I wince, shaking my head and laughing a pained laugh. “Well, I hope someday they realize how lucky they were to have you as their teacher. My 12-year-old self would’ve loved to have a cool teacher like you.”
“I bet.” Pauline’s dark eyes twinkle. “You would’ve totally had a crush on me, Mol. Am I right? Yeah, I’m right. Come on. Admit it.”
I wave my hands. “Hey, I deny nothing. You’re hot, funny, and smart, totally my type.” Then I lean back in my chair and laugh softly. “I had a huge crush on my tenth grade English teacher, you know.” Eyelids fluttering, I fake a dreamy sigh. “Ms. Abigail Brindle. She read Shakespeare with a posh English accent and wore these blue-framed glasses on a rainbow-beaded chain. Oh, and—scandal—she had a tattoo on her ankle.”
“Of?”
“Well…” I cringe. “Winnie-the-Pooh. But the mere idea of a tattoo was sexy and, you know, dangerous to me. Forbidden. And so beautiful. To make your own skin into a canvas, your body into art…” I think of Ash’s tattoos and blush deeply. Self-conscious, I shovel the torn napkin bits into my hand and crumple them into a tight ball. “I swore I’d get one when I was old enough, but my parents were against it, and then, later, Juliette vetoed it.”
I gaze down at my uninked forearm, and my shoulders rise and fall. I toss the napkin ball onto the table, shaking my head. “I don’t know what I would get, anyway. A tattoo is so permanent, and nothing in my life feels permanent right now.”
Pauline’s hand covers mine, gives my fingers a warm squeeze. “You’ll always have me, Molly.”
I smile at her and squeeze back.
“Listen. Give me a call this week so we can work out the details for Saturday.”
“You really don’t have to cook for me—”
“But I’m going to, anyway. So shut your yapper, sexy.”
I let go of her hand and pour the rest of my golden-battered veggies onto her empty paper plate. “Take this humble offering, at least.”
“Molly.” Pauline’s eyes flicker, concerned. “Are you sure you aren’t hungry?”
“No. Not yet. I’m still…digesting things, you know?”
“Mm.” She stares at me, unblinking, and something hot sparks in her gaze. “If you need any help chewing up a certain lying, cheating actress, you just let me know, and I’ll—”
“Thanks, Paul.” A swell of gratitude warms me from the inside out. I have to blink back tears. “I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through these past two months without you. It just…really means a lot to me. Your being there, I mean.”
She softens, smiling. But, just like that, her stern teacher expression takes over, narrowing her brows and straightening her mouth into a sharp, uncompromising line. “Now, don’t make me cry. I’ve eaten so much grease today, I’d probably leak oil instead of tears. Go on—make me laugh. Say something funny.”
I sniffle. “Something funny.”
Pauline throws an onion ring at me. “Your standup needs a little work, Mol.”
“Good thing I’m a humorless museum curator, then. Speaking of which…” I glance at my watch and grimace. “I’m already going to be late getting back.”
“Afraid Georgie’ll give you a tardy slip?”
“No, but I’m kind of developing a reputation for lateness.”
“Better that than a reputation as a lying, cheating, plane-hopping, flowers-sending, door-knocking—”
“Door-knocking?”
“Sorry. My brain’s a little soft right now. Fried-food coma. I’ll come up with a much more insulting insult once all of this grease sweats out of my pores.”
“I’m sure you will.” I smile weakly, standing up and brushing a few stray crumbs from my wrinkled lap. I toddle a little on my heels, feeling woozy.
“Seriously, Mol. If you want me to come over tonight—to referee, run interference, coach you from the sidelines, or perform any other sports-related sidekicking—just say so. I have to admit: I wouldn’t mind giving Juliette a piece of my fist. Er, I mean, mind.” She smiles sheepishly, polishing her knuckles on her shirt.
I sling my purse over my shoulder as I laugh and sigh at the same time, emitting a kind of breathy groan.
It’s no secret: Pauline has never been fond of Juliette.
Ha. Scratch that.
Pauline has always hated Juliette.
