8. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
JULIAN
It’s almost eleven o’clock at night when I hear the front door open. It’s strange to hear after being so used to living alone. Though, I’ve found that a lot hasn’t changed. I wasn’t blind to her blatant avoidance of me. It’s like she’s afraid of getting in my way.
I want her to feel comfortable here and not like she has to tiptoe into the kitchen in the middle of the night for a snack, which she’s done many times. I want her to have the same freedom she felt when I first found her dancing without a care.
She’s different when she thinks no one is paying attention.
At the times we cross paths, I find myself opening my mouth to speak, but no words fall out.
Last week, she passed me in the hall, and I caught a whiff of her sweet perfume.
Since then, I’ve caught myself trying to get closer to her just to smell it again.
I don’t know what it is about her that’s turning me into a fool.
Every day feels like a new battle of giving her the space she seems to want.
Her soft footsteps grow closer and my body tenses slightly as she appears.
When she sees me, her steps stutter. Her hair is pulled back into a neat bun and she’s wearing black cat ears, reminding me that today is Halloween.
She also wears leggings and a baggy t-shirt.
There’s a duffel bag on her shoulder and her arms are wrapped around a brown paper grocery bag.
I learned that she’s a ballet instructor at the Belinsky Academy after she accidentally left a student form on the dining room table. From my quick online search, I found out that it’s a highly sought-after school. Many move on to study at the most prestigious schools and even perform on Broadway.
There’s a lamp in the corner that casts a dim glow into the open space of the living room.
The TV volume is low, so she probably wasn’t expecting to find me here.
I have a laptop propped on my thighs as my legs rest on the coffee table.
I’ve been researching similar foundations to mine for hours and researching investors.
I’ve only been able to make a very small list of potentials.
“Sorry, I didn’t know you’d be awake.” She walks over to the kitchen counter and sets down the bag. She grimaces at having caused the only sound in the quiet room. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize for existing, Andrea.” My words cause her shoulders to lower some as she nods.
As she begins to put away her groceries, I turn the volume up on the TV so she doesn’t feel the need to be quiet.
There’s something peaceful about her company and I let myself soak it in as I glance between my laptop screen and the TV.
Picking up the remote, I browse the channels, searching for something I think she might like to entice her to sit down with me.
It’s a few minutes later when I hear the microwave open and close. A popping sound fills the room, and then the smell of buttery popcorn hits me. Something foreign starts to build inside of me, and I realize that something about this situation feels homey and warm.
I’ve never done this before. Usually, when a woman is at my apartment, it’s because I’m sleeping with her, not trying to watch a movie and have a conversation.
The buzz of her presence draws closer before I see her appear in my peripheral. “Do you mind if I. . .” she trails off and I look over at her. She holds a bowl of popcorn in her hands, lingering with an unsure expression on her face.
“Not at all,” I say in a neutral tone, all while cheering with victory internally. I watch as she takes a seat at the other end of the couch, practically hugging the arm. I grab the remote from beside me and hold it out to her, feeling a bit uncertain about my movie choice.
She shakes her head, smiling softly. “That’s all right, I love Practical Magic.”
I can’t tell if she’s telling the truth or if she’s only saying it because she doesn’t want to be “a bother”.
Nodding, I turn the volume up louder and set the remote between us anyway. I try to focus on my laptop screen, but I no longer find any of it interesting. Instead, my eyes keep gravitating to the woman beside me.
I notice how she starts with one piece of popcorn at a time, but that changes as she gets more into the movie.
Gradually, she begins shoveling it into her mouth by the handful.
I feel the corners of my mouth tugging upward.
Some time passes and I barely recall closing my laptop and setting it on the coffee table.
When she silently sets the bowl of popcorn between us, I take a handful.
It’s about thirty minutes and an empty bowl of popcorn later when out of the corner of my eye, I see her head turn from where it rests against the back of the couch.
I let her look at me and pretend to not notice.
I’m pretty sure she’s working up the courage to say something and I happily give her that time.
We’re both still feeling each other out and I want her to be comfortable enough to move about my apartment as if it’s hers. She doesn’t know it, but I know a lot about what she’s feeling right now. I’ve felt like an interloper for nearly my entire life.
“I’m sorry!” she blurts, and her abrupt declaration stirs me away from my impending thoughts.
I’m certain my confusion is plastered on my face when I glance over at her because before I can ask her what she’s apologizing for, she tells me.
“I’m a terrible critic. Your art doesn’t need to explain itself.
It’s fascinating really, powerful even. I looked up more of your work and if anything at all I found it interesting.
Your work isn’t creepy or complicated—well, maybe only at a glance, but when you let yourself look a little longer, you find a story.
That’s what your work is, right? You’re telling the world something you don’t want them to know.
That’s why they feel unfinished.” Guilt twists her beautiful face and more than anything, I want to tell her to cut that feeling out. It’s not needed.
“You looked me up?” I ask, letting myself smile this time. She’s a better critic than she’s given herself credit for. If she thinks she offended me, she’s wrong. I’ve grown up around critics my entire life. I’m used to criticism and find it easy to only take the necessary feedback with me.
Her eyes drop to my mouth, and she gets a weird look on her face that I can’t decipher. “Yes.”
My smile widens. “I’m flattered you found me important enough to research.”
I watch the tension slowly slide off her shoulders.
Perfect . “You shouldn’t be. I look everyone up,” she responds in a matter-of-fact tone.
Her eyes trail back over to the TV, but only briefly before they’re back on me.
I’m beginning to like this placement. “You’re very. . .distinguished. How old are you?”
My instinct is to disagree, but I don’t. I know that in many ways I’m successful, but there are plenty of other ways to lack wealth.
“I’m thirty-two.” I wait for a telltale sign on her face that judges me for being alone at my age, but one never comes. I clear my throat. “And yes, I’m comfortable,” I agree with a short nod.
