Shutting off my car’s engine with a quick turn of the key, I take a moment to gather myself. Rubbing my temples I wonder what I’m even doing here? What we had was years ago, and while I can look on it now and chalk everything up to being young and broken, the issues themselves remain unresolved in a sense. There are so many things I don’t understand, and in order to move on I had told myself I may never understand them, and that was okay. This could easily turn into something unpleasant if I let it, so I will ensure that does not happen. What does it have to do with today? With right now? Right? Besides, something inside of me couldn’t stay away even if I tried. Maybe this will end up being the closure we weren’t able to give each other before.
Pushing through the door I scan the room and feel relief when my eyes meet his. I smile at him apologetically, and walk to the table. He’s already ordered a carafe of coffee and a mug awaits me. “I’m so sorry. It took longer than I thought it would to get out of there.”
Fortunately, I had a change of clothes with me at the gallery. I quickly changed and used the bathroom hand dryer to do the best I could for my hair after retouching my make-up upon my return and am grateful that I stand here, no longer soaked to the bone. I see he’s changed as well. His black shirt is rolled up at his forearms, tattoos trailing down his exposed skin. My eyes can’t help but try to decipher the new additions since I’ve seen him last.
“It’s okay. I understand.”
After I pour my cup of coffee, I hold it between my hands enjoying the warmth while feeling at a loss for what to say. “So…” I say.
“So…” he repeats with a smile on his lips that makes my stomach flip. “How have you been?” he asks and it’s so lame that I laugh. He laughs too and maybe doing so eases the tension a little. At least, my shoulders relax some.
“Well, I’ve been good,” I tell him with a shrug.
“That’s it? Five years and all I get is, ‘I’ve been good’?”
“What would you like to know?”
He looks away from me for a moment before answering, “Given the art exhibition I’m assuming that means you finished art school with flying colors?”
“I did. As you know since I was only attending school part time my junior year here, I had some catching up to do once I arrived in Chicago.” I clear my throat and push past the memories that bubble up mentioning that time. “They couldn’t transfer all of my credits like they originally thought as well so I basically redid my junior year, went my senior year, and then decided to go on to graduate school for two years. I was lucky enough to maintain a full ride scholarship through it all, although at times, I’m not sure how.”
He stares at me intently, “I’m sure the scholarship was a big help.”
“It definitely took a lot of stress off, that’s for sure. It included room and board and even a stipend for food. It was amazing really. I was very lucky.”
“No, it’s because of your talent and hard work, no doubt.” I shrug and feel shy at his compliment. “So you graduated a year ago?”
“I did.”
“Impressive that you have your own gallery tour just a year out of school.” There’s a look of pride on his face that feels intimate.
“I’d like to tell you it’s all because of that talent and hard work you just mentioned, but it isn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have the tour because I know people who know people. It’s likely not something I’d have obtained on my own.”
“Don’t do that,” he says, a stern look on his face and I look at him in confusion and a little insulted by his admonition. “Don’t dismiss yourself, your talent, or your abilities so easily.”
“Well, thank you.” Deciding to move the conversation away from me, I decide I’d like some answers as well. “And you? You’re doing well? What are you doing for a living? Did you go back to school full time and graduate?” Even though he was fighting on a scholarship in college, he still chose a major of course, which was accounting. He had plans to take his CPA exam to become a certified public accountant. He had hoped to get a job at a major accounting firm and eventually become a partner somewhere to support our family. That of course was then.
“I did not end up going back to college actually.”
“No?”
“No. I’m fighting full time.”
“Oh, wow. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You were never able to stay out of the octagon. You loved fighting.” He smiles a little, but doesn’t respond. “So, it’s going well then?”
“I do okay.” He doesn’t expand on that at all. Apparently Cole has become a man of few words. So, I push on, “And the guys? Are they all still fighting too?”
