by R. R. Banks
Rupert sits up, alert, his eyes widened in surprise. He knows all about Darby. I've told him about her over drinks many, many times. Shared all of my regrets about how I handled the situation, and in my sloppier moments, how much I miss her to this very fucking day. Yeah, he's very well acquainted with the Darby-shaped hole in my heart.
“The Darby?”
I nod. “Yeah, the Darby,” I say. “The one and only.”
He whistles low and sits back in his seat. I can see his mind working, which means I need to nip this in the bud before he gets rolling, because I already know exactly where his mind is headed.
“She made it abundantly clear that she has no desire to talk to me again,” I say. “None, whatsoever.”
“And that's stopped you – when, exactly?”
“This is different.”
“Oh?” he asks. “How so?”
“She has a legitimate right to be pissed at me,” I say and shrug. “I don't deserve her forgiveness.”
Rupert smirks and crosses his legs, putting on his serious “fixer” face. He suddenly seems very invested in this – which concerns me. Rupert is one of the exceedingly rare few people who can talk me into doing anything – even when it goes against my better judgment, and common sense.
“Ok,” he says. “But, plenty of people have a legitimate right to be pissed at you. I mean, no offense, but you can be kind of an asshole sometimes.”
I let out a wry chuckle. “That's true,” I say. “But, those people aren't Darby. I can't explain it, but it's just different with her.”
“Look, she's pissed and has a right to be. I get it. Although, you also got stuck between a rock and a hard place because of that prick brother of hers.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say.
We are all very familiar with Mason White around the office. Hell, in this industry, everyone knows Mason White. Somewhere along the line, someone nicknamed him Ahab after his crazed relentlessness in going after people like me – successful people. Yeah, he's snared some of the shady operators in the industry – much to my delight, to be honest, since it helps eliminate competition – but, he also pushes boundaries. He pushes the fuck out of them. When Mason White gets a taste of blood, he turns into a zealot, and pushes until he brings down whoever his white whale of the week is.
The man is relentless and cruel, often doling out harsher punishments than a violation requires. He seems to revel in not only taking people down, but in completely destroying them, reducing their lives to nothing but a pile of rubble. It's obviously how he gets his rocks off, and honestly, it's disgusting.
“Darby is a grown woman,” he says. “Free to make her own choices.”
“Yeah, I know. But, it's probably all for the best. No use dredging up old ghosts like that. They usually end up fucking you in the end.”
“Fuck Mason White,” Rupert snaps. “He can't touch you. You and this company are above reproach.”
“No, but he could still go after Pops,” I say. “Like he so gleefully reminded me all those years ago, there is no statute of limitations on murder.”
Rupert looks at me for a long moment. “Let me ask you something,” he says, “you really think Pops has some bodies on him? You really think Mason can pin anything on him?”
As much as I want to deny it, I’m not confident that I’m right. The simple truth of the matter is, I really don't know. I'd met Pops after he'd gotten out of the game, and he never seemed to want to talk about his past, so I didn’t push it. I figured since it was his past, I had no business in it. If he wanted to talk to me, that was one thing. I'd be more than happy to listen. But, in all the years he's been a part of my life, he hasn't.
“I honestly don't know, man,” I say. “I just shouldn't risk it. I don't know what I was thinking when I saw her. I guess I just went a little crazy thinking about fate, and second chances, and all.”
“Or maybe you didn't,” he says. “Darby's been the gold standard you compare every woman in your life to. Hell, even when you're with your model of the week, I see it in your eyes, Carter. There's not nearly the same shine and life in them as when you're just talking about Darby.”
“Bullshit.”
“Nah, it’s very real,” Rupert says and laughs. “Maybe not verbally, but I can tell you’re always judging them against Darby in your head.”
I want to argue further, but I have to admit that he's probably right. It's not a conscious thing, but I can't really deny it. Darby is my gold standard.
Though, I hate to admit it simply because it means no woman will ever be good enough, and I'm either going to spend my time alone, or settle.
“Maybe you need to hash this out with Pops,” he says. “That way, you can see if Mason even has anything the two of you need to be worried about. Anything he can go after. At least now, you have more than enough money to hire some top-notch legal representation if it comes to that, and fight that vindictive, controlling son of a bitch.”
“And then what?” I ask. “What's the game plan after that?”
“And then you do whatever the hell it takes, to catch your white whale,” he says. “It's not often you get a second chance. You know that. Maybe she was there at the gala to remind you of that fact. Now, it’s up to you to capitalize on it.”
I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “I don't know man,” I say. “I just don't know. Sometimes, it's best to just let old ghosts die.”
Rupert tilts his head and looks at me, a mischievous grin tugging the corners of his mouth upward.
“Are you getting soft on me?” he asks. “Right before my eyes?”
I laugh. “
Don't you have some work you should be doing?” I ask. “Something to justify your obscene paycheck?”
“I'm doing it right now,” he replies. “I'm the unofficial office shrink.”
I stand up and laugh. “Get out of my office,” I say. “Go play shrink for somebody else. I have a meeting I need to get to.”
