Sequel to Trepidations and Confessions
By Cybele
The sun is beating down on her skin, smarting her now-pink skin. She can feel the beads of sweat trickling down her forehead, down her thighs, down her legs. There are butterflies in her stomach. Total silence she was in, as far as she was concerned---she didn’t hear the children laughing in the distance. Nor did she hear a man clear his throat.
“Hi, there. Mind if I set my blanket beside you?” he asked.
She looked up and shielded her eyes from the sun.
Damn hell…
“Uhm…” she mumbled.
He didn’t seem to notice her discomfort
and lack of interest. One by one, he
lay down his things: his blanket, his tanning oil, and his beach tote. All the while, he kept talking about inane
things like the weather (we’re at the beach, it’s supposed to be hot, you
idiot…
Just as he was about to lean closer to her, taking her silence for interest, a little girl, maybe around 3 years old, ran up to her, swinging her little red pail. “Mommy, Mommy, I want to get ice cream, pretty please? Daddy said to ask you first.” She blinked at her with her huge brown eyes and put on her sweetest smile, tilting her head to one side.
She reached over to pat the girl’s head and said, “Honey, you know what I said about ice cream before meals, right?”
The man looked at her with anxious eyes and began to stammer. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought… oh… well… I’ll see you then… later.” He picked up his blanket and tanning oil and walked as fast as his legs could take him.
She smiled at the little girl and rubbed her hair. “Here, Hazel,” she said, reaching for a lollipop, “and tell your mommy that I’ll join her for dinner later. And next time a man comes close to me, run to me as fast as you can, OK?”
“Sure thing, Miss Joey. I’ll see you later!” She ran off with her lollipop and her little red pail.
Twenty-nine years old and veritably single. Her friends in the design industry used to wonder how a tall and beautiful woman like Joey could remain unattached, solitary in this day and age. Students in the painting class she taught fantasized about her and wished she were at least 10 years younger. They all agreed that she was a woman brimming with vitality and verve, additional qualities that make her the close to being a “perfect woman”. She seemed to have it all.
So they all asked themselves, “Why is she alone?”
She knew why. Because the man who was perfect for her, left her. She managed to drive away the only man she knew would make her truly happy. To be with another man was to live a lie---she knew better.
She wanted to be with a man who could not love her because he was not whole, he said.
The need to be with him was hardest when the separation was still so new. For six months, they lived in the same apartment, ate the same food, slept on the same bed and listened to the same music. For years they saw the same pictures, smelled the same scents and touched the same objects.
Now she felt like a boat without a rudder, cast adrift at sea. He was her anchor, unbeknownst to him.
“And then, I went to the mall with my friends, and like, ohmigod, there were just so many people, right? And then, we got pushed towards the surplus shop and like, ohmigod, I was so appalled! I would never be caught dead in a store like that…” she rambled on and on about her afternoon at the mall. She was twirling her hair with one finger, a habit he used to find endearing.
How do I end up with dates like this
bimbo?
He nodded every two seconds and pretended to be fascinated with her opinions on make-up, fashion and Chihuahuas. Oddly enough, when he crossed his eyes a little bit, he could zone her voice out. At least he didn’t have to endure staring at her huge mouth…
She wasn’t that bad, he knew. He just couldn’t help but realize how utterly dull she was in comparison to her. Everyone seemed lackluster when weighed against Joey.
He missed her. Three years has passed since they parted ways when he went off to search for the balm that would soothe his wounded soul. Three years since he let her slip through his fingers in the name of the greater good. Three years since he touched her chocolate brown hair and stared at those pools of caramel.
Three years since he had heard her say the words that added so much color to his life.
I love you, Pacey. I wasn't going to
leave you.
He snapped back to attention when he felt the woman’s hand stroking his thigh. “So, Pacer,” saying his name wrong, “you want to grab a drink at my place?”
He looked at his watch and stood up, leaving her hand holding nothing but air. “Uhm, Melissa, I have to go home. It’s late and I have work tomorrow.”
“But, Pacer!” she whined, “it’s Saturday tomorrow!”
“Oh,” he stammered, “I know, but I’m so, like, w-a-a-a-a-y behind schedule on so many projects.”
He pulled out a few bills and left it on the table. “So, shall I drop you off at your apartment? We can share a cab? Or do you want me to bring you somewhere to meet your friends?”
Her face screwed up into a tight ball as she scrambled around her purse for her cellular phone. “Never mind, I’ll get one of my friends to come and get me.”
He kissed her quickly on the cheek and said, “It was great meeting you, Melissa.” She didn’t hear him; she was already cooing on her phone to a man named Jake or Blake.
Whew, he said, sighing a breath of relief as he leaned back on the cab’s seat. He opened his wallet to pay the driver when he spied a little photograph sticking out.
He hadn’t cleaned out his wallet in years. Hell, he has receipts from over four years ago stuck in his briefcase, his wallet and his desk. So it should not have been a surprise to find old photographs of his ex-girlfriend lying around, right?
Then again, he hasn’t laid eyes on an image of her in months.
She needed to run away as far as possible from the City That Never Sleeps. Far away from the cold gray buildings with their blue-lens sunglasses that don’t let you look in. Far away from the autumn leaves that clog the sewers. Far away from the insipid skies that loom over the city.
Far away from the city that made her the happiest she has ever been.
Far away from the city that made her the saddest she has ever been.
The first three months of silence was unbearable. Being forced to deny what she felt so that he could look at the mirror without recoiling from his own image. The pain was scalding; it consumed her from within. Yet she understood completely---she went through the same agony with Dawson, didn’t she?
But the understanding did not make it any easier to endure.
The next few months rendered her hopeless. She hadn’t seen him, she hadn’t heard from him except through mutual friends who would sidestep the break up but feed her ravenous need to know with tidbits of news.
“Oh, he got a promotion, last I heard. He’s VP of Operations for North America.”
“He’s doing really well. Charlie told me he joined them for dinner. I’m sorry? Oh, he came alone, no date with him.”
When a year of silence came and went, she decided that it was best to do some searching herself. If he sought out the answer within himself, she deemed it essential to find a dimension different from the life she led.
She traveled. From the streets of Florence to the bars in Barcelona, from the museums of Paris to the hills of Switzerland, from the beaches of Asia to the pyramids in Egypt.
She ran away.
Somewhere between that horrible afternoon in Pacey’s office when he said, “I’m breaking up with you, Joey” and the day she ended her lease for her apartment, she sold JP Designs to her partner. Someone had told her that freelance work will give you time to be busy on your own terms. Six months worth of projects would let her travel for the rest of the year. It was the idyllic life. She has smiled at little old ladies buying fruit at an open wet market in China. She’s photographed dancing girls in Greece. She’s been invited to a wedding in India.
At 29, she’s seen half the world.
She never pictured her life to be this despondent. She thought that by this time, she’d be a capable wife and mother, no longer the Martha Stewart wanna-be she was three years ago.
Time moves slowly when you are in pain.
She was no longer in pain. The fire of anguish has died to a dull, slow burning coal of numbness. All of her has been consumed.
Except for the hope that someday, he will stand at her threshold.
