Текст книги "Resentment"

Автор книги: Nicole London

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Chapter 39

MIA

Four weeks later

DEAN: I’ve been calling you twice a day for damn near a month. Are you really not going to answer me once?

DEAN: Mia, please. Just let me talk to you for five minutes...I miss you and I really want to clear things up.

I stare at Dean’s text messages, hating that they still have the ability to pull emotions out of me. I also hate that even though I’ve been doing my best to avoid him since I moved out, my mind has been thinking about him more than ever.

“Is that alright with you, Mia?” Michelle asks, breaking me out of my thoughts. “Do you agree with the terms?”

I place my phone back into my purse and focus on tonight’s dinner meeting.

Yesterday was my last day as curator for the Hamilton Array, and Michelle is treating to a farewell dinner. She was saddened to hear that I was leaving, and she playfully ignored my two weeks' resignation letter by slipping it under the fish tank in her office. Even though I won't be there anymore, she's offered to feature up to two of my paintings every month, on a rotating basis. And when I told her that I was going to host my very first art show in the next few months, she offered to play lead host for the night.

“You should be very proud of all you've accomplished while you were here, Mia,” she says. “I have no idea why you wasted your time at Harvard, though. They didn't deserve you.”

“Yeah. Some days I don't understand why I wasted my time there either. I didn't learn too much.”

“I wouldn't say all of that.” She stands up and extends her hand to me. “From what I recall, all the pieces you created during your college years were your most emotional and your most heartfelt. I can't help but get the feeling that they all have a unifying theme: The theme that you were hurting, and that you were running away from something. Is that true?”

I don't answer, I just give her a look that confirms it. I stand up to shake her hand, thanking her for an amazing evening, and promise her that I’ll give her the information about my first showing as soon as it's all confirmed.

She wishes me well one last time before walking away. and I sit back down at the table. Pulling out my phone again, I scroll through all the text messages that Dean has sent me this week. I want so badly to answer one of them, but I know that’s just my heart talking and she's fucked up one too many times to be given another chance. As I'm reading through the message he sent me last Saturday, the one about how he actually does love my hair better now than in high school, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

I start to turn around, to see what's causing this reaction, but Dean is suddenly across from me at the table.

“Is someone sitting here?” he asks.

“Yes, please don't sit.”

“I will.” He sits down. “I'll keep it warm for whoever it is until they get back.”

I stare at him, unable to say anything else right now.

He's dressed in a three piece suit, his hair is cut a lot shorter than the last time I saw him, and his stunning green eyes are piercing right through me.

“I don't want to fight with you, I just want to talk.”

“Funny, I don't want to do either.” I finally get my words out. “I want you to leave.”

“I'll leave after I get this out.”

“I'll leave before you start.” I stand up and head toward the exit.

Within seconds, he's grabbing my hand and gently pushing me against the wall in the hallway.

“I had a lot going on back then,” he says. “A lot that I just couldn't tell you about.”

“You once told me that you felt like you could tell me everything.”

“Everything but this.” There's a look of vulnerability in his eyes. “I couldn't tell anyone this.”

My heart is begging me to stay and listen to him, because from the way he's looking at me, I can tell that it might be serious. But the night of our last argument is still on my brain, and all the tears I’ve cried over the last few weeks are still too raw.

“So, can I just get ten minutes of your time right now to apologize and explain everything I put you through?” he asks. “Everything I put us through? Can you let me try and get you to see why I felt the way I felt. Can you please let me do that?”

“Yes,” I say. “Tomorrow. You can meet me at your favorite bar at seven. I'll show up at the same time that you showed up for me.” I look at him one last time and then I walk away.

He doesn't follow this time.

Chapter 40

MIA

I'm tossing and turning in my bed, unable to rest with the uneasy feeling that’s weighing on my chest.

There's something about me and Dean's recent encounter that isn't sitting right with me. I'm not sure if it was the fact that he was actually nice for more than five seconds, or the fact that he must've stalked the hell out of me to figure out where that dinner meeting was going to be. (The restaurant, though upscale, is considered a hole in a wall and is relatively new to the city.)

I had a lot going on back then that I just couldn't tell you about...I couldn't tell anyone this...

Sighing, I pull back the covers on my bed and go out to my living room. I empty my purse onto the counter and grab my phone, wondering if he'll answer at this hour, but I hesitate, seeing two crumpled envelopes next to my lip gloss.

