21. 5 Weeks Earlier – November
21
5 WEEKS EARLIER – NOVEMBER
JOSIE
C oco’s Bar has only recently opened and the interior is beautiful, pulling my eye at every turn. The copper-toned bar area glows a warm and sexy welcome. Teal velvet stretches over the chairs and stools. Gorgeous, quirky features make me want to explore every little nook and booth, but I’m not here to get a dopamine hit from the décor.
I scour the crowd, looking for Scott. He asked to get to know me in public so we didn’t get side-tracked like our last … encounter .
My phone buzzes in my back pocket, and I pull it out to see a message on the screen from the man himself. And what a man. A bit older than me, but in the best way. Confident, secure. There’s the faintest dusting of grey hairs in his sideburns and stubble, hinting at a silver fox in the making. The anonymous sex was off the charts, and then we swapped first names and it got so much better, so I’m intrigued where this might go. What connection we might have if we actually knew each other.
Scott
You look beautiful.
A grin stretches across my face and I pivot to find the source of the message. My phone buzzes in my hand again.
Scott
Turn around
Unable to hide my smirk, I turn and raise up on my toes to scrutinise the back of the venue. He must be behind me, but I can’t see him.
Josie
Where are you?
He replies straight away.
Scott
I’m behind you. Wanted to appreciate you from all angles.
My head whips up and I turn back, trying to paste my expression into a look of bemusement, but I can’t hold it. Scott appears out of the crowd and instantly pulls me in for a kiss on the cheek. His soft lips only touch for a second, but leave a thrill in their wake.
‘Hey,’ he mutters into my ear over the hustle of the busy bar, sending a shiver straight to my centre. ‘I’ve grabbed us a booth, but can I get you a drink first?’
I pull back slightly and nod instead of trying to shout. He slips his palm behind my back as we head to the bar, and I feel his heat like a brand.
Once we have our drinks, Scott links hands with me and weaves us through the throng of people over to an intimate nook he’s reserved.
We squeeze in, and he offers me a sexy smile, looking almost nervous, which is ridiculous as he’s clearly had a lot more experience dating than I have. The copper-toned decor reflects in the amber motes of his eyes.
I place my mojito on the table, and the salt crystals sparkle in the low, warm light. Scott reaches out, skimming his thumb over my knuckles where a stubborn smear of orange paint is ingrained in my skin.
The feel of his touch goes straight to my core, and I take in a deep breath. Josie, this nice man has asked you on a date to get to know you, the least you could do is get to know him in return, rather than think of all the ways he’s made you tingle and all the tingling he’s yet to unleash.
‘Tell me what this is from.’ His thumb continues its hypnotising trail across my hand.
I study it, and realise I don’t actually know when or where this smudge is from; I get so engrossed when I’m painting. The particular shade is one of my favourites, and I’m using it in some work for my portfolio, as well as at work.
‘It might be from a painting I’m working on. Then again, I work in Craftisan, the art shop on the High Street, and we had a kids club this afternoon, so it could be from then.’ I shrug, but don’t pull away, enjoying the feel of his touch. ‘It’s called Tangerine Tango. It’s one of my favourites to work with.’
His thumb traces up to my elbow, where there are some more speckles of orange I missed earlier. I follow his movements as his fingertips walk to my bicep, to caress yet another smear. His movements send electricity over me, like my aura is crackling with anticipation.
‘I’m gonna blame the kids.’ I giggle. ‘Their fearless use of colour is inspiring.’
He chuckles. ‘Were they painting you, or a canvas?’ Scott scoops my hair from my shoulder to behind my neck, winding a loose lock behind my ear. ‘I think I’m going to need to do a thorough check for any more splatters you’ve missed.’
I shrug and enjoy the way his eyes flash when I say, ‘Having fun can get messy.’ I can't stop my eyes from devouring him. I would make him so freaking messy.
‘You shouldn’t be looking at me like that.’ His voice is low and slow, stirring something inside me with painful anticipation.
‘Like what?’ I tease, knowing exactly what he means.
‘I invited you here so I could get to know you,’ he rumbles seductively, ‘and then you look at me like … that . It’s very …’ he bites his lip, leaning into the dramatic pause, ‘distracting.’ Every syllable of the word makes me quiver.
