Текст книги "Resentment"
Автор книги: Nicole London
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
Chapter 12
MIA
There are no words to describe how awkward it is being in a car with Dean after all these years. Eric is driving and Dean is sitting in the passenger seat, while I sit in the back. Ever since we left dinner, the two of them have been chatting as if they’ve known each other their whole lives, and thankfully, neither has asked me to contribute to the conversation. Not that I would know what to say anyway.
I keep my head directed toward the side window and stare at Portland’s skyline as we head back to the condo. Just as I think we’re seconds away from ending this awkward-as-hell day, Eric pulls into a gas station.
“I need to fill up so I won’t have to do this in the morning,” he says, putting the car in park. “Be right back.” He gets out, leaving me trapped with the past.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and prepare to get out, so the two of us won’t have to speak, but Dean turns around to look at me.
With no expression on his face what so ever, he speaks. “He told me your name was ‘Aim’...He mentioned that I might’ve known you in high school, but he wasn’t even sure what school you went to, since he left home when he was so young.” He clenches his jaw. “I swear, if I had known that you were his little sister, if he had ever shown me any pictures, a social media profile, or given me even a slight inkling that Aim was you, I would’ve moved the fuck out long before you got here.” He gets out of the car before I can and slams the door.
I sit there with my heart in my throat and curses ready to fire off on my lips.
Seething, I pull out my phone and send Autumn a text.
MIA: My worst nightmare has been realized. (Oh, and I landed in Portland like eight hours ago...I was knocked out when I first got here. Sorry.)
AUTUMN: What are you talking about? (And gee, thanks for the late notification. I was honestly beginning to think something happened to you.)
MIA: Dean is here...
AUTUMN: Dean? As in Dean Collins? He’s still alive?
MIA: WTH? Yes, he’s still alive. And not only is that unfortunate enough, but get this: He and Eric are friends – and not just friends, but best friends.
AUTUMN: That’s not a nightmare, Mia. So, what? They’re best friends. It won’t affect you, I’m sure. (It could be worse.)
MIA: I wasn’t finished typing. (It is worse. He’s my other roommate...)
AUTUMN: WHAT?! OMG... You’re totally fucked. Sorry.
MIA: O_o Thanks. Any advice?
AUTUMN: Yeah...Send me a picture. :-)
MIA: Ugh!
I look out the window and see Dean talking to Eric now, acting as if he didn’t just give me the asshole treatment a couple minutes ago. As he leans against the hood, I snap a quick shot and send it to Autumn.
AUTUMN: HOLY SHIT. He’s hotter now than he was in high school!! And is that a tattoo sleeve on his arm? (You don’t think looks like that are worth making up for, do you? :-) )
MIA: I noticed. No, those aren’t tattoos. I pretty sure it’s just dirt. (NEVER. Fuck him.)
AUTUMN: Can I save this picture?
MIA: Seriously?
AUTUMN: LOL Okay, okay...In all seriousness, just try to avoid him and not talk. Just because you live with someone doesn’t mean you have to talk. Remember my roommate from college? We hardly ever said a word to each other and we shared an actual ROOM not a condo. It’ll be fine, and I was kidding about making up with him. What he did to you is unforgivable. Never forget that.
MIA: I won’t.
Dean and Eric get back into the car as I put my phone away, and Dean’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror.
“I think you’re really going to like it here, Mia,” Eric says. “If there’s anything I can do to make your time here any better, just say the word.”
“Thank you.” I narrow my eyes at Dean and glare at him. “I definitely will be doing that. Soon.”
When we arrive back at the condo, I stay back as the two of them get onto the elevator. I tell them I’m going to explore the common areas and neither of them objects.
As soon as I see the floor numbers lighting up above the doors, I hit the button for another elevator so I can ride in it alone.
Eric told me that the best part of the condo is the roof since none of the residents ever use it (and he’s placed some of my blank canvases and old paint up there). I hit the “R” button when the elevator comes back down.
I haven’t painted in weeks, so I’m not sure what I’m going to paint, but I know doing a new piece will help me relax and clear my mind.
At least, I hope.
The elevator doors glide open and I see all of my things neatly tucked into a massive glass case that’s near the edge of the roof. There’s a label on the handle, a black cursive “Aim’s Extra Shit.”
Smiling, I open the box and take out an easel, a medium sized canvas, and my water-based paints. I set up everything on the opposite side of the roof and paint what’s right in front of me: The city’s waterfront.
With sweeping strokes, I paint the edges of the shore and the contours of the boats as they cruise the frothy waters. I paint the waves of the water as they crash into the shoreline and I add the night lights that are dancing atop the water. Then I paint the tall and elegant street lamps that surround the pier.
