Scott came back ten minutes later and asked if I was ready to go grab something to eat. Apparently, he knew me better than I thought because he immediately brought up Italian, and I love me some Italian food. He took me to this nice, fancy-ass Italian restaurant just a few blocks away from the gallery.
Once we had picked a table, he said, "Order whatever you want. It's on me."
"Really?" He grinned and nodded. "Fine, I want some pasta with pesto and parmesan."
He laughed and said, "Why did I know you were gonna order that?"
"No idea. I never wanted pasta when we were together."
He became uncomfortable all of the sudden, and it made me wonder for a minute what he was thinking, but before I could ask what the matter was, he called for a waiter and ordered.
After the waiter left, he started talking, purposely trying to get the conversation in another direction which only made me feel more suspicious about what the hell he was doing, why he was acting that way.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"What you mean?"
"You're acting weird since I asked why you know I like Pasta Con Pesto E Parmiggiano."
"I am? I didn't notice."
"Right, but-" At that moment, my phone buzzed. My mother was texting me to find out how everything was. "Sorry, it's my mom. Give me a sec."
I stood up, went into the bathroom, and called her back. I don't know why I do that. It always makes me so uncomfortable to have phone calls in front of people. I feel like it's rude to be sitting across from them having a conversation with someone else, so instead, I just take some space and call back.
"Hi, sweetheart."
"Hey, mom."
"How are you? What happened?"
"It seems like I'll be staying in New York for a while. Scott's boss wants twenty-six paintings. I'm really happy."
"Oh, honey that's so great. I'm so happy for you. Have you told her?"
Truth be told, my mom didn't say her. She actually said her name. I hated that. I hated hearing her name, I hated people persistently with trying to bring her up, I hated that I couldn't deal with it.
"Why would I?"
My mother stuttered for a moment not know how to respond, then decided to go with "You're right, I'm sorry. I'm very happy for you though."
"Mom, I'll call you later, I'm having lunch."
"Sure. Take care, honey."
"I will. I love you, mom."
When I got back to the table, Scott was nowhere to be seen so I just sat back down and waited. He returned a few minutes later and asked if everything was okay. I shook my head.
"Scott... do you think I'm been silly?"
"About what?"
"Keeping my distance? Not talking to her of wanting to say anything about her."
Scott sighed. "I don't know. And I know you don't wanna talk about her but I can tell you that you two are two sides of the same coin. She refuses to talk about what she feels, too. And she won't say your name either. You mirror each other a lot, is what I'm trying to say. Honestly, I can't tell you how to handle what happened... or how to deal with what she did. I don't think anyone can. Every relationship is different, every connection is different and I think the most important opinion is your own. So if right now you feel like you're not ready to talk about it, I get that. But you also need to understand that eventually, you will need to deal with it. Either by trying to fix your marriage, or ending it for good."
That sentence made me shiver. 'Ending it for good'. It made me realize that, to a certain level, I didn't want to talk to her because as long as I didn't do it, I wouldn't be faced with the actual, very probable possibility of divorce. I wasn't ready. Not at that moment. I would be, eventually. But by then it had only been three months since we separated. Listen to me, 'Since we separated'. Please, let's call it as it is.
It had been close to three or four months since she'd left me. And even though I was trying my hardest to move past the pain, it didn't mean that psychologically, I was ready for a divorce. To sign papers saying that we were nothing to each other anymore. My life in a fucking piece of paper. The process of divorce really is as disrespectful as you can get to the time you shared together.
Scott did make me feel better, though. Friends and family mean well, but sometimes it's like they want you to fail. It's like they get pleasure in other people's relationships failing and if I'd talked to someone else about it, they would've tried to give me "advice" telling me what to do and how not doing it would be the stupidest thing in the whole world, when none of them had ever had the relationship she and I had. Knowing that Scott wasn't rooting for me to make either decision made me feel like it didn't matter what I chose, it would be fine.
