Текст книги "Resentment"
Автор книги: Nicole London
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
Chapter 15
MIA
I refresh my screen for the umpteenth time today, staring at the influx of new emails in my inbox. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but I know I need to find out if any of them are interview or job offers after all my hard work.
I cross my fingers and click on the first email.
Subject: Open position
Dear Mia Gray,
Thank you for your application for curator with Brooks Museum. Although we are impressed with your experience, we are unable to offer you employment at this time.
Thank you, for your interest.
Human Resources.
***
Subject AUTO-RESPONSE Curator application
Dear Applicant,
We have received your application for gallery manager at our Shady Oaks location. Unfortunately, you do not meet our requirements and your application will not go any further in the hiring process.
Best of luck in your search,
INT. Galleries
***
Subject: It’s not personal, but...
Hey, Mia, this is James. We met last week at Venture Gallery and me and my team were really impressed with you. However, and this is a HUGE “however,” my ex-wife’s name is Mia and I detest her very soul. Like, if I could get away with murder, I wouldn’t hesitate to show up to her house and set it afire so...Since I’m sure you’re not open to changing your name, and I’ll still know deep-down that your real name is “Mia” even if you did, I just can’t bring you aboard here.
I’m sorry.
James.
What the hell...
Groaning, I skim through the rest of the new emails. They’re all rejections. I don’t bother writing back a professional, “Thank you for your time anyway.” message for any of them. I delete my entire inbox and shut off my laptop. I decide to switch gears and check a couple new voicemails waiting on my cell phone instead.
I lay back across my bed as the first message plays.
“Hello?” a deep male voice says. “Hello? Oh, okay it’s voicemail.” He clears his throat. “This message is for Nancy – Oh, shit, wait... Is this taping?”
There’s a long pause and then the voice comes back on.
“My bad, this message is for Mia. Mia Gray. Thank you for coming in, but I don’t think you’re going to work for us. To be honest, you’re a little too something for us. Not sure what it is, but you have a little too much of it. So... Yeah, that’s it. Bye.”
I delete the message and go to the next.
“Hey, Mia, this is Michelle Henderson from The Hamilton Array. I really enjoyed meeting you and I’d love to meet with you one on one. It’s currently 1:36 p.m. on Thursday. I’m going to be in my office until 4:00 today. You can either call me back, or I’ll email you. But if you could make it in at any point today, that would be great.”
HELL YES!
I replay the message a few more times to make sure I’m hearing it properly, then I call her right back and agree to come in for a second interview before their office closes today. I quickly change into a professional outfit and leave the condo, walking the short distance to Eric’s tattoo shop.
After checking in with the receptionist, I head up to Eric’s floor. I almost yell across the room for his attention, but I see Dean sitting in his chair. I see him getting another addition to the sleeve on his right arm.
“What’s up, Mia?” Eric sets down the tattoo gun.
“I really need to borrow your car.”
“My car? Why?”
“I have an interview, but it’s not at the main gallery I’ve applied to. The manager wants me to meet her at her office that’s thirteen miles out.”
“Well, unless you’re going to figure out how to drive a stick in the next thirty minutes, I don’t see how that’s going to work.”
“Your car is a stick?”
“Yeah, it’s an Audi R8. You can drive my old car though.”
“What’s your old car?”
“It’s a grey Honda Civic.” Dean says, looking me up and down.
“Okay, well can I drive that like now? I need all the extra time I can get.”
“Yeah, hold on, let me grab the keys from the back.” He stands up and heads to the back, leaving me and Dean alone.
Dean crosses his arms and leans back. “Any idea what happened to my five boxes of protein bars?”
“Nope.”
“Are you sure?” He raises his eyebrow. “I set them on the counter last night and they were gone this morning.”
“Depends. Do you know what happened to my rosemary chicken leftovers? What about my mashed potatoes and steak? Have any idea what happened to those?”
“No.” His eyes turn to slits. “Not a clue.”
Eric returns with a set of keys before I can say something else to Dean.
“Don’t fuck up my car, Mia,” Eric says. “It’s only two years old.”
“I won’t.” I start to ask him why he has more than one car, but then I realize he actually has three cars. The car we rode back in from dinner was a Lexus.
How much money does he make doing this?
“Mia?” Eric waves his hand in front of my face. “Why are you standing there talking to yourself?”
“Sorry, I was just thinking out loud.”
“I bet...” Dean mutters under his breath.
“Do you want one of us to come with you?” Eric asks. “I could probably get you there faster.”
“Not at all.” I hold up my smart phone and rush toward the door. “I have GPS. I’ll be fine.” I make my way to the parking garage next door and slide behind the wheel of the Civic.
