Been Searching For You

by Nicole Evelina

  I opened the door. Victor stood before me in a gray sweater over a blue shirt and gray slacks. The blue really brought out his eyes.

  “You look lovely,” he said before I could say hello.

  “Thanks.” Remembering Mia, I shoved her out the door past him. “You remember Mia. She was just leaving.”

  “Bye.” She wiggled her fingers at us. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “That rules out absolutely nothing,” I muttered.

  “Best way to start an evening,” Victor said, grinning and taking my hand. “No rules, just all the possibility in the world.”

  The restaurant Victor chose was upscale and trendy, perfectly in keeping with his world and predilections. Looking at the other patrons, I felt a little overdressed, but I subscribed to the Mae West school of thought that said a woman can never be overdressed or overeducated.

  “So you never wanted to do anything other than paint?” I asked as the waiter set a colorful salad in front of me.

  “No. I swear, from the first time I touched finger paints, I was in love. I can even still picture that first painting.” His eyes went dreamy with the memory, then he barked a laugh. “Actually, it wasn’t all that different from some of the abstract stuff I do now.”

  I laughed, trying to keep the water I had just swallowed from spraying out of my nose.

  “But all through school, art was really the only thing that held my attention. I kind of liked math but only geometry and other things I could apply to my art.” He looked at me shyly over his glass. “I have to admit I wasn’t the best student. I went to the Art Institute for college, so I don’t really have what you would consider a traditional education.”

  “That’s okay—not everyone follows the same path. How’s your contractor work going?”

  “Well, with the success of the gallery showing, I’m getting to use more and more of my time on my art. Right now I’m focusing on a new sculpture collection.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “I’m pretty good with my hands.”

  “I bet you are.” Mia probably would have followed that up with a request for a demonstration, but I couldn’t force the words past my lips.

  He met my gaze with smoldering eyes. “You have no idea.”

  Our entrees arrived then, and conversation turned to more mundane topics as we both balanced speaking with eating. He asked about my writing, and I told him about my ongoing struggle to balance a full-time job with writing my second book and a social life.

  He looked concerned. “I don’t want to hinder your art. Believe me, I know what it’s like to struggle to find enough hours in the day.”

  I placed my hand over his with a gentle squeeze. “You could never hinder me. In fact, I’ve noticed I’m more inspired when I’m with you. The day after the gallery opening, I wrote two thousand words after work. Most nights, I don’t write anything at all, so that more than doubles what I get out on a normal night.”

  He placed his other hand over mine and leaned toward me. “Maybe I’m your muse.”

  “Maybe you are.” I leaned in so that our lips met ever so softly.

  Our waiter chose that moment to offer us dessert, and we pulled apart sheepishly.

  Once a piece of something chocolate that likely would someday give me a heart attack sat in front of me, I asked Victor, “So how did your meeting with the guy from Japan go? Was he interested in your work?”

  Victor visibly brightened. “Yeah. He said he really liked what he saw. He bought three pieces right then and there and said he wants to talk to some of his artist friends and other collectors back home. He thinks there may be some opportunity for me in his country.”

  “That’s so exciting! I bet Katrina was thrilled.”

  “Oh, she is. She’s determined to make me an international superstar.”

  “As you should be.”

  I held out my fork to him. He leaned across the table and ate from it, closing his eyes as he savored the rich chocolate and made sounds of delight. Before he could sit back in his seat, I stopped him.

  “You have a little bit right here.” I dragged my thumb down next to his lip, then I licked the chocolate off it.

  His expression turned sultry. “Just so you know, dessert doesn’t have to be the end of the night.”

  I played coy. “Whatever could you mean?”

  “Whatever you wish me to.” But his eyes told a different story. They betrayed how he hoped the night would end, and his plans went far beyond a good-night kiss.

  I smiled at him as the waiter took away my plate and left the check for Victor. “All right, Don Juan. What do you say we pay the man and see what kind of trouble we can get into? I hear paint can be all kinds of fun.”

  He grinned. “I love the way you think.”

  Back in his cozy apartment in Logan Square, it didn’t take long for things to get hot and heavy, clothing discarded in favor of the kiss of moonlight on bare skin. I was panting by the time we broke apart, skin slick with sweat.

  Victor was already fumbling in the bedside drawer for a condom, which brought me sharply back to reality. Here was the dreaded moment of truth. Victor knew about my past, or lack thereof, but it made sense he thought it was time. And it was—or least it should have been.

  Was I ready? I was way too old to be having this internal debate, but the knot in my stomach told me the answer was no. Damn Nick and his violent temper. Damn my romantic fantasies. If it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t have this sexual hang-up. I could just ignore it, do what everyone else did, and get this over with. I willed myself to say yes, but instead I shook my head.

  “I’m sorry, Victor.” I sat up, my back toward him, and hugged my arms around myself. “I can’t—not yet at least. I should go. You deserve someone better, someone who can meet all of your needs. I can’t. I’m… broken.”

  Victor kissed my shoulder softly. “You aren’t broken. You just need time. We haven’t really been together that long. I can wait.”

