After Dean and the woman get their food, they turn around and walk across the street, heading straight toward the café. He suddenly glances in my direction, and his eyes lock on mine.
It takes every ounce of will power in my body to break our gaze and look away, to pick up my pen and pretend to be engrossed in my sketches.
After about ten minutes, I reluctantly glance up, relieved to find him gone.
Chapter 39
MIA
Four weeks later
DEAN: I’ve been calling you twice a day for damn near a month. Are you really not going to answer me once?
DEAN: Mia, please. Just let me talk to you for five minutes...I miss you and I really want to clear things up.
I stare at Dean’s text messages, hating that they still have the ability to pull emotions out of me. I also hate that even though I’ve been doing my best to avoid him since I moved out, my mind has been thinking about him more than ever.
“Is that alright with you, Mia?” Michelle asks, breaking me out of my thoughts. “Do you agree with the terms?”
I place my phone back into my purse and focus on tonight’s dinner meeting.
Yesterday was my last day as curator for the Hamilton Array, and Michelle is treating to a farewell dinner. She was saddened to hear that I was leaving, and she playfully ignored my two weeks' resignation letter by slipping it under the fish tank in her office. Even though I won't be there anymore, she's offered to feature up to two of my paintings every month, on a rotating basis. And when I told her that I was going to host my very first art show in the next few months, she offered to play lead host for the night.
“You should be very proud of all you've accomplished while you were here, Mia,” she says. “I have no idea why you wasted your time at Harvard, though. They didn't deserve you.”
“Yeah. Some days I don't understand why I wasted my time there either. I didn't learn too much.”
“I wouldn't say all of that.” She stands up and extends her hand to me. “From what I recall, all the pieces you created during your college years were your most emotional and your most heartfelt. I can't help but get the feeling that they all have a unifying theme: The theme that you were hurting, and that you were running away from something. Is that true?”
I don't answer, I just give her a look that confirms it. I stand up to shake her hand, thanking her for an amazing evening, and promise her that I’ll give her the information about my first showing as soon as it's all confirmed.
She wishes me well one last time before walking away. and I sit back down at the table. Pulling out my phone again, I scroll through all the text messages that Dean has sent me this week. I want so badly to answer one of them, but I know that’s just my heart talking and she's fucked up one too many times to be given another chance. As I'm reading through the message he sent me last Saturday, the one about how he actually does love my hair better now than in high school, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I start to turn around, to see what's causing this reaction, but Dean is suddenly across from me at the table.
“Is someone sitting here?” he asks.
“Yes, please don't sit.”
“I will.” He sits down. “I'll keep it warm for whoever it is until they get back.”
I stare at him, unable to say anything else right now.
He's dressed in a three piece suit, his hair is cut a lot shorter than the last time I saw him, and his stunning green eyes are piercing right through me.
“I don't want to fight with you, I just want to talk.”
“Funny, I don't want to do either.” I finally get my words out. “I want you to leave.”
“I'll leave after I get this out.”
“I'll leave before you start.” I stand up and head toward the exit.
Within seconds, he's grabbing my hand and gently pushing me against the wall in the hallway.
“I had a lot going on back then,” he says. “A lot that I just couldn't tell you about.”
“You once told me that you felt like you could tell me everything.”
“Everything but this.” There's a look of vulnerability in his eyes. “I couldn't tell anyone this.”
My heart is begging me to stay and listen to him, because from the way he's looking at me, I can tell that it might be serious. But the night of our last argument is still on my brain, and all the tears I’ve cried over the last few weeks are still too raw.
“So, can I just get ten minutes of your time right now to apologize and explain everything I put you through?” he asks. “Everything I put us through? Can you let me try and get you to see why I felt the way I felt. Can you please let me do that?”
“Yes,” I say. “Tomorrow. You can meet me at your favorite bar at seven. I'll show up at the same time that you showed up for me.” I look at him one last time and then I walk away.