I type in the address and am surprised that it’s a straight shot along the highway.
I take my time driving there, and go over all the potential questions in my head on the way over, hoping for the best.
***
The interview lasted all of fifteen minutes, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. I felt like as soon as I sat down it was over, and outside of her asking to see pictures of my previous artwork on my phone, she didn’t ask anything that hadn’t been asked before.
Feeling slightly defeated, I try to replay the interview in my mind to see if I can gauge her facial expressions.
I’m crossing the threshold of the City limits when I suddenly see blue lights flashing in my rear view mirror. There’s a black squad car that’s rushing toward me, but I notice the red car at my left is going way faster than I am.
Is the cop chasing me or the red car?
I speed up a little bit.
Definitely the red car...
I switch lanes.
He switches lanes.
I switch lanes again.
He switches again.
Fuck! He is chasing me...
I pull my car over to the right shoulder and shift to park as the police car slows to a stop behind me. I glance in my rearview again, but he hasn’t gotten out yet.
What the hell did I do?
As I glance back again, the officer gets out of the car and starts walking toward me.
When he approaches my window, I hit the button to lower it.
“License and registration, please.” A familiar deep voice says.
I look up and see the profile of the last person I expect to see right now. “Dean? Is this some type of joke? Is it Halloween?”
“Does it look like I’m joking?” He takes the shades off his face and his green eyes do that same “Yeah, I’m totally fuck-able and I know it” thing they did in high school. “Your license and registration, please.”
This is bull shit.
“Why the hell did you pull me over? Are you really this upset about the protein bars?”
“Ma’am.” He nearly hisses. “I’m only going to ask you one more time, your license and registration, now.”
I retrieve my license from my purse and Eric’s registration from the glove compartment and nearly toss it at him. He takes his PDA from his waist belt and starts typing my information into the system.
“Can you please tell me why you pulled me over now?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“You were speeding.”
“Speeding?” I arch a brow. “I was not speeding.” To make sure, I click on my dashboard and check my last known speed.
“I was only going sixty.”
“The speed limit on this stretch of highway is fifty-five.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? You stopped me for going five over?”
He leans down and glares at me. “I can stop you for going one over, if I choose.” “As a matter of a fact, it’s against the law to speed in front of a hospital exit.” He points to the hospital directly across the street from where we’re parked. “I think I’ll give you a ticket for that, too.”
My jaw nearly hits my lap, I’m so stunned. “You’re being fucking ridiculous. You pulled me over on purpose. You knew I was driving Eric’s car, you knew exactly what it looked like.”
“If you’d like to make a complaint, please do so in writing.” He has the audacity to smile, as he hands me the ticket.
I take it and crumple it, throwing it into the backseat. “Fuck you, Dean.”
“What did you just say?”
“I said, Fuck you.” I cross my arms.
“Okay.” He steps back. “Get out of the car.”
“What?” My heart drops.
“Are you having a hearing problem today, Mia?” My name sounds bitter on his lips. “I ordered you to get out of the car.”
“No...” I remain seated, shaking my head.
“I’m not going to ask you again.” He clenches his jaw, yanking my door wide open. “Get out of the goddamn car.”
Without thinking, I unbuckle my seatbelt and slip out of the car, slowly standing before him.
“This is ridiculous,” I say, unsure of what to feel right now. “Are you really going to arrest me? Do you really have no better way to spend your day? And who the hell made you a cop?”
“You know,” he says writing on his pad, “I could arrest you for a number of things right now, with failure to pull over being at the top of the list. I was clearly chasing you and you sped up. You switched lanes twice. You keep talking and I’m going to take you in,” he says, looking me in the eye.
I stay quiet.
“Are you saying something?” he asks, gently grabbing me, pushing my back against the car so we’re face to face. “Are you implying that I need to call for backup and have them search you for something?”
“No.”
“Because if you’re saying something and want me to search you, just let me know.”
My hands ball to fist at my sides and my breathing speeds up. I’m seconds away from pushing him, but he steps even closer to me, closing the gap between us.
His face softens for a split second, and it looks as if he’s about to apologize, but the hardness in his eyes quickly returns. He puts on his shades and hands me a new ticket for an offense I’m pretty sure he made up.
“Now,” he says smirking, and taking a step back. “Have a nice day and a safe drive home, Miss Gray.”
I almost throw up the middle finger and curse at him, but I get back into the car and simply watch him return to his car in my rearview mirror.
“You can pull off, Ma’am!” He calls out over his car’s speakers. “Now. Unless you want another ticket for unnecessarily blocking the emergency lane.”
