Please, Jake, come through or I'm gonna blow it.
Her attention span had grown thinner in the weeks since Dylan showed up at her office. A week had gone by since they'd exchanged text messages and she hadn't gotten back to him yet. She'd spent most of the last few weeks making and returning calls, spending time with Hunter and Lauren and doing her best not to think about Dylan, Michael, her failing marriage, or the job she'd started to hate.
She pulled out the pile of crap she'd decided were priorities.
"Blanchard's Dope Lighting and Sound," the card read, a terrible graphic with picture of a DJ, neon lights in the background. Last year she'd agreed to use a lighting and sound crew who didn't work for the event center, giving the job instead to an independent twenty-something and his small company in exchange for a donation from his wealthy father, Marcus Blanchard, a friend of her stepfather. It was a painful experience, but they'd pulled it together in the end, and it was worth the check she'd received with Marcus's polite letter asking for the favor.
She made the call, a few rings on the other end, and then loud music and static as Neil Blanchard fidgeted for a moment, probably trying to put out a joint before he said hello.
"Blanchard's Dope Lighting and Sound!" he yelled at her through the receiver.
"Neil, it's Rachel Daniels. I was hoping to pin you down for a time to walk the event center, I'd really like to get it done this week. What looks good for you?"
"Ummm, this week? When is it again?"
"When is the fundraiser? It's in three weeks, Friday, October 25th." She'd already sent him two emails and they'd had this conversation once before.
"Oh yeah," he mused slowly, "Yeah, so can we do it tomorrow? I'm kinda busy, but I can do it at like noon."
"Sure. Tomorrow at noon. I'll shoot you a confirmation via email and I'll see you tomorrow. Thanks, Neil."
Jake waltzed in as she was hanging up, brown paper bags full of something organic and well-balanced for lunch, she wouldn't bother to argue, he'd have insisted she eat it anyway.
"Hey Honey," he said, throwing the bags on her cluttered desk, "What's up?"
"Jake, remember that kid who did the lighting and sound last year? Neil?"
"Sure, Neil Neil the Achille's Heel."
She busted out laughing, "Yes, Neil Neil the Achille's Heel."
"What about him?"
"I have to let him have the job again this year."
"Why?" Jake asked melodramatically, "He's a dopehead junkie moron, he's going to burn the place down and our insurance probably won't cover the damage."
Rachel tore into her sandwich, surprisingly edible considering it was covered in bean sprouts, "His dad wrote us a check for five thousand dollars," she said, food still in her mouth.
"You're disgusting, close your mouth."
She swallowed and finished, "His dad gave us a lot of money, Jake. I've got to give him the job. You know I do."
"Fine. But I'm not babysitting him this year. Last year he dragged me behind the stage and spent ten minutes telling me he wasn't gay, but that he really liked my tuxedo. Ten minutes he spent telling me he wasn't gay. Then I let him blow me."
"No you didn't!"
"Okay, no, I didn't. But only because he's a smoker. I hate smokers."
The front door creaked open and a young man called in, "Ms. Daniels? I have a delivery!"
Jake stood to sign for it and she polished off the rest of the disgusting bean sprout sandwich.
"Ohhhhh, Raaaachel," Jake sung in his best soprano.
"What?"
"Come and seeeeeee," he called back, his voice full of melodic mischief.
She dropped her notepad and walked into the front, "What is it, drama queen?"
There were six enormous vases full of irises, every shade imaginable. She'd never seen anything more breathtaking, or extravagant. The vases were plain, glass cylinders, tall and thin, the shiny green stems perfectly aligned. But the flowers, there were hundreds of them, purple, blue, pink. The delivery boy pushed the door open with his hip, carrying in two more vases, one under each arm. Jake reached for one and placed it on the floor.
"Is that it?" he asked sarcastically.
"No, I have eight more," the delivery boy called back on his way out.
Jake's eyes, wide and seeking an explanation, met hers. But she didn't have one. Her heart had taken flight as soon as she'd seen them.
