Session Seven
Why Do We Sabotage?
I met Cole on a stormy day in Washington.
Haha, sorry, no. I just wanted to set the scene.
It was stormy, but we weren’t in Washington.
We were at a Subway down the road from Blog TO’s headquarters, and I wasn’t versed enough in the downtown culture, or couture enough to buy my lunches from Whole Foods.
So, a cold-cut-combo sounded reeeeaaaallll good after my second week at the job.
He was the guy ahead, dressed to the nines like Harvey Spectre from Suits and I didn’t notice him until he noticed me.
“Your lunch is paid for, ma’am,” Denise, the cashier, said. I always noted people’s names. Psychology trick? Or I was just charming? Second option, always. Looks better in my favor.
I wanted to stomp my foot like a child, demand by who? with useless rage, but I wasn’t an idiot. We were the only two people in Subway, and he was staring at me with this stupid grin I now fawn over every night.
Denise pointed at mystery man and he waved, picking up his order – steak and cheese on whole wheat – and I chastised myself for noticing his order but not noticing him.
I take it back. I am an idiot.
So I chased him down the street.
It’s like he knew I was behind him, walking slow, black umbrella overhead. “Some torrential downpour, eh?”
“Who are you talking to?” I yelled, puddles of water pooling onto my lips so it came out like wharytalkto?????
He laughed, glancing back. “Come under here so you don’t get soaked.”
“No,” and I stopped. In the middle of the sidewalk. Cold-cut-combo one millisecond from being slop.
“Suit yourself, honeybee.”
And he left me there!
CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT????????
“How dare –”
He was around the corner, leaning against the brick wall of a café, awning above us. “Join me for coffee.”
“But my sub –”
“Is inedible,” he closed his umbrella, opening the door. “Let’s get you something” – he noted my wet bag of soggy bread – “solid.”
I frowned, discarding into the trash, and stepped inside. “Honeybee?”
“Can I get a flat white and a cappuccino?” He asked, then, “Please. Also, two chocolate croissants, and a… that looks good, doesn’t it?”
The cashier was a granny and tapped the glass. “You won’t be disappointed. The lox bagels’ a bestseller.”
“Want to try?” He asked, brown eyes so brown they were… brown – okay, adjectives. Words. He’s asking you a question.
“I don’t like fish.”
“Chicken salad sandwich?” The granny.
“What do you want?” Mystery man.
“My sub,” I chuckled, then stepped up to the display case. “But… if you’re offering” – I glanced at Mr. suit and tie – “I’ll take the turkey on sourdough.”
He smiled, taking out his wallet. “You heard the lady, Oretta.”
“Good to see you again, Cole, how’s Mum?” Granny, she had a pearly white smile. Veneers, probably. Everyone down here was loaded. Including…
“Did you rob a bank? Holy shit.” I clasped my hands over my mouth, embarrassed as all fucking hell because WHY DID I SAY THAT?
He burst out laughing, handing a twenty to Oretta (supposedly) and took our number (ten) to the window table.
“Funny, honeybee.” He pulled out my seat. “Let me get some napkins.”
My mouth – agape, my shock – visible, my ass – firmly planted on the seat waiting for Cole.
Cole.
Coleeeee.
Who the fuck’s Cole?
When he returned, I wasted no time asking. “Why do you call me honeybee?”
He placed a hand over his heart. “Pity you don’t know who I am.”
“Am I supposed to?”
“I edit your photos.”
“What?” I practically launched out of my seat. “What do you mean you edit my photos?”
He leaned back, arms crossed, shit-eating grin on his face. “Beatrice Henderson, new hire as Marigold’s understudy, the diamond who was discovered in the New York gutter.”
I scoffed. “Sounds like a headline.”
“ORDER TEN!” Granny yelled, and Cole stood up to collect our meal. Listen, I was confused, all sorts of whack and starving. Was I in my right mind, or was this man offensively attractive? Calm down, Beatrice. Okay, HOW?
When a man in a suit with a dimpled chin, strong jaw, mousy brown hair and kind eyes buys you lunch…
TELL. ME. HOW???
I’m allowed to have fun, I told myself. I hadn’t been with Jace in over a year. He’d pop in and out of my conscious mind, then sink back into my subconscious when I was out taking photos or hanging with Fawn, travelling or reading (because I took up books!) and life felt rosy.
There was no room for partnership, not when I was chained to a job I outgrew, depressed over the man I (loved) despised, and fought to fortify the last remaining scrap of sanity I possessed.
No, I didn’t fuck anyone. I didn’t fool around. I didn’t care.
I ate mini churros on my couch, drank BASK with Fawn and contemplated reinstating my Photoshop subscription because did I even like taking photos?
Who would even want to see the world through my eyes?
It’s bleak, it’s grey, it’s sad, it’s mute, it’s lost.
And then God said, “You’re a gardener now.”