  I looked over my shoulder at him. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.” He turned me back toward him, his expression suddenly devilish. “Besides, there are plenty of other things we can do to keep each other entertained.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  July

  I had a mental image of cartoon calendar pages flying off the wall—that was how fast the next few weeks passed. I was constantly with Victor or Alex. For a girl who was used to being alone, having two attractive men in my life daily was a pleasant shock.

  My days were spent either writing at my agency office or with Alex at his, working out the particulars of the rest of our plan for the next nine months. Most of my nights were with Victor––he and I were actually able to see one another on a regular basis––and he was being incredibly patient as I struggled to get over the complex mental hurdles that kept me from making him my lover. I couldn’t help but feel stupid going through this at my age, but his willingness to wait for me, to try to understand my inner conflict, made me like him all the more, though I wasn’t quite yet in love with him. Yet, some part of me knew his patience had its limits and I’d better figure out what was wrong with me soon.

  But there was so much to do on the University campaign I hardly had time to think. When I wasn’t writing, I was contacting publicists and literary organizations, libraries and publishers, making arrangements for our events. When he wasn’t teaching, advising students, or grading papers, Alex was on the phone with or emailing donors, parents, and prospective high schools. He reached out as far away as St. Louis, Bloomington, and Kansas City for financial backing, support, and pledges of participation. Because of his teaching schedule and my other responsibilities, we often ended up meeting late in the day and into the evening.

  One hot evening toward the end of July, the air conditioning in Walker Hall faltered, doing little to relieve the sweltering summer heat trapped in the old stone building. We flung open all the windows in his office, capturing a soft cross breeze that I liked to imagine came off t
he lake even though we were too far away for that.

  “I’m really surprised by how much easier this is flowing with you. I think it’s because you’re so organized.” Alex gestured at the color-coded folders strewn around us on the floor of his office as we went over each aspect of the campaign.

  Self-consciously, I tucked my hair behind my ear. “It’s in my nature. I have to have a plan for everything, or I freak out.”

  Alex sat back, watching me. “What else is in your nature, Annabeth?”

  I looked up from the box of Chinese takeout I was picking at, trying to figure out if he was joking or if that was a real question. “Seriously?”

  “Yes. I’d like to get to know you. God knows we spend enough time together.”

  I hugged my knees, suddenly uncomfortable. “Okay. Um, I’m a worrier, but you probably guessed that.” I racked my suddenly empty brain for things to say. “I’m absolutely no good at small talk.” I laughed nervously.

  Alex smiled. “Say no more.” He stacked our folders into a neat pile next to him. “I think we’re done with these for tonight, right?”

  “Yeah, I don’t think I can think about books anymore this week. Says the girl who should go home and write.” I started to get up, but Alex grabbed my arm. The pulse that passed between us was so strong I sat back down without meaning to.

  “I didn’t mean I wanted you to leave,” Alex said, sitting down with his own carton and chopsticks. “It’s Friday night. We deserve a little downtime. I was serious about wanting to get to know you. You say you’re not good at small talk, so let’s try it this way—remember those ‘getting to know you’ quizzes that used to go around by email in the nineties? Let’s pretend we’re filling out one of those. It’ll give us a place to start.” He gazed out the window as if a list were written the stars. “I already know Mia calls you ‘Pookie,’ so we can dispense with the nickname question—”

  “No, no, no. It doesn’t work that way. We both have to answer the question. I don’t know yours yet.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t have one.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you do. Everyone has at least one. I bet your students have names for you.”

  “They probably do. But there are many, many legal reasons why I don’t want to know what they are.” He popped a strip of beef and broccoli stem into his mouth.

  “Come on, your parents had to call you something. I’ll give you another one of mine. My dad calls me ‘kitten.’ Come on, think. If you don’t give me one, I’ll make one up for you,” I threatened.

  He chortled, chewing. “My mom used to call me ‘Alexander the Great,’ but I doubt that counts now.”

  “It counts. And I like it. I may start calling you that.”

  He wagged a finger at me. “If you do that in public, I will fire you.”

  I held up my hands in a gesture of surrender. “All right. I give up.”

  “Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted by the writing pixie—that’s your new name, by the way—what’s your favorite color?”

  “Oh, so now I get another nickname when you won’t divulge a current one. That’s fair. But I like this one, so you’re forgiven. And the answer is blue. Yours?”

  “Same.”

  “Flower?” he asked.

  “Blue hydrangeas. My dad and I grew them back home.”

  “Where is back home?”

  “Des Moines. My parents still live there. What about you? Are you a lifelong Chicagoan?”

  “I am. Except for four years at Princeton, I’ve always lived here. This city has been in my blood for generations.”

  “Princeton, eh? Did you row crew?” I figured he probably had. It was one of their most competitive sports, even turning out Olympians.

  “Of course. I actually coach for one of the boys’ schools here in town. It’s the only sport that I ever felt was worth my time.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I don’t know. There’s something about being on the water and moving in time with seven other people that’s almost…” He searched for the right word.

  “Meditative?”

  “Yes! I don’t suppose you row?”