She pulled me aside during our housewarming party to urge me—or, really, beg me—to reconsider my decision to live with ‘that actress.’ She has sneaky eyes, Pauline said, and I swear she checked out my butt when I dropped my fork on the floor. And she winked at me!
I shook my head and laughed, patting her arm as she huffed and fumed in full-throttle protective lioness mode, hair springing in brown coils around her head. Sure, Juliette was flirtatious, I told her. That was her nature, part of the reason I fell for her, to be truthful. But she only had eyes, sneaky or otherwise, for me. I asked Pauline to have some faith in my judgment, to give me a little credit.
Juliette loved me, and I loved her.
What else could possibly matter? I asked her.
I swallow the lump in my throat now, teeth tearing at my bottom lip. Hindsight, lacking a time machine, is useless, and I have enough problems in the present; I won’t benefit from reflecting on the past. “I think I can handle her by myself, but thanks. Any parting words of wisdom?” I smile at her hopefully.
Pauline chews on a fried green pepper, looking contemplative. Then she clears her throat, straightens her shoulders, and sings—off-key, with one hand pressed against her chest: “A dream is a wish your heart makes when you’re fast asleep… If you know what I mean.”
“Oh. Right.” My throat squeaks out an embarrassing laughing-choking sound, and I trip over my feet as I wave, murmur, “See you,” and slowly back away and whirl around, aiming for my car.
Earlier, I’d made the humiliating confession to Pauline about my all-night-long sex dreams of Ash... So the musical allusion is obvious—and incisive. Because in all our years together, in all of the nights I spent in her arms, I never dreamed about Juliette.
Not once. Not ever.
---
I sit slumped behind the wheel of my old VW bug, engine idling, and stare up at the illuminated bedroom window of my house, a bright white rectangle interrupted by a curvy, dancing silhouette.
Through the bare panes, I watch as Juliette moves around carrying bundles of clothing in her hands, depositing them in my nearly empty closet before returning to, I assume, her suitcases, where she gathers up more low-cut blouses, more filmy skirts and scarves. And then hangs them in the closet, too—possessively. Presumptuously. Comfortably, like she knows she is exactly where she belongs.
Like she’s home.
I used to love the way that Juliette made me feel like her girlfriend, her grand prize. She possessed me, in every sense of the word. She made me feel larger than life, showy, glittering—like fireworks. But fireworks burn bright for only a moment, and only once. Then they fall to pieces. They can’t be rekindled, and the tracings they leave in the sky fade as soon as the next brilliant rocket bursts.
Still…
Still.
I loved her.
I loved her wholly and exclusively. I would have loved her forever, if she hadn’t...
My chin falls against my chest. Suddenly, my head feels as heavy as a boulder, and my temples begin to throb.
If she hadn’t.
But she had.
I’m clutching the steering wheel so hard that my fingers have progressed beyond the aching stage and fallen asleep. They look like claws when I yank them off the wheel; I stare at them for a long, hazy moment before I shake my head, shake my hands and inhale a deep, vegetable fried rice-scented breath of warm, enclosed air.
Since we’re supposed to talk tonight—Juliette and me—I picked up Chinese, her favorite, because… I don’t know. Habit? I guess I thought it might make things easier. Put us on friendly, familiar ground before we part ways. This time, permanently.<
br />
I clench and unclench my hands in my lap, trying to revive my tingling appendages, trying to summon up the courage to march into that bedroom and say, “Juliette—”
Juliette what?
All day at work, I had composed speeches in my head, but now that the moment has come, I’m like a dictionary with all of the pages torn out: wordless—and pretty ragged around the edges, too. My eyes are bloodshot, the lids drooping, and I feel as loose-limbed as an old rag doll. Maybe I should have taken Pauline up on her offer to help me out tonight, but a hot-tempered confrontation between her and Juliette, best-case scenario, could only end in hair-pulling and teeth-gnashing and, probably, a visit from the cops.
My stomach growls, and I pat it absently, swallowing even though my throat is as dry as ash.
Ash…
Heart pounding, my eyes flick down the driveway, toward the little cottage out of sight, around the bend: a distant yellow glow only a jaunt away. I think of the small, soft, cozy space. And Ash: tall, warm, lovely. Charming.