UGHHHH....Fucking asshole!
I crank the engine and immediately pull off, driving the rest of the way in silence – three miles below the speed limit.
Chapter 16
MIA
With all of the amazing inventions in the world, I am shocked that someone brilliant hasn’t yet invented “Anti-Asshole Spray.” It should be kind of like personal bug spray, but it should smell much better: You spray yourself with it, wait for it to dry, and for twelve hours, you are less susceptible to any asshole who may approach. This includes coworkers you don’t like; ex-boyfriends who can’t seem to get the hint; and a roommate/police officer who nearly has you arrested one day, and is currently standing in your kitchen and acting as if he’s not eating the last of your Pop-Tarts the next.
“Did you buy those Pop-Tarts, Dean?” I ask, venom in my voice. I would tell him thanks for canceling those dumb-ass tickets he gave me mere minutes after he issued them, but since they were dumb in the first place, I’ll act as if I know nothing about it.
“I’m not sure,” he says. “I don’t keep a running log of the groceries I buy.”
“Well, I do. I keep a running log of the groceries I buy, and that Pop-Tart that’s currently lodged in your mouth? I bought that.”
“Good to know.” He smirks.
“No, it is not good to know. It’s good for you to stop touching my food and my things. You know you didn’t buy those, so you shouldn’t be putting your hands on anything that doesn’t belong to you from here on out. Or else.”
“Or else, what?” He crumples the wrapper and tosses it into the trash.
“Or else...” I just realize that he’s only wearing a towel around his waist, that water is dropping from his wet hair and down to his chest.
“Or else what, Mia?” His towel falls to the floor and he leans against the counter, letting me get a full view of his cock. It’s erect, and it’s still as big as I remember, and my body is currently betraying me by getting aroused.
I shake my head and our eyes meet briefly before I grab my backpack and rush out of the condo.
This is so not going to work...This is so not going to work...
Later that day, I find a secluded spot in a coffee shop and continue to fill out job applications. I have two more weeks before I’ll have to cave in and apply to a job that deals with my degree, just so I can earn money for a while, but I’m not giving up hope on a gallery.
Yet...
Most of the places I’ve put in applications for today, only pay minimum wage and are for people who “have a moderate interest” in art, but I don’t care. I just need to be around something to gain some new inspiration and get back into the feel of painting every day.
As I’m refilling my coffee, I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. Eric.
“Hey, Eric,” I answer.
“Hey. How are you doing?” The sound of tattoo needles buzzing is in the background. “How’s your job search so far?”
“It’s okay. Nothing special yet.”
“Did you try the museum?”
“Submitted my application for that two hours ago.”
“And the Art College?”
“Three hours ago.”
“Good. I have an appointment with a client next Thursday who works in the office there. If you don’t have anything promising by then, I can see if he can work something out for you.”
“Thank you so much, Eric.”
“Anytime. I’ll be home late again today. You need anything?”
“Actually, yes, I do need something,” I say. “I need you to put up rules in the kitchen.”
“Rules for three people?”
“It’s really just for one person, but we can pretend they apply to you and me, too. Rule number one: Don’t eat all of the Pop-Tarts, especially if you didn’t buy them.”
“Can rule number two be don’t buy twenty boxes of Pop-Tarts and not expect someone to take a few?”
“Twenty boxes? You’re exaggerating. I bought two a few days ago, and as of today, they’re all gone.”
“Well, I just went home and there are like twenty boxes of Pop-Tarts on the counter, so either you’re being ridiculous, or you have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I hang up and shoot him a text of eye-rolling emojis.
I start to fill out another job application and my phone rings once more.
It’s an unknown number, but I answer it anyway.
“Hello?”
“Hello, may I speak to Mia Gray, please?”
“This is she.”
“Hi, Mia! This is Michelle Henderson from The Hamilton Array Gallery. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Of course.” I close my laptop and try not to get too excited.
“Great! Well, I’m calling to let you know that my team was extremely impressed with your interview, and we were even more impressed that you sent us photocopies of your collection the day after. That’s not something you see every day and it was very unique.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome! That said, I would love for you to join our team as a curator, if you’re still interested in working for us.”
YES! “Yes, I really am,” I say as calmly as possible.
“Great! Well, we still have a few formalities before we can start, but could you, by chance, bring over your tax identification forms and sign the paperwork I email you? Could you bring that by the office anytime this week?”
“Definitely.”
“Okay, good. Also, one last thing. As far as the hours we discussed in the interview, just remember that you’ll be responsible for a few weekends here or there for our more elite clients, and from Monday through Friday, you’ll work seven to three, with some required overtime, if need be. Is that still okay with you?”