The piece feels light and tranquil, my mood right now, and I suddenly remember how during the months before I came here, every picture I painted was dark and grey.
I begin to add a park bench to the corner of the painting, but then I turn and notice something tucked away in another of the roof’s corners. My smile dies on my lips.
Walking over to the object, I bend down and slowly run my fingers along the edge of a black guitar case and all the familiar indents and engravings.
I pop the latch and my heart hammers hard in my chest as I lift the lid and stare at the beautiful mahogany wood of Dean’s guitar, the same guitar he played countless songs for me years ago.
I quickly close the case and return to my painting, covering the waterfront with fresh streaks of black and grey.
Chapter 13
MIA
The next day...
I’m standing outside the ‘Sea of Ink’ and wondering if Eric somehow gave me the wrong address for his shop. Not that it’s ugly or rundown, but because it’s the most unique and beautiful building I’ve ever seen.
The building’s bricks are painted white, but they’re coated in crystallized shards of light blue glass. The words ‘Sea of Ink’ are imprinted within several “floating” ships that are hand-pressed into the building, and the handles on the front entrance are reminiscent of a nautical ship’s wheel.
I’m almost scared to touch the place.
Opening the door, I step inside and see a blond receptionist wearing a form fitting black dress. Her eyes are bright blue, and her right arm features a full sleeve of red and black tattoos.
“Hey,” she says, setting down a clipboard. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Oh, no. I’m not here for an appointment. I’m here to see my brother, Eric.”
“Eric who?”
“Eric Gray.”
She looks at me like I’m speaking a different language. “There is no Eric Gray here...”
I pull out my phone and double check to make sure I’m at the right ‘Sea of Ink’. Then I remember he changed his last name.
“I meant Eric Slate.”
“Oh!” She smiles. “I didn’t know he had a little sister. Come on, I’ll show you to his studio.” She moves from behind her desk and leads me up a set of black steps and into a room that’s painted in hues of yellows and reds.
Sitting in a plush white chair with a doctor’s mask over his face, Eric is tattooing a guy who’s laying on his stomach.
“He’s all yours.” She pats me on the back and leaves.
“Can I help you with something, Aim?” he asks, not looking up.
“Aim? You called me Mia yesterday.”
“Slip of the tongue,” he says. “You’ll always be ‘Aim’ to me, you know that. What do you need?”
“Nothing, I was just stopping by.” I step closer and notice how intricate the designs on the wall are, how one school of goldfish is actually made up by twenty smaller ones. “How long did it take them to paint all the walls here?”
“Them?” He lifts the tattoo gun. “You mean me?”
“You couldn’t have painted all the walls by yourself, Eric.”
“I did,” he says. “Took me six months. I did the glass outside the building, too. Dean even helped with the permit for that.”
Good. He brought up Dean first...
I clear my throat. “Speaking of Dean—”
“Can you hand me that grey metal stencil?” He cuts me off. “It’s on the table behind you.”
I grab it and hand it to him.
“You’ve got to be still, man.” He warns the muscular guy on the chair. “We only have four hours left to go.”
“Yeah, yeah.” The guy mumbles, cursing under his breath.
“Now, what were you saying, Aim?”
“I was saying Dean.” I lean against a chair. “How exactly did you two meet?”
“At a bar, I think.”
“Oh, and from that moment it was long lost roommate at first sight?”
He laughs. “He was actually about to fight me.”
“What?”
“Yeah,” he says, pressing the gun against the guy’s skin again. “Said the girl I’d just broke up with minutes ago, an old college mate of his, ironically, had walked up to him outside, crying and told him I punched her.”
“Are you talking about Stacy?” His client asks.
“Unfortunately. Of course, it was Stacy.”
“Whoa. I always knew that bitch was crazy.”
“No, no, no,” I say. “Back to the story. So, he was about to fight you and then what?”
“The bartender confirmed that I never hit her and I offered him a drink. Turned out, he’d just dumped a crazy ex the night before, so we just started laughing about them both over beers. He found out I did tattoos for a shop I used to work at across town, I did his first sleeve, and the rest is history.
“Hmmm. How interesting,” I say, now wondering who the so called “crazy” ex-girlfriend Dean dated was.
I wonder if he screwed her over, too...
“Moving on...” I change my tone. “Do you remember how you said you’d do anything to make me comfortable while I’m staying at your place?”
“No.” He smiles.
“I figured. So, I want you to know that I don’t feel comfortable with Dean living there with us.”
