Not You It's Me

by Julie Johnson

  The words snap out before I can stop them. “No, if anything, you taught me that men are liars and cheaters, who either leave on their own or aren’t worth keeping around to begin with.”

  Her eyes get sad and it makes my stomach clench.

  Shit.

  “Mom…” I whisper, instantly filled with remorse. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

  She waves my words away with her hands. “Gemma, I know I haven’t always been the best role model when it comes to relationships. After your father….” She trails off, her eyes distant. “Well, I guess I just never really moved on. And afterwards, I always thought it was better for you to see me as a strong, independent woman, who didn’t need a man to make her happy. That’s who I am, who I’ve raised you to be.” Her eyes return to mine. “But that doesn’t mean I want you to give up on your shot at love, baby girl. It doesn’t mean I want you to distrust a good man when he comes into your life.”

  “You don’t know he’s a good man,” I protest. “You don’t know anything about him.”

  “I know you like him.” Her lips twist in the hint of a smile. “Enough to drive all the way out here and talk to your mother about it. That right there tells me everything I need to know.”

  I sigh deeply. “You’re impossible. And even if I did like him, it doesn’t matter. It would never work out between us. We’re from totally different worlds. And then there’s the press… if they dig too deep…. I don’t want you to get hurt…”

  “Gemma.” Mom reaches out a hand and places it on top of mine. “This isn’t about me — it’s about you.”

  “I know that. But it really doesn’t matter, Mom. It just… isn’t going to work out.”

  “Do you really think that? Or are you just looking for an excuse to push him away, because you know he’s not like the other men you’ve dated? Because you know you won’t be able to brush him off or forget him with nothing more than a pint of Ben & Jerry’s?”

  “Mom—”

  “Is it because you know, deep down, if you let yourself fall in love with this man… he might really hurt you?”

  I lean back in my chair, pressing my eyes closed to shut out her words.

  “I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know what I’m feeling, anymore.”

  Her fingers squeeze mine. “You don’t have to, Gemma. You just have to give yourself permission to hope.”

  “For what?” I ask miserably.

  “For the possibility of something truly wonderful. Because a life without hope, without love… that’s really no life at all.”

  ***

  I spend the entire next day in the sunroom with a borrowed canvas and mom’s collection of oils, painting until my mind goes blank. Music drifts quietly from the speakers, but the only other sound is of my brushstrokes as they glide and smudge and layer over one another as the hours slip by. Mom knows better than to disturb me, not that she would — she’s sequestered in her sculpting room, working on a newly commissioned piece for a client. When inspiration strikes, she’s been known to lock herself away for full days at a time, appearing only for the occasional snack or bathroom break.

  It’s been a long time since I last spilled my soul onto canvas — too long. I’ve got so many pent up emotions, my fingers practically shake with need to release them. I paint for hours and barely notice. If not for the gradual lengthening of shadows as the afternoon sun wanes into twilight, I’d never know any time has passed at all.

  When I finally break for the day, it’s nearly dinnertime and my canvas looks as schizophrenic as I’m feeling, covered in bold colors that are seemingly at odds with each other. Sad blues meld into passionate reds, then blur into jealous greens that fade to cowardly yellows — like my mind has been scooped out and poured onto paper, every emotion a paint-splotch.

  Not exactly a Picasso, but it’s mine, and though drained both physically and emotionally, I feel more myself than I have in days. Longer, even.

  I barely touched my paints the whole time I was “dating” Ralph. And even in the weeks and months before then, I felt utterly uninspired every time I sat down at the easel. I was blocked, and I didn’t know why. Worse, there was nothing I could do about it.

  You can’t force art.

  But today, sitting here, with thoughts of Chase swimming thick as gesso in my mind, I’ve felt expressive, in-touch with my own emotions in a way I haven’t been since… maybe ever.

  It’s wonderful and terrifying, happy and heartbreaking all at the same time.

  I can’t think about it — about him — so I slip off my stool and turn my back on the colorful canvas.

  Lifting my arms above my head, I crane my neck and bow my back, sending instant relief to my cramped muscles. Whenever I spend hours painting, I feel like a frail, ninety-year-old with arthritic joints, as though expending so much artistic energy has aged me decades, rather than hours.

  Stomach rumbling, I wander from the enclosed porch into the kitchen, hoping there’s some food in the fridge… and feel my jaw drop open.

  Because my mother isn’t locked away sculpting in the back room.

  She’s sitting right there at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea, casual as can be.

  And Chase Bossy-Is-My-Middle-Name Croft is in the seat across from her.

  ***

  “Hey,” he says casually.

  My mouth gapes. “You did not just say hey to me.”

  His eyebrows go up.

  “You did not just say hey to me like it’s no big deal that you’re here, in my childhood home, sitting at the table across from my mother, having a freaking tea party.”

  His lips quirk up in a shameless grin. “Sorry, sunshine, but I did.”

  A sound escapes my mouth — a scream, a squeal, it’s not easy to classify — and my eyes slide to my mother, who’s looking all too pleased with herself.

  “Mom, tell me you had nothing to do with this.”

  “Gemma, you know I don’t like to lie.”

