Fighting Pride

by Jennifer Miller

  “Excuse me?” Chelsea asks, a look of indignity on her face.

  “Did you need me to speak slower?” I ask her. I know it’s mean, but she was a bitch to Monet and it pissed me off. Turning to my little painter, I smile and ask, “What’s your name? Or should I just call you Monet, which is the name I’ve been calling you in my head.”

  She smiles and shakes her head in what I think is disbelief because she answers, “Tatum.”

  “Well Tatum, it’s a pleasure to meet you. You will definitely be seeing me soon.” I give her a quick wink and walk out of the room, but not before seeing her lips curve into a smile.

  She’s certainly earned the nickname Monet now, that’s for sure.

  Lingering outside I watch as the gallery gets more and more crowded by the minute. I’m in awe at the turn out, and happy this means Tatum will likely have a good night. I’m happy even more because I think that there are now enough people that I can hide within their presence.

  Once inside, I exhale a deep breath. My chest feels tight and there are definitely nerves dancing in my stomach. Looking around the room, I try to find her. I want to make sure that when I see her, it’s from a distance again. Not finding her among the crowd, I turn my attention to the paintings surrounding me and it isn’t long before I get lost in them.

  The paintings seem to be grouped in themes. There’s various paintings of Chicago and I can tell the city has become one she loves. My favorites are the ones of Arizona. The desert in bloom is so defined it’s as if I could live inside of it. There are paintings of streets after the rain, lush gardens, sunrises and sunsets. She has it all, something for everyone. There’s a crowd around what must be the featured paintings for the show. Given the large display, their position in the gallery, and the lights surrounding them to show off the display, it’s clear they must be the highlight of her work. Looking around for her again, and feeling frustrated that I still can’t find her, I maneuver through people until I can finally see the display.

  And I simply stop breathing.

  My eyes can’t take in every painting fast enough. Then I stop and start at the beginning again, devouring each image, taking in every detail. Tears burn behind my eyes, my fists clench, and my heart… my heart fucking aches at the sight before me.

  The group of paintings is titled ‘A World with Hope’. Hope, is the name we gave our baby. The series begins with her birth, and a cry wants to escape my chest at the sight of our sweet girl cradled in Tatum’s arms as she was after she gave birth to her. A birth where we knew what the end result would be. Each cry and scream of Tatum’s during labor was a mixture of pain and devastation at what was to come. Wrapped around both of them, are my own arms. A painful moment carved into my brain is made simply extraordinary through her eyes.

  Next are a series of what should have been. Hope as a happy baby, grabbing her own toes with accomplishment in her eyes and what you can imagine is laughter bubbling from her lips. Hope as a toddler, looking unsteady as she walks toward hands reaching out to her. Hope, a look of unbridled glee on her face as she flies through the air while being pushed on a swing, wind blowing little wisps of her hair across her cheeks. Hope, eating an ice cream with chocolate smeared all over her face. The last piece is Hope, at the age she would be now, excitement in her eyes as she waits to get onto a school bus. All of the paintings take my breath away, bring tears to my eyes, and make my heart ache. But they also bring me a sliver of hope, because in the paintings where Hope is walking toward open arms and the other where she’s being pushed on a swing, there are a man’s hands present. This wouldn’t be significant to anyone else, but to me, it’s everything. Because, the man has a tattoo on the inside of his wrist, that matches the one on the inside of mine.

  People around me are murmuring and commenting on how lovely the paintings are, how sweet. As a woman with a nametag stating she’s gallery staff walks by I grab her lightly on the elbow, “Excuse me, is there a price list for the paintings? Specifically, these?” I don’t care about my plan to save every last cent so I’m never dependent on anyone again. I will spend every last dime I have on these paintings.

  “There is, but these are actually not for sale. They are the featured paintings she’s sharing on her tour.”

  “Her tour?”

  “Yes, she’s visiting several galleries aside from this one.”

  Nodding I murmur, “Thank you.”