“Well, tough shit, Mia. And yes, I said ‘Mia’. He was here first.”
“No. I was here first. Hos before bros.”
“It’s ‘bros before hos’, Mia.” He shakes his head. “Why are you so wound up about him anyway? You hardly even know him, so let it go. He’s a cool guy, I promise. You’ll learn to love him.”
I already did...That didn’t work out....
I’m not sure why I don’t automatically launch into a tirade on why Dean is like the plague to me, or how he shattered my heart into pieces and deserves to be beaten to a pulp by Eric’s fists, but I don’t. Something tells me to hold my emotions back.
Eric stops his tattoo gun and looks up at me. “You know what? Go ask Angie at the desk to give you a few gallery brochures so you can focus on what you really came to Portland for. It’s to finally pursue your art dreams, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, so go focus on that shit for the rest of the day and then make sure you’re back at home in time for my party.”
“Party?”
“Yep.” His client looks up again, nodding slowly as if he’s about to pass out. “Third Thursday of every month. Can’t wait.” He nods one more time and falls off the chair and onto the floor. Hard.
“Fuck...” Eric jumps up. “I should’ve known he was drunk.” He grabs a few ice packs and waves me away. “Go look up the art shit, Mia. I don’t want to hear you shitting on Dean for at least three hours.”
“So four hours from now is fair game?”
“Out, Mia.” He points to the steps. “See you tonight.”
***
I stay away from home for as long as I can. I read every word of the twenty brochures his receptionist gave me, and bookmark each of the galleries websites on my computer so I can look them up later, and apply to their openings.
When the sun sets, and I force myself to head home, I can hear tons of loud voices as soon as I step off the elevator. Before I have a chance to unlock the door, it swings open and two guys stumble out with beers (and dates) at their sides. I step back as they keep stumbling toward me, clearly not in control of their bodies or minds right now.
I move inside the doorway and scan the living room. I see nothing but tattooed guys—very attractive, tattooed guys, and they are everywhere: sitting on the couch, laughing in the kitchen, and drinking in the foyer. There’s also a few couples in the hallway, caressing each other against the wall, looking as if they’re seconds away from fucking each other.
Confused, I walk into the kitchen where I find Eric. He seems oblivious to everything that’s happening and his full attention is on a pretty brunette in all red.
“Hey, Aim!” He looks up at me as I grab a water. “You find any potential jobs to apply for?”
“A couple.” I take a sip. “I thought you said this was a party. This looks like everyone is watching a game, except for the people who look like they’re going to have sex in your hallway.”
He laughs. “It is a party. UFC fight night viewing party.” He takes the water from my hands and replaces it with a beer. “I know it’s going to be hard for you, but try to relax. Try to be the opposite of what you normally are.”
“Fine.” I suddenly hear a familiar deep voice in the living room and Dean comes into view. He’s standing in the corner of the room, beer in one hand, his other hand wrapped around a blond wearing a tight black dress. She’s clearly into him, she’s whispering into his ear, and whatever he’s saying back, is making her blush.
As she turns around to face him completely, Dean’s eyes meet mine. They pin me right to the spot, preventing me from taking a single step.
I try my best to look away from him, but I can’t.
My heart starts to beat a rhythm I once knew years ago, but it quickly stops when his date pulls him forward and kisses him on the lips. Thoroughly.
Her hands are in his hair, her arms are around his neck and her body is pressed against him. But for some reason, his eyes are still locked on mine.
Disgusted with their kiss, I chug the rest of my beer and grab another one. Then I quickly slip through all the people in the living room and head out to the balcony. I notice another cooler stuffed with beers near the railing and quickly down the one in my hand, so I can have a third.
Ignoring the soft rain that’s falling over me, I shut my eyes and lean against the railing.
Do not let him affect you. Do not let him affect you. It’s been ten years, PLEASE do not let him affect you...
“So, I still affect you?” Dean’s voice is to my left and I can feel him stepping close to me.
I don’t answer, though. I don’t have to.
I hear him let out a sigh and then I hear the sound of him popping open a beer can. “I think we should set some boundaries, Mia. Since I clearly affect you—”
“You fucking revolt me.” I glare at him, taking three steps back.
“So, you are capable of talking to me today?” He rolls his eyes. “Why are you out here, since the fight is in there?”
“Surely you can ask the same question to yourself.”
“I’m not big on UFC fighting. I’m more of a football guy. Surely you remember that.”
“The Dean I remember hated football, but I don’t waste my time thinking about anything from the past.”
His lips turn up into a slight smile, and he looks as if he’s about to speak, but I beat him to it.