  Betrayed by my own flesh and blood!

  “Bu…wha…” The sound squeaks from my throat again, louder this time. “This isn’t…”

  They both stare at me, expressions amused.

  “Why?” I finally manage to ask.

  Chase stands. “You weren’t answering your phone.”

  “It’s not my phone,” I say immediately.

  “Fine,” he agrees, stepping closer. “You weren’t answering the phone I gave you.”

  I shuffle back a step, keeping a safe amount of distance between us. “When a girl ignores your calls, it usually means she doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  “You want to talk to me.”

  “I do not!”

  He grins — the good grin, the panty-dropping one — and I feel a few of the butterflies I thought were long-dead flutter back to life in the pit of my stomach.

  Perfect. Just perfect.

  Chase tracks me down and now there are zombie freaking butterflies swarming inside me.

  “Yes you do.” He takes another step closer. “You just don’t know you do, yet.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense,” I snap, but my anger sounds thin, even to my own ears. “Nor does the fact that you’re here.”

  His grin gets bigger.

  “Gemma,” my mother scolds. “That’s not how I raised you to treat your guests.”

  “I didn’t invite him. He’s not my guest.”

  She laughs and looks at Chase. “Don’t mind her. She hates surprises. You should’ve seen her at her tenth birthday party. I invited some of my friends from Ringling Brothers over — really nice people I met after one of their shows in Boston, though the acrobats were a bit snooty, if I’m being honest — and when Gemma walked in and saw the clowns, she just about wet her pan—”

  “Mother!” I interject.

  She continues, as though I haven’t spoken. “Let’s just say, my little Hurricane Gemma can cause quite the stir when she’s caught off guard. Another time, at her high school graduat
ion, I showed up with a bullhorn and a big—”

  “MOTHER!”

  “Anyway, Gemma hates surprises.” Mom smiles placidly into her tea. “And clowns,” she adds with a wink in Chase’s direction.

  He chuckles softly. “I’ll keep that under advisement.”

  “Gemma, why don’t you take Chase for a walk around the colony? Show him the galleries, the harbor. The boats aren’t in the water, yet, but it’s still pretty, and the sun’s shining.”

  “I…” The words dry on my tongue as I look from my mother to the man I’m 99% sure is stalking me, realizing I’ve been thoroughly outnumbered and outmaneuvered. A resigned sigh slips from my lips before I’ve even consciously accepted defeat.

  Chase chuckles again, sensing victory.

  “Oh, and put on something nice, Gem. You’re a mess.”

  “Mother!”

  “Gemma!” she echoes.

  I glance down at myself, feeling my eyes widen as I take in the sight of paint-splattered jeans and a wrinkled tank top. A blush steals across my cheeks when I see I’m not even wearing a bra. There’s paint beneath my fingernails, turpentine on my hands. My hair is piled in a messy bun on top of my head, and I can’t remember whether I bothered to brush it this morning.

  I sigh again, and turn for the door.

  “I’ll go get changed.”

  Chase’s laughter follows me into the next room.

  ***

  On a cloudy, crisp spring evening, the rocky beach just steps from my house is unsurprisingly abandoned. We walk by the water’s edge, only the sounds of small waves crashing in rhythmic kisses against the shore and the occasional sea gull crying out overhead breaking the silence between us.

  Smooth rocks in a million different shapes and sizes crack together beneath our feet as we walk along the empty stretch of shoreline, not touching or saying much of anything. As if a silent dare has been thrown down, and whoever shatters the wall of space between us loses.

  Well, I’m not about to be the loser.

  Nope. No way. Not happening.

  Another few moments pass in silence, and I can’t take it anymore.

  “You’re breaking all my rules, you know.”

  The words fly from my mouth before I can stop them.

  BREAKING NEWS! Gemma Summers loses, yet again.

  Whatever.

  It’s been pretty clear since Day 1 of this — my heart fails in my chest at the word relationship so let’s call it a flirtation, that’s much more benign — that there’s only one power player here when it comes to negotiations, and his name is not Gemma. Which is probably why he doesn’t bother following any of my rules.

  If you hold all the cards, you can play the game however you want.

  Chase glances over at me, skeptical. “Gonna need a translation on that one, sunshine.”

  “The rules.” I keep my eyes glued to the beach and force the words out. “You’re not supposed to meet the parents until later. Way later. Like, two weeks before the wedding, over an awkward dinner at a restaurant with giant booths so no one’s elbows accidentally touch or anything.”

  He looks at me a little strangely, a grin quirking his lips up at the corners. “And you know this how exactly? From your vast experience bringing men home to meet the parents?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “I don’t like you.”

  He chuckles.

  “And yeah, so you’re the first guy that’s ever met my mother — clearly, I’m not the queen of relationships. But even I know there are rules about how this stuff is supposed to happen.”

  “How do you know the rules if you’ve never done this before?” He grins. “Is there a book I should be reading, with a list of these rules? A manual, maybe? Some kind of guide I could reference?”

  “No, smartass.” My eyes narrow further. “It’s an unspoken rule.”

  “If it’s unspoken, how is it a rule?”

  I toss my hands up, exasperated. “It’s just not allowed, okay? It’s frowned upon.”