  After she walks away, I pull out my phone and take photos of the paintings. I don’t know if it’s allowed, but I don’t care. Turning, I look around the room once more and still not finding Tatum, decide that I’m not meant to see her. That once was enough because it was more than I ever thought I would have. Besides, it may be for the best because I’m not sure my heart can handle once more.

  Working my way through the crowd, I make my way to the door. A group of new comers walk inside and as they clear my path, I look up just as Tatum turns around from grabbing a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray, and locks eyes with mine. We stand frozen, both of us looking at the other, unable to look away, unable to take a step toward each other. So many things come to my mind, so many things I want to say, things I want to do. She looks simply…stunning.

  Her eyes are bright and just as beautiful as I remember. I know dick about fashion, but I know that the short dress she’s wearing was made for her. It hugs her curves perfectly and displays those long legs I love. My thoughts range from taking hold of her and kissing her, just wanting to feel her lips against mine again, to running my hand up her smooth leg and under her dress. My reaction to her is visceral, stronger than it was all those years ago.

  But she’s no longer mine. And the gap between the two of us is one that will never close. It’s enough, more than enough, just to have had her beautiful eyes on mine again, however brief. With a small smile and a nod of my head, I quickly move out the door.

  I’ve barely taken a few steps down the street toward home when the skies erupt with a fierce booming crash, seeming to echo the emotional turbulence churning within me. I pause, gaze toward the heavens, and as if on cue, rain begins to fall in a torrential downpour. It’s as if God and all of his angels weep for me and Tatum…and our sad, broken love story.

  These last five years have been ridiculously kind to him. He looks even better now than he did all those years ago when I first met him. An image of the day he came to pick up my roommate for a date comes to mind. I remember my instant draw to him and how I fought to push the strange feelings I was having away. My sarcastic comments, my emotions bouncing between annoyed and intrigued. Then there were the interactions that came after that, him asking me out on a date – repeatedly. My refusal every time and his unwillingness to accept “no” for an answer.

  He looks… manlier I guess I would say. His build is bulkier, his muscles more defined even through his clothes. His beautiful face has even changed some. When he smiles, there are crinkles in the corners I don’t remember being there before. My fingers twitch with a need to explore them, as well as the small dimple in his chin. But his eyes… his eyes are still the same, and the pull they had on me five years ago… it’s still there.

  My heart is racing, my breaths come quickly, and my stomach has a flock of damn birds inside. Part of me, a big part, wants to go to him. I suddenly find myself longing to hug him, kiss him, have him hold me in his arms like he used to. I have so many questions I’d like to ask him about the last five years. What has he been doing? Has he thought about me…missed me? Is he…with someone? Is he happy?

  But another part of me, and it’s just as big, wants to walk up to him and smack him on the face. I want to put my finger in his face and tell him I can’t believe he’d show his face here. To scream, rant and rage. To scrape my nails down his face and make him feel the same pain he caused me. While my hand clenches tightly around my champagne glass, I honestly can’t decide which act I’d prefer.

  Somehow I manage to take a deep breath and control myself. I’ve moved
on - I’m happy with Blaine. Those things are in the past. We were young and in pain and it was only a matter of time until we combusted. None of that changes the fact that we had many happy moments together, and regardless of our painful past, I will always care about him. Remember him. Miss him. Wonder what could have been, or should have been. Love him? I push that thought away and tell myself it’s okay, he is the father of my baby.

  Before I can make a move, he blesses me with a soft sad smile, and his eyes, full of many indecipherable emotions are still on mine. Then, he gives me a nod and before I can blink disappears into the crowd and moves toward the door.

  Initially, I don’t move. A million thoughts run through my mind at a speed so quick, it makes them impossible to catch and decipher. Before I can think twice, I’m pushing through guests offering “excuse me’s”, abandon my glass on a random table, and am out the door. Looking first to the right, the wind blows my hair straight into my face. I shove it aside, and frantically search the sidewalk for him, but I don’t see anyone that resembles his physique. Rain is pouring down, and fortunately the awning is covering me, but it’s hindering my vision. Looking to the left, I search the street of running rain dodgers and see a figure moving down the street, slower than one would expect given the weather. I know without a doubt, it’s him. Some things you just don’t forget.