And then I turn my gaze back toward the house, with its empty rooms and cold, hard surfaces. My ex-girlfriend’s high heels clicking agitatedly over the floorboards. She’s waiting for me. She probably has her own speeches prepared. She’s probably been practicing all day, rehearsing the performance.
Be a big girl, Molly. You can do this. You have to do this.
I sit up, and my hand grips the door handle.
I can’t do this.
I let go of the handle and close my eyes.
Juliette had made no comment last night about the absence of all of our furniture—not to mention the artwork we chose together, and the knickknacks and Tupperware and double-monogrammed, gold-embroidered towels. Every housewarming gift we ever received, gone. Every memory we ever collected together, sold in a yard sale or donated to the charity shop. Last night, after Ash ducked out, I figured Juliette would take in her surroundings, register the fact that I had strategically removed all traces of our life together, and realize that our love affair was officially over. Canceled, deleted. Carbon-dated and catalogued, shoved into the darkest recess of the archives of my heart.
But instead, she swept me into her arms, kissed me again before I managed to slide away from her, and declared that her love for me had only grown in her European-traipsing absence; she had been wrong—so, so wrong—to cheat on me; and that she would do anything, fetch me the moon, the stars, the Eiffel Tower, if that’s what it would take to call me her own again.
Dazed, I muttered something about the air mattress in the hallway closet and stumbled upstairs, fell onto my own mattress, and cried into the pillow until I drifted into dreamless sleep.
Now I lift my hand to my lips and gingerly touch them, staring again at Juliette’s silhouette in the window. Thinking of her kisses last night, my heart quickens—longing, despite… Well, despite everything.
Juliette kisses like a movie star: every kiss feels like a first kiss, like the first kiss in all of history, and the kiss to end all kisses. But just when you think no kiss could be better, Juliette kisses you again, and you nearly faint away from bliss… It’s always better. Better and better, and the sweet, movie-star words that she whispers into your ear make it all too much, unbearable, unendurable—in the heart-stopping way that gorgeous, sweeping music is unendurable, or that the beauty of a painting is unbearable, so soul-affecting that it brings tears of awe to your eyes. No moment can compare to it, to her kiss, until the next moment. And the next kiss…
I thought I’d never feel her kiss again. I had mourned it, for months: the loss of her touch; the gaping nonexistence of her love. I cried and ached and shivered with a loneliness that I had never known before. It entwined itself with the marrow of my bones.
It nearly broke me, shattered me from the inside out.
But Pauline dragged me out of the darkness—sobbing and wailing at first, and then kicking and screaming. And I blinked at the too-bright sun and decided to have the yard sale. I decided—despite every desperate, inner protest—to let Juliette go and move on.
But Juliette kissed me last night. And I saw stars when she kissed me. Fireworks.
And now I feel like I don’t know anything at all.
I don’t know what to do, what to say, where to go…
No.
Decisive, my fingers curl around the door handle and then push the door open; a rush of night wind breezes through my hair, causing the long, dark strands to float weightless around my face, as if they’re suspended in time.
I do know where to go.
---
Ash blinks at me, grey eyes wide and startled. “Molly? Uh…” Her mouth slides into a bemused half-grin, even as her gaze sweeps over me, slow and lingering. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
We stare at one another in mutual silence. And then we both laugh softly, shifting our eyes away.
“Sorry,” Ash murmurs, raking a hand back through her short brown hair. “I…wasn’t expecting company.” She gestures at herself, stepping back a little, and laughs again. “As you can plainly see.”
I take in her white, paint-splattered tank top and barely-there cutoff jeans—and bite my lip. I can’t help noticing the tattoo marking her upper thigh: a raven with iridescent feathers, shimmering blue and purple upon her smooth skin.
“No, I’m sorry. If you’re in the middle of something, I can just go—”
Ash’s fingers find mine and tug, drawing me nearer, just over the cottage’s threshold. She presses my clasped hand against the soft fabric covering her stomach as she catches my eye, stilling my nervous gaze. “Please don’t.”
