Chapter Eight #4
“Don’t worry, sir, there’s about zero chance of me trying to steal your girl. Don’t take this personally; she’s a very beautiful woman. Just, erm, not my type.” He drops his wrist to demonstrate who is, then laughs. “Sean’s my favorite of my brother’s exes.”
The way he says it, so blasé, causes my body to stiffen.
I’ve always wondered what Eric told his family about how we ended, if he claimed that we’d just drifted apart or manufactured a tired tale of me as the stuck-up doctor girlfriend who didn’t make time for him.
He has certainly not told them the truth, or Jared might not be so familiar.
“It’s nice to see you again,” I say, half meaning it. My mouth manages to be both dry and tacky with saliva, and I swallow, praying that my nerves don’t show. “This is your work?”
Luckily for me, Jared is as chatty as I remember, and at my invitation happily tells us all about his journey as an artist, pulling out his phone to show us his portfolio.
His pieces are impressive, simple enough that they could hang comfortably in homes while still having gallery appeal, and the longer we speak, the more relaxed I become.
Jared isn’t his brother and never has been, and even if the resemblance is uncanny, they could not be more different.
“You finished training, right? Are you finally a badass rich cardiologist who can afford one of my pieces?” Jared asks, waggling his brows. Then his eyes flicker up to Julian, and his grin turns coy. “Or will Mr. Tall, Brooding, and Beautiful be my customer?”
Behind me, Julian has been mostly quiet, trailing behind us like a ghoul. At Jared’s invocation, though, he reaches into his wallet and hands him a business card.
Jared looks down at the card, his eyes going wide.
“Harrison and Conrad Galleries?” He looks from me to Julian, realization dawning on his face. “Holy shit, Sean. You’re dating a Conrad? Way to level up!”
“You’re very talented,” Julian says in a brusque, businesslike tone. “That email goes to my assistant, Ritika. We’d love to showcase your work, but we also have connections with some national galleries that might be interested in you as well.”
“Yes, of course.” Jared’s joviality is gone, and I’m worried that he might start bowing at any moment.
“Thank you, Mr. Conrad. This is such a great honor.” He pulls out a couple of business cards of his own.
One goes to Julian. He scrawls something onto the back of the second: his number.
“And Sean. It was so good to see you. Don’t be a stranger!
I would love to get coffee and catch up! ”
Numbly, I take the card. I can’t tell this very darling boy-turned-man that I’ll never use it, that I can’t stomach forty-five minutes across from him in a coffee shop because looking at his face reminds me of the darkest era of my life.
I should thank him, give him an empty platitude (“Sure, definitely!”) but the words are gravel on my tongue, impossible to spit out or swallow down.
Julian’s voice slices through the muddle of my thoughts.
“Hope you have a good rest of your day, Jared,” he says. He wields his dismissal like a sword, and Jared jumps back in understanding.
“I will!” he assures us, scurrying away. “You too!”
The hall is sparsely attended, a small showing on the exhibit’s last week, and another guest, having eavesdropped on our conversation, pulls Jared into another.
He nods and beams and shows them his phone as well, and even with the spectrum of emotions clashing in my chest, I recognize a warm undercurrent of pride.
A hand on the small of my back guides me out of the main hall and into a quiet corridor.
“You’re not okay,” Julian says. It’s an observation, not a question, and my vision blurs with tears.
“No,” I confess.
Julian doesn’t ask me why. He doesn’t probe me on why seeing my ex’s little brother has left me shaking when I am so generally unshakable. Instead, he sighs and pulls me into his chest.
It’s just a hug. A chin on the top of my head, arms wound around my shoulders. But when he holds me like this it’s hard to stop the tears from coming. I stand in his embrace for a long time, and I realize, numbly, that this experience is new. I am so completely used to crying alone.
“God, this is embarrassing,” I confess when my breathing finally slows. I sniff, pull back to make sure I haven’t left part of my face behind on his Burberry trench coat, and wince when I see a smudge of foundation. “Sorry. I can pay for dry cleaning—”
“Absolutely not,” Julian says. He reaches into his pocket, produces a handkerchief, and dabs my cheek. The gesture is so tender, so oddly paternal, that it almost makes me cry again.
Voices echo around the corner, other art center guests leaving the exhibit. Julian pulls me in to shield me from view and waits until they pass. In the huddle of his arms, I feel completely encapsulated. Warm. Small. Safe.
“Where do you want to go?” he whispers when they leave.
“Anywhere,” I say.
And so Julian takes me home.