“We really don’t have to do this,” she says, turning to me in the back of my Escalade.
“Oh, but we do,” I tease. I open my door as she sulks, rounding the car to open the door for her. “You promised me a date so that’s exactly what we’re doing, sweetheart.”
She steps out, her Louboutin heels tapping out onto the pavement. I reach my hand out to her, but she ignores it. She’s going to make today hell and I can’t wait until she gives in. I’m bringing her to a new art showing at Origin Hall in Colorado. I’ve never been, and I’ve seen the art pieces around her apartment that aren’t Kennedy’s. I noticed the way she paused for a second when we were walking from the business building to the parking lot and there was a painting from one of the first students at NU in the art department.
I know she’s going to enjoy it. She might have insisted on going on different flights to get here (I took my private plane, and she took hers), but I’m determined to make her smile.
“Couldn’t we have just lied to them? We didn’t have to actually go on a date,” she whines as we walk up the stone steps to the museum entrance. It’s a large grey building that resembles a huge brick with small cut out windows. It’s supposed to be one of the best up and coming museums in Denver.
“What would be the fun in that?” I ask. She looks up at me, pinning with me with a look as if to say ‘Are you serious’ and I grin back at her. “Come on. The contract said you had to be a good date and you’re not being a very good one right now.”
“I’m being as pleasant as I can be considering you’re my date,” she mutters as she pushes open the large door.
Immediately, we’re met with silence. I’ve come to enough museums and galleries to know that they’re sacred places for collectors and people who love art. People in uniforms work silently, cleaning down surfaces. The only noise I can hear is my heavy breathing and the click of Scarlett’s heels.
She’s wearing a striped navy pantsuit with a very short crop white top underneath as she leaves her blazer open, allowing me to see lots of her exposed, smooth, tanned skin. Her hair isn’t tied up today, instead it falls halfway down her back, but I can still spot the blue ribbon tied to her wrist. I think she keeps it there in case of emergencies. The same way I spontaneously bought a back of hair ties because I know it irritates her to have her hair down from the way she was fighting herself with it in the restaurant.
Maybe I didn’t think this one through because I am also here with the most talkative person on the planet. I don’t know how she’s planning to deal with the silence in here. It’s like taking a kid to a library.
As if she’s reading my mind she murmurs, “I don’t think I can do this.”
I turn to her. She’s pulled her lips between her teeth, her cheeks a faint glow of red. She’s not wearing any makeup today, she usually doesn’t, but today her freckles are even more prominent on the bridge of her nose. Fuck, she looks cute. The way she’s trying to stop herself from talking or laughing – or both – is just fucking adorable.
“You can do it, Scar. I believe in you,” I whisper, winking.
“No. I don’t think I can,” she says, shaking her head. Hard. “I’m good at a lot of things, Branson, but not talking isn’t one of them.”
“Come on,” I say, urging her to walk further in since we’re still in the lobby. “The art’s going to be so fantastic that you won’t even need to talk.”
“I doubt it,” she mutters, dragging her feet as we walk down into a large room. This space is dedicated to all oil paintings made by an artist called Arnold Luc. Most of them are captivating pieces of boats and scenes at sea. It’s pretty, but not my kind of thing.
My kind of art is the woman standing in front of the painting.
I knew she would shut up as soon as we got to some of the paintings. Her head is tilted slightly as she bends down to read the plaque beneath the painting. The one she’s looking at is a scene of viscous waves, looking like a scene from the movie ‘The Little Mermaid.’ She shoves her hands into her pockets, taking her time to read and appreciate. She’s not saying anything and there’s one else in here, so she could.
Even I can’t take the quiet, so I say the first thing that comes to mind.
“I’ve never been on a proper date before,” I admit. As embarrassing as it is to admit, it’s true. I’ve never had to plan anything to take another girl out. Even though Cat and I dated for a few years, we never went anywhere romantic or planned things to class as a date. Most of the times we hung out was spontaneous and we didn’t do much talking. Towards the end of our relationship, it was filled with a lot more uncomfortable silences than anything else.
Scarlett turns around slowly, her hands still in her pocket. I get a very good view of her tanned and toned stomach. No sign of the tattoo though. She has a smirk on her lips, ready to torment me.
“You’re telling me you and your rich girlfriend never went on dates?” she asks. I can’t tell if she’s trying to make fun of me or if she’s genuinely curious. I shrug.
“We did. Just not like this,” I reply.
“Is that why you wanted to come here?”
“That’s one of the reasons,” I say, shrugging again. “She wasn’t really the going out type or the kind to like PDA. We were public but private.”
She nods, stepping in closer to me, studying me. Her gaze could come off to others as scrutinising, but I can tell that the bolts in her head are working overtime trying to figure me out, so I let her. “Do you like PDA?” she asks.
