Crashing Souls (22 page)

Taking a sip, I looked around the largely empty studio. There was a reason I set it up this way. There was a shower and a bed for those late nights that I couldn’t make it home, but there was no comfort here. It was supposed to make me
want
to go home. Sadly, I wouldn’t be going tonight.

I set the can down on the counter and flicked the lights off. My eyes went to the digital clock near the door. Three in the morning. Later than I thought. I trudged over to the full-sized mattress. Paint covered a lot of my arms, and I was sure I’d find more in my hair and on my face in the morning. Messy heart that I had. I settled beneath the comforter and looked up at the ceiling. The windows caught shadows cast from the streetlights, and I wriggled in an attempt to get more comfortable.

I wondered how many more nights I’d be falling asleep like this.

Pretending.

Until it all stopped and I didn’t have to worry about pretending anymore. Or fighting. Or breathing.

•••

It
was a little past six at night when I finally caught a cab home. With the paint and clay off of my body, I realized how hungry I was. I paid the cabbie and looked up at my apartment building.

If only those people back home could see what had become of me.

Seattle was beautiful and messy—a chaos that matched my constant internal struggle. After seven years here, I figured I’d be used to it. But, it seemed, Seattle wasn’t something to get used to. It was a chameleon of different cultures and textures of life. And I was smack dab in the middle of it.

I thought back on my high school days with a sense of nostalgia as I unlocked my apartment door. Would my life be all that much different if I’d stayed?
Yes,
I thought to myself. I would be Mrs. Andrews for sure. But at what cost? When Dexter had walked away from me, I knew that it was either I skip out or I become something toxic between the two of us. He’d done us a favor, ending it when he had. And I had done us a favor in leaving because I knew he’d come back for me.

Someone as good as Dexter deserved better than to become a shadow. To be constantly worrying over me, living a ghost of a life. Because I’d always let him down.

I pulled off my black turtleneck, stretching and placing it on the separator I’d gotten from the little vintage shop around the corner. This apartment was everything I’d ever wanted in life: security, comfort, and beauty. Books piled on the floor and table tops. The large windows wore black heavy curtains. I stretched out on my chaise lounge, pulling the book I’d been reading a few nights ago from beneath it.

Tonight was different. I sighed, looking at the walls that were covered in the coveted paintings I’d acquired throughout the years, some pieces my own, and others from artists I’d met along the way. I was restless
tonight,
uneasy in my own routine. I knew I wanted a drink. When days were long and nights were lonely, it was so easy. I didn’t have a roommate and Tim had long since stopped calling to check up on me.

Each morning, unless I stayed at my studio the night before, I woke up before the sun rose, went running to my studio, and holed up in there after a shower, painting whatever I was feeling. For some reason, whatever I was feeling was fashionable lately and more and more clients were demanding whatever else I could come up with. I wasn’t feeling the pressure—yet. After I was through, I headed home and picked a book from the many piles or watched a movie. Most days, anyway. Sometimes, on a great day, I indulged in an outing. Dates? None worth remembering. Boyfriends? I didn’t want to make the time for them. After having felt the burn of love, it frightened me. What started off as a passionate fire that kindled just right—even if a little too hot at times—ended up leaving me scorched. The bluest of all fires. And I had poor social etiquette, always saying exactly what I was thinking. Men tended to run for the hills after a few minutes with me.

Dexter hadn’t minded. Dexter
loved
it.

I walked through my apartment, whistling the same sad tune. And on the terrible days, my thoughts were full of Dexter Andrews. After all of the time spent away from him, convincing myself it was for the best, I could still remember, with heated skin, the night I’d lost my innocence.

He’d likely be back home, coming in from a day at the office, some blonde Stepford wife rubbing his shoulders and taking his coat. Two angelic children running in to greet him. All four of them bowing their head in prayer before eating a perfectly moist chicken.
Moist. Gross.

Who makes a perfect chicken?
She would
, I thought with envy, hating the woman that I was sure
existed.
I set my book down and headed to my kitchen, opening the fridge. I knew it was as empty as my growling stomach.

