47. Jules
FORTY-SEVEN
JULES
I twirl the cord of the phone around my finger as I pull the pencil out of my mouth and hold it between two fingers like a cigarette.
“No, chile, I shan’t be attending the lunch,” I say into the receiver. “The woman is draconian and I applaud a woman who can put the fear of her name into men, but I absolutely abhor that place.”
Drew smiles softly from where he’s sitting bent over his desk, his pencil scratching softly at the paper he’s drawing on.
I’m sitting on our sex chair—which is what I’ll be calling it for the rest of our lives—talking to Lavinia on my Bluetooth rotary phone.
I’m talking like I’m in The Great Gatsby, which is what Drew finds so amusing.
“You surely must come,” Lavinia replies, in the same accent. “There will be tea and brandy.”
“I do like a good brandy, but you must tell Sloane that I can’t make it.”
“She wants us to go to Mexico with her. She’s offered her private jet, can you believe it?” Lavinia replies.
I toss my legs over the armrest and point my toes. Drew turns, resting his head on his raised fist as he watches me with a small smile on his face.
“Money is not a problem, you know that, but I’ll simply die in the heat. I’ll melt away. There’ll hardly be a speck left of me.”
Rain softly pelts the window outside and fire crackles in the fireplace. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt this relaxed.
“Roman thinks it’s a splendid idea as it will spare him from having to decorate for Christmas. I tell you, the man can’t stand holiday festivities no matter how hard I try so I’ve given up on convincing him,” Lavinia says.
“You tell your husband I have no care for his opinion,” I say.
Lavinia laughs softly. “I shall pass on the message.”
“Excellent. Are you coming over for backgammon later? I’ll have the butler pull out the good brandy.”
“I’ll be there for the brandy,” she agrees.
“Alright then. See you at seven. Ciao.”
I blow kisses into the receiver and hang up.
“Am I the butler?” Drew asks in amusement.
I grin at him, stretching out my arms above my head. I’m so cozy I’m about to fall asleep and it’s only the middle of the day.
“Well, you do everything I ask of you.”
He runs his thumb nail along my instep and I giggle, pulling my foot back.
“Do we have any brandy?” I ask, curling into a ball.
“I’m sure there’s some in the pantry.”
I pick up my ereader off the table and open it.
I’ve already written my word count for the day, followed up with my editor’s and agent’s email, done edits, and gone for a long walk with Bailey, all before half a day is over.
All because Drew wakes up at the ungodly hour of five in the morning when the sun isn’t even out and I wake up with him because I can’t sleep without him.
To be fair, we also go to bed at a normal, respectful hour because that’s what people do in their thirties.
The doorbell rings just as I’m getting pulled into my book and I pull my blanket higher ignoring it. Bailey barks, running out of the room excitedly and Drew follows.
I’m not being rude, but I’m really not interested in what’s being delivered so I’m pretending it’s not happening.
Because Drew bought every single one of my photos at Remy’s show. A part of me loves that Drew bought them and another part of me questions his motives behind it. Would he still have bought them if I hadn’t told him about Travis and my parents?
I modeled for those photos fully aware of the fact that one day they were going to hang in a stranger’s home. Remy kept them all this time because he didn’t want to develop them after Gemma died and when he asked me if he could do it now, I was fine with it. It’s his art.
Now all six of them are going to hang in Drew’s house and I’ll have to look at myself every time I walk into a room. I’ll have to look at a younger version of myself before she lost the only adult who’d ever loved her, before she lost herself in a stupor of substance abuse.
Before she was sexually assaulted.
I know if I tell Drew, he won’t hang them up. He’ll always put me first. Maybe he’ll let me put them in storage with the rest of Gemma’s things.
The Trauma Locker, as Lavinia and I call it.
But I don’t want to tell him.
One, because it makes me feel vulnerable. Two, because I wonder how much he can take before he decides it’s enough? I never wanted him or anyone other than Dr. Kim to help me heal my trauma. I don’t want him to take that on and walk around me on tenterhooks because of what I’ve experienced.
I hear Drew talking to the delivery guys from the gallery and guiding them on where to put the boxes. Once the door shuts, he comes back into the den.
“The photos are here,” he says, sitting back down. “I had them put the boxes in the spare room for now.” He looks at me expectantly. “Did you order something? We just had a delivery.”
