by S. L. Scott
He asks, “What are you doing here?”
Taken aback by his question, I look at him and frown. “I had a revelation and needed to talk to you.”
He glances over his shoulder toward his room, then back. “I have company, Jules.”
My hand covers my mouth. “Oh my God!” When I remove it, I whisper, “I’m so sorry. I’ll leave.”
As I rush to the door, he asks, “What’s the revelation?”
With a big smile, I say, “I need to fix myself. You were right. No one else can do it. I’m gonna stand on my own two feet again. You watch.” Lowering my voice, I add nodding, “And congrats on the afternoon delight. We’ll catch up soon.”
He’s left laughing. The door shuts and I walk to my apartment with an armful of clothes. After dumping them on the chair in my room, I move into the kitchen and pick up the black coffee maker Dylan left behind when he left me. I dump it in the trash then go to the window where the two prisms hang, reflecting rainbows on the nearby wall. I reach up and untie them from the curtain rod. I kiss each one then toss them in the trash with the coffeemaker.
It’s funny how tightly I held onto things that at the end of the day, or technically the end of almost four years, finally hold no power or meaning any longer. I look at the painting hanging on the wall. With purpose, I step up on the couch, and take the painting down. After setting it in the corner of the room, facing out, I turn on Christina Perri’s latest. Seems to fit my mood. I pour myself a glass of pinot noir and return to the living room. Sitting down in front of the painting, I cross my legs and relive all the good times that come to mind with Dylan, then indulge the bad times too, letting them out, releasing them from the chest where I’ve kept the memories locked up for too long. A tear joins my wine just as I take another sip.
Getting up, I move closer, and run my finger along the peaks and valleys of the dried oil. Then with flat palms, I rub over it before sitting back on my knees. That’s when I get the idea and go into the cabinet under the sink in the kitchen and pull out the yellow paint I once bought for that room. I had thoughts of affecting my attitude, hoping the bright color could bring me out of the depression I was trapped in. I never got around to painting the kitchen. I grab a marinating brush from the drawer and go back to the painting. I pop the lid open with a screwdriver and dip the brush in the sunny color. With one bold move, my first stroke is in the middle of the canvas. Seeing the painting in a new light, I’m exhilarated by the freedom and continue painting until it’s completely covered.
Standing back, I drink my wine, then stare ahead. The yellow is not me at all. It’s bright and happy. The solid color forces the eye to find the ridges of the old paint underneath, covering the tear streaks that once defined it and I smile.
I pour another glass of wine then wait for the paint to dry by lying in the middle of the floor, listening to music and staring at the ceiling. The room goes dark as the sun sets and I roll to my stomach to look at the painting again. The moonlight provides enough light to see it, and I smile. I get up from the floor and go to the bedroom, pleased with the changes I made today. After getting ready, I climb under the covers and text Austin: I love you, Austin Barker. One day I’ll prove I can be the person you deserve.
Just as I turn out the lamp, my phone lights up simultaneously with a return text from him: Jules Weston, I look forward to that day.
With that text I have hope, knowing he’s willing to give me another chance to prove my love to him.
… And I will.
AFTER SPEAKING TO my landlord and getting my lease settled, I decide to focus on getting my life back on track. Bending over into Downward Dog, I try to keep my mind zen. I smile when I think of Austin. He does more for my mindset than yoga ever could. Slowly I change positions, following the guru on TV.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m showered and dressed in a tee and baggy shorts. Standing in front of the DeLonghi Coffee Center, I pull the post-it from the machine. The ‘Learn to Use’ note has been mocking me for too long. It’s time to tame this beast. Flipping through the manual, I find the page with the first step and go through all twenty-six steps until I’m holding a perfectly crafted latte. I’ve used the machine before but it was just for plain black coffee. Today I was ready for something new, utilizing all the cool features.
Closing my eyes, I take my first sip. A huge sense of satisfaction comes over me. Delicious. I set the cup down and take a pic of my latte, proud of this small accomplishment that feels huge right now.