‘I think you’re … looking … at me, too.’ Heat rising through every atom of my being, I prop my elbow on the table, chin on my hand, one eyebrow raised.
‘Mmm,’ he rumbles. I could drown in those deep brown pools he calls eyes, I swear. ‘So I shouldn’t be looking at you,’ he says slowly, ‘and you, you should not be looking at me.’
Rallying myself, I quirk a smile at him as if it’s a challenge, and he sits up straighter as if that intense little interlude didn’t happen. Fuck, I am gone .
Crossing and uncrossing my legs, I try to make it seem like he hasn’t floored me.
Our conversation flows easily, which is a relief, as I half wondered if this would be awkward, if the only thing we had in common was outrageous sexual chemistry.
‘You managed to get a night off from the bar?’ I take a sip of my cocktail, the zingy lime dancing on my tongue.
‘I recently trained Enzo to handle closing up on his own. It’s his first night solo.’ Scott gives a good-natured wince. He’s been so thorough , took so much care with me … so I can’t imagine he’d have left The Bull in charge of someone not completely capable.
‘Enzo has served me before, I think. I hope it goes okay for him. How do you wish good luck to a bartender? Break a leg doesn’t sound right.’
‘Spill a drink?’ Scott gives a wry half smile. ‘So. Are you Oldton born and bred? Which school did you go to?’
There’s a couple of schools and colleges in our town, so these conversations regularly stir up old rivalries. It’s not quite everyone knows everyone , but there’s probably only about three degrees of separation.
‘Oldton Secondary School.’ Come on the Os.
‘No way. Me too.’ His eyes sparkle. ‘Was Mr. Fitzbury-Newton still there when you went?’
‘Yes! He was so Dickensian in that old-fashioned black gown and mortarboard.’ I lean forwards. ‘Did you hear about when his gown got bejewelled? What did it say again? “The Big O” in rhinestones?’
‘Hear about it? That was my class.’ He wiggles his eyebrows. ‘Group project.’
‘Wait, what? That was my brother’s class.’ Perhaps there’s only two degrees of separation between everyone in this town.
He gives me an easy grin. ‘Who’s your brother?’
‘Oh, well.’ I hate these conversations. It never gets easier. ‘You might remember him? Marcus? He died like eight years ago, so?—’
Scott’s mouth parts open.
No one ever knows what to say, so I do my best to put people at ease. There’s no easy way to break this kind of news. ‘It’s ok if you don’t rem?—’
His eyes narrow. ‘Jo Jo?’
‘Ye-es?’
Something crosses his face as he says, ‘Holy shit. Jo Jo ?’
My heart flips at the name that now only my family uses. ‘People don’t call me that anymore.’
‘Fuck, you’re Marcus’s little sister, Jo Jo?’
My brain starts spinning at a billion miles an hour. ‘Ye— Shit, wait. Scott? Like Scottie , Scott?’
He holds my gaze, his voice quiet suddenly. ‘Like, your brother’s best friend, Scott. Yeah.’
‘Huh, I didn’t recognise you with your hair like that.’ I reach out and sweep the longish floppy hair from his face, trying to picture the crew-cut teenager I remembered.
‘I didn’t recognise you with …’
‘With boobs? Without braces?’ With a flourish, I use my hand to showcase all the areas that have earned most improved . ‘With appropriately managed hair? I guess a lot can change in eight years.’ Thank God.
I know appearances aren’t everything, but I was such an awkward kid. I’d felt like such an ugly duckling — I was relieved when I finally grew into my features.
My brain whirls with the news that Scott was Marcus’s best friend. There was such an age gap between Marcus and I, and he moved out as soon as possible, I didn’t really know him at the end. I have some fond memories of playing with him when we were growing up. He was always so fun, always into games. But eventually, I turned into his annoying little sister and we drifted apart.
A memory filters to the surface; one hot summer’s day making forts out of sheets in the garden. I was maybe seven. Marcus was annoyed that I was trying to hang out with him and his friends, but one of them helped me build my own fort. His friend Scottie. I can’t believe this is the same guy, fifteen years on.
A smile comes to my lips at the thought, and I start to remind him, ‘Do you remember?—’
‘Fuck, Jo Jo … Josie , we … can’t … ’ His face tightens and he shakes his head as he speaks. ‘This can’t … We can’t do this.’
‘What?’
‘You’re Marcus’s little sister,’ he whispers.