That generates the first full-blown smile I’ve seen on him in five years and the sight pulls at something within me leaving me momentarily breathless. A smile on Cole Russell can make young women’s panties drop, babies giggle, and even elderly women look his way. It affects all the ladies.
“They are – every one of them. I’m sure you remember Jax, Zane, Levi, Dylan, and Ryder from college.”
“I don’t think any woman in her right mind could forget any of you.”
“Is that right?”
“It is.”
“So does that mean that you never forgot about me?”
It takes everything I have to sit here and keep to myself. I want to touch her, to move to the other side of the table, sit next to her, take her hands in mine. I want to tell her how much I’ve missed her. That I think about her all the time, that I never forgot her, could never replace her, even when I wanted to so damn much in my efforts to block thoughts of her.
Being this close to her and not able to act on my feelings is the worst kind of torture. I do my best to maintain a normal conversation, but I’m pretty sure I sound like a robotic asshole.
I wait for her to answer my question. I shouldn’t have asked it, I know, but it was out of my mouth before I could shove the words back. The tops of her cheeks flush pink and I can see her struggle for words. I want to hear her answer in the affirmative so desperately. I clutch my hands into fists trying to reign in my emotions. When she doesn’t say anything, and I can’t take any more of the awkward silence, I laugh, as if I was only joking and change the subject with a new question. “How are your parents doing, and your sister?”
Her shoulders relax and I feel a mixture of disappointment and frustration that she was clearly bothered by my asking her if she thought about me. “They’re good. Mom and dad retired to Florida a couple years ago. They love it there, and I try to visit whenever I can. Teagan is still in California. In fact, I have a gallery showing there in a few weeks. My mom and dad will be flying in for it and staying with her. I’m really looking forward to seeing all of them – it’s been awhile. Mom and dad wanted to try to come to this one initially, but California works best so they can see both of us. How’s your mom?”
“She’s fine. Still lives in here in Arizona, and is always busting my balls over one thing or another.”
“I’m not surprised one bit,” she says with a smile. She and my mom had been extremely close. We used to spend a lot of time at my house back then. Partly because my mom worked a lot and before we lived together, it was a place we could go to have some alone time. It was also because she and my mom genuinely loved one another. I ruined that when I basically sent Tatum away. My mom wouldn’t speak to me for weeks afterward. She kept asking questions in order to understand what had happened, but I refused to speak of it. Besides, I couldn’t tell anyone anyway. Another part of the agreement.
“Yeah, you shouldn’t be. She’s a woman of tradition if nothing else. She’s still a pain in my ass.”
“Oh please, you love your mom. You always were a mama’s boy,” she teases and the tone of her voice and smile on her face take me away to another time. A time when teasing and flirting with one another eventually led to touching and kissing. God, I have missed her. I feel like a thirteen-year-old girl with all of th
ese prissy emotions running through me.
“Guilty,” I give in easily to her teasing.
“Does she still randomly stop by your home with enough food to feed an army?”
“Not my place anymore, no. She stops in at the gym and hands out food to all the guys and me. It actually pisses me off to be honest. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fought with Levi over her sugar cookies, and Ryder acts like any time she brings in pasta it’s especially for him.”
She laughs, “Well tell her to quit.”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t dream of it, she loves the attention. I’ll sacrifice my stomach for her self-esteem I suppose.”
“Aw, you’re such a martyr.”
I chuckle and shrug not denying it while I look at her over the brim of my coffee mug as I take a sip. I can’t help but stare at her. Her long dark hair frames her face and is now curling a bit due to standing in the rain earlier. Her blue green eyes, framed by dark lashes, sparkle in this lighting. They are as bright and expressive as I remember. Her lips, the top a little thinner than the fuller bottom have always made it look like she’s pouting just a little in an unbelievably sexy way. She’s dressed casually in a blue shirt and jeans, but the shape of her body is clear underneath. I have no doubt if I close my eyes I would remember what it feels like to touch her skin. I remember every curve, divot and line vividly.