I take my cup into the living room and set it down on the coffee table. Walking to the bright yellow painting in the corner, I pick it up and climb back onto the couch. I hang it on the wall and step back down to admire it. Yes, this is right. It’s a new start, one I should have had years earlier. And if I can’t have Austin in my life right now, this painting gives me a stronger sense of the old me than I’ve felt in years. I turn on some music and get to the task of unpacking my boxes. Some of the stuff I toss into the trash since it holds no real meaning anyway.
Two hours. That’s all it takes to unload my life and put it back in place. Happy with the results, I decide to go to the grocery store and stock my kitchen, determined to fill this place with the life it once had. This time, my life though.
I spend the next week cooking at home, enjoying the solitude, and rediscovering the person I once was. The gallery has somehow survived despite me only working forty hours this week. Something I didn’t even think was possible. I’ve underestimated the people I’ve hired for too long and I made it up to them by not only trusting them to run it when I’m not around, but also treat them to lunch on Wednesday. Their surprised and happy faces made it all worthwhile.
It seems to be going well. I’m happy, happy on the inside, which is invigorating, but I didn’t see what was coming. I arrived at Jean-Luc unannounced like I always have. I like to surprise him and see how an artist of his talents spends his day.
Jean-Luc slides the large door open and smirks, “You’re just in time.”
“In time for what?”
“Come in,” he says, turning his back to me and walking across the large loft space. He offers me a drink, “Wine or water?”
“Wine. White please.”
After dropping my purse and coat down on the couch, I peruse the newest collection. With my hands behind my back, I slowly walk the space, looking for cohesion. “What’s the theme?”
He hands me a glass and I take a sip as he pours what looks to be something stronger—maybe Scotch. Approaching silently, I feel his hand slide over my back and down my arm, his fingers tapping lightly. Something that used to feel normal when I was numb is different now, altered under implications and insinuations behind the touch. Turning, I shift away.
“You’re ever-changing, Jules.”
“Maybe…” I glance back at him.
When our eyes meet, his change, all playfulness gone. “Why do you let the world affect the melancholy? You’re divine when the darkness bleeds through. It’s what brought us together. You’re more beautiful when you’re in a state of chaos.”
Jean-Luc is deep in his want for the heaviness in life, but I’m trying to outgrow the negativity, so I take a gulp, needing wine to help me keep it light. “Last time it was sullen and aloof. This time chaos. I wasn’t chaotic, I was dead inside. There’s a difference.” Standing in front of a window, I lift up on my toes to see how much of the sunset is visible from here. Disappointed, I lower back down when I find other buildings blocking it.
I spent some time walking around the room, eyeing the rest of the collection. I’m confused by his vision. They’re tumultuous. My head starts to hurt, a migraine feeling like it’s coming on. “I can’t stay long.” My temple pulses and I rub it.
“Sleep with me. It’s almost too late. Once you move into this so-called bliss others say we find in life, I’ll lose you. I don’t want to lose you.”
When I look at him, I blink, finding it harder to keep my eyes open. “I nee
d to go. I woke up early and I’m tired.”
“Stay.” He approaches just as the glass slips from my fingers. His hands hold my neck, his thumbs putting pressure on my throat as my feet meld to the floor, trapping me in the spot.
His lips touch my cheek right before my eyes close.
“SO… I’M FREE tonight. Want to grab dinner?” Jacqueline asks while walking out of the conference room.
Looking at my watch, I stall before answering, “Um, I can’t. My apologies. I have dinner plans already.”
“A rain check then?”
“Yes, a rain check.”
“I’ll see you next week.”
“Next week. Thank you,” I reply. Jacqueline detours back down the hall and I go to the bank of elevators. Dylan is standing there, his back to me. I stop, anger instantly filling my chest. He doesn’t see me, which gives me a few seconds to play out fifty different scenarios of kicking his ass. He turns back, ending those fantasies. “Austin?”
The doors open and we both step in. I see how nervous he is and he should be. As soon as the doors close, he’s trapped. His eyes are wide. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? You’re fucking sorry?” He nods, smart enough not to talk. “You fucked her up and then came back to do it again. You just couldn’t handle the fact that she’s moved on. Let me ask you, Dylan. Was it worth it?”
