by Holly Rayner
“I bet you can,” I say.
He winks at me. He is flirting!
The waiter delivers our dishes, and I’m relieved to give my brain a rest from trying to decode Julian’s mixed messages.
My scallops come in a cast-iron skillet, steaming hot from the oven. With a flourish, the waiter sets the steaming dish on a pedestal to one side of our table, then gives me a colorful plate and a bowl of buttery sauce. Any dish that comes with a bowl of butter is okay in my book!
Julian’s meal is just as elaborately presented. A platter of thinly sliced meats, dumpling papers, and colorful pyramids of vegetables make his meal look more like a modern work of art than something to be ingested.
I start to eat, slowly, enjoying every melt-in-your-mouth bite. The butter sauce is infused with the flavors of ginger, and the scallops are so fresh, I can almost taste the ocean.
As our meal wraps up, I tally up the final count. Julian has dropped different forms of the word “friend” no less than eleven times.
And yet, there’s this strong undercurrent beneath his words. It’s like a riptide, pulling us away from the safety of the shore, tugging us out into open waters. Sometimes, he catches my eye, and a lightning bolt of attraction will pass between us. Other times, I’m eating, talking, and smiling and when I look up, he’s doing nothing but staring at me. Watching me…with this look.
It’s a look I recognize, though I’m only an amateur when it comes to dating. But every woman knows the look that a man gives when he wants her.
As we exit the restaurant and head for the car, I feel like I’ve gained absolutely zero clarity from our time together. If anything, I’m more confused than ever. And so—I think—is Julian.
We’ve kept up a steady stream of banter throughout the meal, but on the ride home, we both become silent. I think that both of us are lost in thought.
I know, at least, that I am.
I’m thinking about how the evening might end. If this was a date, he’d kiss me goodnight.
I’ve been turning that rusted old door handle, trying to open myself up. Is he doing the same? Does he want to open up to me?
He parks the car and we both sit for a minute. Without the hum of the engine, the soft music that’s been playing becomes more audible. It’s a love song, and the lyrics feel strangely fitting. Over acoustic guitar chords, a man and a woman sing back and forth to each other. Each lover begs the other to speak from the heart. The bridge is an ode to the simplicity of love.
Simple?
I wonder what the songwriter knew that I don’t. If love was simple, I wouldn’t be sitting here with so many bottled-up emotions inside of me, completely clueless about how to get them out.
How did things get so complicated between Julian and me? It was so simple when we were younger—when we were just friends. Before I developed a crush on him.
Now, as adults, neither of us can find a way to speak from the heart. I’m tired of intellectualizing everything. I’m tired of small talk. I’m tired of playing it safe.
And yet, I’m also too afraid to do anything else. I kissed Julian last night, and he rejected me. I can’t take a blow like that again and remain standing. I’d go down—hard—and might not get back up.
The next move has to be his, I remind myself.
So, I wait.
Julian opens his door, which makes the music stop, then rounds the car and opens my door as well. When I stand up, we’re close together. There’s a pull of magnetism between our bodies, and Julian steps in closer.
For a second, I am certain he’s going to kiss me. But instead, he wraps me up in a brief hug and then releases me.
He steps back.
“Thanks for getting dinner with me,” he says. “That was fun.”
“It was.”
“Are you still up for sightseeing this weekend? I promised I’d show you around Amsterdam, and I thought we could start in the morning. There’s a great cafe just around the corner that I think you would like.”
I smile. “That sounds nice.”
“Perfect. I’ll pick you up at nine. Do you know how to ride a bike?”
“It’s been a while…but, yeah. I think I’d remember.”
He grins. “See you in the morning, then.”
“Bye, Julian.”
I make myself turn away from him and walk towards the hotel doors. I turn before I step through the doors, and look back at him. He’s still standing on the sidewalk, watching me. He waves, and I wave back.
As I step into the luxurious hotel lobby, I notice that I feel good. Not like I’m floating or bursting with joy, exactly, but good.
Julian is kind, thoughtful, and funny. He’s going to show me around the city tomorrow. My brain is firing away, trying to rationalize my disappointment in the way the evening ended without a kiss.
It’s better this way, I think, as I cross the lobby. I punch the elevator’s up button, and watch as little dots light up, one by one, showing the elevator descending to meet me. We have business to do together, so it’s better that we didn’t kiss. We’ll be friends. That’s better than nothing. It feels good to have my friend back, after all these years.
Trying to enter into a romantic relationship is unrealistic.
Not feasible.
Not sustainable.
Too messy.
I lean back against the wall of the elevator and close my eyes.
Despite all of my rationalizing, when I close my eyes, I feel the pit of sadness deep in my stomach. It’s not a pleasant feeling, so I pop my eyes open and force myself to think of tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I’ll see him again.
Chapter 12
Julian
The trendy cafe Uit De Oven is hopping with a Saturday-morning mix of locals and eager tourists. The bike rack is packed full, and as I brake to a stop, I look around me for somewhere else to lock up.
Shelby pulls to a stop next to me. Her cheeks are flushed and her hair is falling loosely around her face, windswept and wild.