One of them is the envelope that Dean gave me at my birthday dinner, and I've continued to carry it with me, never thinking about opening it because I figured it would just be a silly list of the many ways we annoyed each other since living in the condo together. I pick it up and run my fingers along the sealed flap, smiling as I read the worn ink that’s across the seal: Don’t open this until the next time we aren’t talking :– )

How appropriate...

But this other one I don’t recall, and I’m pretty sure I would’ve noticed it since I switched purses yesterday, so maybe it’s from Michelle?

I go into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of wine. And then I take the envelopes into my bedroom and slide under the covers so that I can read them.

I open the envelope from Dean first:

Mia,

I will always love you. I need you to remember that. No matter what...

Love,

Dean

I open the one from Michelle next.

Or, so I thought.

Mia,

Ten years ago you fell into my life at the perfect moment. And when I say “fell” I don’t really mean “fell,” because I had to fight like hell to get you... Anyway, when we became friends, you made me feel normal, like I was someone real beneath the “Dean Collins” that everyone in school wanted me to be. You were sarcastic as hell (I loved that about you), undeniably beautiful, and the one thing that kept me sane when I had to face my father alone at night.

I never told you this, mostly because I thought I knew you well enough that you would have made me turn him in, but whenever I spent the night at home and I wasn’t with you, he would come home drunk and take all of his insecurities out on me.

Sometimes I fought back, sometimes I didn’t. But I got hurt every time.

I remember after a game when you were placing ice packs against my back, when you found one of the bruises that he’d left, I wanted to tell you so badly that it did not happen in practice. That it was actually the result of what happened after that first time I brought you back to my place. Ironically, I thought telling you that would hurt you more than the physical pain hurt me. So I kept it inside.

I kept everything inside.

Those times I didn’t come to school for days in a row were because I was busy getting stitched up so that no one would know anything. That day that I flaked on you for your birthday, was because I told my dad that I was going to Harvard and he didn’t appreciate that. Those times when I wouldn’t text you back, when I was giving one and two word responses were only because I knew if I gave anything more, you’d see right through it.

I just wasn’t ready for that.

I was still trying to figure this shit out myself.

I want you to know that two weeks before prom, I resented you and I’m ashamed to say that I plotted out how I would treat you in advance. I did all of those things on purpose. Because at the time, I was stupid and selfish and I wanted you to feel how you were making me feel.

I didn’t know this at the time, but as I’m writing this and looking back, I can see things perfectly clearly.  I can see that you also hid how terribly your mom was treating you, and that your absences at my games weren’t personal. They were necessary. Necessary so that you could finish your application to Western Peak, necessary so that you could use the few hours away from your mom to do something productive outside of our relationship.

I also realized that I should have been happier for you when you were crowned Miss Popular, especially since you’d deserved the title ever since sophomore year. (For the record, no bull shit, I don’t know any guy at Central High who didn’t have a crush on you at some point during our high school careers.)

When it was my birthday, I assumed that you had forgotten, but I feel foolish now even writing that because a year or so after we’d broken up, my dad called me in a drunken rage and laughed about how “You should have seen that girl that showed up to the house looking pathetic on your birthday. She had balloons and a card and everything. She was begging to see you, damn near crying, but I did the right thing because I’m your father. I turned her away, ripped up the card and popped all those balloons. You’re welcome.”

I should have shown up to your house the night before graduation and apologized for the rumors and for my behavior at prom. I should have told you that the salutatorian and the valedictorian needed to be there together. And I should have joked with you about the fact that technically we should have both been valedictorians, about how it would have happened if I hadn’t purposely flunked a few tests in English, just to get you to tutor me. 

I thought about you all summer, so much so that I pulled my acceptance from Harvard and switched to Western Peak. I applied for their law program the second you told me you were going there, so imagine how stunned I was freshman year when “Mia Gray” was nowhere to be found in the student directory.

Without you, I had no confidante, no right hand person to entrust all my secrets to. And ever since we broke up, I’ve had to pay people to listen to how I feel.

I’m not sure if you’ll ever read this letter. I’m not sure if I’ll give this to you and tell you what it is, but if you happen to read it, if you happen to understand why we broke up the way that we did, and why I honestly feel that you’re the only girl that I’ll ever love, please text me and tell me that you read it. Or tell me that you understand.

Love,

Dean.

MIA: I read it.

Chapter 41

MIA

Six weeks later...

The small storefront I’m using for my show tonight looks more like an abandoned warehouse than a place to hold a gallery showing, but that’s exactly why I picked it.