“It’s more than okay.” I’m really trying to hold back my excitement, but if this phone call doesn’t end soon, she might discover that I’m a little too eager about this.
“Alright, then!” She says. “See you later this week, Mia. Have a great day.”
“You as well.” I wait for her to end the call and then I jump out of my chair, screaming “YES! YES! YES!”
Everyone in the shop turns to look at me, and I immediately sit back down again.
Acting as if that didn’t just happen, I open my laptop and check my email. Miss Henderson has already emailed me, so I take my time and fill out all of the paperwork.
When I’m finished, I go to the copy shop across the street and print out the files. I take the bus four blocks down to the condo and decide to grab my tax information so I can have it ready for tomorrow.
The first thing I notice inside are the numerous boxes of Pop-Tarts on the kitchen counter. The next thing I notice is a black and white sheet hanging on the refrigerator.
Stepping closer, I notice that Dean’s handwriting is in most of the boxes, but what’s most alarming is the work schedule that’s written in the corner of each one.
Seven to three.
Just like me.
The complete opposite of Eric.
Shit. Shit. Shit...
If I wasn’t able to escape him before, I’ll never be able to escape him now...
Chapter 17
MIA
The house is abnormally quiet today, too quiet. All I can hear is the sound of Portland’s familiar light rain outside my window and the light tap-tapping of the coffee maker in the kitchen.
As I lay in bed and look up at the ceiling, I wonder how long it’ll be until I hear Dean purposely banging every pot against the countertop to rile me up. I wonder if he’s thought of new and improved ways to annoy the hell out of me.
Sighing, I grab my Kindle and start reading, but I still don’t hear any sounds. I get four chapters in and all that’s changed is the pace of the rain outside.
Confused, I get out of bed and head into the living room, then the kitchen. Then I realize he isn’t here.
His keys aren’t hanging on the rack by the door, remnants from breakfast are lying half-eaten on a plate, and his police jacket isn’t on the coatrack.
Hmmm. Perfect...
I tiptoe to his side of the house and walk past his bathroom, letting the familiar scent of his aftershave invade my senses. I walk down the hallway a little farther and notice that the door to his bedroom isn’t shut like usual. It’s wide open.
I hesitate a few seconds before walking in—knowing that snooping on him is totally fucked up, but I can’t help it.
Stepping inside, I close the door behind me and look around. His room literally looks like a replica of the one I spent so many nights in when we were in high school.
The few pictures on the wall are framed ones of guitars, his class with the police academy, and of him and Eric sitting at a bar holding up beers. He has five guitars now, and they’re all lined up by his huge bay window, in perfect view of the park below.
His bed in unmade, and there are way too many pillows for one person on it, so I take three of them and carry them quickly to my room, before coming back.
Picking up one of the guitars, I instantly remember how he once attempted to teach me to play.
“God, Mia...It’s a guitar, not a piano. You don’t have to be that delicate with the strings. No, you don’t need a bow for it either... Okay, you know what? Give that back. Just stick to art...”
I set it down and walk over to his dresser. I open the top drawer and roll my eyes at the numerous condoms inside.
I open the next one. Socks. Sweats. Nothing important.
Convinced the third one will be a disappointment as well, I walk over to his massive closet. It’s stuffed with a wardrobe that rivals Eric’s and there are more pictures hanging on the walls: Him and Eric at some type of festival, him and his co-workers leaning against a squad car, him and...a fiancée?
I take the picture of him and a woman in a red dress down and look a little closer. His arm is draped around her neck and she’s holding her hand up to show off a ring, but I don’t see one on his hand. I look around the walls for another picture of her so I can see if he was indeed engaged, but I don’t find one.
My eyes catch a picture of me instead.
Well, my artwork anyway.
Tucked into the corner behind his suit jackets, and hanging visible enough for someone who only steps so far in, is the small picture I painted for him years ago. The picture of us at the bonfire, kissing in colorful streams of silver and blue.
I run my fingers across the acrylic and smile, but then I let it fade. I’m sure he thought nothing of it when he put it up, and it is at the back of the closet...
I shut the closet doors and walk over to his desk. I don’t bother opening his laptop because I’m sure it’s password protected, but when I push it to the side, my jaw drops.
Beneath it is a calendar for Western Peak University. An alumni calendar.
What?
I open the desk’s top drawer and shake my head as I see more Western Peak paraphernalia: Pens, papers, and a yearbook.
I quickly flip it open and thumb to the student section. Straight to the C’s, and right there, still looking All-American as ever, is Dean Collins on the center of the page.
Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t go there after all...
I sit on his bed and read the bio underneath his picture: Dean Collins. Class of 2008. Political Science and Pre-Law. Suma Cum Laude. Best part of being a Western Peak graduate? “Being around people who actually ‘get’ me...Oh, and the parties here are ones I’ll remember for life.
Shutting the book, I place it back where it belongs and realign the laptop on his desk. I make sure everything I touched is back in place, but as I walk out, I spot a pair of shiny hoop earrings on his window sill.
I’m not sure why I feel a tinge of hurt at knowing that he had someone in his room, especially after all this time, but I do.
I leave the door wide open like it was before and head back to my room.
I take his pillows and re-cover them in my own pillowcases, and just as I fall on top of them, my phone rings. My mom.
I really don’t want to talk to her, but I need a distraction, so I pick up.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Mia Allison Gray, please tell me that you did not really send an email to the superiors at your job telling them to flack off?”
“Flack off?” I say. “No. I told them to ‘fuck off’.”
“That’s what I meant, Mia.” She groaned. “What has gotten into you? And please tell me it’s not true that you moved to Portland to live with your brother.”
“It is true.” I’m starting to re-think that need of a distraction. Watching paint dry might be more entertaining than listening to her right now.
“Mia, you went to Harvard. You studied under the best of the best and got internships most people would kill to have. How can you throw that all away?”
Yep...Paint drying, it is.
“Mom, can I call you later to talk about this? I need to go do something right now.”
“No, you may not,” she says. “Look, if you go back, I’ll smooth things out with your supervisors. One of them graduated with me, so I’m sure he’d be happy to do me a favor out of Harvard spirit, Also—”
“Screw ‘Harvard spirit’, mother.” I sit up. “I only went there because I was too goddamn stupid to follow my own dreams. I’m really tired of you wanting me to be something I’m not, and you not talking to me for weeks at a time when I do something you don’t like. So, do me a favor: Accept that I’m living with Eric, your son, so I can be happy and live my life the way I want, or don’t call me anymore.” I hang up and feel drained after only talking to her for a few minutes.
I lay back on my bed and shake my head.
Maybe talking to her worked after all...
***
Later that night, Dean and his arsenal of noise is back. Except this time, he’s with a date. Again, a different girl than any of the previous times.
As I warm up my dinner in the kitchen, I watch the two of them cuddle next to each other on the couch.
I can tell she’s really into him, but I can’t get a vibe from him.
She’s constantly looking at him and batting her eyes, but the only move he’s made, is putting his arm around her shoulder. He hasn’t said too much either. She’s done most of the talking.
“I think it’s cool that you’re a cop,” she says. “I think that’s like, awesome, how you like, protect our streets.”
Ugh. Seriously?
I hold back a laugh and pour myself a glass of wine.
“Why aren’t you talking that much, Dean?” She runs her fingers through his hair. “You’re not normally this quiet.”
“Normally?” he asks, softly. “We’ve only been out twice.”
“I know, but you were talking nonstop for both of those dates. Is something wrong?”
He shakes his head, and she shrugs and turns up the TV.
I start to carry my plate and wine past them, and she clears her throat.
“I didn’t know you had a female roommate, Dean,” she says softly. “Are you friends with her?”
“No. She’s my roommate’s little sister.”
“Oh, okay cool. I mean, I wasn’t asking because I felt threatened or anything because I’m sure you would never date someone who wore painters’ pants and could stand to lose a few pounds. I was just asking.”
“If she’s your roommate’s friend and y’all are close, maybe you should buy her some clothes. I know a place you can go.”
I freeze, tempted to turn around and yell at her, but I simply count down from five.
“I need you to leave,” Dean says, making me turn around.
“What?” she asks, dumbfounded.
“I said I need you to leave.” He moves his arm from around her and stands up. “Now.”
“What did I do?”
“You talked shit about Mia.” His face is red and he looks completely upset. “I’m not going to have that.”
“You said you’re not even friends with her!” She crosses her arms. She doesn’t get up.
“Sarah, please don’t make me pick you up and carry you out.” His voice is harsher than I’ve ever heard. “Get the fuck out. Now.”
Her cheeks turn bright pink and she throws a glare my way before throwing him the finger. “Fuck you, Dean.”
“No longer interested in that, but thank you.” He walks over to the door and locks it once she’s out.
He returns to the couch and turns the channel.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say. “I wasn’t that offended.”
“You were, and I did.” He turns the TV off and stands up, as if he can’t bear to be in the same room with me anymore. “Old habits die hard, I guess...”