“For the record,” I say. “I want you to know, that whether you and my brother are butt buddies or not—”
“We're not butt buddies, we’re best friends.”
“Same thing—regardless of that, that doesn’t mean I’m your friend. As a matter of fact, I will never be your friend, and outside of this current moment, I hope our future conversations won’t last as long as this one has.”
“They won’t.” He grips the railing. “But considering we live together now, it means we’re going to be seeing each other a lot, unfortunately.”
“If it’s so unfortunate, why don’t you go and entertain your bimbo of a date instead of bothering me?” I walk off, leaving him alone on the balcony. I force a smile onto my face and I walk back through the party, re-claiming my spot in the kitchen.
I try to calm down, but the more I think about it, the more questions that pop in my head. How much do they hang out? I also wonder why Eric’s never told me about Dean. Even though Eric and I haven’t talked as much as we used to over the past few years, we’ve still talked regularly. But then again, he never told me his business was doing so well either.
Dean returns to his date, his white V-neck t-shirt is damp and clinging to his abs, and his date clearly approves. I watch as she traces her fingers along every muscle in his chest, and as she playfully tosses her brown, wavy hair against him. I can’t help but wonder how long they have been together and if they’re serious.
I notice a ring on her finger, and I immediately look for one on his—thinking I’ve missed it somehow, but there isn’t one.
I’m not sure if the sigh I let out is out of relief or pain.
Chapter 14
MIA
A full two weeks go by without me or Dean addressing one another. I’ve learned that he works between the hours of six and four—Where? I don’t know—so I do my best to set my alarm for eight. At two, I make sure I’m on my way to a café or a park to fill out a job application, and I try not to come home until nine so I can sleep until eight and do it all over again.
The few times that we’ve run into each other in the kitchen or the living room, we’re avoiding looking directly at each other, and whenever we cook, we don’t share. Unlike Eric who cooks enough for all three of us whenever he makes a meal, when I cook, it’s just for me (I do take some to Eric at Sea of Ink on his lunch break) and when Dean cooks, it’s just for him.
I’m hoping to make it through this arrangement until I get a job and save up enough money so I can move out. And from the prices I’ve seen on condos and houses here, it would take double what I currently have in my savings to get someplace decent, so it may take me quite a while to get to that point.
When my alarm goes off on Wednesday morning, I quickly fill out my final online application for an art gallery and decide to attempt a more personal approach for the day.
Armed with a map of the entertainment district and a few printouts of my resume, I slip into the city and pull out the list of galleries that didn’t have applications directly on their website.
I walk half a mile to the first gallery—Le Soire Le Blanc, and tuck my map into my purse. I take a deep breath and smile as I open the door.
“May I help you with something, Miss?" A woman dressed in black, immediately greets me from behind a podium.
"Yes, I'm Mia Gray." I extend my hand. “I was hoping to see the lead collector. I have a few questions.”
She doesn't make a move to shake my hand at all. Her eyes travel up and down my body, making me question whether I made the right decision in wearing black slacks, a pink button down and blazer, and matching ballet flats.
“You were saying, Miss?” She purses her lips. “We don't entertain or allow solicitors here, if that’s what you’re here for.”
I square my shoulders under her disdainful stare and keep my smile on full display. "I’m not selling anything," I say, trying to keep my resolve. "I'm actually new to the city and I’m searching for some place to further my art career. I’m wondering if you all were looking for a curator, or an intern? I’m open to anything."
She blinks.
"I have my resume here, if you want to take a look." I pull it out of my bag and hold it out for her, but she doesn't take it.
Instead, she calls over her shoulder. "Mr. Shaw! Mr. Shaw, can you come down here, please?"
Within seconds, a grey haired man in an impeccable blue suit descends the spiral staircase, looking back and forth between us both.
"Yes, Miss Lockwood?"
"This..." She shakes her head and points at me. "This person came wandering in from the street, asking about a job. Do we have a 'Now Hiring' sign on our front window that I don't know about?"
"Not that I know of.” He smiles. “No, we don't."
"Do we have a Job Listing Page on our website with open positions? And if we do, does it say, ‘Feel free to come on in wearing department store clothing, and thrusting your ineptitude upon us in the middle of our lunch?"
"No." He smirks, crossing his arms. "We don't have that either."
"So..." She narrows her eyes at me and taps her lip, stepping toward the door. "What do you think we would tell someone who just wandered in from the street with an outdated and unimpressive resume? Do you think we should tell her to come back when we're actually hiring? When she's done her research? Or do you think we should just say nothing and simply hold the door for her to figure it out?"