Our meals arrived. They were served in ridiculously big plates that made the portions look smaller. Who came up with that idea? Probably some rich-ass, fancy chef who's never been hungry. Serving in huge plates that make whatever you serve in them look tiny by comparison? Sure it looks fancy, but I also had this persistent idea of been robbed, of wanting to order something more. Maybe an appetizer or... oh, I get it. Never mind.
As soon as I tasted the I thought, this was a mistake. How could I not see this coming? What is wrong with me? Why did I do this?
"Faye?" Scott called looking at my face. "What's wrong?"
I shook my head and kept eating.
It was the dumbest thing in the entire world. No, that's not true, it's just me telling myself that I don't get to feel what I feel again. It was actually a big deal, to me at least. I started crying and even though I'm a cry baby, I don't like crying in front of other people. They always make me feel like I'm trying to manipulate them, so I just don't cry in front of others anymore.
I'm just telling you that I don't cry in front of others because I need you to understand how big this was for me. How unbearable it became when the urge to cry overtook me.
"Faye, what's wrong?"
"I'm gonna ask you for something very, very selfish, and you can't ask me why."
"Alright," he said. He was frowning; like he didn't understand but he could still try to do what I wanted.
"Can we switch dishes?"
Scott looked at his Mac and Cheese. I know, fancy Italian restaurant and he orders Mac and Cheese, but that's Scott for you. It was one of the things that told me he'd gotten back to been the Scott I grew up with. He can enter a bistro, and order a grilled cheese.
"Why?" he wondered.
"Scott..." I said holding myself.
He remembered I had asked him not to ask me about it, but he wasn't having any of it now. "This can't possibly be about her. She doesn't even like pesto."
"It isn't about her," I barely managed to say the words. I was still trying to stop myself from making a bigger fool out of me in a fancy restaurant.
"Then what else could-?" He stopped himself. As soon as he realized that if it wasn't about her then there was only one other thing this could be about. The one thing I had purposefully avoided even mentioning while I write this.
"Please," I murmured covering my face.
"No, no, take my dish. I'll send yours back. I'll get something else. Just wait a second."
I suppose it looks silly from the outside. The dish arrived, I took a bite and started crying. Unlike her, this is something I don't feel I'll ever be ready to openly discuss with anyone because I don't think it'll ever stop hurting. It's been such a long time, and I swear it still hurts like someone's reaching into my heart and setting it on fire.
Scott sent my dish back, apologized, and asked if they could make me a pizza instead. Pizza was better, there are a lot of memories attached to eating pizza, but none this painful.
Scott sat back down and held my hand. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"It's fine," I said still trying to control my crying. God, how pathetic am I? I cry over food. "I'm sorry. I don't know what happened, it's just dumb."
"Hey, it got you to start crying out of the fucking blue, it's not dumb. I've literally seen you cry three times in twenty years. And I don't think anyone expects you not to cry about something like that."
"Can we please stop talking about it? Let's just forget it."
Scott nodded and while we waited for my pizza, he was kind enough to share his Mac and Cheese with me and completely push the subject aside. After that happened, I made it a point to avoid anything that could trigger me like that again. Certain foods, certain clothes or toy stores, certain movies, even certain parts of town. I completely avoided them. It's what you would probably call very unhealthy, and I'm not saying I disagree. I'm saying it felt like the right thing to do at the time. Even now I think I needed that emotional blockage on my own grieving process.
It helped me feel a bit stronger when the moment finally came for me to deal with Pasta Con Pesto E Parmiggiano, seven months later.
* * * *
I think it was a week or two after I got the job with Caroline Rosen. I spent every waking hour painting. I was losing weight with how little I was eating and I had hardly seen Scott or spoken to my mother in days. Every ounce of energy I had, I poured into my work, and it felt amazing. I was feeling passionate, motivated; like I had something to live for which I hadn't have in months. I was finishing my second painting when I got a call from Scott that I decided to ignore. I just looked at the screen and decided not to pick up. I could call him later.