Every piece I’ll be showing off tonight is emotional and soft, and I want the room to be a direct contrast so people will get the full effect. I’ve sent out four hundred invitations, mostly to clients I previously worked with at the Hamilton Array, and all but fifteen have confirmed that they will be making an appearance tonight.

A case of wine and a chilled box of premier cheeses and grapes are currently in transit, and Autumn and Jacob are running all over Portland right now to help me with a few last minute errands.

As I reposition one of my larger paintings against the wall, I hear someone knocking at the front door. Since everyone who is in on the show knows to use the rear entrance, I assume that it’s a client trying to get an early peek. I drape a sheet over the painting that’s closest to the door and then I walk over.

“I’m sorry,” I say as I pull the door’s handle. “The show doesn’t start for another four—” I stop talking once I see my mother standing in front of me.

Dressed in all blue and looking magazine perfect as always, she clears her throat. “I heard you have a show tonight.”

“Who’d you hear that from?” I cross my arms. “No one I know talks to you.”

She looks hurt by my statement, but she quickly forces a smile.

“Eric told me. I just met with him over lunch.”

“Which Eric? Surely, you’re not talking about my brother or the son you’ve disowned for all these years?”

“Mia, can I...” She looks directly into my eyes.

“Can I please come in and talk to you for a minute?”

“I only have five to spare,” I say, opening the door wider so she can come in. “As you can see, today is a really big day for me and my hobby.”

She follows me inside and I shut the door behind us. I watch as she walks around the room, peeking under the cloths at every piece, staring at the few I’ve already hung up on some of the walls.

“Is this really what you think of me?” she asks, pointing to her portrait in the far right corner.

The picture features her in all red paint, but her face is made up entirely of the words “dream killer,” “Harvard pusher,” “spirit crusher” and “despair.” Someone would have to look very closely to make out the tiny words, but as close as she’s standing, I’m sure she sees every one of them.

“No, that’s not what I think of you.” I cross my arms, smiling at the memory of how many weeks that thing took me to complete. “It’s exactly who you are. Anyway, you said you needed a minute to talk about something. What exactly is it?”

“I’ve missed you.”

“You’ve missed putting me down, yelling at me, or getting frustrated when I don’t do exactly what you tell me to do?”

“None of those.” She shakes her head. “I miss feeling like I have a daughter who will actually pick up my phone calls. A daughter who would actually be there for me when I needed her to be.”

“Yeah...I can tell you right now, that we haven’t had that relationship since eighth grade. You’re just now noticing this?”

She walks over to me with tears in her eyes and clasps both of my hands. “Mia, you’re beyond talented and I’m sorry I spent most of your life preventing you from pursuing your dreams. I went up to our attic last week and flipped through a ton of the pictures you’d hidden there and left behind. And all I could do was cry.”

She’s crying right now. “I know this is going to sound terrible, but I guess because I wasted so much of my twenties chasing things that I shouldn’t have been chasing, that I was trying to prevent you from wasting your time and doing the same.”

“I should have known from the time that you were seven, when you cried for hours on Christmas because I’d bought you a Barbie instead of another deluxe paint set that you were way different from the girl I was.” More tears fall down her face. “I’m sorry I missed all of your art shows in high school. I’m sorry I didn’t support you when you told me you wanted to go to Western Peak. And I’m sorry you felt like you could never pursue your dreams when you were around me.”

“Mom...” I feel a lump rising up my throat.

“Let me finish, Mia,” she says. “I don’t want to spend another ten Christmases without you coming home. I don’t want all our phone conversations to immediately turn to arguments anymore. I’m willing to change and be the mother I should have been to you for the rest of your life, if you just give me a chance.” She lets go of my hands and wipes my tears away. “I know I was terrible, Mia, but I love you and I want a second chance. Are you willing to give me one?”

I don’t answer. I just cry.

She pulls me into her arms and hugs me for the first time in over a decade. Unlike all the times before when I was in high school, I don’t count backwards from five to pull away, and I don’t make a move to pull away at all. I hug her back and cry even harder, feeling that every word she said was absolutely sincere.

The two of us stand like that for at least half an hour, with her repeatedly telling me that she’s sorry and that she loves me and that she really is determined to show me what a real mother/daughter relationship should be like. When we finally do pull away from each other, both of our faces are red and tear-stained and it’s as if we both realized just how much time we’ve wasted.

“Let’s not waste anymore.” She says.

Stepping back and picking up the glossy brochures that I created for tonight, she smiles. “Tell me what I need to do to help you for your first show.”