“I don’t know anymore. All I know is that my life is shit without her in it.”
“But that’s about you. Did you ever put her first?”
He pauses and looks up. Shaking his head, he replies, “No. That’s why I’m sorry.”
“I loved her in spite of the damage you did to her. I made her happy.”
The dark circles and bags under his eyes show he’s breaking. Slowly, he’s falling apart. This should make me happy. He says, “When I met her, she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. She was amazing and she loved me… I destroyed that. I’m sorry. If I could take it back, I would.” He’s a wreck. “I’ve made so many mistakes, the biggest of them all was leaving her.”
“If you loved her, you would have let her be happy, whether it was with you or not.” The doors slide open. We stand there looking at each other.
Finally, the stalemate is broken when he walks off and I follow after. Stopping in the middle of the lobby, he turns back to me and says, “I won’t bother her again. She’s better without me.” He reaches out his hand and we shake. “Take care of her. She should have someone good, someone who can love her the way she deserves.”
Without any other words, he leaves, but I catch him before he walks through the door. “Hey Dylan, I’m sorry too.”
“For what?”
“I’m not really sure. I just thought I should say it.”
A slight smile shows. “I always knew you were the better man.” He pushes the door wide open and leaves.
I’m left seeing what life looks like without Jules. There’s no doubt how much he loves her. She’s already left that kind of mark on my heart as well. Pushing down my ego and the pain I’ve been holding against her, I move to a quieter section of the lobby and call her.
One ring.
Two rings.
Three rings.
Voicemail. ‘This is Jules Weston, please leave a message and I’ll call you back.’
“Hey, it’s me,” I start, “I’ve been thinking about us. I’d like to see you. Call me back.”
At my car out front, I tell Henry I’m going to walk, needing to clear my head, wanting to think about things logically. For five blocks I see the car circle around several times. Deciding to play cat and mouse with Henry, I duck inside a deli when he rounds the corner, then hurry up and over two blocks. I backtrack and see the car just as it passes. He waves and I smile. He’s very good.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I keep heading straight up the street so Henry doesn’t have to work so hard. Hoping it’s Jules, I pull it quickly from my pocket. I don’t recognize the number, so I answer, “Austin Barker here.”
“Austin, it’s Brandon.”
Exhaling heavily, irritated just from the sound of his voice. I move against a brick wall, the exterior to a dry cleaner, to take the call. “What do you want?”
“Have you talked to Jules today? Or yesterday?”
“No. I left her a message earlier, but she hasn’t called me back.”
“I’ve left her about ten messages. She hasn’t returned any of them. She usually calls me back within an hour.”
Narrowing my eyes on a pothole in the street, worry creases my forehead. “What are you saying? Are you worried about her?”
“Yes, I’m worried. It’s not like her to not call me back.”
A sickening starts rolling through my veins, gathering strength. “Have you checked her apartment, her work?”
“I’m stuck in Philly. I won’t be back until tonight. I can’t get an earlier flight and the trains are on a delay.”
“I’ll call you back,” I say, waving Henry down. I get in and direct him to Jules’ place. I call her direct office line, but there’s no answer. I call her phone and go to voicemail again. “Call me, Jules. I need to talk to you right away.”
I phone the gallery. A man answers, “Des’Arts Gallery. This is Sergio.”
“Sergio, this is Austin Barker.”
“Hello, Jules isn’t here right now.”
“Has she been in today?”
“No. She was out visiting artists yesterday, so she left early.”
“Who’d she visit?”
His tone changes. “Is something wrong?”
“Yes, she’s missing. Who’d she visit?”
“Let me check her schedule. She’s really good about listing everything she does gallery related. Hold on.” I hear him rushing, probably into her office. “Ummm…ummm. Here it is. Jean-Luc.”
Fucking artist bastard. “Give me the address.”
I pass the information to Henry, then call Brandon back. “The gallery shows she was visiting Jean-Luc, one of her artists.”