And planted a fuck ton of Marigolds.
Praise Jesus. Praise my boss.
“How did I not know you edit my photos?”
He just barely sat down, handing me my sandwich, then the cappuccino (to which he noted that our supply lessened since I got hired), and a croissant.
“You’ve only been here for two weeks.”
“And in two weeks, you were the genius behind Cityscapes?” It was my latest spread. Stood atop the SOHO for nine hours. Scorching heat. Got a tan, though.
He nodded, taking a generous sip of coffee.
“Block Maintenance?” My tribute to the construction workers of the city.
Another nod.
My eyes narrowed as I bit into my sandwich.
He said nothing.
I said nothing.
Until. “This is better than a cold-cut.”
“See!” He threw his arms up, “Rain’s a blessing!”
I laughed. Well and truly laughed. Not strategically or carefully, not a worry in my mind if there was food in my teeth or if the meal was equivalent to my entire day’s calories.
It was… jarring. Almost.
Like something was missing.
A longing to be sad, depressed, empty.
Why are we like this? Why do we ruin good things?
Why do we sabotage?
I put my sandwich down, feeling queasy. Doubt started to settle in. What does he want from me? Fear started to take over. This can’t be permanent? Abandonment flooded my system. What if I never see him again?
There was Blu, so cowardly and imposing. Making herself known in the sparse edges of my mind. Feeds off fragility, this one. But Beatrice, what would Beatrice have to say? Stacy’s words. Let’s focus on Stacy’s words.
What does he want from me? A nice lunch.
This can’t be permanent? Does it have to be?
What if I never see him again? You work with him. Open your eyes.
Open your eyes. Open your eyes.
He didn’t lock you in here.
You did.
You did. You did. You did.
“Where’d you go?” Cole asked, gentle, gentle, gentle Cole.
I can’t hurt him. I don’t want him to hurt me. I don’t want to get hurt.
“Why do you call me honeybee?” With shaky hands, I lifted the cappuccino to my lips. “How do you know so much about me?”
He stopped chewing, then slowly set down his sandwich. Swallowing. “You learn a lot about someone through their art.” He wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “All good artists hide pieces of themselves in their work.”
I said nothing, staring. Enthralled.
“Like Van Gogh, he painted his emotional state in colors and textures. Or…” he paused, “Sylvia Plath, right? Buried her distress in words? How about Taylor Swift, you’ve got to know that –”
“Oh, don’t limit me to pop-culture references,” I chuckled, urging him to continue because I didn’t want to waste another second not hearing his voice.
He took a breath, smiled. “I like your art, I think you have something a lot of people don’t. Edge, bluntness, force. It’s quite intimidating,” he sipped his coffee. “It’s unique.”
“And you got all that from two collages?”
“People at the office call you Beatrice,” he said. “Shame me for being the outlier.”
I chuckled, “But honeybee?”
“Would you rather beeswax?”
I gasped, grinning. “I’d rather no bees until our first date –”
The smile wiped off my face the second the words left my mouth. Fuck, fuck, FUCK, why did I say that??? Was that too far? Too forward? I used to be good at this stuff, used to dance around boys like a bee to honey (ironic) and now?
Now?
How the fuck am I going to save –
“I had a really great time, when can I see you again?” He asked, placing a hand over mine.
Huh? “What… are you –”
“As far as first dates go, this wasn’t half bad, wouldn’t you agree?”
My mouth… dropped open.
“I mean, I know it’s two days away but maybe a picnic? Friday? I can settle for breakfast in the lunchroom, if I get to call you honeybee one more time.”
And that, my friends, was the start of something unexpected.
A yes, the easiest yes, to bran flakes in the lunchroom, and a sunset picnic at High Park.
I could see it now.
Open your eyes. Open your eyes.
He didn’t lock you in here.
Open. The. Door.
“Um,” I literally couldn’t be more awkward if I tried. “Sorry about the money comment earlier, sometimes I just say things.”
He waved it off. “It’s cute, don’t apologize for anything.”
“I mean, sorry, I didn’t notice you either. At work. I’ve just been focused on –”
He took a bite of his pastry. “What did I just say about apologizing?”
I laughed, surely flushed. “You know,” fuck, “I don’t usually date colleagues.” Or anyone for that matter.
STOP TALKING. STOP THINKING. STOP EMBARESSING YOURSELF.
“Well,” he flicked up his watch, “lucky for you, I’ve got a job interview for the tabloid division in thirty.”
Okay. Now blush. You can totally blush. “You’re not going to be my editor?”
“A minute ago you didn’t even know I was,” he supplied. Not wrong.
And I was itching in my seat, attempting to keep this conversation afloat because hot guy was asking me out and hot guy was nice and hot guy bought me lunch and –
Cole, Cole –
Was nothing like Jace.
“Friday sounds good,” I smiled.