I swing my legs off the armrest in excitement. “Oh my gosh, yes! I completely forgot I ordered a drafting table for you!”
Drew rears back in surprise. “You ordered me a drafting table?”
“Yeah! I know this table matches the aesthetic of the room, but I promise a drafting table will be so much easier for you to work with.”
“I’ve considered getting a drafting table in the past, but I always told myself I won’t use it enough since hockey takes up so much of my time.”
I keep my mouth shut on the topic of hockey and art.
I know hockey is important to him and he mistakenly believes that’s all he can be because it’s the one thing which shuts everyone up.
But as his girlfriend and the person who lives with him, I also see the way his shoulder bothers him and it’s more than a little, despite what he says.
I see the way he’s in pain and still shows up every day because he has to be responsible and if he isn’t, then somehow he’s not doing enough.
Drew sighs. “Out with it. Say what you want.”
I shrug, looking at him wide-eyed. “I don’t want to say anything.”
He arches a brow, crossing his arms as he waits for me to spill the beans.
I raise my hands in surrender. “Lavinia suffered an injury, went through PT and eventually found something which works for her as much as hockey. You already have something which works for you as much as hockey. You can consider other options.”
“The team needs me. This is my second season as captain and hockey is who I am. I can’t just give it up overnight.”
“I’m not asking you to give it up overnight. I’m asking you to consider something else,” I say.
Drew pushes his hair back before pushing his glasses up his nose. “Clearly we have differing opinions on my career.”
“Clearly we do, which is why I didn’t want to say anything,” I say, crossing my arms and sitting back against the chair.
He rolls the chair toward me, reaching for one of my hands. Uncrossing my arms, I let him hold my hand and watch as he brings it up to his mouth and kisses the palm.
“I always want to know what you’re thinking,” he says.
“Just because we’re in a relationship doesn’t mean we have to agree on everything and we won’t fight.
Imagine if I asked you to give up writing your books because I see the way you have to wear wrist braces while you’re typing. It’s very important to you.”
I melt slightly, shifting forward on the chair and placing my other hand on his knee. “I just worry about you.”
A faint blush steals across Drew’s face. “I know. I’m fine, I promise.”
I’m sure he believes he is because unfortunately, the game has taught him to push himself. If he’s able to stop and look, he’ll see that he’s constantly pushing himself and his body past the limits.
Getting up from his chair, he sits down next to me since the reading chair is big for two people.
I adjust to sit on his lap and rest my head on his shoulder.
Closing my eyes, I breathe in his scent.
That, mixed with the crackle and pop of the fire and the steady rain outside, makes me slip into a liminal space.
I don’t know how much time passes before Drew speaks up. “Can I ask you something?”
I blink open my eyes and the first thing I see is my books proudly displayed on the shelf. This man hated me for so long and still bought every single version of my books and kept my short story from college tacked to his board.
“You can ask me anything,” I say, tilting my head back.
He looks down at me, eyes shadowed with questions. “Do you hate the photos?”
My hand is resting on his chest and I feel his heart beating underneath.
“I don’t hate them.” I pause and lick my lips. “I just have very complicated feelings about them.”
His finger slips beneath my sweater, running along the waist band of my leggings.
“Do you want to tell me what they are?”
I should tell him, since he’s openly asking. I’m sure he’ll put all my fears to rest and I’ll feel like a silly goose for having them in the first place. He seems to read my hesitation clearly.
Pressing his lips against my forehead, he says, “That’s okay, you don’t have to tell me right now.” He looks at me, green eyes calm like the perfect spring morning.
“I can tell they bother you and I’m not going to hang them up.
I’m selfish when it comes to you, so I bought them without thinking how you’re going to feel.
But we don’t have to hang them up if they bother you.
I know I keep repeating myself and I probably will until you believe that I’m not going to do anything to hurt you.
When I say that, I don’t just mean I’m going to keep your body safe.
I also mean I’m going to keep your mind safe. ”
I can do nothing other than stare at him in wonder.
I’ve never been in love, so I can’t say how you’ll know when you’re in love. I’ve written it plenty of times and there must be some truth to my words to have made me as successful as I am.
I always wondered what it would feel like when it happens to me.