Dylan.
Kenneth would never have done such a thing, especially after six months of the silent treatment, so she shrugged and feigned ignorance. The delivery boy came back in with the other vases and Jake helped him place them safely next to the others.
"Sorry, there's still one more," the boy said, running back outside.
"It's a goddamned Van Gogh painting," Jake said.
She stood there while the boy placed the last vase on the floor and Jake signed for the delivery. After he was gone, Jake opened the card and started laughing.
"It's a haiku!" he teased, "Except, he got it backwards!"
consider hues of iris
petals multiply
more reasons you should meet me
"Rachel," Jake said, shaking his head, "Is this him? Is he serious? Because if he is serious, I don't know if you should hump him or send him my way. Or both. This is by far the cheesiest, silliest most ridiculously romantic thing I have ever seen."
"It's absurd. I'm married.”
“Miserably,” Jake argued.
“So?” she yelled, “He doesn’t know that! He left me sixteen years ago, pregnant and alone. I almost died. Fuck him."
"Maybe this is his apology?"
"I think not."
"Rachel, you can't pretend some delivery boy didn't just waltz in here with something out of Martha Stewart's million dollar wedding magazine and a handwritten backwards haiku saying he still loves you."
"Yes, I can," she said, turning for her office, "And he didn't say he still loves me, he said he wants me to meet him."
"No. Let me rephrase that, Honey. You can't pretend this was some small token of friendship. This was an 'in your face, I'm not going anywhere, you're going to sit down and talk to me whether you like it or not, and I'm probably going to fuck you silly afterwards' kind of gesture. Assholes don’t do stuff like this. Stalkers maybe, but not assholes. And if he were stalking you then we’d have heard about it a long time ago. So if he’s not a stalker, and he’s not an asshole, then you're going to have to talk to him. Either you tell him you're married and he has to stop, or you tell him you haven't had sex in six months and you need a good dicking, but you're going to have to tell him something."
"Jake, I can't talk to him, you don't understand."
"No, I don't understand, but it looks like he doesn't either, Rach- so, you better start figuring out how to articulate those complicated feelings in that little head of yours, before somebody gets hurt, like maybe your husband," he warned before turning to leave her office, and then he stopped at the door, "At the very least, he owes you an apology and you deserve an explanation. You're a strong, independent woman, Rachel Kay Beauchamp Daniels. Stop thinking you have to live up to some helpless female ideal that your mother always glamorized, that's not who you are."
He'd sounded angry by the time he finished, and slammed her door on his way out.
She scrambled around for her phone to shoot off a text message.
Fine. Coffee tomorrow. 9 AM.
I'll be in Houston.
Where do you want to meet?
Then she called Savannah and asked her to meet with her when she and Neil walked the summit at noon. She knew well enough to expect she'd be flustered after meeting with Dylan, and she'd be too impatient to deal with Neil alone.
She would need a buffer, and her mother always talked enough, so Rachel wouldn't have to.
***
They were meeting at the Starbucks on the bottom floor of the building his firm was housed in. Dylan suggested it. Rachel was indifferent and wanted to focus
on maintaining her composure, and making sure there were plenty of other people around.
She tried to dress casually, comfortably, something to make her feel like the married mother of two she'd become, something that wouldn't give off the impression she was interested in being kissed again. The blue jeans and loose fitting white blouse seemed to work. She stuck with her trusty cowgirl boots, and ponytail, and threw on some large silver earrings and a bit of make-up, but only because Savannah would have been traumatized if Rachel showed up all natural to their meeting later.
Thank God for the sleeping pills or she'd have stayed up all night, obsessing over everything that happened, what she would say, what he would say, and if she psyched herself out too much, she might not have been able to walk into the coffee shop at all.
Composing herself, Valium well in her system, she marched through the entrance with as much aloof confidence as she could muster. He was already there, seated in a leather chair in the corner, one long leg casually draped over the other as he scrolled through his phone. He was in a full suit this time, dark blue, perfectly tailored. His hair was carefully molded with one of those salon creams that gave off the appearance of using nothing at all, nothing like the disheveled mess he'd shown up at her office with weeks before.