Laughing, Rupert stands, and heads for the door. Before going through and getting back out on the floor though, he turns to me, and his expression grows serious.
“Look,” he says. “I know what Darby meant to you, and still means to you. And it's rare that you get a second chance like this. So, you need to step up and do something about it.”
“I appreciate it, man,” I say. “But, that was a long time ago. Another lifetime. She says she's moved on, and told me to do the same.”
He shrugs. “What else was she gonna say?” he asks. “The truth is, if she felt nothing for you anymore, she wouldn't have cared enough to make a spectacle of herself in the middle of the gallery. That kind of anger takes passion. Love, even. That doesn’t happen when someone’s moved on.”
I laugh heartily. “Paging, Dr. Freud,” I tease.
“Just giving you food for thought,” he says. “You apparently need it.”
As soon as Rupert leaves, I grab my coat. I need to head down to the conference room to meet with some prospective clients.
The whole time though, Rupert's words echo in my ears. If Darby truly felt nothing, would she have been angry enough to yell at me?
Or was Rupert just making that shit up as he went along? It wouldn’t be the first time.
As I step into the conference room, I do my best to shift gears in my mind. I can't be tied up in her, and I need to do my best to focus on the task at hand – my clients.
It's not easy though. Darby's face continues to float through my mind, and I feel the sting of her words, and the pain and the hurt hiding behind them. I also remember hearing a longing. A sense of regretful yearning.
Or, I'm full of shit and making it up as I go along too.
10
Darby
With the instruction portion of my class over, I walk around the room, looking at my student's work. Unfortunately, I'm more than a little distracted. My thoughts keep drifting back to the scene at the Sheldonhurst Holiday Gala. Drifting back to Carter. Almost a week's worth of distance hasn’
t dulled the memories at all, even though I finally got the answers I've wanted for years. The trouble is, I don't really know what to do with it all now. What am I supposed to think?
I guess you really should be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it. I'm not sure what to do with all the thoughts and emotions plaguing me. I'm not sure what to think or how to feel.
On the one hand, the fact that Mason interfered with my relationship infuriates me to no end. I'm going to have a few choice words with him about that. On the other hand, though, Carter allowed him to interfere with our relationship. And he did it all for a man who may or may not have actually killed someone. Or multiple someones.
I always thought Carter wasn’t the type who’d let himself be pushed around – that he would always stand up for what was right. Back then, I really thought that Carter loved me. Come to find out though, that love was conditional. And apparently, I was behind some washed-up gangster in Carter Bishop's list of priorities.
Maybe it's not the charitable or kind way to view the situation – I don't understand, or really know, the dynamics between Carter and Pops. That was one part of himself and his life he hadn't shared with me by the time things ended.
But we never progressed to that point, leaving me only with my feelings and perceptions of it all. Right or wrong, that's all I've got.
“You okay, Ms. White?”
I turn at the sound of my name to see Emilio looking back at me, concern written on his face. I flash him a smile I hope looks more genuine than it feels.
“I'm fine, Emilio,” I say. “Thanks for asking.”
He cocks his head. “You sure?” he asks. “You look a little upset.”
I wave him off and laugh. “Nah, I'm good.”
“She's having boy troubles.”
I turn to the girl at the easel next to Emilio's, and see Jenna looking back at me, a knowing smile on her lips. Jenna isn't the best artist in my class, but she's sweet and she tries hard. She's also perceptive as hell and seems to know a lot more than a girl her age should.
She also likes to talk. A lot.
“I’m not having boy troubles, thank you very much, Jenna.”
She shrugs. “It's not hard to see, Ms. White,” she says. “It's written all over your face.”
“Oh, is it now?”
She nods. “A woman gets a certain look in her eye when she's dealing with boys,” she says, dabbing a little color to her canvas. “It's different from say, car trouble. Or money problems.”
“Oh, well thank you for that, ” I say and laugh, trying to diffuse the feelings of tension suddenly racing through my body.
“If some guy is giving you grief, I'll kick his ass, Ms. W,” Emilio says, his face earnest. “Nobody messes with you. Not while I'm around.”
This time, a genuine smile crosses my face. I'm touched.
“Thank you, Emilio,” I say. “But really, I'm fine. It's nothing.”
“I wouldn't say it's nothing,” Jenna chimes in. “It's definitely something.”
“Well then, let's just say it's not something that's appropriate for a classroom setting,” I say. “Fair enough?”
Jenna smiles and shrugs, happy that she'd scored a point by getting me to admit that my troubles are in fact, boy-related. I shake my head and grin. I love my kids. As quirky and frustrating as they can be sometimes, they really are good kids, and it’s nice to know they have my back.
“If you ever need some schmuck's ass kicked, you just let me know, Ms. W,” Emilio says. “I know people.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I reply. “Thanks, Emilio. Now, get back to your piece. I'm anxious to see how it turns out.”
Strolling around the room, I try to focus my mind and get my head on right. If my kids can see through me, then I really need to calm down a little.
“Ms. White, I'm out of a couple of colors I need,” Jenna calls over to me.