~o~
Toronto. Los Angeles. Costa Rica. Brunei. Middle East. Where the oil was, he was.
Three years ago, he had disappointed the board of directors with his uninspiring performance. They expected a Corporate Lion but instead they got a Paper Pusher Puppy.
Now he’s back.
No longer does he need to tolerate staring at the office building across him because his fort is higher in the sky. Miss Stoughton is his valiant knight, shielding him from the trivial disturbances with her army of secretaries. In his little world, he may be just another man in a dark suit and a stifling necktie, but by God, he was a knight of the High Order.
He just wishes he had a Lady Marion by his side.
Three years ago, he let his love for a woman consume who he was. His grandfather had told him to see her affection for him as a gift from God. [/i]She loves you, you dumb ass.[/i] He had nurtured that love by smothering his needs, his potential and his priorities for what he thought was the greater good: her enduring love.
He had let go of his ladylove to be the strong knight that he is now.
But will she have me? he thought to himself.
He had told himself that he needed to live life without her and that meant not being around her. He knew himself; he was weak and Joey was his nourishment. Upon hearing from mutual friends who would sidestep the break up but feed his ravenous need to know with tidbits of news that she was teaching at NYU, he just had to see her.
He stared at her through the window. Staring at her were a bunch of dreamy artists with hopes of one day becoming the next Picasso or Pollock. They were all captivated by her as he once was.
And still is.
She had run away from the emptiness in her life for far too long; she was feeling the yearning to surround herself with people: her freelance industry friends, her acquaintances in the art circles and most especially her students.
It was summer where she was, Tioman Island in Malaysia, but school was about to begin in NYU. In a few weeks’ time, she’ll have to return to the humdrum of the city she had tried to run away from. Yet in a way, she craved for it. Here in the island, her brain was literally getting fried. It needed to work, to create and to visualize.
Art was not her emotional escape—it was her need. She was a slave to her art; she could not turn her back on it for very long. Like an addict, she needed to work. There was a physical need now that she had no muse. Or rather, no longer had one.
Though she gave her heart and soul to her interior design, she also knew it was a business. There are parts of her that have to sell out to her clients since they won’t understand when she says, “The metaphor of the mosaic-inspired window is a reflection of the multi-faceted foresight of the corporation.” They will just say, “Oh, how pretty.” Her work was just a means to an end.
She is a slave to the photographs she has taken and the sketches she has made from her travels, her little sculptures and collages from the trinkets she has bought. These are the objects that her Master Art has made her do.
Soon enough, she returned to New York with a heavy heart but with an itchy hand. In the end, she cannot deny the pull the city has on her. It is beckoning her to come home.
“What if I bump into Pacey?” she fretted.
“Well, my idea was to give the lobby entrance an Indo-European fusion look. I’d like to put teak wood paneling, huge antique clay pots pouring onto a granite pool. On this side, we’ll put a tall mirror with a stainless steel frame…”
She had come home to a voice mailbox full of messages. From Bessie. From Big Mike, M.D. But most important was a message from Mr. David Brougham of Bowden and Lambert Holdings, Inc. asking her to come over and consider pitching for a design project for their new building in Manhattan.
Today, three weeks worth of brainstorming and coffee have gone into this project proposal. She was competing against the big guns of the design industry but she knew what she was worth; no one has forgotten her Ward-Howell design.
“…being a multinational corporation, the Indo-Euro fusion concept reflects the progressive nature of your vision. It lends elegance and prestige.”
“Thank you, Miss Potter. Your designs are stellar. I especially liked the teak wood paneling,” he said as the man removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Forgive me, my years are catching up with me.”
“And they have caught up quite nicely, Mr. Brougham,” she said with a laugh. “Thank you for this opportunity to present my work, Mr. Brougham, Mr. Aubrey.”
“You do understand that we will have to present your designs to the board. Yes, you have been short-listed. I loved your work at the Ward-Howell Building.”
She looked at the two men and saw the strain in their eyes and on their faces. How could they wear suits all day and get choked on a $200 necktie? How does Pacey do it?, she thought, remembering his fondness for Hawaiian shirts and cargo pants in their youth.
While waiting for word from Mr. Brougham, she began to teach her art classes at NYU. Though difficult and time consuming, she found real pleasure in sharing art with her students.
“OK, class,” she said, leaning against the desk. “It may be your first week, but we won’t be slacking off. On my desk, Tuesday next week, a sketch of your favorite sight here in NY. Any style. Meaning Impressionism, Cubism, whatever.”
This was met by moans and groans from her students but she laughed it off, knowing full well that they chose her class because she was known to be a fun though demanding teacher.
“And don’t forget, NYU has been invited by the Museum of Modern Art to hold an exhibit. Think of this class as training for the Olympic Trials. This exhibit is going to be a big deal—it could be a stepping-stone for some of you. Both teachers and students from the College of Fine Arts are to come up with at least 8 pieces for this show. So, let’s this first day short and get your butts out of here.”
She had returned from her 6-month vacation to return to New York without an apartment. She had put all her things at storage with the hopes of moving out of the state, maybe settle down in Boston or Chicago. But the city called her. She settled down in a small brownstone apartment in Ithaca, away from the glitzy Manhattan she was used to—which she preferred. It was homier and quieter, cozy. It was a simple one-bedroom apartment with plenty of room for a studio.
As soon as she got in, she checked her answering machine for messages.
“Hey, Jo. Big Mike here. Give this doctor a break and give me a call will ya? Dinner?”
“Joey, this is Bessie. You coming home to see Alexander, right? Don’t forget, it’s his 14th birthday soon. Love ya and take it easy.”
“Ms. Potter, this is Mr. Brougham. Call me as soon as you can for the contract signing. Yes, the board chose your work. Congratulations.”
She dropped her bag on the floor and let out a yell.
“I landed the account, I landed the account,” she chanted.
~o~
“Mr. Witter? Mr. Roberto from Costa Rica on line 2.”
He had just spent the entire morning arguing with the Operations Group and the board that neglecting the rainforest surrounding their Costa Rica refinery will cost them public relations predicaments in the future. No one wanted to hear “environmentalism”. They wanted to hear “expansion”.
“Hola, Señor Roberto! Como estas? Y esposa? Si, si, muy bien, gracias.
Mr. Roberto, to be frank with you, the board is not happy with my desire not to expand the Costa Rica refinery. I think it’d be bad PR if we continue this expansion initiative. Yes, yes, I would rather…”
“Gracias, Señor Roberto. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Days like these, he wished he could call someone and just gripe. He hasn’t touched base with a lot of his old buddies and calling Joey was out of the question.
He rubbed his eyes and yawned. Looking at his watch, he groaned in dismay when he realized it was already 3pm. He hadn’t eaten yet.
“Miss Stoughton, please order lunch for me.”
“No, Mr. Witter,” she replied.
“No?!?” he cried incredulously. “Miss Stoughton, I…”
“Mr. Witter, you should eat out for a change,” she interrupted. “I’m not ordering you lunch. Get out of your office for a…”
“Aaaw, man, who made you my surrogate mother?” he asked, laughter brimming in his voice. “Call off all my afternoon meetings. I’ll have lunch then head home.”