“Whew!” she says. “It’s coming back to me!” She looks genuinely happy as she pumps the brakes a few times, and looks down at the bike I arrived at her hotel with.
I wonder if she knows it’s brand new, and I spent almost a grand on it that very morning. It’s worth it, of course, just to see the look of pleasure on her face now.
She’s wearing a cute pair of jeans and another sleeveless, floral blouse. This one is just as pretty as the last, and I can’t help but smile as she tests out the bell on her handlebars, just like a kid might.
“Let’s park over there,” I say, motioning to a tree half a block down with a grate around it.
We lock up our bikes and return to the coffee shop, where the baristas are keeping the long line moving. Cranking music with a heavy beat makes the space feel more like a club than a coffee house, and I bob my head as we wait, forcing myself to lighten up and enjoy the day.
Last night’s dinner went well, I think, though there were some tense moments. Maybe we’re past the kiss. Maybe we’ve made it back to familiar territory. Safety.
It’s helpful to have so much bustling activity around us. With lattes and brown paper bags in hand, we exit back out into the sunshine. There are no empty tables, so we sip our drinks as we browse through the bins of used books near the cafe’s entrance.
Many of them are in English, and I find one that I know Shelby will appreciate. I lift it up to show her. She’s across from me, now, looking intently at a poetry book.
“How long has it been since you’ve read this?” I ask.
She looks away from the book in her hands so that she can read the title of the one I’m holding up.
“Oh…that’s a good one. I remember spending hours with you analyzing the metaphors.”
“A true master of words, and so many of them went over our heads of teenagers,” I say with a nostalgic smile.
“One of the best,” Shelby agrees. “Are you going to get it?”
“I alre
ady have a copy,” I say. I hold it out to her across the bin. “Do you want it?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want to buy too much while I’m here. My suitcase was full on the way over, and you know how it is when you travel. If you buy something, you have to leave something else behind to make room.”
For some reason, her mention of the trip home makes me feel upset, and I push the book of poetry back among the other titles a little more roughly than I mean to. I feel Shelby’s eyes on me.
“Julian, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she says. “Were you able to move my flight time?”
“Yep,” I say curtly. “Your new tickets are for Thursday afternoon. Max didn’t send you the itinerary?”
“No.”
“Oh. I’ll ask him to.” I take out my phone.
“You don’t have to do it right now,” she says. “I just…you know, wanted to check. Does that—does that give us enough time for everything? The, um, interview and then the…” she pushes the poetry book back into the bin. “The…uh, engagement?”
“Yes, it should be plenty of time.”
“Okay. I just…I talked to my mom the other day, and she sounded worse than she has in a while. I told you how she has lupus, and it can affect different parts of her body really suddenly. I think she’s having a respiratory flare-up.”
“We arranged for visiting nurses while you’re here.”
“I know. Thank you. It’s not because I’m gone; she’d be going through this even if I was home. But I still feel guilty for being away. Maybe when I get home, I can see if there’s something else we can try…something the doctors haven’t thought of.”
Shelby drifts over to the next row of bins, and I follow her.
“I meant what I said, you know.” I run my hand along the spines of several hardcover books, looking at the words printed there but not reading the titles. Though I’m not looking directly at her, all of my attention is on Shelby. “Vermaak is a caring company. If there’s something we can do for your mother, please just let me know. There may be treatment options here in Europe that simply aren’t available in the States.”
Shelby seems comforted by my words, and I’m glad. To my surprise, she comes over to my side and loops her free arm through mine. She leans her head against my shoulder.
“Thank you, Julian,” she says, squeezing my arm briefly. “You’re a good boss. And a good friend. I appreciate it.” Then, she slides her arm out and points to our side. “Look, a table is opening up.”
We’re able to snag seats in the otherwise overflowing outdoor seating area. I place my coffee cup down on the table, along with the little brown paper bag that now has some grease spots blossoming on it. Shelby does the same, and we both dig into our bags and pull out giant muffins.
“Oh, this looks too good to be true,” Shelby says, eyeing her bright green pistachio muffin.
“There’s a reason this place is so busy,” I say with a smile.
It feels good to share this place with Shelby. I love watching the look on her face as she bites into her muffin.
We munch away happily, and I’m glad that we’re not talking about her departure anymore. I know that she’s going to leave Amsterdam. I know this. But I can’t think about it. Not right now. Not today.
“Fuel up,” I say, polishing off the last of my banana muffin. “Because the next stop is eight miles away.”
“Eight miles? I’m just remembering how to pedal!”
“You’re going to do fine. It’s all flat; the path will take us along the canal. You’re going to love it. And the next stop is totally worth it.”
“Where are we going?” Shelby asks.
“It’s a surprise,” I say, wrapping my napkin and the bag up into a ball. I lift my cup and drink down the last sips of caffeine goodness.
“All right, tour guide extraordinaire.” Shelby follows my cue and polishes off the last of her drink as well. “Let’s go.”
Fifteen miles of biking, three museums, and one extravagant lunch later, Shelby is still excited about the tour.
“A boat ride?” she asks, clearly excited, as I lead her to the final destination on my list for the day.
“Yes. We’re going to float down the Keizersgracht canal while the sun sets.”