“Go ahead and get what you need out of the supply closet,” I say.
Standing behind a boy named Aaron, I cock my head and look at his work, trying to figure out where he's going with it. It's more abstract than the assignment had called for, but I can't deny that it's striking. Bold strokes, subdued tones – it's an incredibly moody and atmospheric piece. It's surprising to me, because he's never shown this sort of artistic flair before. He's usually quiet and keeps to himself. His work – both papers and paintings – are usually done by rote. They're uninspired, without any sort of real emotion behind them. This is something completely new from him.
“Aaron, that's a beautiful piece,” I say. “Very striking.”
He gives me a small, unsure little smile. “Thank you,” he says, his voice soft.
“May I ask what inspired it?”
He shrugs. “Just – stuff.”
“Ms. White,” Jenna calls from across the room. “We're out of a few of the colors I need.”
I turn and see her standing beside the supply cabinet – and see just how empty it is. I turn back to Aaron and smile.
“I want to talk to you about this piece a little more,” I say. “I'm very impressed by it so far.”
“Okay,” he says, his voice a bit subdued. “Thanks.”
“I'm really excited to see the completed piece,” I reply.
I walk over to the cabinet and feel my heart sink when I see the dwindling amount of supplies inside. I'd sent in my re-order request a week and a half ago. The cabinet should be full.
“Okay, well, see if you can get the colors you need from somebody else,” I say. “We'll get the supply situation sorted out.”
“Okay,” Jenna chirps brightly, and bounds off.
I walk back to my desk and pull up my email on the computer. Scrolling through the messages, I notice I have an unopened message from Friday. I quickly open it and see that it's from the textbook manager, informing me that my request for supplies has been denied due to recent budget cuts.
“How in the hell am I supposed to teach without the proper tools?” I growl to myself.
“Ms. White,” I hear Jenna's voice call out.
“Yes, Jenna? What is it?” I call back as I stare at the computer screen, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice.
“I think that thing that's not appropriate in a classroom setting is officially in the classroom setting,” she says and giggles.
I look up and feel the blood in my veins turn into ice. Standing in the doorway of the classroom is none other than Carter Bishop himself.
He's leaning against the doorframe, wearing a well-tailored black designer suit with a metallic blue tie – the only splash of color in a suit that perfectly clings to his body. His hair is stylish, and he cuts a striking figure. I notice a few of the girls in class have their heads together, their eyes locked on Carter as they whisper excitedly amongst themselves.
I walk quickly to the back of the room and usher him out the door, closing it behind me – though, not before I hear a chorus of giggles and kissy noises. Damn kids. When I'm alone in the hallway with Carter, my cheeks burning, I quickly turn and look up at him.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” I ask.
“Well, something you said the other night stuck with me,” he says.
“Oh? And what was that?” I ask. “Because it clearly wasn't when I said I didn’t want to see you again. You'd think that part would have gotten through that thick skull of yours.”
He gives me a smirk. “Yeah, it got through okay. I'm just choosing to ignore that for now,” he says. “Actually, what you said that stuck with me, was you telling me that I know nothing about your life. I'm a man who likes to know things.”
“Great. Good for you,” I say, and turn back to the door. “Thanks for the update. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a class –”
“So, I did a little homework,” he says.
“Homework?” I question, as I turn around to face him again. “Why would you do that, Carter?”
He shrugs. “Because I want to get t
o know you again, Darby,” he says. “I know that you're not married. Don't have a boyfriend. I know you spend a lot of time at your studio and have had a number of successful shows. I also know that despite having enough money that would allow you to not work, and focus strictly on your own art, you love teaching – and judging by what I saw in that classroom, your students love having you as their teacher.”
I feel a nervous tremor float through my body. “How long were you standing there?”
“Long enough.”
“Great, so you're stalking me now,” I say. “That's not creepy or anything.”
“Darby, I really feel like I ran into you at the gala for a reason,” he replies. “You know I'm not a man given to flights of fancy or talk of fate or any of that garbage. In this case though, I really feel like something up there, or out there, was trying to tell me something. Was trying to tell us something. I was there, with you, at the same time, for a reason.”
“Yeah, it was clearly to ruin my night,” I hiss. “A night that was important to me, and I was really looking forward to, by the way.”
He laughs softly. “I see your spirit hasn't dimmed in the last ten years.”
“No, it hasn't,” I say. “But, my tolerance for bullshit has. Drastically.”
“Clearly,” he says.
I let out a frustrated breath and fold my arms over my chest. “What do you want, Carter?”
“I want to take you to dinner,” he says. “I want to talk and get to know you again.”
My eyes widen, and I scoff at him. “You're not serious,” I say. “Please tell me you're not serious right now.”
“Serious as the proverbial heart attack.”
I glance up and down the hallway, concerned that my boss will happen by, and see me standing out there with him, rather than in the classroom with my students. You know, where I should be. Doing my job.
“I don't think so,” I say. “You should probably leave now.”
“Not until you agree to have dinner with me.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Then I'm not going anywhere.”
“Carter