That was not part of his plan though. He called four other times before I gave up and picked up the phone.
"You really can't take a hint, huh?" I said playfully.
"You know me. Listen, there's this cocktail party tomorrow night."
"Tomorrow? Isn't it..." I honestly don't remember what day it was, but I do remember it was a weekday, which I pointed out.
"Which is why it's just going to be a gathering, with really well-dressed people, and cocktails and mostly appetizers served in trays by caterers that curse at their life choices."
"That was very specific."
"Yeah, I worked in a catering company back in school. Anyway, it's a great opportunity for you to meet a lot of possible buyers."
That picked my interest, but still, my studio was so comfortable, and painting was feeling with this warm sensation in my whole body. Did I want to leave that to go talk to a bunch of doofuses hoping they'll spend money on me? I was going to say no, but Scott mentioned the legal side of things.
"Remember that Caroline will legally make you."
"Damn it. Right. I'll go. I'll just buy a black dress and call it a day."
He laughed and before hanging up added, "See you tomorrow!"
The next day, I arrived at the hotel wearing a simple black dress, with a thin black belt that made my waist look a little smaller and my hips look a little bigger. Just enough to be presentable and attractive. I don't see myself as a very attractive woman, but it doesn't mean I feel bad about my physique either so I chose a dress that was cheap but didn't look it.
The gathering was hosted in a five-star hotel's lobby. Scott was waiting for me just outside the lobby with a wide smile, and wearing a beautiful tuxedo with his hair brushed back.
"Hello there, sexy," I said hugging him.
"I'm looking great, right?"
"And smelling amazing. What is that?" I pointed at his neck where the smell came from.
"My secret weapon."
"Oh, God. You're gonna make a move on Caroline Rosen."
"She's not even ready for this."
"Dude, I've met her. I don't think there's a lot she's not ready for."
"Exactly. So if I manage to impress her with my looks, and my hair, and my cologne, I call the shots."
"I don't think anyone ever calls the shots on her...."
"Could you please just be supportive!?"
I laughed. "Right. Sorry. Yes, you can do this! She doesn't know what coming to her! She's gonna get it tonight!"
"There you go. that's better."
He signaled me to grab his arm and we walked inside together. There weren't that many people inside. Thirty tops. Some standing, some sitting in the tables. Most of them seemed to be in their early forties. Some a bit younger, some a bit older but early forties was definitely a theme. Scott found Caroline talking to three men and pulled me towards her. As we came closer, we noticed that there seemed to be a problem. One of the men Caroline was speaking to looked angry, or at the very least, displeased.
"You're supposed to handle that, Caroline," he said.
"I am? You seem to think my job is to babysit your investment. It is not. Why don't you call Dumont and allow me to enjoy my party."
Caroline walked away from the man and towards us. She gestured Scott to follow her to a different side of the lobby.
"What's wrong?" Scott asked.
"Dumont's late."
Scott snorted and replied, "Oh surprise."
"Yes, and Roger and Carl are becoming impatient, which is making me annoyed."
"Yeah, we don't want annoyed," Scott said. He didn't mention it but it looked to me like he was referring to something that happened whenever she got 'annoyed' by people.
"I need you to call Dumont and find out what the hell is going in and it better be good this time."
"You got it."
Scott dragged me outside the lobby and pulled out his phone. While he dialed a phone number he said, "This is bad."
"Who's Dumont?"
"An artist. A sculptor to be more specific. A big shot. But when people get to be big shots, sometimes they start acting like pricks." He placed his phone against his ear and waited. He then looked at it and said, "Damn it, I'm not getting any signal. Wait for me okay... unless you want to go back inside and try luck mingling."
"No thanks. I'll wait."
"Just give me five minutes."
Scott walked down the hallway, probably trying to find a spot in the hotel where he could get some signal. I leaned against the wall and waited for him.
It wasn't long before this tall, dark, and handsome woman said, "Hey," to me.
