Scorned (From the Inside Out #1) (3 page)

I
wonder
why I would even add the word ‘else’ on the end like that.

Maybe he’s married to the woman in red… with kids.

Or maybe it was just a date and he’s single and available.

Was he ever available? Truly available?

Yes
, he was once. Remembering his smile triggers my own, and how it affected me back then, how it brightened my day and made me anxious to return home to him. Memories run rampant and I hold the pillow over my face even tighter. When I open my eyes, I feel disgusted that I smiled over a memory of Dylan’s smile.

Tossing the pillow aside, I roll out of bed, deciding to skip the dramatics, and get ready. A hot shower does little to comfort me and even less than the memory of him did a few minutes before. I dress in a hurry, not taking my time, a dress pulled from the hanger haphazardly. Shoes are taken from the shelf without second guessing, wallet thrown in my work bag because I don’t want to take the time to find the ‘right’ purse for this outfit.

I leave my hair down to dry naturally, letting the waves form how they do when I don’t straighten them. When I move into the kitchen, I see the coffee pot,
our
old coffee pot. I don’t drink from it. Ever. It doesn’t come to life and percolate or provide me with the much needed caffeine to kick my ass into gear. It stands as a monument, a symbol of what used to exist here, representing the lives that used to live between these walls. It sits idly unused next to my $2,000 DeLonghi Coffee Center—my most decadent purchase A.D., After Dylan.

I’ve used the DeLonghi a total of three times, mainly because I don’t have the time to learn how to use it. I’m not home much if I can avoid it. Today is about overcoming the date’s history and making a fresh start, so I write a post-it note and stick it to the front of the machine’s gleaming stainless steel surface.
Learn to use.

Since I don’t know how to use it, I walk down the steps of the stoop and head west one block. Opening the door to my favorite local bakery and coffee shop, a calm comes over me. Other than the park, this is one of the few places where I allow myself the courtesy to relax and absorb the comfort. Maybe it’s the warm wood tones and the soft music playing in the background that eases me. Maybe it’s the homemade smells that fill the air. Or maybe it’s because my apartment and the gallery lie in stark contrast to the quaint little shop.

“Juliette?”

With my guard down, I’m caught relaxing, so without thinking, I look up. “
Dylan
,” flows from my lips as if it’s still allowed to reside there, as if I say it every day.

I think of the name often, but I never say it.

Ever.

And yet… I just did.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE
it’s you,” Dylan says, glancing around as if everyone should be as surprised as him.

I swallow—hard—left without any other words in me. He renders me speechless and that’s just not how I ever saw this going when I played this reunion out in my head.

“Was that you the other night?” he asks. “At the restaurant?”

Hmmm…
How should I respond?
Yes
, it was, but I avoided you even though I heard you shouting my name,
that
name, down the street. Or maybe,
no
, I have no idea what you’re talking about?

The lie is much more appealing right now. “Which restaurant?” My voice betrays my poor acting skills and goes up an octave.

“I could’ve sworn that was you, but I wasn’t sure. You look… you look different.”

Good different
or
bad different?
Ugh, why do I care?

“I mean, you look really great, Juliette.” There’s that name again, overshadowing what I think is a compliment. Hearing
that
name makes me cringe and melt all at once. I hate this feeling. I hate how my memory serves me too well and I feel somewhat less of myself just because he’s talking to me.

“Bistro down on 72nd,” he continues. He’s also still staring at me, seeking, searching.

I reply, “I ate there the other night.”

He furrows his brow. “So it was you. Why didn’t you…” I know what he’s going to ask, but he thinks better of it, not finishing. I think he gets the hint that I’m not really open to this conversation. “I’m sorry for bothering you.” Rocking back on his heels, he suddenly seems unsure of his own words, thoughts, of what he should do. “I just wanted to say hello.”

I angle my head gently to the side to
really
look at him. He looks good—great, in fact. Time has stood still for him. He looks happy, or at least not unhappy, like the last time I saw him before he left me.

Two of his fingers tap down on the table and he says, “I should go. It was really nice to see you again, Juliette.”
Cringe
. “Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime soon.”

“There’s a possibility since we’ve seen each other twice in the last few days when we hadn’t seen each other at all over the last three years.” I don’t know where this comes from as it bursts from my mouth, like stating some weird statistical anomaly. I should have just let it lie and let him walk away.

He seems surprised once again, but this time probably because I’ve spoken more than four words. When he smiles at me, I feel the first hairline fracture form on my outermost protective layer, my shield, as if alerting me to tread carefully. I still smile, an old reaction to him.

Speaking at a much quicker pace this time, he says, “You really do look fantastic. Life is treating you well.”

That’s where he’d be wrong.

He glances
over his shoulder, seeming to be waiting on someone. I’m sure he is, which causes a dull ache in my heart. When his eyes return to mine, he signals to the large clock over his shoulder. “I’ve got to run. I have a meeting downtown in twenty and I should’ve left ten minutes ago.”

