I push open the door to Fleurish with my hip, struggling with the three canvases under one arm and two under the other. A merry chime of bells greets me and I hear Stevie yell from somewhere in the back of the store, “Be right out.”
Stepping in, I squat to release my hold on the paintings before they fall and then carefully restack them to lean against an open armoire standing up against the near wall. It’s filled with a variety of knickknacks that appear to be for sale.
“Jules?” I hear Stevie’s surprised voice and turn around to face him. “What are you doing here? You weren’t supposed to come until Monday.”
I shrug. “I got more paintings done than I figured I would, so I thought I’d go ahead and bring them by.”
Yup. Got twice as many paintings done this past week because my time has been freed up yet again by the fact I haven’t seen Max since our—um, argument?—a week ago to the day. Turns out, although we may have not seen each other every day before said argument, due to his travel schedule, he was still very much a daily presence in my life, with long telephone calls, FaceTime, or text chats. Without those taking up my time, and thus feeling the keen loss of his presence, I channeled my resulting miseries into my art.
It made me quite productive.
That’s not to say it’s been pure radio silence between me and Max. He’s been gone most of this week with away games in Ottawa and Montreal but we have shared a few texts. Well, I texted him after each game—one win and one loss—and he texted back.
The texts were short.
They were impersonal.
It fucking hurt that he wouldn’t engage with me.
“Well, let me see them,” Stevie says, and I blink away my dark thoughts before they make me cry. I watch as he turns to where I’d displayed the paintings and he walks down the line of them, hand to his chin as he evaluates them with a critical eye.
“These are really different than your other stuff,” he says casually.
“I know,” I say with a low murmur. They’re all moody, bordering on depressing, which is exactly how I’ve felt this week while I let my feelings out onto the canvases.
“But I like them,” he adds, and turns to face me with a smile. “I’m going to keep two here for the shop and I think it’s time we up the price on them a little. I’ll send the others out to some of the local retailers.”
“Awesome,” I say, feeling somewhat heartened by the fact he thinks my work can get an even better price. I’m making a steady income now from my art, and even have a nice savings account started. I look past Stevie to the back. “Olivia working today?”
“Nope,” he says and then looks at his watch. “She’s getting ready for the gala tonight, and speaking of which…why aren’t you doing the same? It starts in a few hours.”
My body goes stiff at the mention of the gala, even as my stomach pitches at the thought of Max going there without me. It’s a fundraiser hosted by the Cold Fury organization, with the proceeds going to the funding of after-school activities for the underprivileged who can’t afford such things. It’s a great cause, and one that is and should be very personal to me, as I understand all about not being able to afford things for my niece and nephews.
“I’m not going,” I say in a whisper of a voice.
“Why not?” Stevie exclaims. “These parties are always so much fun and who doesn’t love getting all glammed up?”
“Me,” I admit, although that’s somewhat of a lie. I’m a girl. I like those things. I just don’t have the ability to carry off the deception that I’m nothing but a poor girl being dragged into the celebrity lifestyle, and it’s so painfully obvious I don’t belong there. “I told Max I wasn’t going because I just don’t like the spotlight on me. I also told him I wanted to slow things down. Things have been a little strained between us.”
“I straight up call bullshit on you,” Stevie says dramatically with a wave of his hand. “Now, what’s really going on?”
Stevie stares at me critically, almost as if he’s looking for a nuance in my expression or voice to get to the truth. His look scares me because it tells me his bullshit meter is turned on and is finely tuned in. Ordinarily, I might still lie to him or even put him off with some excuse as to why I have to leave, but honestly, I want to tell him. I want someone to hear my side of the story and tell me if I’m crazy to be acting this way.
I suspect I am, but I won’t admit it to myself, so I decide to just go ahead and lay it all out there.
“I’m scared of Max’s world,” I tell him by way of simple explanation.
“Go on,” he prods me with a nod.
With a pained sigh, I tell him, “My life is a complete mess at times. Being a single mom trying to navigate the stressors of raising kids has taken a toll. And then Max comes into my life, and he’s amazing and has done so much to help me—like recognizing my artistic talent and helping me turn that into something—that I should be over the moon about having a relationship with him, right?”
“Right,” Stevie agrees.
“Except I keep focusing in on the negative stuff and it drags me down,” I admit to him, almost shamefully.
Yes, shamefully because I know it’s sort of a cowardly thing to do.
“Like what?” Stevie inquires.
“Max is famous. People are drawn to him. Women are drawn to him. He has fans so devout that some of them hate me just because I have his attention. Hell, I had a woman lay into me last week while I was out shopping. She told me I didn’t deserve him. And I’ve been called a gold digger, and hell, even Max’s brother questioned my motives. It’s just too much for me to handle with trying to raise kids and deal with their father, who’s now threatening to try to get them back. It’s just…it’s too much.”
I look at Stevie expectantly, because I’m sure he’ll agree…this is a lot of burden on a young woman’s shoulders.
“So what?” Stevie says dismissively.
“What?” I ask incredulously.
“So. What,” he repeats slowly. “It’s really simple. If you love someone—and I know you love Max—then you take the bad with the good. The good totally outweighs the bad in this situation, so you ignore the bad. Figure out a way to suck it up, buttercup, because that’s Max’s life. If you want him, you take him as is.”
“But—”
“He took you as is. You say your life is messy? Well, guess what? Max saw that from the beginning and he said, ‘So what?’ He took your bad and he reveled in your good. He wanted the good so much, he was willing to put the work into dealing with the bad. And sweetie pie, I’m here to tell you…all the negativity and second-guessing of you is going to go away. It’s not here to stay. People may question your motives now, but why do you care? There will be a day when that won’t happen, and even more important…who gives a fuck right now? Max doesn’t question you, and really, he’s the only person that matters.”