Walking the streets of New York in September, he had forgotten how pretty the city is—parks, public art, buildings that are pieces of art. It’s so full of life and energy. How many cities can lay claim to such a myriad of colors and sounds? Musicians in the subways and streets, dancers and mimes in the parks and graffiti art on the walls—it was just such a vivacious city that pretended not to be.
He had lunch in a small bistro and was now spending the afternoon strolling the streets of the city.
That’s when he saw it.
The Ward-Howell Tower.
He had seen the interiors before. He was there at the opening wasn’t he? He remembered, he had declined a trip to Costa Rica or something to be there with her as they watching them cut the ribbon. He loved her work. Now, he stood in the middle of the lobby admiring the dark granite floors, high ceiling and blue glass paneling when a painting caught his eye.
“The cheeky woman! She used her own painting!” he thought with a smile on his lips.
He hadn’t noticed that one of the many paintings that peppered the lobby’s walls was one of Joey’s. It was a soft Impressionist painting, mostly in blues and yellows of what looked like a man standing on a dock, watching the sunset, very Americana.
“So Capeside.” he thought with a smirk.
Upon closer inspection, it hit him.
It’s me. Beside the True Love!
The afternoon he played hooky rejuvenated him. Or rather, seeing the painting of him that Joey made breathed new life into him. It was like someone carved in stone, “Joey loves Pacey”. How bittersweet the news though for he couldn’t run home and tell her, “I saw the painting. I love you.”
Everyday from then on in, he would stroll over to the Ward-Howell Tower to look at her lobby, her elevator, her hallway, her painting. Taking a different route today, he spotted a building under construction.
Owner: Bowden and Lambert Holdings, Inc. (BLH)
Architect: Ramsay Wilson and Associates
Interior Design: Josephine Potter
“She did it again!” he thought with a big smile. Then he whistled on down the street back to his office.
~o~
“Sign here. And here.” He turned the page over. “And here… voila! Congratulations, Miss Potter,” and shook her hand.
“Thank you, Mr. Gahan, Mr. Wade,” she replied. “Mr. Bowden and Mr. Lambert, thank you.”
The older men had stood up, said their goodbyes and left the room. A younger man, maybe around 30 or 35 was left in the room. He wore a dark blue suit, very typical, except for the bright yellow necktie with surfboards on it.
“So, Miss Potter, you sure did a great job. The board loved your designs. It’s hard to impress that lot.”
“Thank you,” she replied cautiously. She finally sighed and said, “I am so sorry but I’m just so bad with names. It took all of my concentration to name every single one of them…”
He put out his hand and said, “My name is Alex. Alex Lambert.”
Her mouth fell open. “Ohmigod, I’m so sorry. Please tell me you’re not related to the Lambert in Bowden and Lambert Holdings…” She thwacked her forehead with her hand and cringed.
“Unfortunately, I am,” he said with a smile. But don’t worry, I won’t take it against you. I’m not an arrogant suit, if you know what I mean.”
I’ll say! She stared at the sun bleached blonde hair and the perennial golden tan which looked real. Hell, his nose was still peeling.
“Thank God for that. But even if you were, you can’t do anything. B&L signed!” she said, laughing.
“Hey, you wanna grab coffee? Get out of this joint?”
“So, Mr. Alex Lambert of Bowden and Lambert Holdings, Inc., what do you do?”
“I’m into boring stuff. I spend the company’s money,” he replied. “I run the Purchasing Department. It’s a desk jockey job, buying stupid things like paper, getting suppliers and contractors to bid and stuff. Nothing major.”
As she sipped her coffee, she looked down at it as she mumbled, “You don’t sound too happy about it.”
“Well, to be honest, I hate my job. I mean, I’m good at it—money, finance and stuff, but for me, it’s just a job. Dad’s always wanted me to join the firm. He always reminds me, ‘My father made me join and I never regretted it. So should you.’ That kind of familial crap. I just use the job to finance my real work.”
“And what is that?” she asked, her interest piqued. She had locked him up in a box labeled “CORPY”.
“Writing. Travel writing to be exact. I do a lot of freelance writing for travel magazines. Not the sissy ones but hard-core backpacker books and publications. My dream would be to write for National Geographic.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon sharing stories about the places they have been to and wish to see. He was voracious—the hunger in his eyes was contagious and reminded her of how she was in her youth when she would skim travel journals. She understood his passion, bridled though it may be by his job at B&L.
“Now, enough about my boring job. Tell me about your work.”
“Well, my real work is obviously interior design. I like the fact that with my work I can travel: I’ve done a few projects down in Florida, a few in Connecticut and on the West Coast. But I also teach at NYU, art class. My real life’s work is photography and painting. Like you, my work is just a means to an end. The Ward-Howell Tower project paid for my three-month vacation. If I had my way, I’d travel all year and just paint or take pictures. Maybe we should tag team and write a book!”
“Hahaha, that’d be a dream arrangement! Hey, one of these days,” he said, “bring your photos of your travels. I’d love to see those pictures of Thailand and Greece. ”
“Sure, that’d be fun. I’ll call you.”
That afternoon, she went straight to NYU to do her other job: teach her art class. She was very happy with the work given by her students. You could see so much through the way people express themselves through their art.
It was a long day and she was more than relieved to head home to her apartment. She was surprised to find flowers at her door.
“Boy, he sure moves fast,” she thought.
She carried the bouquet of yellow and white mums to the living room and rummaged for the card.
You truly are an artist.
No name.
Enclosed was an instamatic photograph of the Ward-Howell lobby.
She tossed and turned in her bed. She had tried to sleep and she had tried to work. Hell, she had even tried to do her bills; that always bored her to death.
She replayed their conversation in her mind, looking for clues and cues that might have meant that he was interested in her more than as a contractor. After all, he played hooky that afternoon from work. They spent the whole afternoon talking and talking, sharing stories and anecdotes. It almost felt like she was connecting with him: they shared a deep passion for traveling. He was a writer, something Joey enjoyed as well. He seemed intent on talking about her art.
It doesn’t hurt that he’s got a gorgeous face… she thought with a smile.
She woke up to the relentless ringing of her alarm clock. She reached over with a groan and slammed her hand on it. It was going to be one of those long days. Meeting with the B&L group and the contractors at 10. Meeting with the Art Department for the exhibit at 11. Class at 2PM. Work on the designs after class. Do the groceries. Fetch the laundry at the cleaners. Call the plumber; damn pipes!
Then the phone rang.
“Could this morning start any better?!?” she yelled in her mind.
“Yes?” she grunted into the phone.
“Uhm. May I speak to Ms. Joey Potter? This is Alex, Alex Lambert.”
“Oh. Hi, Alex,” she replied, her tone softening as a smile crept on her lips.
“Sorry, did I catch you at a bad time?” he asked. “I was just thinking that maybe…uhm…err…if you wantedtohavelunch today,” he said all in one breath.
She stopped to think and held her breath. Carpe diem. “I’d love to.”
