Chapter 2
JULIETTE WILSON
Two buses, thirteen blocks in the rain, and one overpriced cab that smelled suspiciously like a hot dog.
That’s the pilgrimage required to reach his precious restaurant, which is on the ground floor of his office tower, naturally. His commute is a thirty-second elevator ride. Mine is a quest that requires a map and multiple final bosses, seriously.
I spot him at his usual table, which also happens to be the table I hate most, jammed between the kitchen and restroom, so we are graced with the noise of every plate crash and toilet flush. Lovely.
Harry raises his hand in a lazy wave, staying firmly parked in his chair. He never stands when I arrive. He never has. And I know–it’s a small thing, but it irks me every damn time.
Weaving through the crowded restaurant, I make it to our table and drop my purse on the ground with a thunk, sighing as I slide into the chair. I swipe my hand over my forehead, damp from the effort to make it across the city at lunch time.
“There you are, finally,” Harry greets, and though it’s a bad greeting, he’s definitely had worse.
Like when I was wearing a lace-front dress with white tights and ballet flats–a style I now know that he does not care for–and he asked what role in Peter Pan I was auditioning for as I walked up.
In front of a table full of business people.
I glance up at the waiter who has likely been stalking my arrival. “Ma’am.”
Quickly perusing the menu to jog my memory as to the dish I like best here, I don’t find it in ten seconds, and feel Harry’s gaze on my profile. “I’ll just have a cup of the house soup.”
The waiter nods his head, forgoing the order pad, and slips into the sea of hungry diners.
Harry reaches across the table, taking my hand with his, giving it a small squeeze.
His glasses slide down the bridge of his nose, but he nudges them up with his knuckle, and smiles.
“Good news, Jules,” he beams, nostrils flared with excitement.
Maybe even with fervor. And I am so not in the mood for anyone with fervor.
A rush downtown resulting in sweaty everything does not pair well with fervor.
I let out a private sigh. “Oh yeah? What’s that?
” It’s not that I don’t like affection or holding hands but–over the top of a menu during lunch hour while my armpits look like the aftermath of a marathon?
I slide my hand out from under his. “I’m too hot, I just need a minute,” I explain when he hits me with a somewhat deflated expression. “What did you have to tell me?”
He interlocks his fingers at the knuckle, resting them in his lap.
He’s wearing chinos today, pressed to the nines, with a white collared dress shirt and a navy blue blazer that accentuates his steely blue eyes.
Harry is handsome, and I look at him fondly as he smirks, withholding what I’m starting to think is exciting news. “Harry,” I prod, smirking in return.
He holds up his hands in celebration. “I got you a corporate photography job.”
The waiter reappears, sliding two sweating glasses of ice water onto the table, both of them spilling, leaving dark circles on wine colored tablecloth.
Once he’s gone, I lick my lips, sipping from the water glass.
I need to cool down, and yet what Harry’s just said has only added to my body temperature. And not in a steamy way.
A beat passes and Harry puts his hands back down, bouncing his foot.
“Excuse me? You got me a corporate photography job? Harry, I’m pursuing creative photography.” I think that’s what he said, but I repeat it so I can hear it aloud again. I also repeat my career goal, because it’s clear that it needs repeating.
His shoulders tense for a moment before he smiles, reaching for my hand.
“This is paid work, honey,” he says, squeezing my hand.
I look down at our hands and search my chest for any tingly feeling, for that excited energy, that subtle spread of fire through my veins when you lay eyes on your person.
Right now, though, all I feel is sweat and frustration. The waiter returns with our food, but my appetite is all but gone.
“You’ll be taking photos for a brochure for a new investment advisory firm.” He drapes his napkin over his thighs, gaze still pinched on me, waiting for me to react. Or, react further. Repeating him was my first reaction because– “brochure photos?”
He huffs out one of those pissy sighs that he does when he prefers compliance over honesty. “Yes, Juliette,” he says, full-naming me since he can’t bend me over his lap and spank me. Again, not the steamy way.
“Look,” he starts, placing his fork and knife down, letting his pork chop rest. “This will be good for you. For your portfolio.” He cuts a piece of the dry meat and brings it to his mouth. “I already agreed on your behalf because I believe this is what’s best for you. Truly, Jules.”
I dip my spoon into the soup, and blow gently on the first bite, watching a bit of tomato move around the broth.
I am jealous of the decimated little tomato in my soup. He doesn’t have to listen to Harry’s career lectures, one of which I feel coming. Seriously, I think the lecture is already at the table with us.
“Mm,” I hum upon the first bite, finding the fresh minestrone absolutely delicious. It’s my favorite. No matter the time of year or what I’m doing, hot soup always sounds good.