Beautiful pale skin, need in her eyes, want and desire coming from her lips during our naked moments. And then I remember last night - seeing her through the glass of the gallery. Smiling at a man, kissing him. The images in my mind fade and my hands clench into fists once more as I casually place them under the table. I want to ask her about him, demand to know who he is, how she met him, how serious they are, but I don’t. The questions remain on the tip of my tongue, but unasked.
“How are you liking Chicago?” I ask her as a way to push the unwanted thoughts from my mind.
“It’s good. I love the city, I mean is there any better skyline, theater, live music, or shopping anywhere else? The variety of restaurants has practically turned me into a foodie - but you know, it’s city living,” she shrugs and smiles as if I should know what she means. I’ve never been out of Arizona a day in my life. She pauses, takes a deep breath and continues. “I live in a great area, not far from the lakeshore – so I’m lucky in that way, of course. I’m able to walk everywhere, don’t even own a car. But everyone is in a hurry whether they are walking on the street or driving. And the winter’s, oh my god, don’t even get me started. The wind just goes right through you.”
I nod and try to soak in every word she’s saying but I find myself distracted. I think I’m only catching the highlights, the USA Today version. Watching her takes over listening. As she talks, her hands move. She gestures constantly, but when she laughs or gets excited about something her gestures become bigger mimicking her tone. When she struggles to remember a detail, she looks up as if it helps her recall them better. When she’s shy or embarrassed, she bites her lip and looks down. She’s a hair tucker too, always pushing it out of her face and behind her right ear. When she’s nervous, she still bites her lip or picks her nails. I remember teasing her because there were times she would have just painted her nails and then already be scratching the color off. And her laugh, god, how could I have forgotten how it sounds? Such a girly giggle that makes my own lips twitch with the need to smile or laugh with her. I’ve forgotten so many things. Things I promised myself I would never forget. Could never forget. And I don’t know whether to hate myself for it or to be thankful that I forgot them, because it would only have hurt more to be able to easily recall them all this time.
She’s mesmerizing, like a song that makes your heart pound faster and your body pulse with the need to dance. I’m basking in her presence, knowing our time is limited and wanting to memorize everything about her once more.
“You would love it,” she says, and I have no idea what she’s talking about. I must look at her blankly because she says, “You’d love how green everything is. And how in the Fall everything changes colors and creates the most beautiful landscape that I can’t come close to replicating in my paintings no matter how hard I try.”
“Sorry, but I’m going to have to disagree with you. I’ve seen your paintings. I doubt there’s anything that you can’t capture in your paintings.”
“You’re just being kind, but thank you.”
“No, I’m telling you the truth.” She nods, but a cloud crosses her eyes with my words and she seems to retreat a little. I’d give anything to know what is going on in her mind right this second.
We sit in silence for a moment as we each drink our coffees and I struggle for a question to ask or anything to say that will keep our conversation going. Something, anything, that isn’t loaded with all of the unsaid words between us.
And then I fail, because I choose to go there anyway. “Speaking of your paintings…” I pause, not sure how to proceed now that I’ve already opened my mouth.
Her brow furrows and her eyes search my face as if she’s trying to pluck the words from my mind before I say them, “Yes?”
My thoughts are so jumbled up with my emotions, untangling them all to try and ask a coherent question is difficult. “I…when I was at the showing…” she nods and watches me watch her. “I saw them.” Before I say anything else, her face stills and I watch closely for something that betrays what she’s thinking - what she’s feeling. She gives away nothing, her face a blank canvas, waiting for me to paint it with words before she betrays their definitions in color. “I saw the paintings of Hope.”
She nods, still not saying anything. Her throat moves as she swallows, then reaches for her mug and takes a drink of her lukewarm coffee. Finally, she nods, “I wondered if you had.”
“I’d like to buy them.”
“Buy them?”
“Yes,” I nod. “All of them.”
