Chapter 8 #2
Kat gives me the eye, her dark hair in a sleepy tangle around her face. Her sharp eyes hold mine as her hand grips my knee again. “He wants to change you, and I just don’t want you to change for a man you don’t love.”
“I’m not changing,” I defend weakly, but then– am I?
“I took the corporate gig he got me. And then we got in a huge fight in the middle of the shoot because I thought he insulted me? Or, I don’t know, I thought he insulted me and the receptionist for being just a receptionist?
” I shake my head and catch my head in my palm.
“I don’t know. It just… it was tension filled and awful.
But the photos turned out great.” I pull my hand away and look between them.
“He wasn’t wrong. They will look good in my portfolio. ”
Kat sips the coffee that was handed to her, but slowly slides it next to the tray of croissants.
“Jules, I don’t take clients with multimillion dollar budgets to Bernal Heights and show them condo options, because even though they can easily afford to live there, I know they don’t want to.
They don’t want to spend their lives in a place they don’t want to be.
Choosing where you live isn’t unlike the rest of life’s choices.
You can take photos of people signing tax documents and smiling or whatever the fuck Harry thinks is your destiny, but if you want to take photos of…
I don’t know, elephants on the safari or topless girls?
Signing tax documents will never cut it, no matter how good you are at it. ”
Zennie bobs her head in unison, pouring more coffee into all of our mugs. “Do you know what type of photographer you’d like to be? I mean, I know you don’t want to be a pamphlet photog, but have you found your, you know, thing?”
Rolling my lips together, I look between them.
“Art in everyday life. I want to capture art in the moment. Portraits, stuff like that. And maybe one day that is someone signing a paper–but maybe like, a divorce paper, or something, you know? I want my photography to be art outside of the box, but that captures the big moments and beauty of everyday life.”
Kat brings her hands together, steepling them beneath her chin, large eyes set on me. “And you’re perfect for that. I can see you absolutely killing that. And I truly do not believe you need some professional portfolio to get there. I swear Harry is fixated on your portfolio.”
Zennie sips her coffee with a cautious expression. “Are you going to break up with him? I have to tell you, Juliette. When we first met, you seemed happy with him but now the only time I see you happy is when you’re with us, or Kat’s family.”
I swipe beneath my eyes, pushing out a heavy breath.
I hear them, and it all makes sense, because when I’m with Kat I’m happy and when I’m around Ford, I’m in heaven.
But they can’t know that the only man that actually excites me, the only man I can envision myself with, the only man I’ve ever even cared about in any real capacity is Ford.
Guilt forms a heated collar beneath my jumper, and I swipe at my forehead.
“I have trauma about being alone, I think.”
Kat waves her hand down dismissively, the way only a best friend can.
“You don’t. You are amazing and I’m not claiming to know you better than you know yourself but you don’t have trauma.
You just don’t want to be alone.” She beams, and that, in fact, is the truth.
I don’t want to be alone because when I am, I fall deeper down the Ford hole, and I’m pretty banged up as it is.
I look between Zennie and Kat, and do what I came here to do–spill my guts.
“I keep thinking, maybe things will get better? I mean, Harry and I had great chemistry when we first got together.” We did.
We really did. He was sweet and adoring, and I loved sifting my fingers through his hair when we kissed, and the way he’d capture my hand and then press a kiss to it.
We laughed. We saw movies and took walks.
Things were really good. So good that I didn’t forget my feelings for Ford but I was able to see around them, for a bit.
Kat shoots Zennie a look. “What?” I gripe, mouth still full.
Kat sighs and Zennie gives me a cautious, soft smile, and I know a harsh truth is coming.
“You are the problem in your life. But guess what? That’s okay.
Everyone is. Remember when I was struggling with dating?
And you urged me to stop pretending, and go after who I really wanted to go after?
” She blinks her thick lashes at me, and I nod, going back in time to when we sat on the edge of her bed in Ford’s house and I guided her to, essentially, come out.
“Yeah,” I sniffle, moving for another croissant. Seriously, I need a Zennie.
“Okay, so, who was keeping me from living my best life? Was it you? Were you forcing me to date guys I didn’t like or was that me?”
“You,” I grumble, taking the mug as Zennie passes it to me. I wash down another bite, feeling the warmth of the hot caffeine and friendship release some of the stress in my shoulders and back.