“I am so glad you asked me out to lunch, Alex. I was starving!” she cried before biting into her pastrami sandwich. “No offense, but those people were such stiffs!”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I endure that kind of meeting every week. On Monday mornings nonetheless,” he replied. “So, did you bring those pictures that you took? I know that you said you’d call me but… well, we’re having lunch together aren’t we? I hope you remembered.”
She was enjoying the attention Alex was giving her and his interest in her work. It was endearing and quite a pleasant surprise. She hadn’t felt a twinge of curiosity about another man in almost three years and now, she had this prickling sensation on her skin, this twisting of her stomach every time she’d lock eyes with him.
“Of course, I brought them,” she said, digging into her portfolio.
She watched, entertained and amused, as he oohed and aahed at every picture.
“Was this the one in you said you joined the wedding dance in India?”
“Aren’t elephants just the cutest animals?”
“This is a fantastic shot! Have you thought of publishing these?”
“Which one?” she asked, an excuse to lean closer to him. “Oh, by the way, thanks for the flowers, Alex. They were beautiful. The picture of the Ward Howell Tower was a sweet touch but why didn’t you sign the card?”
She felt him move away from her, uncomfortably. The puzzled look on his face sent her spinning. She began to feel beads of sweat break on her forehead as she stammered, “Oh, s/hit, I thought the flowers from you, oh boy, do I feel stupid now.”
“Uhm, Joey, I guess this is the point where I should tell you that…uhm…I hope I didn’t send the signal that…you do deserve those flowers, there’s someone out there playing secret admirer…I just thought that we…aw, man…this is…”
“Don’t say anything, please. I am so embarrassed as it is. I thought they were from you, I thought you were…never mind. Let’s just forget this ever happened, OK?”
The awkward silence was vociferous, strangling.
“The Ward Howell Tower was beautiful though…I also liked the painting you made, the one of the man and the boat,” he whispered awkwardly, trying to break the silence.
The walk back to NYU was one that was reflective and despondent. She’s never felt more embarrassed in her life! She was making the moves on someone who had no interest in her. She wanted to fall into a manhole, get swept by the current that led to the murky Atlantic Ocean and never, ever have to face Alex again.
How could she have read it all wrong? She watched reruns in her head of Alex looking at her and talking to her and she could have sworn he was interested. Then again, maybe she wanted him to be interested as a way to convince herself that it was time to move on.
Three years is a long time to be mourning someone who is still soul-searching and taking a breather. But, exactly how long does it take to breathe?
Before she walked into her class, she tried to compose herself. “I wonder if I can sneak a smoke before…” , she thought, warily looking around. With a regretful sigh, she sauntered into her classroom.
“OK, class, before we move on to the lesson, I’d like to take a look at the rough drafts of your exhibit pieces. Need I remind you that this exhibit is a make-or-break situation for most of us?” she said, snappishly. She ignored the clandestine looks exchanged by her students. Some even mouthed, “WTF?”
“I’d also want to do something different today. Instead of just defending your work to me, I’d like you to present it to the class. That way, during the exhibit, you’ll get the feel of what it’s like to have your work up in a gallery. There will be people who will be asking you questions left and right. It can be downright disconcerting. So, shall we start?”
“I am entitling my series, Discombobulate, a profound state of confusion as seen in my use of mixing various styles within one piece, usually two styles that have…”
“The use of the colors blue and purple are reflective of my personality as an artist: dark, brooding and quite bruised by life…”
Joey wanted to scream at every single one of them for being so high-faluting and borderline delusional. She had to bite her tongue because she remembered what it was like for her when she was an art student herself: dreams of becoming a well-known and well-reviewed artist. Exhibits at the best-known galleries in New York, Paris and Rome. She had her delusions of grandeur. Who is she to stifle theirs?
Just when she was about to space out and zone out her students’ voices, a girl came up to the front of the class and presented her sketches. One after the other, they were of a man sitting on a bench or on the grass beneath a tree, reading a book. The sunlight was falling near him, or above him, highlighting his soft, content face. Just as she was about to finish, Joey spoke up.
“Carey, why would you dedicate your first chance at a major exhibit to permutations of the same subject with the same style? Wouldn’t you want to present various subjects and styles to show your broad skills range?” she said.
Then the girl looked straight at Joey then pushed her black frame glasses up her nose. Then she shrugged her shoulders. “I used to watch him sit and read. He was happiest then. So, I was happiest sketching him.” It was that simple, her face said.
She felt like she was being sucked into a vortex back in time. She looked straight at Carey and realized who she really was: Joey when she first fell in love with Pacey. When all her artistic energy was funneled to pieces of art devoted to him.
Then she remembered. That night, that night she was so tired from working so late in the evening for JP Designs. The night she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Sighing heavily, she lights a cigarette and looks at the only picture on her desk. It was a picture of Pacey. Unbeknownst to him, she had crept up to the dock and taken a picture of him on the True Love. He pinned all his hopes and dreams on that boat. Under the sun he stood, shirtless and sweaty, hosing down his beloved boat. For once, he was truly happy. For once, he had not a care in the world and the only thing he could think of was the seven seas he was going to sail in.
Back then, though she'd be reluctant to admit it, life was so simple. Black and white.
~O~
“Damn it, Miss Stoughton, I told you to clear my 10am! I was going to have a conference call with Costa Rica!”
Miss Stoughton, not one to fear her boss, said in a loud yet tight voice, “I did clear the 10am for you, Mr. Witter, but you had committed to Mr. Bachman without letting me know.”
He sat, dejected, in front of paper pile which was a mile high and growing. Secretaries assisting Miss Stoughton were walking in every 10 minutes putting folders, files, documents and charts on his desk. They all wanted to talk to him, to sign this or that, to check this, to verify that. He was ready to scream, he was so ready to throw someone out the window. When someone accidentally knocked over the picture of his grandfather, he yelled.
“That’s it, that’s it! Everybody, get out of my office!” he yelled as he threw his arms in the air, as if ready to strike anyone who came close to him.
No one moved. They were stupefied. They just looked at each other, waiting for someone to make a move. Mr. Witter has never screamed before.
“What part of that sentence did you not understand? I said, ‘Get out!’ Now!”
He didn’t understand himself. He’s never blown up at his staff like that, ever. He was known to be the one of the nicest guys in C&G Oil’s management group. A lion yes, but more like a lion at the zoo.
He left the office to take a break, to get away from things. He couldn’t concentrate. Joey hasn’t contacted him after sending the flowers. Could they have lost the connection they used to have, that lack of need to be straightforward? It has been three years after all since he has taken the initiative to contact her. It wasn’t that hard to find where she was. Big Mike has always kept tabs on everybody; he was the man to call in spite of his schedule.
So he went to the one place where he could feel Joey without having to deal with her personally. He went to the WH Tower’s lobby and looked at the painting. He could feel the connection; he could feel her. He almost reached out to touch the canvas in the hopes he could sense what she felt at the time she painted this. He could almost feel her joy, her love.
He almost smiled; he could surmise that she did feel him. If he could think this much of her, how could she not? But what explanation could there be for her silence? It’s been days since he sent the flowers.
His dejection was replaced with anger.
How could she not know it was me? How could she… Well, she was a beautiful after all. Many men must have pursued her after I left her. How he cringed when he thought of Joey with another man, saying his name and looking at his eyes.
