bet five dollars, but as the city bus stops in front of us, I withdraw my bet. I can remember...

“What type of dates do you think we’ll go on when we get older?” I ask Dean as he hands me a bag of popcorn.

“What do you mean?”

I lean against his shoulder as the drive-in’s movie begins to play. “I mean, do you think we’ll always do small things like movies, art shows, and dinner? We’re both, technically, low-key.”

“We are, but it would depend on the alternative.” He runs his fingers through my hair. “I’d do whatever you wanted.”

Smiling, I tell him that I know that. I can feel that.

As the opening previews begin to play, he entwines his hand in mine and asks, “What type of date would you want to go on? One of those over the top movie types?” His eyes meet mine and I can tell he’s hoping that I say no.

Laughing, I shake my head. “No. I would actually just like to experience a real city date. You wouldn’t have to drive. We could just take the subway or the bus everywhere, and we could just spend the whole night talking, trying food in every diner we pass, and maybe, if I have a high tolerance for alcohol, drinking until we can’t take anymore. You think we could do that one day?”

“I do.”

“You promise?”

“Definitely.” He kisses my forehead before the movie starts. “I promise.”

“This is our stop,” Dean says, shaking me back into the present. He pays our fare and leads me off of the bus, and then he puts his hands on my shoulders. “If we’re going to do this, which we are, we need to establish a few ground rules first.”

“Why do we need rules?”

“To ensure that we don’t end this night by going at each other’s throats.”

“What are the rules?”

“First rule,” he says, trailing his finger against my lips. “No smart ass comments.”

I open my mouth to say something smart, but he quickly shuts me down. “I mean it, Mia. No smart ass comments, from either of us.”

“What else?”

“No sexual innuendos.”

“That’s your specialty, not mine.”

“Mia...” He waits for me to agree.

“Fine.”

“Good. And last rule: If you’re uncomfortable at any point, let me know.”

“Do you have something planned that would make me uncomfortable?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. He just grabs my hand and leads me down the block, letting the cool night air bite at our skin with every step.

Shivering, I lean against him and he holds me closer, as he tells me about some of the places that we stroll by. There’s the bar where he almost fought Eric, the only guitar shop he trusts, and a row of coffee shops he used to go to every day until he, apparently, “got tired of drinking it.”

We walk past a small stretch of trees and he admits that he often runs there to clear his mind when he’s angry or frustrated after work. When I ask him how many times he ran there when I first arrived in Portland, he stops walking altogether and looks at me. Then he says, “Every goddamn day.”

“Have you done it out of anger or frustration recently?” I ask, not expecting his previous answer at all.

“No, not recently.” He looks genuine. “I haven’t had a reason to. Are you hungry?”

“Very much so.”

“Good.” He leads me back past the park and toward another stretch of downtown.

As we cross the street, he presses his hand against the small of my back, and with that small intimate contact, my heart begins to race. I almost give in and break our rule about sexual innuendos, but I hold back.

Dean stops walking as we approach a street that’s lined with white food trucks. “I think we should try something here.”

He must notice my hesitation, because he rubs my back and whispers into my ear. “I come here at least once a week on my lunch break. They have the best food in the city.” He even answers the exact question on my mind. “Yes, I really trust getting my food from a truck.”

“Okay,” I say, following him over to the first truck that’s parked at the curb.

“What do you like best, chicken, beef or lamb?”

“Chicken or beef.”

“Because you’ve never had lamb?”

“Because everyone knows you’re not supposed to try new food when you’re hungry.”

“Then we’ll get lamb, but we’ll get chicken, too, just in case you hate it.”

I laugh as he orders for the both of us. I try a Cajun chicken taco, something I refuse to attempt to pronounce, and after much hesitation, a lamb gyro. I attempt to hide the fact that it tastes absolutely amazing, that I’m silently kicking myself for not trying it sooner, but I’m sure the fact that I ask him to order another one, is a dead giveaway.

After we devour a few more gyros (okay, five more) we stroll down the block a little farther and buy a couple of sodas from a vendor, and then he makes me sit on a park bench to rest. Although there are tons of people around us, it feels like it’s only the two of us.

“What’s on your mind, Mia?” he asks, looking into my eyes.

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying. You’re fidgeting, and you only do that when you’re thinking about something.”

“What if I’m itching?” I smile.