I nearly drop the paper bag of Chinese food that I’m clutching in my other hand, but angels or demons or pure dumb luck prevent my splattering sweet and sour sauce all over the hardwood floor. “Okay,” I breathe, following Ash—who has turned her back to walk further into the room, though she still holds my hand—to the sofa.
“Have a seat,” she smiles, letting me go to move some books off of the cushions. Art books, I realize, my eyes skimming over the titles: Frida Kahlo, Pablo Picasso, Georgia O’Keeffe.
“We have a gorgeous O’Keeffe at the Normal Art Museum,” I say, stepping close to Ash, forgetful of my anxiousness. I point to the book in her hand. “Are you an admirer of hers?”
“Oh, God, I love her work.” She smoothes her fingers over the cover image of a shadowed iris in blacks and purples. “I wrote my thesis on female painters’ impacts on feminism, O’Keeffe included.” Eyes faraway, her lips draw up into a self-deprecating smirk. “And then I graduated and took a high-paying job at my uncle’s accounting firm in Houston. And almost gave up on painting altogether.”
My stomach twists. “But you didn’t give up on it,” I say softly, adding the obvious truth in a silent whisper: And I did.
“No,” Ash says, looking at me then, her eyes flecked with gold from the dim yellow lamplight. “A good friend reminded me of what really mattered, what I really loved. Who I really was.” Her expression softens. “Right before he passed away.”
“Oh.” I rest a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. That must have been… I’m really sorry you lost him.”
She nods lightly, still holding my gaze. “Billy was like a brother to me. I’m so lucky to have known him. It changed me, knowing him.” Her eyes shift to my hand, still on her arm. “You know how that happens sometimes? How just knowing someone, even if you’ve only known them for a few hours, or days, can change you?”
When her eyes meet mine, I feel lightheaded and lighthearted. I feel like I might faint onto the couch, swoon like one of those delicate women in Victorian novels. Knowing me, though, I’d probably bonk my head on the corner of the coffee table and end up in the ER with some Frankenstein-ian stitches.
Still…I imagine Ash reviving me with an anachronistic jar of smelling salts, her face mere inches from mine, whispering my name…
“Molly? Has that ever happened to you?”
“What
?” I blink and draw in a quick breath, chagrined at myself. I drop the bag of Chinese food to the coffee table and put a hand to my temple, wincing. “Sorry, I… I mean, yes. Yeah. I’ve felt an instant connection with some people. Pauline, for example. My friend Pauline. She’s been my best friend since college—and from the moment we first met, it was like…” I glance up at the ceiling, searching for the right word. I smile softly to myself. “It was like fate.”
“You just knew.”
I lower my gaze to look at Ash and find her watching me—my eyes, my mouth. I swallow, hoping that she can’t hear my heart banging an uneven rhythm in my chest, stealing my breath away. “Yeah,” I whisper, nodding slightly. “I just knew.”
But I’m not talking about Pauline anymore.
And I think we both realize that, because Ash sets the books down on the coffee table and then stands before me, eyes on mine, her soft lips parted. “Molly, last night—”
“Was a disaster. And I am so sorry. I had no idea that—”
“It’s okay, really.” She gives me one of her knee-melting smiles, reaching for my hands and interweaving her fingers with mine. It’s an intimate gesture—and so confidently executed that my knees fully dissolve to butter and liquefy beneath me. Luckily, I fall onto the sofa. It almost seems intentional. I hope.
My heart is no longer banging so much as stampeding.
Ash sits beside me, still holding my hands. “This is none of my business. You don’t have to tell me anything about what happened last night. Nothing you don’t want to tell me. But are you all right? Am I… I mean, is my being here a problem? For you?”
I tilt my head, smiling with bewilderment.
Is being achingly attracted to a gorgeous woman ever a problem? I guess it could be, if said gorgeous woman is not attracted to you. Or if your ex rolls back into town with fireworks kisses and sweet, confusing, apologetic words.
Well.
I guess it is sort of a problem. But my problem, not Ash’s.
Drawn to You Page 8