He entered the C&G building with a cloud over his head. He was fretting about losing his emotional link with Joey. He wondered if she knew that not a minute has gone by that he didn’t think of her in the three years they were apart. That every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face. That there are times, when he is most forlorn just before dawn—because another day will pass by without her.
Yet through the years he has survived. He has focused on his need to change, to grow, to become who he is.
Yet he has grown, he has become the man he feels she deserves and needs. He has also become a little more complete, day-by-day. He is closer to becoming a full moon, he thought.
“Mr. Witter?”
“Miss Stoughton, I am so sorry I yelled at you and your staff. I don’t know what came over me. I was…” he said, stammering and embarrassed. He stood there like a child who just got caught torturing the neighbor’s cat. He looked up at little Miss Stoughton who was like a grandmother to him and almost expected a spanking or at least a time out at the corner of his office.
She smiled at him and shook her head. “Not to worry, Mr. Witter. We all need to have our hissy fits,” she replied. “By the way, this came for you.” She handed him a package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with old-fashioned hemp string. It was about 17 inches wide, 15 inches high. He could even smell it.
“Thank you.”
With his heart in his throat beating like racetrack horse, he carried the package to his room and tore it open. His heart stopped and he could not breathe. Nor could he remove the smile across his face when he saw what was in his hands.
It was a painting of a man, shirtless, wearing a fisherman’s cap, hosing down a white sailboat. And the boat’s name was “True Love”.
“The imagination is our most mysterious aspect. It connects our conscious with our subconscious. It allows us to explore our inner self and fill that urge to understand our ever-changing body, mind and universe. This exercise will take you through a journey, through your imagination, aiming to heighten and focus your inner mind, to see beyond the ordinary.”
The class was attentive and excited. They were going to go through the famous exercise utilized by their teacher—a meditation class. Tap into your subconscious and use that energy to work. Today, it was going to be for sketching, something simple. There have been stories around campus about how some students have ended up sloshing paint about their canvas after the meditation class. Some even began to shout and throw other things at their work. The meditation was that intense.
“Because we are all different, we see different things and feed different things. But the key word is feel--the emotion and the ability to represent--that is the art. It explains the differences in impressions we receive from art works of different artists. It can be seen in everything around us, even the ugliness.”
She could feel herself sounding so monotonous, as if she was being slowly pulled away from this reality as a part of her began to remember. To remember what it was like when her art was all about how she felt.
“To be an artist is to live and feel and then to express. To see things in everyday life that you usually don't see. This is important for all of us to do as much as possible everyday of our lives.”
To live and feel. If she had paid attention to Pacey, would they still be together now? To live and feel, then to express. She hasn’t expressed herself in a long time. It was only when she was in touch with her feelings that she could paint. Her travels gave her an escape—but she used photography to capture the moment. She could have used her pain and hopelessness to express her art. Instead she denied herself that need.
“With each work of art that he creates, the artist gains a greater feeling of life and understanding of himself, which will effect his mind forever. It is believed that these feelings represent moments of the purest freedom of the spirit. Carey pointed this out to us in our last class when she presented her sketches of just one subject. I know of another artist who did the same. Her feelings were just so overwhelming that she had to paint. So she painted a man by a boat, looking out the water, watching the sunset. She has dedicated almost a dozen paintings to that man. Once an artist creates an image which truly represents his emotional state of mind, the work becomes precious to him.”
The painting at the WH Tower’s lobby. That was precious to her. She could have been selfish and kept it under lock and key in her home. But she was proud of her love for Pacey and needed to share that, even if it was her secret. Why didn’t I show that painting to Pacey before?
“There is a man standing on a dock, hosing down a boat. The sun is beating down on his back; I can feel his skin getting burnt. The wind is a soft-breeze; I can see the sail on the boat fluttering. He is barefoot; I can feel the water on his skin. I can see the smile on his face; I can feel his joy.
So, for now, I want you to focus on a subject that is precious to you, an image that brings you warm fuzzies, that makes you want to curl up in a tight little ball and hold that image close to you. Think of a time when you felt most content, most real and most complete.”
She walked over to the stereo and began to play soft music. She was about to continue reading her meditation transcript when she spied a photo sticking out of her purse. It was the picture of the WH Tower.
You truly are an artist.
Today was such a long day. She couldn’t believe how tired she was. First off, she threw herself at an uninterested client’s son, and then she had to argue with the Art Department to allocate more money and materials for the exhibit and then the meditation class she had to run.
She was grateful for this quick break at the faculty lounge.
She was more grateful for what stood on her desk.
A bouquet of mums, yellow and white…
The card said:
Grateful
I am for your ears; you hear my thoughts.
I
thank the gods for your hands; they hold my heart.
I
scorn your eyes for I have not seen them.
But I hear your voice.
Sneaking into NYU with a bouquet was no easy feat. He felt like an idiot with a huge bulge sticking out one side of his coat but he felt the need to make it a surprise. He felt like a teenage boy with the first flushes of love. He felt like Cyrano de Bergerac, William Shakespeare and Lord Byron rolled into one. He wanted to skip and dance down the hallway while singing, “What A Wonderful World.”
He felt like he was courting her and discovering her all over again.
Love rekindled.
After flirting with the young woman at the faculty lounge, he found Joey’s schedule and classroom. Skulking around the corridor, he finally snuck into the classroom and left the bouquet on the desk.
Then he waited, hidden in another hallway, for her to walk in. As soon as she stepped into the classroom, he watched her from the rear door window.
He literally held his breath the whole time Joey read the poem. It seemed like an eternity before he could exhale; he felt faint. Until the smile crept on her face… he let out a sigh of relief. She was just so beautiful—her eyes were gleaming, her smile was radiant, her skin was flushed. With his heart beating like a drum, he gripped the door and was about to push it open…
…a man walked through the front door and reached over to hug Joey from behind. She squealed like a little girl when she realized who it was, whoever it was, damn it who was this man who could sneak up behind her and get hugged, get held that closely, why was she holding him so close, why was she so happy to see him, she forgot about my flowers and my poem, don’t you remember the first time I read that poem, you’re my Alhambra so now I’ll just walk away. Just walk away. Can’t you hear me?
He held the doorknob so fiercely that his hand became numb and the door began to shake. Then with resignation, he took one last look at Joey’s gleeful face, turned and walked away.
“Ohmigod, J.J. when did you get back, you queen you?!? How was Barcelona?” she yelled. She practically jumped on him and hugged him tight, all the while screaming down his ear.
“Woman, please behave yourself! You’re more gay than I am!” he exclaimed, hugging her back and holding her by the waist. “Darling, Joey, it was fabulous! I’ve never seen so many gorgeous gay men in my life! It was definitely my Mecca. Darling, it was just gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous!” JJ exclaimed, his hands squeezing her arms for emphasis.
Just as Joey was about to say something, she turned to the back of the room. It sounded like a shaking tree slamming on a window. “Whoa, did you hear that?”
“Hear what, darling? Oh my goodness, are you trying to get me to look at those beautiful yellow and white chrysanthemums on your desk? You narcissist you!” JJ tut-tutted as he walked over. He smelled the flowers then searched for a card “Cherie, hand over the card. I want to read what juicy love spells this man is trying to concoct!”