  “Cole!” I yell while at the same time wondering what I’m doing. Do I really want to come face to face with him? “Cole!” I yell again, I guess answering my own question. My voice is swallowed up in the sound of the weeping sky. With one look back at the gallery, hesitating momentarily, I turn and dart out into the rain.

  Muttering a curse when the cold water hits my skin, I run toward him as fast as my heels will allow on the slippery sidewalk. “Cole,” I yell again and this time he stops.

  He stands still for a moment so I repeat his name once more.

  He spins around and his eyes look around at a few other people and the area until they land on mine. Involuntarily gasping at the impact, it occurs to me that I never thought I would look into his eyes again. Eyes so dark, they’re almost black, they’ve stayed with me all this time, and seeing them again feels heavy on my heart. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I ignore them and move toward him.

  Arms wrapped around myself trying to fend off the cold, I hit a slippery patch on the sidewalk and curse internally knowing I’m going down. “Dammit.”

  Before my body reaches the ground, strong hands are there holding me steady. “Jesus,” he mutters before he pushes me back against a closed store window, protecting me under an awning where the rain ceases to beat against my body.

  For a moment we simply stare at each other. I’m soaked through, my hair hanging in strings down my face, the white part of my black and white cocktail dress now likely see through, and I’m sure my makeup is a mess. I’m almost angry at the fact that he manages to look so good. Sure his hair is plastered to his face, but he looks good wet. Not a mess like me. He’s simply… stunning.

  “Tatum?” he says my name under his breath and I watch as his eyes seem to devour my face. The combination makes a shiver run down my arms - it’s been so long since I’ve heard him speak my name. Funny how such a simple thing, my name coming from his lips, could bring such immediate response. I shiver again and tighten my arms around myself. He notices and without speaking a word, he takes his suit jacket off and places it around my shoulders. Somehow there’s still warmth inside and I revel in knowing it came from his body.

  “Thank you,” I tell him and feeling suddenly shy I look at the ground to gather myself. I’m not sure how to define exactly what I’m feeling, nor do I really know what I want to say now that he’s right in front of me after so long. With a sigh, I shake it off and look into his eyes once more and ask the question at the forefront of my mind. “What are you doing here?”

  He breaks eye contact and looks to the side. Before his eyes meet mine once more a smile graces his lips and he shrugs, “I came across a flyer for your show. I just…had to come.”

  He almost looks shy, his eyes silently wondering if his response will be satisfactory. “But why?”

  “Why?” he repeats. “What do you mean?”

  “Why would you want to come to my showing?”

  His brows raise and lines crease his forehead in confusion, “To see you of course. Why else?”

  “And so…what? You came, you saw, and you were just going to leave? Without even saying a word to me?”

  “Seeing you needed to be enough – whether I like it or not. Besides, I didn’t expect you to even see me.”

  “But, I did.”

  “Yes, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” he trails off at a clear loss for words. He runs his hand through his wet hair. “I didn’t think that far I guess. And if I had, I wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested in even speaking to me. So, I wasn’t intending on putting you in an uncomfortable position.”

  I almost want to laugh at his words, this whole interaction is uncomfortable, but his eyes are intense and they make me feel at a loss for words. There’s a piece of me screaming inside telling me to just walk away. Don’t do this to myself again. Don’t care. Don’t engage. Don’t get invested. Just don’t. Instead, I find myself nodding at his comment and we stare at each other, unsaid words and emotions passing through our eyes yet unable to do the same from our lips.

  “You look,” he begins and I almost jump at the sound of his voice. He eyes me up and down, and the way they scan my body is so intense I immediately feel transparent, vulnerable. A feeling I’m not sure I’d like to define crawls over my skin as his gaze brushes each part of me. “Amazing,” he finishes.