She looks at me then looks to the side and back at me again. She starts scratching at her fingernails and I can’t help myself, I reach out and take her hand in mine. She swallows and shakes her head, “They aren’t for sale.”
“That’s what they said when I asked, but I was hoping maybe I could convince you to sell them to me.”
She pulls her hand away from mine and I feel its absence immediately. “Why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why do you want them?”
“What kind of question is that?” I feel confusion and a few embers of anger start smoldering in my stomach. How can she even ask me that?
“It’s a valid question, but it doesn’t matter because like I said, they are not for sale.”
“Okay, then can I convince you to paint copies for me? It doesn’t even have to be all of them. I’ll take just one. Whichever one you can do.”
She stands abruptly and her cup of coffee falls over with a clatter, the little contents left splashing on the table top. She grabs her purse and when she starts to make her way to the door, I’m so shocked and confused it takes me a few beats before I run after her.
Once out the door, I look right and left before I see her stalking to a black car. Running to her, I grab her arm and turn her to face me, “Tatum, what the hell?”
“Why do you even care, Cole?”
It’s as if she’s smacked me. My head snaps back with the viciousness of her words and I’m instantly angry, “Excuse me?”
“Why are you acting like you give a fuck? I don’t understand any of this.” And she gestures wildly and I know she’s talking about my showing up at the gallery, our coffee, my request, everything.
“How can you say that to me?”
“It’s simple, I move my mouth and the words come out.”
“I’m serious, Tatum.” I reply sternly not finding her sarcasm amusing in the slightest.
“It doesn’t matter. This was a mistake. All of it was a mistake.”
I let go of her as if she’s burned my hand with her words. I watch helpless
ly as she searches her purse frantically for the keys to her car and I feel frantic at the thought of her walking away again. Not like this. Not again. Placing my hand on the door, alongside her head, I plead, “Tatum, please. Don’t go.”
She turns to look at me, and I’m gutted by the tears in her eyes. “I can’t do this, Cole. I thought I could, but I can’t. I’ve moved on. I’m happy. But this,” she gestures between the two of us, “this still hurts and I’m not willing to take a knife to my scars and reopen what has been healing and allow them to bleed anymore. I’ve come too far to take steps back to that painful time, and that’s what you are. I can pretend all I want but that’s what you are - pain.”
Finding her keys, I hear a sigh of relief leave her as she presses the button to unlock the door. She gets inside and I grab hold of the door before she can close it. She hangs her head for a moment before looking up at me, “Goodbye, Cole.” She closes the door, starts the car and leaves taking my heart and soul with her once again.
“Goodbye, Tatum.”
It’s been a long time since I’ve cried myself to sleep, but as soon as my eyes open in the morning, I remember doing so the night before. After returning to my hotel room, I collapsed into bed without even changing my clothes, brushing my teeth, or removing my makeup. I let the emotions from the day and memories from long ago chase me into sleep.
Groaning, I roll away from the sunlight brazenly blasting through the curtains I neglected to close last night. Grabbing the pillow beside me, I shove it over my face briefly hoping I can fall back asleep, but all at once it hits me. I remember what day it is and what it means to me. It’s why I almost didn’t agree to my showing being so close to this day, but then decided maybe a short stay here is long overdue, and just maybe exactly what I need.
Slowly getting out of bed, I find myself in the bathroom staring at my reflection in the mirror. Standing calmly my eyes trace the lines of my face and then I look into my own eyes, trying to see it. I know it’s there, but yet on the surface my look is deceiving. The vision presented is an average woman with dark hair, a straight nose that lifts slightly at the tip, a few freckles across the bridge, a small dimple in my chin and high cheekbones some women have told me they’d kill to have themselves. Staring harder, I look for it again until my eyes begin to water. For a moment, I feel proud of the façade I’ve worked hard to place there. I wear the mask well. Some days it’s even genuine – I feel happy, fulfilled even though not in the way I’d hoped or expected, but some days, some moments, it’s enough.
Fighting Pride Page 5