Joey turned beet red as she said, “There was no card.”
“Sacre bleu, but you mean to tell me you have a secret admirer? I leave you alone for half a year and now you’ve got students fawning over you? My dear, I truly suggest you get a life!” JJ screamed. Just as the first few students streamed into the classroom, he leaned over and gave her a kiss. “Find your little secret admirer, my sweet, and tell him how you feel… no matter what it is that you feel! Au revoir, cherie!”
He looked at the clock beside his bed. It said 10pm. He turned over with a grunt and reached over for the empty space beside him. He remembered a time when he enjoyed the space on his bed. Then he fell in love with her. He remembered how he couldn’t stand to sleep alone.
He could not close his eyes and go into the dreaming until he can look at her face for one last time.
They reassured each other by lying with arms and legs intertwined. They
slept holding hands, in embraces so tight that they woke up with pins and
needles on their arms.
“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray to God the image of your face I may keep,” he used to pray, blasphemous as it was.
Then he remembered how his love for her caused him to shirk away from her skin. How her very touch made him feel dirty and guilty.
I love you, Grandpa, I really do. Look where I am now, aren’t you proud? Aren’t you proud of Pacey Witter, Grandpa?
Now?
He reached over for the empty space beside him and was tempted to stroke it and pretend she was there. Instead, he reached over for the lamp.
And the phone…
One number at a time. That’s all it takes to reach over and hear her voice. One number at a time.
He lifted the phone. He pressed it to his ear. He pressed one number. Then another…and another.
It’s too late to call her. She might be asleep.
He put the phone down in its cradle and rolled over to his side of the bed.
She looked at the clock beside her bed. It said 10pm. She turned over with a grunt and reached over for the empty space beside her. She remembered how she always slept bundled up, as if she feared falling off the bed. Toes tucked in, arms crossed over her arms, touching her shoulders.
Then she fell in love with him. She felt so safe, so relaxed when she knew that he beside her, he was breathing softly. No harm could befall her.
“Joey, man, you sleep like a rock!” he once told her.
Then he began to shy away from her love, he began to lie there like a stone. When he thought she was asleep, she reached over to touch him. He put her arm away. How her heart broke.
Then she learned to cope. She could sleep alone on her own bed without fearing the monsters from underneath (or in her head).
Now?
She reached over the empty space beside her and was tempted to stroke it and pretend he was there. Instead she reached over for the lamp.
Then the phone.
He couldn’t sleep well at night. He never could. I am so sure he’s awake. Probably watching football or something. Or even reading.
She lifted the phone.
She pressed it to her ear.
She pressed one number.
Then another…and another.
Never mind. Maybe his sleeping habits have changed.
She has to be thinking of me, right? I mean, the painting says it all. That I’m on her mind, that she can paint a beautiful picture of me without wanting to slash the canvas or spray paint it with “jerk”…
He rolled out of bed, turning on a few lights on his way to the living room. He just sat on the couch and looked at the corner where Joey’s easel stood. He had removed her picture from his desk but he couldn’t remove her easel from his living room.
So he sat there and looked at the painting she made.
“True Love”…
He said, “I scorn your eyes for I have not seen them.” He must want to see me. So why hasn’t he called? Why hasn’t he come to see me?
She rolled over, grunting and slamming her hand onto the lamp. She reached over to read the poem again. And again… And again…
That painting… I wonder how…was she watching me? I should just call her. Man, three years since I heard her voice say my name. Will she want to talk to me? S/hit, will she even want to see me?
"I'm not asking you to wait, Jo,"
he whispered.
"I still love you, Joey, that's why I'm
doing this. To be the man you deserve."
"If you want me to say that I don't love
you, I won't because it's not true."
"Jo, the most I can say is that we need
to break up. Cut all romantic ties. Maybe even not see each other for a long
while."
His poetry. Always has been so powerful. He doesn’t even have to write a whole epic poem. Just a few words juxtaposed and I am melting. Three years. He’s felt this way; I’ve felt this way. Three years down the f/ucking drain…
“Ms. Potter, you’ve got to approve these materials…”
“Ms. Potter, Mr. Rashni is here with the wood panels you ordered…”
“Would you like to see more samples? I’ve got a few right here…”
She was at the project site, feeling really stupid in her denim overalls, CAT boots and yellow hardhat. This is an environment that she’s used to but she just couldn’t stand it today. She wanted to grab the foreman’s ears and just shake his head till he yelled, “Uncle!” She almost turned around and whacked the man’s head with her clipboard.
She just wasn’t there.
She shook her head in the hopes it will clear her head.
“I’m sorry, Arthur say that again,” she requested.
“Yes, Miss Potter, I need you to approve these materials. Here’s the list…”
Just when Arthur began to speak, the rest joined in a cacophony of requests and arguments. She felt like she was in a bizarre movie where her head was spinning from left to right until finally she had done a Linda Blair with her head rotating on its axis.
Like a diva, she threw her arms in the air and walked away mumbling, “I need a break, I’m ready to crack here!”
The men looked at each other, some stunned, some giggling. Some were even muttering, “Must be the f***ing time of the month…again!” She left the project site not hearing or seeing a thing except for the stretch of dirt in front of her.
“Joey! Joey! Hang on a sec!” someone yelled after her. “JOEY!”
She whipped around, hands on her hips. “Yes, Alex?” she said icily.
“Look,” he began, out of breath, “just take it easy. I don’t know what’s wrong with you but if you want to take a break, telling the people would be a good idea.”
She sighed. “I’m sorry, Alex. I’ve just been so tired lately. The exhibit, the classes, this project, canvassing for materials, re-doing designs because the board wanted this or that… I’m sorry, it’s not much of an excuse.” She rubbed the back of her neck and cricked it side to side.
She didn’t sleep much last night.
“Just go take a break. I can handle things from here. One lost workday on the lobby interior won’t hurt the project,” Alex said in a soft voice. “Uhm…I hope this isn’t about the awkward lunch we had a few days ago…”
She began to giggle which led to a raucous, boisterous laughing fit. “No, it’s not about that, Alex. Yes, I’m still embarrassed about what happened but no, I’m not distracted about that. It’s about something else.”
The relief on Alex’s face was tremendous that his face almost split into half with his wide smile. “Great! If that’s the case, I suggest a prescription. A two-hour coffee break! Shall we?”
“Uh, no thanks, Alex. I’m just going to take a long walk to clear my head. I’ll be back before you know it. Is that cool with you?”
“Sure thing, Joey. I’ll see you at…” he replied, looking down at his watch, “…say, three o’clock?”
She moved closer and touched his arm. “Thanks.”
All you could hear in Pacey’s office was the hum of his desktop computer and his mumbling as he was drafting a proposal.
“Gentlemen: thank you for considering our services… Mr. Yakamura and company, we are grateful for this opportunity to… Gentlemen: the time is at hand… Gentlemen, shmentlemen!”