“Then you would’ve told me about it long before now and asked me to take you home. Tell me the truth. What are you thinking about?”

“I’m just curious, that’s all.”

“Curious about what?”

“What happened to your dad? Do the two of you still talk?”

He looks completely taken aback, but he doesn’t get angry. “When he found out I’d confirmed to go to Western Peak, he lost his shit. He put me out.”

“What?”

“Yeah, and he...” He stops, clearly affected by the memory. “He lost our house and had to move into an apartment, and he blamed me for it for a very long time, so I stopped talking to him for years. We spoke again for the first time this past Christmas ...” His voice trails off.

“I’m sorry.”

“I told you to stop apologizing for other people years ago.” He puts his arm around my shoulder. “Are you and your mom on better terms?”

“Barely. I’ve just learned to tolerate her more. That’s all.”

He nods, looking off into the distance, and the two of us sit like that for a while. We just let our minds drive us to different spaces.

“Are you ready to do something else?” he asks as more people crowd the park.

I say yes and he helps me up, leading me down a few more streets and into a place he considers his favorite bar. He takes me right to a booth that’s tucked in the back, and instead of letting me sit across from him, he pulls me onto his lap.

When the waitress walks up to our table, she doesn’t ask for our order. She simply sets down a tray of shots, and shoots us a grin before walking away.

Holding me still, Dean grabs one of the shot glasses and positions it against my lips. “I know you have no idea how to properly get buzzed, so I need you to trust me on this and let me show you.”

My cheeks redden as he slowly pours the cold liquor down my throat, as it burns all the way down.

He signals for the waitress and orders limes and lemons, and a few soft drinks, since I’m “a lightweight” and then he literally coaxes me through each shot.

After he tilts the last one against my mouth, his eyes hold my gaze. The way he’s looking at me now, sends a chill up my body. I can’t explain it, one look from him, and I lose my nerve and focus. It takes me back to the past, making me wish we ended up in a different present.

“You okay?” He eases me out of his lap and helps me to stand.

“Yeah, just tipsy.”

He starts to ask me something else, but I fall into him as soon as he stands up.

“Okay,” he says, laughing. “Maybe you just don’t need to drink at all.” He pulls me close and slowly walks me outside. He doesn’t even attempt to walk me to the bus stop, he quickly hails a cab.

Helping me into the car, he holds me against his chest and tells the driver to take us to “The Paramount.”

I look out the window as the car coasts through the sparse downtown traffic, as every street light seems to turn green the second we approach. I try not to focus on the fact that he’s caressing my back and kissing me every few minutes, but it’s hard to do with the liquor coursing through my system, with my body appreciating each and every touch.

When the car comes to an abrupt stop, I look out the window and see what type of place “The Paramount” is. The last place I would expect.

“So is this the end of our date?” I try to hide the disappointment in my voice, as the hotel valet opens the door.

“Not even close.” He helps me get out.

The bellman opens the door as we walk into the lobby and tips his hat at us. We bypass the check-in desk, meaning Dean probably has the keys to a room.

He leads me over to the bank of elevators and since the doors are glass, I try to hide my expression from my reflection.

“Something wrong?” he asks as the doors glide open.

I don’t say anything. I just shake my head.

He has the audacity to smile, and then he presses “P” for the penthouse and swipes a key against the pad.

Crossing my arms, I look away from him and step to the other side of the elevator car, but he grabs me and pulls me back against him.

As the doors open, I can’t help but be in awe of how amazing and beautiful the suite is. Set against the backdrop of the city, the windows that line the far side of the room are letting in the lights from downtown.

Dean hits the lights and I stand still, noticing that there is no furniture in the room at all. There are only massive frames hanging on the wall. Refusing to believe they’re what they seem, I slowly approach the one directly in front of me and run my fingers along the bottom of its frame.

A Le Blanc...

Dean slips his arms around me from behind. “He really was the best of his era...You were the one who told me that originally.”

Still in shock, I shake my head in disbelief. “How did these get here?”

“I met a collector a few months ago. I responded to a break-in at his home. I helped to recover most of the paintings, and he was grateful that I was able to find and return them to him. He said if I ever needed anything, just ask, so...”

“I just can’t believe you did all of this...” I turn around to face him. “So, you made the reservation just for this?”

“Yes,” he says smiling. “We’re only here for the art. I’ll fuck you back at home.”