“I don’t hate it,” I say truthfully. She nods, smiling slightly, and then walks past me. Of course, I follow her into the next room.
This one not only has large paintings on the walls, cased in gold frames, but it also has small sculptures inside glass boxes. Most of the paintings are abstract, unable to tell whether they’re people, places, or objects. They just exist on the page and they’re magnificent. The small sculptures are mostly nude crafts of torsos and breasts.
She’s quiet again as we walk around the room slowly. She’s capable of more than she lets on. As much as she likes to brag about how amazing she is, she is extraordinary. She told me she wouldn’t be able to be quiet and she’s managing it perfectly. For once, we’re not arguing. We’re not giving each other dirty looks. We’re just existing, enjoying art and each other’s company. Well, I hope she’s enjoying my company. It’s hard to tell if she’s in her own world or not.
She stops still in front of a painting towards the end of the room near the door. It’s a painting clearly with many layers, shades of orange, brown, blue, purple, and black lathered over each other in no particular fashion. She stands, hands in her pockets again, her ankles crossed as she reads the plaque over and over.
‘Germiane Eckbert b. 1803. You are home, 1829. Acrylic on canvas.’
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.
“It is,” I say, staring at her and only her.
The paintings in here are gorgeous, sure. They took years of perfecting. Months of making sure each stroke was made to perfection. Weeks of staring at a blank canvas to create something so beautiful. With her, she only gets more and more beautiful over time. God only had one try and she made her perfect in every way that counts.
She stares at the painting while I look at her side profile, watching her truly take it in. She’s still staring, so I don’t even realise that she’s moved her hand, settling it right into mine.
Her small hand clasps over mine, squeezing it gently, not looking at me. Her warmth and her touch are like something I’ve never experienced before. It’s so soft yet anchoring, like it could keep me alive. It has that underlying strength like it could move mountains while also bringing about a strong sense of calm and tranquillity. It just feels safe.
When I’m with her, I’m not worrying about what could happen tomorrow. I’m not thinking about stupid compulsions that tell me if I don’t do something by a certain time I’m going to die. I just exist. And she exists with me. Together but separate.
“What are you doing?” I choke out, hoping she can’t feel how hard my pulse is hammering.
She sighs. “Don’t make this weird.”
I ignore her. “Why are you holding my hand, sweetheart?”
“Because it’s upsetting that you’ve never been on a date before. You might piss me off, but you’ve been more bearable than usual and the fact that you’ve never been able to experience the fine art of handholding is just downright sad,” she explains smoothly.
“Since when do my feelings matter to you?”
I groan, throwing my head back. “This thing that you’re doing, Scarlett, it isn’t cute anymore. Cut it out. We’re not doing this. Got it?”
The second things start going somewhere, she says shit like that. It doesn’t usually piss me off. Most of the time I hope she’s joking, but it gets to a point where I can’t tell anymore. She can tease me all she wants. She can tell me how much I annoy her just by breathing and I’ll take it. But I thought that something shifted the other day when we spoke. When she told me that she knew I wanted her.
She turns to me now, her eyebrows scrunched together. She seems a little taken aback from my sudden seriousness. “Doing what?”
“This,” I say, gesturing between us. I try to keep my cool. We’re in a goddamn museum for God’s sake. “You hating me. Pretending you don’t care about my feelings. What is so bad about me, Scarlett, huh? Tell me. Tell me what you don’t like about me because I’m going insane trying to figure it – you – out.”
She drops her hand from mine now and it feels empty, like a piece of my heart has been ripped out. “Stop acting like you don’t know, Branson.”
“Scarlett, sweetheart. Tell. Me,” I warn, needing an answer.
She scoffs. “Why are you getting so serious about this?”
“Because it is serious,” I retort, my voice slightly climbing up. I sigh, walking to the other side of the room where a white bench rests against a wall. I sit down, running my hands through my hair as I hear her heels click until she’s sitting beside me. “Angel, I can’t do this. I really can’t. I can’t have you hating me every day. I can’t have you looking at me like I disgust you.”
“You don’t disgust me,” she whispers. I take my hands out of my face and turn to her.
“Then tell me. Tell me what I’ve done wrong so I can fix it,” I press, rubbing at my temples. She blinks at me. “I don’t want to keep going on like this. Jesus, I just want to be your friend.”
“Hasn’t that been obvious?” I ask exasperatedly. She shakes her head a little, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. “At the very least I want us to have a conversation where we’re not screaming at each other. It’s exhausting.”
“Yes. Now tell me what I’ve done wrong.”
Scarlett sighs, pushing her back against the wall, tilting her head up to the ceiling. I can’t tell if she’s trying to blink back tears or if she’s trying to compose herself. She opens her mouth multiple times before closing it again. I could wait for her all day if she’s finally going to tell me what I did so we can move on from this weird stage in our lives.