He felt like the frustrated piano player in Sesame Street. He could almost hear him singing, “Drive, drive, drive your car, gently down the street. Nooooo!” He’s been sitting here for almost 2 hours, forgetting yet again that he hadn’t eaten lunch. He’s never felt so stupid in his life; he couldn’t seem to churn out the opening paragraph for this one letter. How many permutations of business greetings are there? He was wishing he were British so he could just put “Cheers!”…that would solve this writer’s block problem of his!
“Ms. Stoughton,” he said into the intercom. “Can you draft me a letter addressed to Mr. Yakamura outlining the proposed refinery in Toronto?”
“Uhm…” she replied, hesitant. He’s never asked her to write the business letters for him because he was always so compulsive about it. He handled those things. “Yes, Mr. Witter. I have the file right here…”
“Great,” he chirped, clapping and rubbing his hands, “I’ll see it on my desk at around 3pm then?”
“Uh, yes, Mr. Witter.” He could imagine her scratching her head in confusion. “You do know that you have a 3pm with the directors, right? Mr. Witter? Mr. Witter? Yoo-hoo…”
“Tell them I can’t make it,” he replied, a glazed look on his face.
“Mr. Witter, you do not tell the directors that you’re not going to make it. Mr. Witter…”
She followed him out the door wondering why he seemed to be in such a dazed state. She was tempted to yell at him, knowing full well that he wouldn’t take it against her but it seemed that he wouldn’t have cared if the floor above them caved on his head as angels sang, “Go to the meeting, go to the meeting!”
She shrugged her shoulders as he walked out the door.
She looked up at the skyline looming over her head. She could almost see a bit of blue between the tall gray buildings. If she concentrated really hard, she could hear the birds chirping and maybe hear the wind. But she didn’t have the concentration. All she could think about was how she couldn’t sleep; how visions of Pacey crouched on his desk writing that poem flooded her mind.
He was writing poetry again—it always warmed her heart when she thought of him writing. It was a side of him that not a lot of people knew about, the lucky bastards that we are.
Today was not a good day to work, to think too hard or to concentrate. The strangest thing happened to her today—she couldn’t see past the visions in her mind.
Like a monarch butterfly who flies north with nary a logical reason, her feet took one step after another until she found herself in front of the Ward-Howell Tower. Taking a deep breath as she removed her sunglasses, she strode in purposefully, drawn to one particular object in the massive lobby.
It was a cloudy day but you could feel the sun on your skin. There was a bluish glow around the tops of the skyscrapers. If he hadn’t been so dazed, maybe he would have seen a flock of pigeons cooing and nuzzling each other. But he couldn’t focus on anything. All he could think of was her face as she read the poem that day in the NYU classroom and all he could feel was his disappointment at seeing her put down the card as soon as that man reached for her, touched her, embraced her, smelled her hair, touched her hair, held her, felt her heartbeat on his, who the hell does he think he is?!?
His fists would clench, unclench, clench and unclench as he looked at his feet walking one after another. He couldn’t help himself; it was only there that he could breathe without choking. It was the only place that seemed to make sense, the only place where he could go look at the past without cringing. He just wanted to see the painting, he just wanted to see the soft strokes and the soft light and be taken to another moment in time and…
She stood in front of the painting and was overwhelmed with the waves of emotions coursing through her: love, joy, sadness, nostalgia, pain, and ecstasy. She couldn’t understand herself, the thoughts pouring into her consciousness was flooding her, rendering her unable to comprehend anything. All she could do was be aware of what was going on inside herself—it almost felt like she wasn’t really there. Until…
Just as he was about to zone in on the one object that gave him peace, he sees her. He couldn’t believe it. She was so close. Involuntarily, his hand went to his chest. Ba-boom, ba-boom. He was scared to look down because he might see his heart pop out of his chest. Looking at her just standing there in front of the painting of him, he was engulfed in wave after wave of emotions: love, joy, sadness, nostalgia, pain, and ecstasy. All he could do was ride the wave and try not to understand what he was feeling. He felt he wasn’t really there, he just couldn’t believe it. Until…
…she felt someone standing behind her.
…he stood right behind her.
“Jo?”
She couldn’t move. She just stood there. His voice. For the first time in three years, I am hearing his voice say my name and I can’t even move…
“Jo?” he repeated, his voice shaking, breaking. He could feel himself being torn apart by her silence.
“Hello, Pacey,” she whispered as she slowly turned around.
“Hello, Joey,” he whispered right back.
They stared at each other for what seemed like eons. There could have been a hailstorm brewing around them while little devil-babies danced to Tom Jones and they wouldn’t have noticed. The intensity between them was unfathomable, immeasurable. How do you measure the amalgamation of emotions looming between them as they stared at each other’s eyes?
She was trembling, shaking like a leaf hanging onto a branch for dear life. If he suddenly spoke, she would have been blown away.
His hand was trembling as he reached out to touch her hair. He could feel her shaking.
“It’s lighter,” he said, staring at the hair in his fingers. “Like chocolate, but with caramel swirls.”
“Oh, great,” she said, rolling her eyes heavenward. “Now you think my hair looks like it’s got a bad dye job?”
“Jo?” he said, a small smile on his lips.
“Yeah, Pace?” she replied, looking up at him as he held her hair in his hand.
“Wanna grab coffee?”
“So, how have you been, Jo?” he asked, as he looked up from his coffee which he was about to bring to his lips. He screamed as the hot coffee burned his tongue.
He was hoping she’d laugh at that. She sat in stone-cold silence instead.
“Good. Okay, I guess,” she replied sullenly before she lit her cigarette.
Her hands were shaking.
He watched her take a long deep drag off her cigarette then gaze at him. He felt his nerves run cold. “Let’s cut the chit chat, shall we, Pacey? Why are we here?” she said, her eyes clouded over and dead. She swept her arms over the table then threw them wide. “What are we doing here, right now, at this place, having coffee… after three…f*****g…years?”
“Why are you so angry, Joey? Don’t you see how fateful today has been? Bumping into each other like that? In front of…the painting of me?” he replied in a tone that was almost imploring, almost begging her to see.
“How the hell can I not be angry, Pace? Let me narrate our soap opera love story for you. I fall in love with one of my best friends, pine away all of college. Then on a hot summer night on a roof while drinking our last beer as graduates, you kiss me. Then stay in New York. For two years we don’t see each other. Finally, I cave in and tell you how I feel. Kiss, kissy-poo and fireworks. Then for six blissful months and 3 wonderful days in Barbados, we love each other like there was no tomorrow. Then you push me away. Then you tell me you need to find yourself. So we don’t see each other for three years. Now we’re sitting in a café pretending that we didn’t go through that awful roller coaster. What do you expect me to say?” she said, eyes suddenly blazing.
“Well,” he said slowly, “ ‘how have you been’ would be a good start…Joey, I know that this is awkward. I’ve envisioned our first conversation in our head with a magnificent script—magnificent enough to rival a CreekChic fan fiction story…but that’s not going to happen today, right?”
She shook her head and sighed. “I’m sorry for snapping, Pace. But you have to see how this is so hard for me, so surreal. What started as another year of coping with your absence is turning out to be a dreamlike world. And it’s not a comfortable place to be in.”