“Okay,” Kat says, “so don’t be scared of ownership. Are you the problem right now? Yes. But it’s not that deep, girl. The way you stop being the problem is by letting yourself have some things you want, and equally, getting rid of the shit that doesn’t serve.”
Another sniffle. “I’m supposed to be meeting your dad this afternoon, to take photos of the passage at the new Velvet location. It’s for my portfolio, to help build it up with creative work I actually enjoy.”
Kat claps her hands. “Really? Oh that’s a good step, Jules. That’s good.”
“It was your dad’s idea,” I tell her, my skin burning hot from the truth unspoken. I called him. I called him and it had nothing to do with you or your life, but I called him for me. For the first time ever. And by not spilling all of those details, I feel sneaky. And guilty. But Kat beams.
“My dad’s right. The passage is so fucking cool. It will make an insane set of photos.” She smiles. “When an old man has your best interests at heart and your boyfriend doesn’t…” She trails off, smirking, but I’m caught off guard by her referring to Ford as an old man.
He’s not that to me. He’s… mature and full of wisdom, aged to perfection, and handsome, sexy and–
Zennie clears her throat, pulling me from the quick-tumbling rabbit hole of Ford Mercer.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she carefully says, “It was good in the beginning because that’s the honeymoon period.
Now his true colors are showing and I know this is hard to hear but it will never be what it was when it started.
Harry’s a shapeshifter. He lovebombed to get you, but now he wants you to be someone completely different, and men like that are men we run from, okay? ”
I bring my hand to my forehead and salute them. “Okay, got it, Harry has to go.”
Zennie blots at the corner of her mouth, feet crossed at the ankle, pearl necklace glittering on her neck as she says, “Dick and Balls has to go.”
Kat erupts in laughter, and I can’t help but do the same. I’ve never heard Zennie curse, and I surely didn’t expect her to call Harry by his nickname. But we laugh, and after more coffee and some wedding chat, I feel a million times better about my life.
I leave wearing a smile, and while Kat never asked how it came up with her dad to photograph the passage, I feel guilty for not coming clean.
In the backseat of the Uber, watching people bustle to work with big purses and thick scarves on the sidewalk, I think about that tiny little unspoken truth. I called Ford, on purpose, and did not tell Kat.
It’s tiny.
It’s nothing.
It’s something that now, just one day later, I could still explain. I could still come clean.
I’ve never lied to Kat.
But excitement flares in my belly, and I curl my toes in my pumps when I think about how this could be the start of something.
More secrets, more things kept just between me and Ford, and if that were the case, that would mean we have something.
Something that needs to be kept secret because of what it could be, and the idea that we could be a we of any kind gives me a thrill.
A private thrill. A fantasy of a thrill, because that’s what all of this imagination of mine is–pure fantasy. Ford Mercer didn’t call me. I called him. He isn’t interested in me, I’m the one projecting because I’ve been in lust with him since before I even knew what love really was.
Still, thinking about dumping Harry gives me the confidence to freely think about Ford, without guilt.
As the Uber pulls up to my place, I wonder what Ford will be wearing later today.
His pinstripe wool Brunello suit? God I love him in that suit.
The heathered gray and cream stripes bring out the silver in his crown, and the way the pants just dust the tops of his shoes and give a glimpse of his ankles…
drool. I had no idea ankles were sexy until Ford took us to the lake one summer.
Ford Mercer in culottes, exposing inked ankles?
I learned that day as a fifteen-year-old girl that I like ankles. His ankles, specifically.
The Uber driver yells at a pedestrian who doesn’t have the right of way as I rifle through my purse to find cash for him. I hand it forward, and get out, my mind still sifting through all of the ways I love to see Ford Mercer.
I think about him in Amiri shotgun flannel and his jeans–a completely different look for him, but one he does don occasionally. He won’t be casual while at work, but still, thinking of him in rugged plaid does things to my belly full of coffee and croissants.
With my hand on the lobby door, I realize that thinking of Ford and what he’ll be wearing has turned me into a sticky, swollen mess down there. And that’s not what gives me pause, because Ford dancing around my thoughts always has this effect.
Ford hadn’t told Kat about our call either.
And like the desperate fool in love that I am, I hold onto that fact with hopeful, horny hands as I head upstairs to obsess over my outfit for the next two hours. As much as I love the jumpsuit, I need something more professional for this.