In the back corner of my brain, a dull alarm starts to mumble, but I ignore it. We were having a good time. Surely, we’ll be laughing about this soon. ‘I don’t see that as a problem. It’s not like Marcus is here to complain.’
He looks at me darkly. ‘But it’s … dishonourable .’
Forehead pinching, I repeat, ‘Dishonourable?’
‘Yeah, and disrespectful.’
‘But—’ My voice hitches up a notch. ‘No, it isn’t.’ I feel wrong-footed, my breath quickening.
Am I missing something here? What’s the problem?
Deep furrows have crept over Scott’s brow, and his eyes are flicking over me like he’s assessing me for injuries. ‘Shit, I’m sorry. Are you okay? Fuck, I’m really sorry.’
‘Of course I’m okay.’ I frown in disbelief. ‘You don’t need to apologise.’ My awkward chuckle comes out hesitantly. ‘We’re both adults, right?’
Scott’s not entirely following my words, seemingly absorbed in an internal argument. ‘Shit, and you’re like … a lot younger than me.’ He visibly swallows. ‘I knew I was a bit older than you but, seven years? That’s a lot.’
‘Scott,’ I say, trying to calm his anxious babbling. I lay a hand on his forearm.
Falling silent, he places his big mitt over mine and squeezes. Finding my gaze, he gently prises me away with a faint shake of his head.
‘Sorry, we shouldn’t … we can’t …’
The dull alarm in my head grows louder. His eyes roil with emotions I wish I couldn’t recognise. Guilt. Concern. But worst of all, regret.
‘Are you serious? This is a,’ I scan for the right words, ‘a deal breaker?’
‘I’m sorry. I never would have … It was a masquerade party … And then at the pub, I didn’t realise …’
Stunned by his sudden change in attitude, I gape a little, unable to catch hold of my thoughts. Where was the fun, confident guy who was giving me tingles mere minutes ago?
Scott has started babbling to himself again. ‘Shit, I knew you when you were in bunchies.’
This can’t be happening.
I try to keep my voice light despite the heavy rock that’s plunging to the bottom of my stomach. ‘I’ve grown up since you last knew me, Scott.’
‘Jo Jo, I had no idea. I’m so sorry.’
The siren in my brain is clamouring now. ‘You know what? I should go.’
‘Of course. Can I take you home? I want you to be safe.’
I let out a mirthless laugh. ‘I’ll be fine. You don’t need to brother me. I can take care of myself.’ I fix a smile on my face. ‘Thanks for tonight, I guess? Nice catching up.’
A pulse is pounding in my head in time with the alarm that’s reverberating around my skull. Pressure creeps up my neck, and up over my head, squeezing like a vice. Pushing hot, uninvited tears into my eyes. I won’t let them fall.
I have to get away.
Now.
‘Jo Jo?—’
‘Really, it’s fine,’ I manage. ‘Take care of yourself. See you around.’
I stand from our claustrophobic cubby hole and hold my head up with as much grace as I can muster. The hustle and bustle of the bar, and the ringing in my ears, raises to a crescendo. Sweat stipples my back, hot and cold. Dodging drunks, I walk outside, relieved when the cool calmness of the street hits me. It’s not until I am far up the road that I let my shoulders sag. Two fat teardrops splash my top before I swipe the rest away with a ragged inhalation.
What the actual fuck?
Did my brother just cock-block me from beyond the grave?
Did the best sex of my life suddenly get morals and try to protect my virtue, or did I just get kid-zoned ?
I’m twenty-two, for fuck’s sake. I’m not a child anymore.
But that best sex of my life thought stings, and I examine it from another angle. It was the best sex of my life, but perhaps not his.
A scorching anger starts to creep along my spine. And his attempt at being protective after the fact? Where was he after my brother died? When I needed a big brother?
Where did he go? Why did he disappear?
As I walk along the street lit with Christmas lights for the coming season, these thoughts whip round and round my head, into a frenzy. I fumble over my phone at a loss for what to think, and finally dial Ella.
Ella answers and, after all my internal arguments and confusion, my voice comes out as a squeak. ‘Can you talk?’
‘Yeah.’ She’s quiet, voice patchy, as if she’s down a well or something.
‘It’s all echoey. Where are you? Oh no, are you still on your dinner date?’