“Yes, it is dreamlike, surreal, bizarre, whatever. But can you deny it being real? I used to go to the WH Tower just to stare at the painting for what seemed like hours. Just stand there, look at it and remember what it was like. And how it made me feel. How it makes me feel. And I want that feeling to last. For a long time. And I can only get that feeling with you.”
He could almost see her shaking her head and hearing her brain start to churn out a reply. When she remained silent, his heart began to pound.
“I…I don’t know, Pace. Three years is a long time. Do we just pick up and left where we started? Where you told me that you were breaking up with me even though you still loved me? Because you felt empty?”
“I’ve searched high and low for something to fill the void inside me, you know? It ate at me everyday. All the movies I’ve watched about soul-searching have told me that money and power won’t fill that void. Hell, I knew that. I’m not asking you to fill that void, Jo, to complete me. I complete myself. That stupid Celine Dion song, ‘Because You Loved Me’ is a crock of s/hit…”
All this time, she’s nodding her head while she sat stiffly, like an awkwardly styled mannequin.
“Jo, do you get what I’m saying? I’m a better man now. And I want to love you again…if you’ll have me,” he added when she remained dead to the word “love”.
She looked down at the floor and whispered, “You left me. You loved me but you left me.”
He took a deep breath and dared to reach out and touch her hand which remained immobile against his. “I know, and I’m sorry. No, I’m not sorry for leaving you--I’m sorry for not believing in us before it was too late.”
She said in a breaking voice, “You broke me, Pacey. For a year, I was a wreck, a walking soul, an empty shell. You meant more to me than my own sanity. You made me feel alive, even in our worst times. When you left,” she whispered, “a part of me almost died. I don’t know if it can handle any more pain.”
“Jo, look at me. Please,” he begged, touching her stubborn
chin. “Remember, you told me, ‘In real love, not friendship love, there are
no guarantees. People can make promises, they can make their vows by the sea.
In the end, nobody really knows for sure.’
I believe that. You told me
that. We won’t know for sure. But if there is one thing I know for sure is
that I love you. We are now at a
standstill. Will you jump with me? I can’t guarantee side-by-side cemetery
plots but I can assure you that I want you.
I want to be with you.”
She
looked straight into his eyes and he could swear she was looking straight into
his soul. He felt her eyes inside him,
searching and inspecting. Her eyes clouded
over, misting, with tears. He closed
his eyes as her fingers began to touch his face, her touch as soft as feathers
and as sweet as apples. He held himself
back from engulfing her in an embrace so he could feel her hair on his cheek
and just breathe her in.
Then
slowly, she pulled her hand away as her eyes began to clear.
“I’m
scared, Pacey.”
“So
am I, baby.” How he longed to call her
“baby”. “But two scared people is
better than being scared alone, right?”
Listen to your heart, baby.
Listen to mine. It’s calling your name.
I’m right here in front of you and you can’t even hear me breathe…
He
looked at her, waiting. His eyes were
clear and strong. His voice may have
began to break as the tears threatened to give way, but that was because it was
his heart speaking.
He’s stronger now, but am I?
I’m scared—he’ll leave me again.
“Pacey?”
“Joey?”
She closed her eyes and whispered.
The sun is beating down on her skin, smarting her now-pink skin. She can feel the beads of sweat trickling down her forehead, down her thighs, down her legs. There are butterflies in her stomach. Total silence she was in, as far as she was concerned---she was painting and was so focused on her canvas that she didn’t hear the other people’s cries down the beach. Nor did she hear a man behind her clear his throat.
“Hi, there. I know that you’re painting and probably wouldn’t want to be disturbed, but would you mind if I set my blanket beside yours?” he asked.
She turned around and shielded her eyes from the sun.
“Oh well…” she thought as she shrugged her shoulders. “Suit, yourself,” she mumbled and turned back to the canvas.
He didn’t seem to notice her lack of interest. One by one, he lay down his things: his blanket, his tanning oil, and his beach tote. All the while, he kept talking about inane things like the weather …we’re at the beach, it’s supposed to be hot, you idiot…, she thought, rolling her eyes heavenward as she continued to paint the seascape before her.
Just as he was about to lean closer to her, taking her silence for interest, twin boys, maybe about 5 years old, ran up to her, swinging their pails and shovels all the while begging in unison, “Mommy, Mommy, can we get ice cream, pretty please? Daddy said to ask you first!” They stood side by side, hand in hand, with their huge brown eyes and put on their sweetest smiles, tilting their heads to one side.
She reached over to pat the boys’ heads and ruffle their hair. “Charlie, Tommy, you both know what I said about ice cream before meals, right?”
Then she looked at the man beside her, “And Pacey, didn’t I tell you, not to give the twins anything sweet before dinner! You’ll spoil their appetite!” She reached over for a brush and thwacked him with blue paint. “That’s what you get, you naughty Daddy, you!”
The twins looked up at their paint-splattered father and just started to laugh
aloud, cackling, giggling and rolling all over the sand. They quieted down as she moved closer to
him, sitting between his legs and leaning against his chest.
Charlie ran over to their blanket and threw himself down beside her, placing his head on her lap.
She pulled him closer and reached for Tommy who was still shaking the sand off of him and trying to get their German Shepherd to sit down.
“Come sit beside me, Tommy. Tommy! TOMMY! Leave the Stolich alone. He doesn’t want to wear a red ribbon around his tail…”
She sat their and took a deep breath. She could smell the salt on the tanned skin of her twin boys. She could feel the warmth of their skin against her body. As she closed her eyes, she could feel [b]him[/b] breathing, his breath on her hair, on her skin. She smiled a slow lazy smile as she felt his strong and steady heartbeat against her back. She squeezed her family tightly against herself and laughed aloud.
She’d never felt more beautiful.
She’d never felt more fulfilled.
She’d never felt happier.
Can one know what true love is without feeling the searing pain of heartache?
Can one know the beauty of absolute joy without despairing?
Can one dream of the future and hope for its fulfillment if you do not remember the past?
Will today have any meaning if you do not take the time to breathe?
She would answer each question with a resounding no. She’s learned that much.
“He’s learned that much,” she thought as she snuggled even closer to him.
]One day, Joey, you and I are going to have our own little cove, our own little world.
A
place where we can wake up to the smell of the sea, the sounds of the water
crashing upon the shore.
A
place where the sunset is ours and we wouldn’t mind having the light turned
off. A place where the sun sings to you and the wind makes the trees dance.
A
place where the moon winks at you and the stars are like candles in the sky.
A
place where you can spend the whole day doing nothing but what you want to
do---paint, take photographs, paint some more.”—Pacey, Trepidations and
Confessions
They could hear the waves crashing on the shore, the wind singing a song and the dog barking at the red ribbon around his tail. They sat on the beach blanket in silence; holding each other and just listening to each other breathe. Finally, the kids couldn’t stand the silence any longer and asked, “Mommy, what are we doing?”
She smiled at them and just squeezed them even tighter.
He kissed his wife’s hair and breathed in her green-apple scent and said, “We’re waiting for someone to turn off the lights, kids.”
Then he said a little prayer to God for
His gift: because she loves me more than a dear friend.
Right, Grandpa?