  “By who?”

  “Me!”

  He shakes his head, grinning.

  I sigh. “It’s like… writing shouty emails in ALL CAPITAL LETTERS, or feeling every single apple in the pile while forty other people are waiting to approach the freaking produce, or not picking up the massive pile of doo-doo your Doberman has left steaming on the sidewalk. You just don’t do it.”

  “Did you just compare me, meeting your mother, to literal dog shit?”

  I ignore his bemused question entirely.

  “Oh! And I firmly believe there should be laws against people who talk on speakerphone in public. Like, hello random dude with the old-school flip phone, I so do not need to hear about your plans to ‘get turnt’ this weekend and ‘work the ladies’ at the club with your ‘boys’ — I’m just trying to ride the subway in peace.”

  “Has anyone ever told you you’ve got a lot of rules?”

  “Don’t even get me started on people who don’t recycle.” I huff in outrage. “Just throw your old car batteries in the ocean while you’re at it, earth-haters!”

  “Gemma.”

  Nostrils flaring, hands planted on my hips, I begin to pace in small circles.

  “There’s no book, no guide, but there are rules. Basic, life rules that all humans should follow. And I’m pretty sure, right at the top of the freaking list, next to no socks with sandals and brush your teeth before the dentist is the rule about not meeting the parents until absolutely necessary. Definitely until you’ve known the person longer than a week.”

  “Gemma.”

  “In fact, I’m not entirely sure it’s ever necessary. In-laws are one of the main causes of marital discord and divorce. I read that online somewhere! Though, come to think of it, it might’ve been on Wikipedia, and I’m not sure how factual or scientific their statistics are, but—”

  “Gemma!”

  “What?” I snap, freezing in place as my gaze flies back to him.

  When our eyes meet and I realize I’ve been shouting nonsense for the past several minutes, I instantly feel my cheeks blaze with heat.

  God, I’m a dork.

  Chase doesn’t look like he minds, though. In fact, he’s grinning wider than I’ve ever seen.

  “Your mom was right.”

  “Huh?” I ask, brilliant as ever.

  “You really do hate surprises.”

  He’s not at all apologetic, when he says this. In fact, he sounds downright pleased with himself as he closes the distance between us, so he’s fully invading my space, his front plastered against mine.

  “Because they never end well,” I whisper, craning my neck to keep eye contact and trying not to melt at his proximity.

  His eyes flicker down to my lips. “This one could.”

  Danger!

  I force myself to step away and keep walking down the beach in resolute silence, determined to hold out until I’ve gotten some answers from him. Specifically about the smoking hot blonde who may or may not be his fiancée.

  And this time, I’m absolutely not going to be the one who caves first.

  (Seriously, this time.)

  We walk for a few more minutes, long enough for my blood to cool and my embarrassment to fade away. We’re nearly at the end of the beach, when he finally speaks.

  “It’s beautiful, here.”

  Chase stops, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jacket, and looks out over the inlet.

  “Yeah,” I agree, bending to pick up a small, flat stone. I test its weight in my hand before flinging it toward the water, and watch with satisfaction as it skips across the surface, one-two-three-four-five-six, before plunking through the waves and plunging to the bottom of the harbor.

  “You look like you’ve done that before.”

  “More times than I can count.” I shrug. “There’s not a heck of a lot to do in Rocky Neck, especially for a kid.”

  “Did you like growing up, here?”

  I don’t look at him when I answer. “
It was quiet. Beautiful. The kind of place where no one ever really leaves. Kids grow up, get married, buy a house down the street from the one they grew up in, and the cycle restarts.”

  “You left.”

  I nod. “That life… it wasn’t for me. I knew that before I was old enough to put it into words.”

  “None of the boys in town caught your eye?” he asks, his tone playful. “No high school sweethearts tempted you to stay?”

  I know he’s trying to keep things light, but I can’t. Looking at him just reminds me of the fact that no one’s ever temped me… not like he has, at least.

  “No,” I whisper to the waves. “I’ve never been in love.”

  He’s silent, absorbing my heavy words like the sea did my stone, and I continue before he can speak.

  “I mean, sure, I’ve known love. I’ve loved — my mom, my friends, my work. And they’ve loved me in return. But I’ve never been in love.” My voice drops so low, I doubt he can hear my next words. “I’m not even sure I believe in it.”

  Chase is silent for so long, I don’t think he’s going to speak at all. When he finally responds, he says something I’m not expecting.

  “I have.” He clears his throat. “Been in love, that is.”

  I try — and fail — to ignore the irrational pang of hurt and jealously his words send shooting through my chest.

  “At least, I thought it was love, at the time,” he continues. “I was young. Twenty-three, fresh out of college. Grandfather had retired, by then, given control of the company to Jameson.”

  “Your uncle?” I ask, recalling Shelby’s Croft-family-tree lesson a few days ago.

  Chase hesitates a beat. “Yes.”

  I don’t see him move, but I feel him take a step closer.

  “Jameson placed me in charge of one of our New York subsidiaries. It was my first real shot at proving myself and, in all honesty, I was terrified I’d fuck it up. That’s when I met Vanessa.”