***

Several hours later, my mom is organizing the cheese and fruit tray that’s at the back of the space, Autumn and Jacob are giving the floor one final sweep, and Michelle is walking around the room taking notes on all of my pieces—nodding her head in absolute admiration.

I slip away from everyone to get dressed in the bathroom, quickly stepping into a simple black dress and dark grey heels. I pull my hair into a sleek bun on top of my head and I take my time doing my make-up, making sure it’s noticeable, but not too heavy.

When I’m done, my eye-lids are covered in a light pink, my lips are coated in a thin layer of soft red, and there’s bronze blush on my cheeks.

I stare at my reflection for a little while longer, feeling extremely nervous about what all the guests might think about my collection tonight. I purposely didn’t tell any of them that I’m the creator behind the pictures just so that I could get their true and honest reaction.

“Mia?” Autumn calls from the other side of the door. “Mia, your former boss is saying that it’s time to open the door. Are you ready?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer, she comes inside instead. “You’re going to do great tonight. All of the pieces are amazing and you’re going to sell out of each and every one.” She puts her hands on my shoulders. “And you are not going to think about he who shall not be named for this entire event. Are we clear?”

“Who is he who shall not be named?”

“Dean.” She rolls her eyes. “Just don’t think about Dean.”

Without giving me a chance to say something else, she opens the door and pulls me inside of the gallery. The show has already begun, and I smile at how quickly the room is filling up. I mingle with the guests, serve wine and cheese whenever I can and listen in on bits of critiques whenever they may float by.

As I’m adjusting my very first portrait of Seattle’s waterfront, a woman in a blue dress walks up to me. “Do you know if this is going to be this artist’s only show for the year?” she asks.

“I’m not sure yet, why?”

“Because I was interested in purchasing the piece you’re looking at right now.”

“Oh! Well, all you have to do is go to the curator and she’ll tell you the price of it and you can purchase it if you’re still interested.”

“No, no, no,” she says, laughing. “I think you’ve misunderstood me. I was very interested in purchasing this piece, just like I was very interested in purchasing the piece right next to it, but someone has already bought everything and there’s nothing left.”

What?

I quickly look over at Michelle who holds up two fingers, silently letting me know that the showing is now in “museum phase” because there are no pieces left to purchase.

“Do you have a business card?” I ask the woman. “I’ll be sure to shoot you an email the next time this artist has a show.”

“Please do.” She quickly places her card into my hand. I give her one last smile and walk away heading off to tell Autumn the good news.

When I’m halfway there, I feel another patron tapping my shoulder, hear a familiar voice say, “Can you tell me about this one?”

I turn around and find myself face to face with Dean. I know he’s not really interested in the painting that’s in front of us—a picture of him in all blue and silver, but I begin to explain it anyway.

“It’s called Resentment,” I say. “It’s about an amazing relationship gone bad. One that breaks down on multiple levels before it can even begin.”

“How is it about a relationship if the picture’s only one person?” His eyes have never left mine and mine have never left his.

“If you look a bit closely into the picture, you’d see that the guy is actually made up of smaller frames of her.”

“Her?” he asks.

“Yes. She’s a woman who spent ten years hating a guy for something she didn’t totally understand.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t all her fault,” he says, using his thumb to wipe away a stray tear on my face. “From this picture, I can tell that the guy in question probably never told her what he was going through. He probably treated her terribly instead of telling her the truth.”

“Yes,” I say. “The ‘he’ from the picture was actually quite an asshole at times. She was an absolute angel.”

He smiles. “I’m not interpreting that part, but what I do see is that he desperately wants to make up with her if she’ll finally give him five minutes of her time.”

I nod and he slips his hand around my waist, pulling me close to him and leading me outside. For a second, I think he’s going to talk to me out here, but he leads me into the abandoned building next door.

Letting go of me, he steps back and looks directly into my eyes. “If you never want to talk to me after today, I’m not going to lie and act like I’d be okay with that, but I’d do my best to deal with it.” He pauses. “Ever since you texted me and told me you read my letter—a letter I contemplated not giving you, I’ve been trying to figure out the right way to approach you and get you back.”

As if he regrets taking his hands off of me, he steps closer and runs his fingers through my hair.

“I know we were young when we fell in love in high school,” he says. “But it’s been ten years and I’ve never felt that way about anyone else. And I know for a fact that I will never feel that way about somebody else.”

He suddenly stops talking and kisses me deeply, not pulling away until I’m utterly breathless.