  “You too,” I confess making sure I keep my eyes only on his.

  We stare at each other and he blurts, “Are you happy?”

  I open my mouth to respond, but find that ‘yes’ doesn’t immediately come from my lips and it confuses me. I quickly and silently assess my life. I think about living in Chicago, a place I always wanted to go. I think about Blaine and our relationship over the last year. I think about my very first art showing here and how proud I feel inside. How I still love to lose myself in my paintings and haven’t lost a passion for my work. But then I dig a little deeper into each of those things and I think about how much I didn’t realize I miss Arizona. I wonder why I’m not happier with Blaine and my confusion over my feelings. I ponder my lack of good friends, other than my sister, and my longing for friends like I used to have when I lived here. I think about my paintings and how much I love my work, but there have been times more and more often where I’m experiencing intense block and I’m not sure where it’s coming from. When it’s quiet and I’m alone and I take time for self-reflection and dig deep, there’s a feeling of something more… but it’s beyond my scope. It’s unattainable for me, but I have a desire to make whatever it is mine. But, I don’t voice any of that. I just nod and give him a little smile.

  “Good,” he says looking away. I can see his jaw tightening as if he wants to say something but is forcing the words to remain unspoken.

  Finally, I jerk my thumb in the direction of the gallery, “Well, I need to get back.”

  He clears his throat and straightens, “Yeah, of course. It was really good to see you.”

  “You too.” We smile at each other a little while I remove his jacket and hand it to him and I consider hugging him or something, but chicken out and begin walking away instead after a little wave. After a few steps, I look over my shoulder and find he’s still standing there, looking down at the ground. I take another couple steps, my heart seeming to ache at the growing distance. I look again and he’s hooked his jacket over his shoulder and is slowly making his way down the sidewalk in the other direction.

  Taking a deep breath, I look back in the direction of the gallery and begin walking again. I’m not sure the thought fully penetrates my mind before I’m twirling around again and almost jump when I find he’s walking quickly tow
ard me and is closer than I thought. When I’m facing him, his eyes widen a little and he stops. We smile hesitantly and I say, “Did you…”

  “Would you…” he says at the same time and we laugh softly. “You first,” he says and I swear there is something that looks like hope on his face.

  “Oh, um, did you want to get coffee or something?”

  He closes the distance between us, “Yes, I was going to ask you the same thing. I’m just not sure how long you’re here?”

  Avoiding that question for now, I ask, “Can you meet me in an hour? I need to get back to the gallery first, but the showing is almost over.”

  “That works. Do you remember where Nadine’s is on Mill and University?”

  “Yes,” I nod, “I remember.” We spent a lot of time studying at that coffee shop and I smile at the memory. He smiles too and I’m sure he’s remembering the same thing. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

  “Okay, see you there.”

  “Okay,” I add and turn and head back to the gallery wondering what the hell I’m thinking.

  An hour and a half later, I pull up in front of Nadine’s. Closing out the showing took a little longer than I thought. I didn’t have to stay to see everyone out, but it didn’t feel right to leave before the last person left. Then when I finally got to my car to head over, Blaine called during his flight layover to see how the rest of the evening went. He had taken a flight back earlier tonight as we had planned, so he was only able to capture the beginning of the event. I recall my feeling irritated by the fact he couldn’t stay, but now, a feeling of relief for his absence accosts me, but I quickly dismiss it.

  Rather, I quickly reflect on the events after returning to the gallery. In honesty, I was rather impatient when I returned. Each question and kind comment from potential customers almost felt like an irritant instead of a compliment because I felt anxious to get back to Cole. The conflict was annoying and irritating, resulting in an internal battle from which there was no clear victor. Now that I’m late, I don’t even know if he will still be here. He probably thought I decided not to come. It isn’t like I could call him; I don’t have his phone number any longer. At least, I assume I don’t.