In a room full of people, he stood out like a model on the cover of a men's magazine, his entire presence demanding attention. He glanced up as she approached, her hands already beginning to shake as her courage considering fleeing. He stood, reaching to touch her shoulder and she shuttered.
"Hey Rachel, thank you for coming, can I order you something?" he asked, standing as she took the seat next to his.
"A vanilla latte'."
He strode to the counter and placed the order, smiling easily at the young barista who flipped her hair and smiled back, theirs was not a new friendship. She batted her eyelashes flirtily, her heavy blue make-up more suited to a strip club than a morning shift at the coffeehouse. He laughed, she smiled, but then she turned to Rachel and cut her eyes just enough to let her know she wasn't intimidated by his meeting with another woman for coffee.
Is he fucking the barista in Starbucks?
Rachel looked away, picking at her fingernails until Dylan took his seat. He had to know how uncomfortable she was. This wasn't a meeting she could ever prepare enough for.
"Rachel, I want to start over. I'm sorry about when I came to your office," he took a deep breath and looked her in the eyes, "They’d just told us about Michael’s condition, and I know it sounds cliche', but I really don't know how I ended up at your office. I've been wanting to talk to you, but I hadn’t meant for it to happen like that-" he stopped as the barista approached with their coffee.
"Thanks, Brooke," he smiled, taking both cups and handing Rachel hers. The barista cut her eyes at Rachel again before walking away.
"I think she's perturbed you're inviting strange women into your special space," Rachel said, stirring her coffee with the tiny straw. She'd hope to sound like she was teasing, but it came out more like an accusation.
Dammit.
He looked after the barista, puzzled, "Brooke?"
"I'm sorry, I was just teasing," she offered awkwardly, regretting she'd said anything.
She was married to another man, it was none of her business if he was fucking the barista. She looked down into her cup uneasily and brought it up for a taste.
"I see," he said, his features softening. "Alright, so, listen, puss- " He caught himself.
Just spit it out.
"Rachel- I have had this conversation with you in my head a million times over the years, but now that I have you here, I'm not sure what to say."
She'd had enough Valium, she decided to take over. She was going to ask him why he'd given her the money for ReachingOut, why he'd sent his partners to meet with her instead of meeting with her himself. She wanted to tell him her heart breaks for him losing his son. She tried to temper her annoyance over not knowing what he wanted.
"Dylan.I was pregnant. Why did you leave? You couldn’t have given me the courtesy of saying goodbye?"
He looked stunned, surprised she'd started there. She was surprised she'd started there. It's not what she expected to come out of her mouth. He sat back slowly, bracing the sides of the chair, and he watched her, the blue eyes sparkling against his tan skin. He was angry, but more prepared than she’d been.
"Rachel, you know that’s not what happened. I didn’t leave. I called you, I tried to see you. Your mother said you didn't want to see me.”
"That isn't true!" she yelled, “I waited weeks for you to call me!”
“So you waited weeks before you had an abortion and found a new boyfriend?”he asked viciously.
“You’re disgusting! That’s not what happened!”
“I’m not making it up, Rachel. She said you didn’t want to talk to me, and I tried to give you some space, I thought you needed to adjust to being pregnant. Then she said you had an abortion and had a new boyfriend. She told me you were in San Antonio with him, I drove there and walked the RiverWalk for two days until I saw you, sitting in a restaurant with him. Just like your mother said. I didn't disappear from your life, Rachel, you disappeared from mine."
Her mind raced. That couldn't be right. He had to be lying. But why? Why would he want to hurt her again? She raged inside, her body trembling as she fumbled for her purse.
"Rachel- Let me get you some water," Dylan called to the barista, "Brooke, can I have some ice water, please? Quickly?” and then, “Rachel, you're pale. Are you okay?"