I buttoned up a previously discarded blouse and yanked my coat from the rack I’d also gotten from the vintage shop around the corner. Small treasures.

When the elevator stopped on my floor, I lifted the first set of doors from the ground and then slammed the second set across. While it was wonderful to live in a loft apartment, the elevator was annoying. I hummed quietly to myself as it made its way down and grunted when I had to open the damn contraption again.

The city was bustling, and when I flagged a cab down, I sagged with relief before telling the driver where to head. I looked out the window as we made our way. The bright lights dazzled me still, as did the many lives I ran into daily. Everyone was alive here. This was where I should’ve been from the beginning. Not as busy as New York but just as intense.

I paid and stood outside my favorite restaurant. They’d be busy, but I knew they’d make room for me.

Sure enough, the maître d’ smiled when he saw me, beckoning me forward, ahead of those waiting for a table.

“Oh, Ms. Cruz. I thought you might be here tonight. I’ve saved your table.”

“Thanks, Jorge. You’re the best,” I said with a smile.

“Anything for that beautiful mural you painted for my daughter’s bedroom. Head back. I’ll send Antonio to your table.”

I nodded, still smiling. Maybe I couldn’t make the perfect chicken. But in one of the most prominent restaurants, I was a regular. I smiled smugly, having won that battle with the blonde bimbo. I was busy envisioning us circling each other in a boxing ring when I bumped into someone. Apologies came profusely before I looked up.

The
eyes that had seen me naked more than half a decade ago stared back at me. And I felt naked all over again. I crossed my arms over my chest protectively and, damn him because he
still
knew me, his eyebrows rose.

“Noa.” He didn’t bother asking where I’d been or even how I was. None of that mattered in that moment. Dexter wasn’t a man of too many words. He dished them out like they were currency, only ever giving you what you needed, only ever affording that. But with me…he’d been the richest man. Full of explanations and words to soothe, words to make my heart ache.

That he only said my name was both soothing and aching.

“Dexter Andrews.” I had the awful habit of referring to him by full name in my mind. And in my memories.

I would never call him Dex. Not for my whole life. Someone that beautiful deserved his entire name, deserved the extra effort it took to say both syllables. The rest of the world knew Dex. I knew Dexter. Dexter Andrews. In ways no one else would.

“Dex…” a female voice stopped as she noticed he hadn’t moved. She stepped from behind him. She was blonde. My imagination hadn’t done her justice. “Oh, hello.”

“Is this…” I asked the open-ended question, waiting for him. I wasn’t aiming to be rude although I was executing that like a pro. I wanted to know the situation exactly before I reacted. Being sober taught me that knowledge bred calm reactions in my case.

“…my business partner. Tammy, this is Noa.” He stepped aside, and when her eyes brightened, I felt self-conscious. There was recognition there.
Had he…?
I couldn’t let myself hope. Her hand shook mine, my arm feeling like jelly, and I didn’t hear anything she was telling me. His eyes were still on me and I
still
felt naked.

“Tammy, would you mind taking the car back to the hotel alone?”

“
Oh, no…you don’t have to, Dexter,” I scolded him. “She doesn’t have to be put out for me. Please.” I chuckled lightly. I felt guilty that I’d hated her for a few long seconds.

“I’ll call the driver,” she said. “Trust me, Noa. There’s no way this man is leaving your side.” She walked away, her heels clicking in time and her smart suit leaving me feeling underdressed. I typically was at any given time, but I didn’t care until that moment. I looked back at Dexter, whose eyes pierced my shell with too much intensity. His suit was flawless, and while his hair was shorter than it used to be, it still was longer than what society would agree to be professional. God, I still felt that zing of his presence.

“I—would you like to sit?” I asked, gesturing to the empty table a few feet away from us. I was entirely too calm. Like I was dreaming and would wake up in my apartment at any moment.

“Reservation for one?” When I sat down, I breathed easier until he folded himself directly across from me. For all of the times I reminisced about my time with Dexter, I’d forgotten those eyes…the ones that saw right through my bullshit.

“No reservation. But, yes. Only myself.” I tucked the loose strands of hair behind my ear.