“You said that I would never amount to anything,” she says finally. Her words sound like a punch to the stomach. I’d much prefer that than the words that come out of her mouth, knowing that it was me who said them. “That I’d never be more than a stupid girl in her brother’s shadow.” She turns to me now, her eyes filled with angry and upset tears. “And I already knew that, Evan. I’ve known that since the day I opened my eyes. I thought starting NU would be a fresh start and it wasn’t. What you said to me felt worse than all the years at high school. So, I resented you for it and it led me to trying to one-up you in every class game and you played right along. I thought you hated me too and kept going. I know, it’s stupid and pathetic, but at first, it felt better than letting you get under my skin, so I made it a mission to get under yours.”
This is definitely worse than a punch to the gut. Hell, it’s worse than a punch to my crotch. What hurts more than hearing the strangled sob in the back of her throat is that what she’s saying is what I said to her.
Those first few days at NU were hell for me. I was bitter and miserable because my dad had cut me off. I had to move in with the boys. I had lost my girlfriend, and I was embarrassed for embarrassing my family and myself in the process. I should never have said those things to her. I knew that I remembered her from our childhood, but she didn’t seem to recognise me. I forced myself to erase it from my memory as soon as I started to get better, and I must have forgotten about it. But she didn’t.
“I’m so sorry, Scarlett,” I say. “I’m so fucking sorry. I was in a bad place, and I was just projecting it onto you. I know that’s not an excuse, but Jesus…I’m sorry.”
I lean my head back against the wall, scrubbing my hands across my face.
“It’s fine. It was stupid. I don’t let those things get to me, so I don’t know why I kept it up for so long,” she replies, and I turn my head back down to look at her. Tears are rolling down her face now, slowly. I don’t think she even notices. “I should have let it go.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. I don’t want her to cry. Jesus. I’ve hurt this girl too much already. If she cries right now, I won’t be able to handle it. If it was someone else making her cry like the day I walked her home, I’d want to beat them up. I’d beat them bloody until they apologised to her. But it was me. I did this to her. “I was cruel to you. You’re allowed to feel things. It doesn’t mean you have to downplay your feelings because it took time to get over it.”
A sharp sob rips through her and she shoves her face into her hands. I don’t know what to do. She wouldn’t want me to see her cry. I don’t want to see her cry.
I inch closer to her, trying my best to comfort her by my proximity.
“Shit. Uh…Don’t- Don’t cry, Scar. I really can’t have you crying on me right now.”
She pulls her hands from her face, slamming her small fists into her lap. How in the world is she able to look so pretty when she cries? I almost want to smile at her for it, but she doesn’t need my teasing right now.
“Then don’t say those things!”
“That I’m allowed to feel things because then I just feel more…things,” she sobs again as she desperately tries to push her hair out of her face, but it continues to stick to her forehead. Why the fuck is her hair so long?
“Come here,” I mutter. Another sob rips out of her in response. Before she can say anything with actual words, I turn her around, scoop her closer to me and pull her hair out of her face, tying it back with the hair tie on my wrist. I secure it tightly in a low ponytail and she doesn’t put up a fight. “Better?”
She sniffles, moving out of my grip to sit beside me. I still keep my arm around her shoulder, trying to comfort her. “You just happen to have hair ties on you now, Branson?”
I swallow. “You hate it when your hair is down.”
“That didn’t answer my question,” she replies. I shrug. She relaxes after a few seconds, settling into my chest. “Why can’t you just be mean to me like you were at that time?”
I laugh quietly. “I don’t want to be mean to you. I never meant to be cruel. But as you started to play those games with me, I played along. I’d do anything you asked me to, you know that?”
“Why?” she asks, almost frustrated. She’s not crying as hard now, thank God.
“Because I don’t hate you. I’d never want to make you feel like I did that time. If you want to hate me and make fun of me, I can play along with you, but none of it is real.”
“What you said the other day,” I admit, swallowing. Her eyes widen. “I do want you, but you don’t. You’re not going to forgive me overnight and I can live like that. Like you said, you prefer sleeping with nameless dudes and a quick fuck. We’d probably kill each other.”
“Evan,” she presses, blinking up at me.
“Scar, spare me,” I say, laughing. “It’s fine. I should be the one comforting you even though your snot is covering my shirt.”
She punches me in the stomach, trying to move out of my grip, but I keep my arm around her shoulder, needing her close. “It is not! I’m not asking you to do any of this.”
“That’s the whole point,” I say, chuckling. She shakes her head at me but she’s smiling, her face still red. God, I want to kiss her so bad right now. What would she do if I did? She’d probably punch me in the stomach. She knows that I like her, and she can do with that information whatever she wants. When she’s ready to have that conversation, I’ll be here.