"I personally like the second option." He clasps his hands in front of him. "It seems more direct and official. Don't you think?"
"Absolutely," she says, holding the door wide open. "Hopefully, she'll get the point before our lunch hour is over and we can spend the rest of our day dealing with people who actually belong here..."
“Yes, you’re right.” I return my resume to my folder. “I would totally feel out of place with a woman who clearly enjoys being a bitch and a man who’s too much of a sloth to think for himself.”
“Excuse me?” she says, her jaw dropped.
“And I’m sorry my clothes aren’t from Chanel or Kate Spade, but...” I take a step forward and boldly tug at the sleeve of her jacket. “I also own this exact jacket you’re wearing. Got it from Target on a Black Friday sale.” I give them “Fuck you both” smiles before stepping outside, their stunned expressions still radiating on my trail as the door slams shut right behind me.
I don't bother looking over my shoulder at them. I don't let myself feel bad for one second either.
I keep walking and find the next gallery. Keep getting the same results.
Either all of the art galleries in this city are run by people with huge sticks up their asses and a vendetta against non-designer clothes, or I’m going to need to pursue my passion elsewhere.
As I approach the last gallery on my list—The Hamilton Array, I debate whether I should go inside or not. Unlike all the other galleries, there is indeed a "Now Hiring" easel standing outside of the building’s windowed entry. The people wandering about the room with cue cards are dressed in jeans and smocks, and the floor appears to be wood instead of marble or granite.
This is the last one...The last one...
I suck in a deep breath and push the doors open.
"Welcome to the Hamilton Array, how may I help you?" An older woman with curly gray hair steps in front of me.
"Hi, I'm—" I pause. I'm beyond done with my nice-girl spiel. Sixteen rejections are more than enough. "My name is Mia Gray, and I'm looking for a job. Since there's a sign right out front that says you're hiring, and I meet all of the bullet points on your list—in addition to being good, damn good, really fucking damn good at art, I think that’s good enough for a simple conversation at least. I’m not even asking for an interview.”
She tilts her head to the side, looking confused.
"I learn fast," I say, continuing, "I've never been late to anything a day in my life. I'm willing to work weekends, nights, holidays if need be, and contrary to the fact that I just cursed way more than I normally do, I don't curse at work and I'm really good with kids." I let out a breath. "I really am sorry about the cursing, but...I really need a job."
Her lips curve in a small smile and she gestures to a group of wooden chairs on the far right wall. "Have a seat, Miss Gray. I'll get my co-owner after his phone call and you can tell him everything you just said to me."
"So he can laugh at me and mock my words, or so he can actually consider me for the job?"
She laughs. "Both."
***
Later that day, after a three hour first interview at that last gallery, I’m cursing myself for not taking the bus. I’ve probably walked a total of eight miles today, and I’m not the most in-shape person in the world.
I finally return home around nine o’clock and my brain is exhausted, my feet are sore, I’m in dire need of a hot shower and a long nap.
When I open the door, I immediately freeze, almost having forgotten for a split second who the hell my roommate is. Dean is stretched out on the couch, his feet up on the coffee table, with a girl, a completely different girl from the fight party, curled up beside him.
She’s dressed in a simple T-shirt and shorts, and her curly red hair is pulled up into a high bun that perfectly frames her face. I try to pick a flaw, any flaw, but because I am an artist, I can recognize true beauty in anything or anyone when I see it.
Ugh...
Dean looks over his shoulder at me and our eyes meet for the first time in weeks, but neither of us speak.
The girl looks at me and quickly turns back around. “Who is that?” she whispers as I step into the kitchen.
“No one” is Dean’s short reply.
“Be serious.” Beauty queen laughs, nudging him.
“She’s my roommate’s sister.” He relents. “Ignore her.”
“Okay, cool.” She laughs. “Will do.”
I set my stuff down on the counter and open the refrigerator, searching for the leftovers from the lunch I made yesterday. I push Eric’s protein shakes and health food crap to the side, but I can’t find the food I cooked. And I hid it in my usual, perfect place.
What the hell? I know Eric couldn’t have eaten it, he just started some type of weird all fruit and juice diet.
I double check all the shelves in the refrigerator again, and then I spot it. My empty red Tupperware container is carefully tucked behind Eric’s array of new juices, and there’s a note on top. In Dean’s handwriting.
“It’s rude as fuck to only cook for yourself when you know I’m right across the hall from you...Next time, use less pepper. You’re welcome.”
I crumple the paper and hold back a loud scream.
Okay, asshole...Two can play this game...