He took her hand, her small fingers lost in the enormity of his. His face sought hers for a response, she was numb. No, she was on fire.
"Don't touch me, I need to leave. I have to go," she was already up, headed for the door, her purse in hand.
"Rachel, wait!"
He was on her heels, his strides easily keeping pace with hers.
"Fuck you!"
***
She was in front of the hotel in San Antonio that summer, Brent beside her. Brent had been all gentleman until that moment. For weeks he'd shown her patience and humor, bringing her movies and flowers as she waded through the melancholy. She'd told him she was sad over her father having left, but he knew she'd also broken up with a boyfriend. He hadn't seemed to care, and showered her with kindness and compassion.
But that night in San Antonio he'd become angry that she'd asked to go home, nauseated from the twelve week old pregnancy she was still hiding. They'd left his friends at the restaurant and he told the cab driver to take them back to their hotel. The moment they'd exited the car he viciously reached for her elbow and shoved her inside.
She wasn't scared until they reached the elevator and he'd refused to let go of her arm. Not wanting to make a scene, she'd been raised never to allow an intimate affair to be broadcast, she hesitated to fight back in the lobby. The elevator door closed and as he pressed the button for her floor, she tried to push him away, angry and afraid.
"Listen, bitch, you just humiliated me in front of my friends, do you have any idea what a disgusting, trashy thing that was to do?" Brent hissed at her, his eyes full of violence, fingers digging into the flesh of her arm.
"Let go of me, I said I was sorry, I just want to go home now," Rachel had argued. "You're not my father, let go of my fucking arm!"
"Fuck you," he whispered as the elevator doors opened to her floor.
"No, fuck you!" she said, her voice trembling, worried the guests waiting in the hall had overheard. They'd stepped off the elevator and he let go of her arm, but followed her to her door. She already had the key card out, ready to unlock the door by the time they got there, but her hands had shaken visibly and she'd struggled to slide it into the small space.
Brent snatched the card impatiently, quickly pushed it into the card reader and yanked the door handle down the moment the tiny green light flashed green. She wanted to go inside alone and get away from this jerk who thought the world owed him som
ething, who thought she owed him something.
"Get out," she'd said loudly as he pushed the door open, but he refused and stood inside brooding, his fist clinched tightly at his side.
"My God, take a hint, Brent, I don't want you in here, I'm sorry you felt humiliated. We're not exactly boyfriend/girlfriend, your father is friends with my stepfather. That's it. I thought we were friends, but you're turning into an asshole." She walked past him, set her purse on the table and walked over to the phone. "I'm calling my mother, I want to go home, please get out."
"Rachel, you're not calling your mother," he argued, taking the phone and cradling it in the receiver, "You're eighteen years old, you're about to start college. You're a grown woman and you know exactly what you're doing when you flirt with me and let me take you out, putting on all that make-up. Any woman would be grateful to have me for their boyfriend, I'm attractive, I'm about to start grad school at Rice, my father is one of the most important men in Houston. But I chose to date you, I like you, why can't you give me a chance?"
"I'm just not ready for another boyfriend, Brent. It has nothing to do with you, but yelling at me and grabbing my arm isn't exactly a good way to show me you're not some jerk just trying to get laid."
He slapped her. Hard. She'd been stunned, the sting from his hand vibrating through her face. She brought her hand to her cheek and felt the heat rising through her fingers, unsure what to do. She'd never been slapped, not even by her mother.
"I'm so sorry, Rachel," he offered immediately as he reached out for her.
She wasn't sure if he'd been offering her consolation or seeking it himself, but she just stood there. Brent was only a few inches taller than her, not a big man, but he'd been strong, something earned in his life of privilege, day after day spent playing tennis and horseback riding. He had a sad look, a face that begged people to be nice to him. He'd asked her to forgive him over and over, swearing he hadn't meant to do it. She'd made him do it, nobody had ever talked to him that way, it broke his heart that she thought he was just trying to fuck her. He'd done nothing but try to be good to her.
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