Seeing Julia (21 page)
Authors: Katherine Owen
Tags: #Contemporary, #General Fiction, #Love, #Betrayal, #Grief, #loss, #Best Friends, #Passion, #starting over, #Women's Fiction, #Contemporary Fiction, #Malibu, #past love, #love endures, #connections, #ties, #Manhattan, #epic love story
“I don’t know what I want.” I sound defensive even to myself.
Stephanie makes a point of clearing the dishes trying to compensate for my untimely outburst.
“I’m going to try and get him to go down. Excuse me,” I say, leaning over to retrieve Reid from Jake’s arms. I experience that damn electrical current, a jolt to my system, when I accidentally brush up against his hand as I take my baby from him.
≈ ≈
Me. Overexcited by Jake, again, without reason.
Stop this Julia. You shouldn’t be feeling this way, thinking about him.
Remorse, guilt, and shame march in; grief makes room for all three. I’ve assumed a heavy burden, while just making my way from the kitchen to the guest bedroom with Reid and his nighttime bottle.
A half hour later, I’m watching Reid as he drifts to sleep. I take my time, attempting to compose myself and overcome these feelings of vulnerability and confusion about Jake Winston. I’m self-conscious in his presence and all that’s transpired between us. I try to reconcile the past with my present and can only wonder why this virtual stranger wreaks havoc on me every time I see him. I reach out and touch my sleeping baby’s outstretched hand, so still, so tranquil. I close my eyes.
Evan, where are you?
Footsteps come down the hall.
“Is he asleep?” Jake drawls from right behind me.
“Yes.” I open my eyes, kiss my index finger, and lay it across the bridge of Reid’s nose. “Night, baby,” I whisper. Without looking at Jake, I slip past him into the hallway.
“I like that kissing finger thing you do with him,” he says from behind me.
I turn back to him, wary now, and look at him quizzically.
Do you, now? Would you like me to do it to you, too
? I start to smile at this notion and catch myself. “Uh-huh,” I say.
“You really look great.”
Don’t be nice to me. I’m undone by you, stung by your rejection of me last time, and this whole tormenting thing that you do to me.
“Thank you.”
“I just. I just wanted to say—”
“Seriously? You’re going to apologize again? Jake,
please
.” I touch his forearm and his warmth blazes beneath my hand. “I’m sorry. You’re sorry. It was just strange circumstances, a very sad time that played itself out in a very weird way. That’s it.”
“And, at Christmas? At my place?” Jake asks. “What was that?” He covers my hand with his, keeping me there.
“I don’t know what that was,” I say, not quite successful at keeping the dejection out of my voice.
His rejection from our last meeting cascades through me. My ego seems to hiss from deep inside:
don’t forgive him.
I start to pull my hand away; he holds on tighter.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Do you forgive me? Because I hear you’ve been cutting off all the heads of my flowers.”
Christian.
“I’ve been nicer to your most recent bouquets. I’ve even read your most recent notes. It’s not … it’s unnecessary,” I say with an airy wave of my free hand.
“So, no more flowers. Is that what you’re saying?”
“I believe I’ve said no more flowers for some time now. Lovely though, loved the cards and notes, the flowers, but no more, okay?”
He studies my face as if he’s memorizing it for future reference. “Okay, but I’ve gotten so used to your recent thank you notes.” His lips curve up slowly into this deadly charm smile he does so well, while his blue eyes just draw me.
Don’t do this to me.
“You’re so unbelievably polite and charming in the handwritten form,” he says.
“Not so much in person,” I say.
“No, you’re incredible in person, too, but there’s just something about your handwritten notes I really enjoy. I can keep them forever and read them over and over.” He smiles again, but looks less sure of himself as if he’s taken this line of conversation too far, revealing a completely different persona than the self-assured one he displayed at dinner.
“I’ll get you a lock box to keep them in…with a key and everything.”
Now, he looks as uncertain as I suddenly feel. He swallows, while I just try to hold my ground, watching him, and sensing this strange power I hold over him for once. “You look really great,” he says after long pause. “You’re in a better place.”
“A better place. The chateau’s very nice.” He’s thrown off balance by my banter and gets this pained look. “Yes. I’m in a better place. Thank you.” I’m getting more undone in being this close to him, again, in another place that is quickly becoming as intimate as his place was in Amagansett, months before. “I…you didn’t see me on my best day, any of those days, I guess. I’m sorry about that.”
“I see you clearly every day.”
“Every day? You’ve only seen me three times, before, Mr. Winston.”
He looks uneasy. I start to laugh at his discomfort and my own, attempting to undo the tension. He slowly smiles. “I’m changing my mind about the notes versus seeing you in person,” he says.
We’re right back to the day after Christmas. We both take unsteady breaths and stir each other’s hair with this close proximity.
“Okay. Quit, while you’re ahead,” I say, feeling the unease.
This encounter is getting away from us as the tipping point of vulnerability emerges. This has to stop whatever this is. I go with a reliable defense strategy that puts effective distance in so many relationships.
“Friends?” I ask with a bright smile. I extend my right hand.
“Friends?”
Jake seems momentarily taken aback by my suggestion. But in the next, he lifts my hand to his mouth, and brushes it with his lips. The breathtaking sensation of being undone surges through me as if he’s flipped on a switch. I’m left without words. My lips part, but nothing comes out.
Why is he doing this to me?