  “I have. I took lessons for a while, but I never really got the hang of the oar. I kept knocking it into the person in front of me. Plus, I lived in fear of falling into the water while trying to get into or out of the boat. I’m not exactly graceful.”

  “I have a hard time believing that.”

  “Oh, give me time. I’ll fall over or off of something. Or nothing. It doesn’t really matter.” I nervously picked at my fortune cookie, getting crumbs all over my lap as I broke it open.

  “You have to read it out loud,” Alex said.

  I rolled my eyes. “And add ‘in bed’ to the end. I know the drill.” I opened the narrow slip of paper. “‘You will prosper if you speak your truth with sincerity.’ Wow. That’s generic.”

  “But it fits you. That reminds me, I saw your piece in the Huffington Post.”

  “You did?” I asked, wishing the floor would swallow me.

  “Yes. I thought it was very well done. Being single is hard, especially as we get older. It’s like society brands you as abnormal if you haven’t committed to someone, anyone, by a certain age. I’m willing to bet what you said resonated with a lot of people. I know it did with me, and I’m a thirty-seven-year-old guy. Women probably related even more.”

  “The comments were interesting. As on the blog, some people loved it and said I was spot on while others said it was no wonder I’m still single.” I crossed my legs and leaned toward Alex. “But I’m surprised you related to it. You seem to have it all together.”

  Alex emitted a self-effacing snort. “Hardly. It’s tough when you want to be with someone who is really ready to commit and everyone around you just wants to have a good time.”

  “Or when you have standards you can’t express but aren’t willing to compromise.”

  “Exactly.”

  We lapsed into a pensive silence then, both lost in our own thoughts. Outside, crickets sang from the bushes while other insects clicked and chirped their own contributions to the music of the night.

  “You know, I’ve always loved the sound of summer evenings. To me, there’s nothing more relaxing than the chirping of crickets.” I turned to look at him. “Have you noticed that they get more active as the weather cools? I like to think they’re singing the earth to sleep for winter.”

  “‘And, down the mist-enfolded lanes/Grown pensive now with evening/See, lingering as the twilight wanes/Lover with lover wandering,’” he recited.

  “That’s beautiful.”

  “‘Autumn Twilight’ by Arthur Symons. He wrote in the early nineteen hundreds.” Alex rose and crossed over to one of the many bookshelves. He pulled down an old, fraying hardback with a red cover long since faded to pink and held it out to me. “His collected works. I think you’ll really like him.”

  Fingering the gilt lettering, I looked at him. “Thank you. How do you know about him? I don’t think he’s someone we studied in school.”

  “I did. Poetry was my minor. It’s kind of a passion of mine.”

  “Hence your poetry in music class. I think I’m starting to understand you, Alexander the Great.” I stood, brushing cookie crumbs off my skirt. “Do you write it as well?”

  “Occasionally. I never fooled myself into thinking I could make a career out of it. It’s more of a hobby than anything else.”

  “Hey, we all need those. But don’t undervalue yourself. I bet you have more talent than you think.”

  He smiled. It may have been my imagination, but there seemed to be so many unspoken words in that small gesture. I silently wished the words out of him, begging him to say the things voiced only in my dreams, deep within my heart.

  That was when I realized I was falling for him. I liked Victor, but I was developing quite an affection for Alex. I’d found him attractive from the moment we met, but my lust had been slowly transforming
inside the chrysalis of our professional obligations into something much deeper. But there was no way I could tell him—not while we were working together.

  And what of Victor? We were getting more serious, and I was happy about that, but if given the chance, I’d still have picked Alex over him. What did that say about my feelings for Victor? Was I just biding my time until Alex was available, or did I truly care for Victor? Was it possible to carry a torch for two men at once?

  Silently, I cursed the ill timing of my duplicitous heart. I’d seen enough romantic movies to know no good could come of this. Someone was going to get hurt; I just hoped it wasn’t me.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The following Monday, I came in to work to see Jenna’s old office lit up and clean. Gone were her messy piles of unfiled meeting notes and stacks of project folders. For the first time in my three years at the agency, I could see the top of her desk. It had even been dusted. In place of the mess was a welcome basket filled with a coffee cup—bearing the agency logo, of course—assorted teas and coffees, snack foods, and a few gift cards to local eateries within walking distance. In the center of the desk was a fresh notepad, waiting to greet its new owner.

  They must have hired Jenna’s replacement. That was fast. Whoever they’d found must have been perfect for the position. Although anyone would have been better than Jenna. I glanced at the name plate on the door, but it hadn’t been filled in yet.

  Before I could retreat to my cube, Laini and Rick flagged me down.

  “Annabeth, good. I’m glad you’re here. I’d like to introduce you to our new account executive,” Laini said.

  The two pressed their backs against the walls of the narrow hall, allowing a man to pass between them. When he looked up, my heart iced over. Those eyes, so blue, like hidden pools of the purest water. I had spent most of my life looking into them, but the last time they had been cast my way, they were filled with hatred and pain. I’d certainly never expected to see them in this city, my new home, much less in my workplace.