She had short straight hair, olive-colored skin, and a marked french accent. I don't really have a type when it comes to women. White, black, tall, short, skinny, curvy. I don't really care. But I know I feel physically attracted to tall women who are physically stronger than me. I'm a sucker for that. And she was exactly case in point. But it was more than that though. She was dressed formally in what could be called a suit, but not quite. A dark-gray blazer, white blouse, black skinny pants, and black leather high heels with a golden buckle on top. For some reason, I also found her black nail polish, her black eyeliner, and the two rings she wore on her left index and pinky finger very alluring.
I remember once my dad said to my wife "You're marrying my daughter because there's no way I'm going back to dealing with bad boys with no future again." Well, she definitely had the bad girl look, and I can assure you, if my dad were alive, he would not approve.
Me? I was fascinated by everything about her.
"Hi?" I said.
"Shouldn't you be inside? You're here for the party, right?"
It took me ten seconds to make a coherent sentence. Only her had managed to make me that nervous before. "Uhmm, uh, yeah. Y-you're here for the party, too?"
"Yes. I'm Ellen. And you are?" she said stretching her hand to shake mine.
"Faye. Faye Burton-Brenan," I said and took her hand.
"Faye. Enchanté," she said with a gorgeous smile.
God damn you, France! God damn you and your sexy people, with their sexy accents eating their sexy fucking croissants! I kid you not, she was unbelievably hot.
"How come I've never seen you before?" She asked.
"I just started working with Caroline Rosen a couple of weeks ago."
"That makes sense. I would definitely remember someone like you."
"Like me?"
"Beautifully unpompous. You don't belong here. That's a very good thing."
"It is? It doesn't feel like it. I need these people to like me."
"No, you don't. None of them like me, but they still need me."
"What does that mean?"
"Well-"
"There you are!" I heard Scott yelling. "Dumont!"
Ellen sighed loudly. As if she wanted for Scott to know that he had bothered her. "What?"
"You're late, like really late."
She turned to him and said, "Always great seeing you Scotty."
"Caroline is pissed."
"She's always pissed."
"Exactly, so I would really appreciate it if you could show up on time and not make it worse. Now come on."
Ellen turned to me and smiled while Scott dragged her inside. They walked up to Caroline, who let out a sigh of relief and then knocked on her glass to call attention to herself.
"Ladies, gentlemen. Thank you all for coming. I know we were supposed to start half an hour ago and I do apologize, but we are ready now. Our guest of honor just arrived."
I turned to Ellen Dumont. She had shoved her hands inside her pants' pockets and now, her head was laid back and her eyes were looking at the ceiling. She could not be any more uninterested if she wanted to.
"Dumont," Caroline said signaling her it was her turn to speak.
"Right," Ellen said, "Welcome, everyone. As you know, I'll be exhibiting my latest work at Caroline's next week. However, I thought we could make things more interesting. Tonight we'll be doing something I call a silent secret auction. You will all be betting on one of my pieces with the catch is that the only thing you'll know about it, is the title." Ellen looked at me and with a mischievous grin added, "Exciting, isn't it?" Then she looked back at the rest of the people. "There are a total of five pieces up for auction. Write you bets, ladies and gents. Let the person most willing to pay my vacation in Ibiza win."
Everyone laughed at the joke and applauded. The caterers began giving everyone a piece of paper with the names of Ellen Dumont's sculptures, and a dotted line next to it for people to write how much they were willing to pay.
As Ellen went to say hello to everyone, I couldn't keep my eyes off her.
"So that's Dumont," I said to Scott.
"Yes. Hélène Dumont. Why?"
"I need to bang her," I said matter of factly.
Scott turned to me and asked, "What?!"
"Haven't you seen her? She's so hot."
"How can you like her? She's arrogant and distant and extremely impulsive and irrational," Scott stopped for a second. "Oh, my God. She's totally your type."
"She really is." As I said that, Ellen Dumont turned to me and smiled and I remember I thought 'I will nail her.'