“Fucking hell. I’m gonna rent a car and come back.”
“I have the address. I’m heading there now.”
“Call me as soon as you know anything,” he pleads.
“I will,” I reply, then hang up. Flexing my hands, the nerves are eating away at my stomach. Not sure what I’m gonna find—hoping it’s not like the other time I’d rather forget. I’m starting to freak the fuck out, so I grip my hands together and train my eyes on the passing scenery.
Traffic is flowing miraculously and we’re there in thirty minutes. After pulling to the curb in front of the building, Henry turns around and asks, “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, stay here,” I reply, not sure what I’m walking in on. “I think you should leave the car on and be ready just in case…”
He nods once, understanding the gravity of the situation. I get out and eye the old warehouse turned loft building. The neighborhood isn’t quite in transition though I know these lofts probably cost a fortune. I walk in the door that’s been left ajar with a brick—not a good sign. I go up the stairs to the third floor, then down the wide corridor to the steel door labeled C. I knock firmly and wait, trying to listen for any sounds.
I’m startled when it slides back abruptly. A shirtless guy with a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth is standing there, eyeing me. I recognize him from when Jules introduced us a few months back at his show. “What?” he asks.
I push past him and see Jules asleep on the couch. Kneeling down beside her, I try to wake her up. “Jules,” I whisper. “Wake up. Jules.”
“Who are you?” he asks to my back. I ignore him.
Her lids slowly open and she smiles, the one I’ve seen during so many sunrises at my place. “Austin?” Her eyes close again.
“Jules, it’s me. Wake up, Sweetheart.”
When she does, she says, “I’m so sleepy though. I want to sleep.”
“No, not here.”
From behind me, Jean-Luc says, “I was going to paint you.”
Ignoring him, I focus on her. “Do you not remember staying here?”
“No,” she says, her voice weak and so unlike the woman I know. “Something’s wrong.”
“Did you take something?”
“No.”
I can tell by her behavior she’s taken drugs of some sort. When she doesn’t recall… I know she took something. We both look back at Jean-Luc. I stand to my full height, which is about six inches taller than him, and ask, “Did you drug her?”
I hear another gasp from her. She stands, holding her coat to her chest. “You drugged me. You did that. To me. Jean-Luc? Why would you do that?”
“How am I supposed to paint, to find my purpose if you turn on me. We were on this journey together. A team. You understand me. We didn’t have to put on pretenses for pretty suits like him. We could be angry and sad, be painted in blue and not feel alone.” He stubs his cigarette into an ashtray. “You believe in my art. You believe art is life. What can he do for you? He’ll lock you away in his penthouse, carting you around in his private car, showing you an extension of his privileges instead of the real world. Art is created on the ground, not in the sky. It’s dirty and grungy, not starched and dry-cleaned.”
He’s gone too far. “Shut the fuck up,” I say, feeling my anger take over. “What drug?”
“I don’t have to tell you shit, man!”
Jules steps forward, her arm against mine. Her tone is soft, in opposition of mine, when she says, “Please. Tell me what drug and what happened, Jean-Luc. If you care about me, you’ll tell me.”
We watch as he roams around his space, searching for something. Finally, he picks up a paintbrush and starts in on a canvas covered in red. “I wouldn’t hurt you. You know that.” He glances to her quickly. “You know that, Jules.”
She drops her head down, runs her hands through her hair, then leaves her hands covering her face. When she moves them away, she’s crying. I wrap my arm around her just as she says, “I know you have these grand ideas of how this is all supposed to play out, the masterpiece you’re trying to make your life. But our life, like art, is in the eye of the beholder. Just because I’ve changed my perspective doesn’t mean you can force me to stay the way you want me.” She puts her coat on, looks up at me unsure, maybe still shaken. When she turns to him again, I see her tears though they don’t fall. He hasn’t even looked over here since he started painting. Raising her chin, she says, “Your dreams come on the wings of self-indulgence and arrogance, but I’m not your muse, not anymore.” Jules walks to the door. “Your show is cancelled.”