She snorts, her eyes pinching in amusement. “That’s something only a rich person would say.”
I don’t bother mentioning that I know what it’s like to be uncomfortable—that I sometimes can still smell the mildew of the mold-infested houses I grew up in.
I’ve slept on dirty floors and have been beaten to a pulp more times than I can count on both hands.
Finding comfort in this world has always been important to me and when I couldn’t get it from anyone else, I had to create it for myself.
There was only one house that I felt safe in—one house I tried my best to stay in. It took me years to experience something I never thought I’d have again. Abigail reminded me that I was worth something, but then she was adopted by her dads, Fitz and Malcolm.
A light went out inside of me again and I was back to being the only person I knew in the world. Some people don’t realize how good they have it when they have a rally of people at their back. I spent all my life looking for mine and doing my best to keep them.
“How’s the apartment hunt going?” I ask, changing the topic.
She blows out a breath, her cheeks puffing. “It’s going.”
My brows lift. “That bad, huh?”
Nodding, she says, “I might just have to eenie, meenie, minie, moe it.”
I chuckle and her eyes drop to my mouth before quickly looking away. Her cheeks tint as she focuses on the TV screen.
“Is that your method for all important decisions?”
Her mouth tugs downward in contemplation. “Honestly? Yes, most of them.” She glances over at me. “What’s your method?”
“Logic, mostly.”
She rolls her eyes, laughing softly. “Of course it is.”
I grin. “I recommend trying it. It might help.”
“You should try my method. You might be surprised.”
“And leave my life up to fate? What makes you think I’m that kind of guy?”
Her eyes light up. “You’re an artist. Doesn’t that make you a hopeless romantic of some kind?”
“Of some kind,” I agree.
The music heightens on the TV, stealing both of our attention. We go back to watching the movie, but there’s a new comfortable silence that sits between us. We finish the movie that way and when the credits roll, we both stay put.
I open my mouth to ask about her day when she stands, grabbing the empty bowl between us, the kernels rolling. “Thank you for letting me sit with you.”
I frown. “You live here. There’s no need to thank me when you’re not a guest. Sit whenever and wherever you want.”
She rolls her eyes, and I reckon she does that a lot. “Can you not be you for a second and just say ‘you’re welcome’?”
“Sit with me anytime, Andrea,” I say instead, grinning ear to ear.
She groans, her head falling back. “You’re infuriating.”
My eyes follow her to the kitchen as she dumps the kernels into the trash and then places the bowl in the dishwasher .
I cross my arms from where I remain seated, amused. She looks flustered and poised all at once. “My kindness infuriates you?”
She squints at me. “Yes.”
Liar. “Why is that?”
“Because you—well,” she stutters and then takes a deep breath. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.” She turns on her heel, making her way down the hall, but I’m not ready to stop talking to her. There’s something about it that makes me feel charged.
I shut the TV off quickly and follow her. She mumbles to herself up ahead, waving her hands through the air as she does.
“I enjoy you,” I call out behind her and she freezes, spinning around to face me, eyes wide. I grimace, clearing my throat. “I mean, I enjoy having you here. . .the company is. . .nice.”
“Nice,” she repeats, brows low.
I nod and to ease her mind, I decide to give her the truth.
“I spend my days in the city not always because I want to, but because the moment I come home, I know I’ll be alone.
” I search her eyes, fighting off the urge to retreat and pretend I’m not word-vomiting.
“So yes, it’s nice to hear you prattling about the kitchen in the early morning and the music pouring through your door while the shower runs.
You always brew enough for two cups of coffee instead of one.
There’s a part of me that likes those reminders that I’m not the only person in the entire world, you know? ”
Silence floats between us as she blinks once, twice, three times. Then, not only her face, but her entire body softens. Understanding takes over her features and she gives me a genuine smile. “Yeah, actually I do know.”
Relieved, my heart beats fast inside my chest and I find myself needing more air than I let myself take in. I nod a few times, not sure what else there is to say.
“Oh, did you eat one of my Ding Dongs?”
I rub the back of my neck, not expecting that question, and wince. “I was curious what they tasted like,” I say. Every time she ate them, she acted like she was possessed, so I had to see for myself.
She’s not upset at all. In fact, she beams at this discovery, walking backward toward her room. “You thief .”
I chuckle. “Indeed.” She opens her door, stepping halfway inside. I step past her to enter my room. “Goodnight, Andrea.”
“Julian?”
I pause with my hand on the knob of my door, and peer over my shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Le prince souillé.” The French sounds butchered coming from her lips, but I understand nonetheless. “What does it mean?” she asks softly, studying me closely.
I swallow thickly. “It means, the sullied prince .”
The piece is of a boy being pulled and chipped away by a dozen hands.
The only color in the piece is from his bloody nose, busted lip, and purple eye.
I painted it when I was eighteen and it was one of the first paintings I ever did that got people’s attention.
No one understood it then—and never once asked why—but the way Andrea looks at me without the weight of my history and understanding anyway, tears at something inside me.
Is it you? Her eyes ask, but I don’t answer.
Her eyes remain soft as she says, “I want you to forget everything I said before. The artist should never change to appease their admirer or else all art would become mediocre. . .and yours certainly is not, Julian.”
This is definitely the part where I’m supposed to say thank you, but my tongue fails me.
She adds, “There’s not many who can say they live inside the dream they had when they were children.”
“Are you?” I wonder out loud.
One small sad smile and I have my answer before she gives it. “I was reckless with mine and lost it before it could even begin.”
WHEN I WAKE UP in the morning, I find readily brewed coffee and a Ding Dong with a sticky note stuck to it.
I fold it neatly and tuck it safely into my pocket, carrying it with me throughout the day.