“Friends,” I finally say, pulling my hand back.
“Maybe, it would be better if you were pissed at me.”
My bravado comes out of nowhere. “Who says I’m not?”
“I’d know,” he says, taking my hand in his, again. His ego bolsters him within seconds as his beautiful mouth spreads into a supremely confident smile.
“Would you? Are you absolutely sure?” I wield my power over him like a sword and slice right through his self-assurance; and now, he looks uneasy. Apparently, it matters if I’m pissed at him. “I’ll have to work on that,” I say, affecting a charming smile. I pull my hand back, move away from him, mostly intact, and walk away.
≈
≈*
These complications
S
unday. The dawn implies the promise of spring, a perfect-weather day. Stephanie is up early and volunteers to watch Reid, while I plan to take a quick run around the chateau grounds, by myself and out of the vicinity of one Mr. Jacob Winston. I stretch out on the back patio for a few minutes and bend down to rework my shoe laces before setting off.
“Running again?”
I whirl around. There’s Jake sauntering toward me in a black jogging outfit similar to mine, looking his usual breathtaking self.
Don’t do this to me. You’re supposed to be showering, breakfasting, and working on that damn quarterly report with Christian.
“Running relaxes me.” I gather my hair into a ponytail and secure it with a red band. And, all the while he watches. My heart races and I try to slow it down by taking deep steady breaths.
“And you need to relax,” he says with a teasing laugh. “Mind if I tag along?” He’s already begun stretching his quads, then moves on to his hamstrings.
“No,” I say with a faint smile after a minute.
Yes.
Jake’s presence has been causing me emotional turmoil, since his arrival Friday night. I’m completely exhausted, not having slept well two nights in a row. Just knowing he sleeps in the guest room across from me causes my body and my emotions endless turmoil that goes up and down, like a roller coaster; I’m experiencing all the extreme highs of adrenalin’s rush and the inevitable lows that always accompanies utter fear. It’s true; I might be incapable of coherent thought, ever again, because of
him
.
I’ve already packed my bags and Reid’s things in the car, anxious to make my escape by lunchtime, although Stephanie will probably insist I stay, until Kimberley returns later this evening. Since arriving in Paris, I’ve been passed around like a child, peddled from one caregiver to the next. And, now, here’s Jake in the middle of it all, wreaking additional havoc on me down to my very soul.
“How far do you want to go?” I ask. “I usually do four miles.”
“I can handle it.” His confidence reigns supreme. I just shake my head and do a few more stretches. “Ready?” Jake asks, and then he takes off running.
Fine. Let’s see what you’ve got.
I press hard to catch up and then pass him after a few minutes and keep going. He pushes himself to keep up at this too fast pace I’m adhering to, but after a couple of miles, he’s fallen back behind me. I hear him groan, eventually turn, and discover he’s stopped running. With a sigh, I retrace my steps and run back to him.
“Are you going to be like this the whole time?” He’s doubled-over, clutching his sides, trying to catch his breath.
“Like what?” I press my lips together to keep from laughing.
“You know, bitchy. Ignoring me half the time. Maybe, you’re PMSing or something?”
“Do you talk to all women like this? It’s very … fetching,” I finally say.
Fetching? Who uses the word fetching, anymore? What is wrong
with me?
Jake laughs at my word choice. I drop my head in embarrassment, but eventually laugh, too, and try to catch my breath.
“You’re as bad as Savannah.”
My laughter stops abruptly. “Savannah, huh? Really?”
I glare at him in irritation, turn back, and start running in the direction of Christian and Stephanie’s chateau at an even faster pace, not bothering to wait for him. Equal doses of fury, jealousy, and misery come out of nowhere at his mention of Savannah. Acknowledging I shouldn’t be feeling any of these things; guilt attacks me from the other side.
“Julia. What’s wrong?” Jake calls out.
“Nothing. I’m fine.” I’m pulled to a sudden stop by him as he catches up to me.
“What did I do?”
“Nothing.” I start to walk away, but he grabs me by the shoulders and turns me around to face him. I avoid looking directly at him.
“Well, it’s obviously something.”
I step out of his grasp and start drawing circles in the dirt path with the toe of my running shoe, trying to get a handle on my emotions. He doesn’t say anything, he just waits. When I look up, he has this bewildered look on his face only a guy can convey, the innocent what-could-I-have-possibly-done expression, which covers a multitude of sins. It pisses me off even more.
“I don’t want to have a conversation where we’re discussing the merits of how I handle PMS in comparison to
your girlfriend, fiancée, or whatever the hell she is to you.” I look over at him, uncertain, exposed.
There you go, deal with that, Mr. Charm.
The minutes go by. Understanding must filter through to him because he begins to look uneasy. And I wait, like a fool, for reassurance he’s not involved with Savannah anymore.
I’m ready. Say it. Because suddenly I need to know.
“Things … .are complicated right now.” He gets this despondent look, runs his hand through his hair, and looks away from me. “For all of us.”
“Things are complicated for
you
? Don’t include me in your fine little “all of us” assessment. You don’t even know what complicated means.” I start off down the path again.
He catches up to me and retains a firm grip on my arm this time. “I’m supposed to do the right thing,” he says. “But I don’t want to.”
His uneven breathing stirs my hair and I can’t look away from his face, awestruck by his amazing good looks and the intensity I see in his eyes. A memory stirs.
“Don’t you want to know
why
?” Jake asks.