Shelby’s face lights up. “Really?”
I nod. “Could you wait right here?” I ask, pointing to wooden bench.
The centuries-old marina is drenched with golden sunlight. The bench has a great view of the docked boats, and I know Shelby won’t mind waiting.
As she takes a seat, I dart off down the block. It just takes me a few minutes to order four slices from a pizzeria nearby, and I’m back before Shelby expects me.
She’s talking to an old woman who is now sitting on the bench with her. I’ve been hurrying because I didn’t want to leave Shelby alone for too long. But now, I slow down.
There’s something about watching Shelby when she doesn’t know that I’m looking. I can see her unguarded, free from the shyness that sometimes comes over her when she’s around me.
The pizza box is warm in my hand, and as I stand still, I have to shift it so that my fingers don’t burn.
The old woman is handing Shelby some birdseed, and Shelby looks delighted as she tosses the granules out over the cement walkway. The woman says something, and Shelby nods and laughs.
The sun has turned into an orange-pink orb, hanging low over the city. Shelby’s profile is edged in the golden rays that hit her at just the right angle.
In that moment, with her hair all tousled from our ride, and her face so carefree and full of joy, she is the most beautiful woman that I’ve ever seen. It’s as though time slows down. The rippling, sun kissed-water of the canal behind her shimmers as if it’s rising up to meet her, and the whole scene looks like it could be a painting from one of the art museums we’ve just been in.
If I knew how to command a brush, I would paint her. She is a work of art.
Just then, she looks over her shoulder, and sees me standing at the edge of the marina. She’s still listening to the elderly woman, but she lifts her hand and waves at me.
I start walking towards her, and I see Shelby excuse herself from the woman. Her step is light and springy as she comes over to meet me.
“Feeding the birds?” I ask.
She smiles. “Yes,” she says. “A simple little thing. But so rewarding. The woman, Famke, was just telling me that sometimes the small moments are the best, and she’s right. Julian, I’ve had the best day—full of little moments of perfection. It’s been fun. I’m having fun!”
She says this like it’s a revelation. Like she’s accomplished something that she thought was impossible.
“The day’s not over yet,” I say, lifting the slices up slightly. The steam coming from the take-out box is doughy and sweet. “Thin crust, extra sauce. Just the way you like it.”
“Oh!” She claps her hands like a kid.
That’s when it strikes me—just what’s making her glow with so much beauty tonight. It’s not the rays of sun that were hitting her face, though they certainly enhanced the affect. But the glow is her own happiness. She’s happy. And it’s because of me.
For whatever reason, the feeling that I get when I realize that is better than anything I’ve felt in years. Better than descending down the highest peak in Japan in four feet of fresh powder. Better than signing my first multi-billion-dollar global distribution deal.
It’s a high like none I’ve ever experienced.
Making Shelby happy makes me happy.
This is a revelation for me. I’ve spent years focusing on my own happiness. Sure, I’m a generous employer, and I care about my friends and family, but for the most part, my life has had one centerpiece: Julian Meijer.
Interesting, I think, enjoying the lightness that I feel through my body.
“Which boat are we going to ride on?” Shelby asks, surveying the fleet along the canal before us.
“Over her
e.” I lead the way with Shelby close behind me.
I’ve booked us a private cruise in one of my favorite kinds of transportation: an old-fashioned, wooden-hulled river cruiser.
The temperature is dropping as the sun sinks lower in the sky. I take off my blazer and hand it to Shelby. She accepts it and slides it over her bare shoulders.
The coat is far too big on her, and the sleeves hang down over her hands. She looks adorable, and not for the first time that day, I’m struck by the sight of her—smiling as she turns over her shoulder, the flipped collar of my coat grazing her cheek.
Her smile is so wide, so bright. We’re walking along the dock now, nearing the boat. I can hear the soft sound of the water lapping against the dock.
“Julian,” she says.
“Yes?”
I expect that she’s going to ask me something about the boat we’re about to climb aboard, but instead, her eyes run along my neck.
“Will you tell me about your tattoo?”
I glance down and see that when I took off my jacket, my button-up white shirt was pulled off-center, revealing a good chunk of my tattoo.
She reaches the edge of the boat and stops. I step aboard and offer her my hand.
I hold her hand firmly as she swings one leg and then the other onto the boat’s floor. The craft wobbles back and forth, and I instinctively reach for Shelby’s waist, steadying her. I keep my hands on her long enough for her to regain her balance while the boat adjusts to our weight, and then for another moment longer.
She feels too good. I can’t let go.
After a moment, I say, “I’ll show you. Let’s sit up front.”
I’ve given the boat’s owner a nice tip beforehand, and told him that we won’t be needing the usual commentary on the architecture and landmarks as they pass by. He stays near the back of the boat as we pull away from the dock, giving us privacy. Shelby and I take seats at the very front of the boat, and as we start to coast over the smooth waters, I pull off my shirt.
I turn to Shelby, my chest exposed. I watch her eyes wander over my pecs, and the elaborate hawk design that covers nearly a third of my chest, extending up over my collarbone and down over the upper part of my abdomen.