“Do you own this place, Blue? Know the owner?” He wasn’t saying anything out of the ordinary. He wasn’t even staring at me inappropriately. And yet I was wearing a perpetual blush.

“You can’t call me that anymore, Dexter. The blue is gone.” I tugged at my brown braid. I’d grown out of the blue. But somewhere, deep inside, there was the same girl with the fire in her soul and the boy she’d always love.

“You will forever be Blue, Noa. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“
Probably because I’m flustered. We both know I tend to be a little spastic when flustered.” I took a deep breath. “I don’t own this restaurant. I just eat here often. They always let me in, no matter what. So, yes. I know the owner.”

“Do you always eat here alone?” There was a twinkle in his eye.

“When did you get to be such a chicken shit?” I asked, bothered that he wouldn’t ask me exactly what he wanted to know.

He barked out a laugh. It was the same as it had always been but sexier. I knew Dexter the boy. This was Dexter the man.

“I forgot how raw you were. I missed it. Thought about it often. I guess not having been around it for so long has me unprepared for it.” He leaned forward the way he always did. “Are you single, Noa Cruz, or is there a lucky son-of-a-bitch waiting for you at home? If there is, I’d have to question his sanity, letting you have dinner alone.”

“What’s wrong with eating by myself?”

“Answer my question.” It was a quiet demand, and I blinked away briefly before looking at him again. Time had given Dexter a lot of confidence.

“No one is waiting for me. Not since you.” Time gave me open honesty. The kind Dexter would’ve killed for back then.

“The men of Washington aren’t as smart as they think, then.” He sat back, eyes on the tablecloth. “Aren’t you going to ask me?” As quickly as his confidence appeared, it wilted away. He was nervous. At least I wasn’t alone in that.

“No.”

Antonio walked up and I registered the surprise on his face. He wasn’t used to my having company for dinner. I wasn’t used to it either.

“
I’ll have my usual. Dexter?”

“The same,” he said, grinning. I knew what he was thinking.
So like our first date.

When Antonio walked away, he pounced again.

“Why not?”

“Because I know you, Dexter. You wouldn’t be sitting here if you had a wife at home. You’re too good a guy.” I exhaled shakily. “And…I’m hoping that you never got over me the way I never got over you.” I wanted to smack myself upside the head. Open honesty would get me a twice-broken heart.

I looked up at him and noted his hesitance. While this was so like our first date, in too many ways it wasn’t. Seven years was a long time. And who the hell was I to think this beautiful man had spent the same amount of time dreaming of me as I had dreaming of him?

“I’m sorry. That was too much. And certainly none of my business.” I smiled at Antonio when he set down our drinks. It didn’t help that the crack of my smile was a physical representation of the crack that my heart had endured. His hesitation said it all.

“Bullshit.” His hand covered mine. “It
is
your business. I—I’m free, yes. But I wasn’t always.” He cleared his throat. “It had been years, Noa….”

“Look, I don’t really want to do this.” I felt the tears building and I blinked them away in embarrassment. “It’s been seven years, Dexter. It’s…it’s too late.”

He shook his head and ran his hands over his face. I didn’t want him to be uncomfortable, so I changed the subject. We could catch up, at the very least. Just because we weren’t together, in love, didn’t mean we couldn’t be friendly.

“So, Tammy. Your partner? What exactly are you doing these days?”

He removed his hand, looking at me in confusion before chuckling.

“
Throwing me a bone, eh? We head a programming department in a pretty big computer company. The first few years were hard work, but now we’ve got more employees and every few months, I make my way to the city for clients and new contracts. What about you? What are you doing here, Noa?”

“I’m still painting. These days, people like my work. Enough to pay my bills and then some. So, I’m comfortable as the days pass.” I took a sip of ginger ale. “Just like you, my first few years here were tough, but something told me if I stuck it out, I’d be fine.”

Neither of us used the typical words people used to express happiness. Instead, we focused on details and I skirted around emotions. Comfortable and fine. Words unsaid often meant more than the ones we let slip through our lips.

Antonio came back around, placing our food in front of us. Dexter looked at the plate and laughed. I grinned, waiting for him to say it.