“Sorry,” he says softly. “I needed to get one of those just in case you do tell me that you don’t want to hear from me after today.”

I smile and he continues.

“I’m really not a guy who sits up and thinks before these emotional type of talks so please excuse me for how short this is about to be.” He pulls a small sheet of paper out of his pocket (It’s literally the size of a post-it note) and then he begins to read.

“Mia Gray.” He looks at me. “For the record, I know you’re aware that I stole your notebook on purpose in high school, but you also need to know that I temporarily stole your CDs, your books, and your journal—which you apparently stopped writing in during eleventh grade by the way.”

“What?”

He keeps going. “I had to do whatever it took to get you to talk to me, because for some reason you didn’t think I would be genuine, and to this day you probably still have no idea that you were the most beautiful girl at Central High.”

I blush.

“Every moment I spent with you during that fall semester was perfection, and I lie to you not, I’ve thought about those times every single day over the past ten years, and I wish I’d been able to put my goddamn pride to the side and call you to apologize and make up for lost time, but I was too stupid. Wait a second.” He flips the post-it over. “I never stopped loving you, I’m still in love with you, and if you let me, I will show you just how much I love you from here on out.” He pauses. “I also miss fucking you. Terribly. I love you, Dean.” He crumples the paper. “Ignore those last few lines, I completely forgot they were there.”

“Yet, you read them anyway.”

“Only because you needed to know.”

“That you still love me?”

“That I miss fucking you.”

I’m pretty sure my face is bright red and I have no idea what I should say right now.

“So,” Dean says.“Will you take me back? Will you give us another chance?”

I don’t say anything. I let him stand there, and let him start to look absolutely nervous about the possibility that I might say no. I even take a step back for dramatic effect, just to mess with him. Just to get him to ask me again.

“Mia...” He steps forward and I step back again, and we continue this until I’m up against the wall.

“Are you going to answer me?” He’s looking into my eyes, impatiently waiting. “Sometime today?”

“I’m not sure.” I smile. “You’ve no doubt completely sold me on the getting back together aspect, but I’m not quite sure about the second aspect.”

“What do you consider the second aspect?”

“How badly you miss fucking me.” I manage. “I’m standing right here, and you have yet to even make a move.”

He laughs softly and presses his forehead against mine. “I was actually seconds away from doing that.”

He lifts up the hem of my dress, pushing it all the way up to my stomach. Then he covers my mouth with his, kissing me just like he used to, like he’s in love with me.

My hands quickly unbuckle his belt and pull down his zipper. He tells me he loves me again and again as he trails hot kisses against my neck, as he softly bites my skin.

I moan as he wraps my leg around his waist, as he pushes my panties to the side with his fingers and thrusts his cock inside of me.

He commands me to wrap my arms around his neck and then he cups my ass, pushing me further onto his cock. He says “I love you” one last time and then he fucks me against the bricks until I come. Twice.

By the time I come down from my high, I’m panting heavily and realizing that we’ve been gone for an entire hour. He helps me redress and I start to panic, running around the room looking for my heel that got tossed across the room during our quickie.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, handing me my shoe. “Why are you in such a rush to get back all of a sudden?”

“I only have twenty minutes left of the showing and it’s rude not to personally greet the buyers at the end, especially if one of them bought all of my paintings.” I pull my hair into a low pony tail. “I need to make sure I’m there to tell him thank you.”

“You can tell him right now.” He smiles at me.

My jaw drops. “What? You weren’t there at opening. How were you able to buy one of them, let alone all of them?”

He pulls me close again and looks down at me. “Autumn. She hung up on me five straight times, but when I texted her and told her what I wanted to do, she happily agreed to help.”

“Just like that?”

“No. She did the parentheses thing and called me an asshole, a douchebag, and threatened to cut off my balls if I ever hurt your again. But she did say ‘thank you’ for the purchase.”

“You actually have enough space to hang up all my art?”

“More than enough space,” he says. I have a new condo, one floor down from Eric all to myself. I’m especially interested in hanging the painting you did of us, the one that features us in three time periods: high school, when we were apart, and now, in shades of grey and white.”

“Why is that?”

“Because the title of it intrigues me and it fits us very well I think.” His hands are in my hair again. What was it again? Regret, Resentment, & Redemption correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct.” I say as he leads me back towards the gallery. “But that was a piece I just finished a few days ago so I can remember it perfectly, and you’re missing the last word of our title.”

“What word is that?”

I stand on my toes to kiss him and whisper against his mouth. “Rebuild.”