‘Kind of. We ended up in Bash.’
The rock club is only a couple of streets away and my spirits lift for a moment, until I realise her date doesn’t need a third wheel turning up. I try to convince her to go have fun. I’m sure we can chat this through in the morning. But then, I realise Ella sounds funny, her voice catching as much as mine.
‘He’s just like all the others, Josie.’ The line is awful, and I can’t tell if it’s the signal or because she’s is upset. She goes on to tell me she’d caught her date pawing at some other woman while she’d been in the bathroom.
‘Shit, Ella. I’m sorry. Men suck.’
‘I don’t know what to do. I should probably start with going home.’
The line is super crackly, but I tell her to wait there for me. ‘Don’t move,’ I say, ‘I’m coming to get you. Ella? Ells? I don’t know if you can hear me but I’m gonna meet you at Bash. We can escape this crappy night together.’
With renewed purpose, I scurry along to find my friend.
My arms are aching.
I haven’t slept.
I low-key feel like my eyes are bleeding.
Last night, I’d tracked Ella down but it turns out she didn’t need me after all. It was one big misunderstanding and I ended up crashing her date while she was wearing her fuck-me heels. She was great about it, even though I’m sure she ended up clam-jammed. I’d shied away from telling her about the disaster that was my date, at that stage I hadn’t begun to fully process it.
But now, ten canvases are spread on the floor of my flat and I feel like I’ve made some sense of things. Some sense.
I got carried away. As per usual. Not with the art. Never with the art. No, I got carried away with the idea of Scott.
Scott wasn’t anything more than a hookup. A hookup that, it turns out, regretted it.
Brush stroke after brush stroke, colour after colour, shape after shape, I’d tried to sort out how I felt.
Art was my therapy. It had been even before Marcus died, and I’m pretty sure it helped me get through everything that happened eight years ago. Everything since. It’s not like his best friend was around to help, or my parents were able to help me process it.
Last night, as I painted, I vacillated between two ideas. On the one hand, if you want something, go and get it. And on the other, if it’s meant to be, it will be. Painting let me ignore the impulse to drive over to The Bull and tell Scott exactly what I thought, as well as beat the urge to simply curl up and cry.
At around dawn, I’d decided that I had wanted something, went to get it, but it wasn’t meant to be. I wasn’t at the point of acceptance, but perhaps I understood the situation a little better.
I drag my slightly warm corpse into the shower. Flecks of reds and blacks whorl at my feet, dancing together and then slipping away. The death of passion. If that isn’t a metaphor for my life, I’m not sure what is.
I scrub at my skin, trying to remove the paint splatters. Trying to wash off the dried salty tears from my cheeks. I’m grateful that I have this sacred flat to escape to, where I can work through my feelings, whatever the hour, without worrying that I’m disturbing my family. Art isn’t just my therapy. It’s my life. My family are my life, too. But I need my art to actually breathe freely. To live.
My chest does feel looser. The painting helped.
As my brain clears, I think back over the red series I just birthed. A lot of emotions in there. They’d poured out of me, and I’m so grateful I had the means to do it — to get those brush strokes out.
It means I’m going to be exhausted at work today, but Friday at the art shop is so busy that I won’t notice.
And maybe those paintings might be appealing to others? I don’t need them anymore, they have served their purpose. Release. It makes sense to try to sell the fruits of my therapy sessions; that’ll allow me to keep on keeping on. I can put them online, see if there are any bites.
Lathering the shampoo in my hair, I scrub myself awake. As I work some coconut oil through to condition it, I inhale its comforting aroma and tell myself to relax. Pretend I’m somewhere else. Somewhere hot and tropical. Exotic.
My brain, which doesn’t shut up unless I’m painting, churns over what I worked through with the red series. Just because I was disappointed Scott wanted to call the whole thing off, doesn’t mean it was all a bust. I’d learned things about myself during our brief time together, and it wasn’t only the mind-blowing sex or the trying new things. It was because I’d felt freer with him — lighter. Even my painting had been less inhibited. My lips twitch at the thought of the yonic flowers I’d dabbled with. I’d been able to be myself.
And I want more of that.
Even if it’s not with him.
‘Ugh,’ I groan loudly, resting my head on the tiles. Despite this incredibly rational argument from my brain, my treacherous heart is still wondering: why can’t it be him?