A complete and massive wave of shame hits me as I take in Stevie’s observation. Max took me with my messy life and he said, “So what?”
He never questioned my motives.
I mean…I knew this. This isn’t a revelation. I’ve known from the beginning that Max took me warts and all, and I know this because I’ve often questioned why he would do such a thing.
Most of that shameful wave of guilt has to do with the fact that he takes all of it because he loves me.
It’s as simple as that.
He loves me so he works with the bad.
He loves me despite the bad that comes with me.
And here I am, proclaiming to love this man—which I do—and I’m not willing to give the same to him in return.
It’s really just that simple.
I didn’t give Max back what he gave to me.
More guilt.
More shame.
Fuck. I’m such a goddamned idiot.
I let out a pained moan. “Ugh.”
“You just had a proverbial slap to your face, didn’t you?” Stevie asks with a grin.
I nod fiercely. “I think I knew deep down the truth of what you’re saying, but I guess I couldn’t see past my own frustrations to really understand the simplicity of it.”
“Looks like my work as a fairy godmother is done then,” Stevie says, and then looks at his watch again. “And you have plenty of time to get ready for the gala now. I’m sure Max will be thrilled. But I wouldn’t tell him. Just show up and surprise the crap out of him.”
My stomach pitches, first in a joyful way, to think that I can get things back on track with Max. There’s no doubt he’ll forgive my momentary lapse of sanity, because I know Max. I know him down to his soul and he loves me. But then it pitches like a bad drop from a roller coaster as I realize the gala isn’t going to happen.
“I don’t have a dress,” I tell Stevie sadly. “I don’t have a damn thing to wear to the gala.”
He looks down to his watch, seems to think about something for just a moment, then says, “I’ll be right back.”
I watch as he turns and sprints to the workroom. I hear something bang and then he’s sprinting back to me with keys in hand. He jingles them in front of my face when he meets me, then grabs my hand, dragging me to the front door.
I follow along, my head spinning. When we get out onto the sidewalk, he lets me go so he can pull the door shut and lock the flower shop behind him.
Then he turns to me and says, “Good thing you have a fairy godmother then. Let’s go find you a dress and get you ready.”
I’m all for that, but then I come to a screeching halt, exclaiming, “Wait. I can’t. My friend Tina’s watching the kids right now but she has plans tonight, so I don’t have a sitter.”
Stevie turns around after making a dismissive wave at me and starts pulling me along. “Auntie Stevie will be babysitting tonight. And when I say tonight, I mean all night, so that means you won’t turn back into a pauper at midnight. That also means Max will take you to his house and, well…let’s just say I expect a very big smile on your face in the morning when you come home.”
Yes, I’m sure that’s exactly what will happen!
The next two and a half hours are a whirlwind of activity. Stevie marches me three shops down to a designer consignment shop owned by a tall, statuesque woman with silver hair in a sleek chignon. After air kisses and introductions—her name is Stella—they lead me over to a rack of gowns. Without consulting me, only each other, they pull forth a gorgeous deep coral dress and usher me into a dressing room.
While Stella helps me try on the dress, Stevie gets on his phone and I hear him say, “I have a hair and makeup emergency.”
Slight pause, then, “Not for me but for a dear friend.”
Another slight pause. “We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
By the time I get the dress on—which is beyond phenomenal, with a cut-out halter top with thin straps that crisscross over my upper back but leave the rest bare until you get down to my hips, where the material drapes almost indecently low while still looking elegant—Stevie’s thrusting a pair of bronze-colored strappy high-heeled sandals to try on.
Another twenty minutes go by and my dress and shoes are paid for—which I got for a steal since they were on consignment—and I’m sitting in a hair salon that is located right next door to Stella’s shop.
More air kisses, after which Stevie consults with the stylist—a plump woman named Moe—and it’s decided I need an updo with lots of wavy curls.
More air kisses with the makeup artist—a man named Antonio, with a mass of dark curly hair in disarray all around his face—and it’s decided I need dark smoky eyes but coral blush and lip stain.
After I’m primped, powdered, and otherwise glammed from my shoulders up, Stevie instructs me to take my car home and follows me in his delivery van, which is painted bright purple to match the front door of his flower shop.
From there it’s straight into my dress and strappy shoes, after which all three of the kids watch as Stevie does some last minute evaluation of my look, adjusts a curl that came loose in my hair, and shoves lip gloss at me to put a final layer on.
When I was done, he had me twirl around for a final look-see, at which all three of the kids clapped and cheered their approval. Tina graciously agreed to stay for another hour so Stevie could spare me a cab ride and take me to the gala, which was in downtown Raleigh at the Convention Center.
He pulled right up to the curb, and because the gala had started more than half an hour ago, there was no one outside. No long line of limos waiting to expel celebrities and no paparazzi and their flashing cameras.
Just me—Jules turned Cinderella—stepping out of Stevie’s purple van with my heart racing and my palms sweating. I turn and lean back on the passenger door briefly as Stevie grins at me.
“Thank you,” I tell him sincerely. “For not only helping me put my head on straight, but for making me feel like a princess tonight.”
Stevie shakes his head. “I just helped get you dressed. Max is the one who will make you feel like a princess.”
I take a deep breath, let it out.
“God, I hope so,” I tell him as I shut the door and turn to walk into the Convention Center.