Maybe that’s what he was looking at before. I thought the worst of him and he proved me wrong. I don’t apologize or even return the smile this time. I owe him nothing more of myself. He took all of that with him when he left years ago.

“So, yeah, I should get going.” He steps backward and has this goofy grin on his face like he actually
is
happy to see me.

I always loved that goofy grin.
The small fracture widens every time I feel anything other than scorn for this man. In a small way, I want to test the theory. But not today.

He turns, then rushes out the door and my gaze drops to his coffee he left behind on my table. I stare at it, my granola parfait long forgotten. Picking up the cup, I see droplets of coffee around the hole in the lid and I’m tempted to taste it. I don’t know if I want to taste the coffee, or him, or both, but the thought disturbs me and makes me feel stalkerish. I set it back down exactly where he left it, spinning it back to the way it was before it was abandoned.

Tucking my hands under the table, I grasp them together to keep from touching the offensive white to-go cup again. I tilt my head to read the order label stuck crookedly on the side:
Black
. I glance down at my porcelain coffee mug and the black, no fuss coffee that remains and remember the times we shared black coffee together.

The bell chimes and my eyes flash up. His half smile and body language speaks of his embarrassment as he returns. “Forgot my coffee, and I seriously need the caffeine this morning.”

I watch as he wraps his fingers around the paper cup. My heart races, remembering how they used to wrap around me, in me, curling, teasing, pleasing… Forcing my eyes up, I watch as he sits down in the opposite chair. He looks nervous once again, uncertain as his eyes search the tabletop for the words he wants to use. After clearing his throat, his voice is deep and hesitant when he says, “I want you to know I’m sorry.”

Sorry.

After three years of heartbreak, tears, and numbness, the power of his words is the key, turning the lock on the chest that’s buried in the recesses. Tears form in the corner of my eyes and my gaze drops down to the wood grain of the table, unable to look at him with any kind of emotion other than hurt. Waving my hand erratically in front of me, I unknowingly let him off the hook, as if to say
oh, that, that was nothing. No worries
. But my words don’t match my actions. “Don’t,” I say, all emotion that’s threatening to come back is gone again in an instant.

When I stand, he stands. His hand gently caresses my upper arm and my eyes follow it. Realizing the act of touching me is unwelcome, he pulls his hand back, and whispers, “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just want you to know how I feel.”

Struggling from being this close to him, I say, “It’s not necessary and you’re supposed to be downtown in five minutes.” I bolt for the door in a blur of words and excuses. “And I’ve got to get to work.”

The bell chimes my exit, another echoes as he follows me out onto the sidewalk. I know it’s him. I can feel his presence, his heat, his concern, his apologetic face searing my back. I rush forward, away from him, but he remains close. Finally his footsteps falter and he says, “I know what today is, Juliette.”

Cringe.
I stop, not able to take it any longer. With my hands fisting at my sides, I turn around and lose my temper altogether. “Stop calling me Juliette!”

He’s stricken with my untamed emotion, his face one of shock and horror, confusion, and still so damn apologetic.

Stepping to the curb, I flail my arm into the air to hail a cab, needing a fast getaway, an escape from him. When the taxi pulls away from the curb, I exhale as the chest is sealed tightly and returned to where it belongs.

I WANT TO
see Juliette again. I can’t stop thinking about her. She’s a beautiful woman, not a girl anymore. I miss the girl, but I threw her away, thinking the grass was greener. It wasn’t.

She’s different, on the inside. Changed. Did I do that to her? I hope not.

With my feet resting atop my desk, I have a chewed up pen cap in my mouth as I stare out my corner office window. My cell phone and call button have been silenced, so I’m not disturbed. I let my thoughts drift back to the beginning of the end…

Juliette pulls back from the kiss and whispers that she’s tired. It’s 2:37 in the morning. My ego takes the hit and I roll away from her, taking it out on her by giving the cold shoulder, by making her feel she’s done me wrong. I feel rejected. Excuses, I know, but it’s how I start distancing myself, preparing for what’s coming.

She rubs my back lovingly and apologizes. The tension eases in my body, but my head holds tight. I slip out from her reach with a groan and pretend to fall asleep.

That’s the first time I hear her cry because of me, because of the way I’m hurting her. It’s soft and quiet but her pain is apparent. We’ve never gone to bed angry and we didn’t tonight, but somehow in the night, I managed to hurt her and now here we are.

I hate myself. I hate what I’m becoming and yet it’s like I have to go after it with full intention. I’m going to break her heart… on purpose and that breaks mine.

I pick at the sandwich in front of me but I’m not hungry. I don’t want food. I want coffee, with her, at the coffee shop. The run-in was a fluke, seeing her there—a planned accident, if I told the truth.