Harry smiles. “You haven’t said anything about the gig.”
My nostrils flare. “It’s been twenty seconds since you told me.”
He laughs, dry and humorless, and reaches across the table to steal a breadstick from the basket in the center. “Well, take a moment.” He chomps the end of the breadstick, talking around the doughy bite. “Then tell me what you think.”
I take another bite of soup, not taking a moment to think. I’m hungry. I want this soup because I had to make Zelda’s freaking journey to get here. After a few bites and an incredible sip of water, I blot the edges of my mouth with my napkin, and face him.
“Harry, I love that you’re always thinking of me,” I start, wondering why he doesn’t think of me at other times, not just when he wants to change something about me and wants to chalk it up to thinking of me.
It feels like Harry is always wanting me to be different.
Better. “But you know I’m aspiring to build an artistic portfolio. Brochures aren’t really… artistic.”
“Art comes after,” he argues, taking another bite of bread, then his pork chop.
“After what?”
He smirks, lifting a hand to his mouth as he murmurs, “you always ask me a question when my mouth is full.” He swallows animatedly then takes a sip, making a show of clearing his mouth to speak.
“After you build a serious portfolio which tells clients you’re established and reliable and worth paying for.
Then you can go take all your artsy photos.
But first, you have to make a name in the industry.
Take yourself seriously now so you can have the career you want later. ”
This is not the first time in the last year of dating that Harry has played the uninvited role of career coach.
Our first fight was over my career, in fact.
Amidst the argument, Harry accused me of disagreeing simply because I didn’t want to admit he was right.
I’ve thought about that a lot since. I really don’t care what Harry is right or wrong about–the truth is, I just don’t agree with him.
Didn’t six months ago when we first argued, and still don’t now.
“I do take myself seriously. It’s hard as an artist, Harry. I’m not like you. My skill isn’t something that can be easily applied in an office setting.” I shove another bite of hot soup into my mouth to stop me from saying more.
Harry’s blue eyes hone in on me as he blots the corner of his mouth with his napkin.
“I know you take photography seriously, honey,” he says, the softness in his tone diffusing a bit of the sudden stiffness in my shoulders.
“I know. I’m just saying, with a portfolio of professional clients at your disposal, it may be easier to find the creative clients you’re so adamant about.
” He smiles, and I see the man I met a year ago.
I see the hope and kindness, and see all the reasons why I continue to stay with him.
There’s potential there. Work to be put in, sure. But that’s how relationships go.
It’s not like I was lucky enough to meet Mr. Right when I was thirteen with acne and braces and managed to stay in his life until I was old enough for him and waited for him to maybe notice that I’m utterly and totally in love with him and then finally get to be with him and have my best friend not mind at all that I’m pregnant with her dad’s baby and going to be his wife.
Specific, I realize, but that scenario just doesn’t happen.
So, I date Harry.
I date Harry and I hope.
For change. For more. For a miracle? I don’t know.
I smile at my boyfriend, and take another bite of soup, a bit pleased that today he at least understands that brochures aren’t my career, nor do I want them to be.
“Well, where’s the gig?” I ask, trying to be grateful, maybe even excited.
He pops a creamer potato into his mouth, taking a moment to savor the fresh herbs it was roasted in. “Right here in the building. A floor beneath mine. Friday, in fact.”
“Friday?” I arch a brow. “We’re dress shopping for the wedding today and if it runs over, we may have to use Friday, too.”
Harry smiles, smoothing his palm over the top of his styled hair.
He adjusts the button on his collar, and crosses his calf over his knee, holding his ankle.
“Honey,” he starts, “You need actual work under your belt or you’re not a photographer, you’re just an unemployed dreamer.
Dress shopping needs to take a back seat to growing up and getting your career on its feet. ”
All of the understanding from a moment ago seems to evaporate with those few sentences.
I glance at my watch, and know I only have a few minutes before I’m supposed to meet Kat downtown. I push the soup toward the center of the table, and dig a wad of folded up bills out of my purse, setting them on the table. “I’m sorry I can’t stay longer.”
“Juliette, you know you don’t have to pay. Don’t do this,” he sighs, cupping his head in his hand like I’m his child who has just disappointed him. “Don’t rush off all… pissy.”
I push my hair off my shoulder and get to my feet. “I’m not pissy. I hear you about the brochure and about my fledgling career, okay? I’ll do the brochure photos on Friday. I just… I gotta go.”
He taps his cheek, and I lean over the table to kiss it. “Call me later,” he says, and even though I’m still hungry and still hot from the hustle, the day gets a little better when I arrive at the bridal shop and see my best friend inside, wrapping a veil around herself like a mummy.
This is gonna be fun.