Walking over to the door, I peek out and see he’s still out there. When he finishes a song, he stops to talk to onlookers, smiling and being… Finn.
God, I’ve missed him.
And he’s definitely not the boy I fell in love with, but I can still see pieces of him.
That smile.
Those eyes.
Everything else about him has been honed and refined—sharper jawline, broader shoulders, even longer legs. What else is different? It’s been five years since I’ve seen him.
Our last day together was a hard one, probably the hardest of my life. We’d just graduated and for the better part of that last summer we spent together, I’d been indecisive about my future.
My parents wanted me to go to a reputable university and earn a degree that would allow me to work for my father. Finley wanted me to go somewhere close so we could stay together. In the end, all I wanted was to be my own person.
Shifting my body, I lean against the door and watch Finley from the safety of the gallery.
I also wanted him, but even in my immaturity, I realized I couldn’t have my cake and eat it too. If I would’ve stayed in Dallas, my parents would’ve continued to run my life, holding me down under their thumbs until I succumbed to the pressure and submitted to their demands.
Just thinking back on it makes me feel claustrophobic and I have to step away from the door and walk over to the desk, distracting myself with a stack of prints. The ache in my chest now feels more like an elephant has taken up residence.
Setting the prints back down on the desk, I rub at the ache as my mind drifts back to the day I jumped on a plane, on a whim. It was the second time I rebelled against my parents.
The first was Finley.
He was my first everything.
My first love.
My first date.
My first time.
And my first heartbreak.
And now, all these years later, he’s back and he’s right across the street.
When my phone rings from the desk nearby, I trip and knock the portfolio sitting on the edge of the desk flying across the floor. On my hands and knees, I grab the phone and answer, pressing it to my ear as I multitask. Gathering the prints, I breathe out, “Hello?”
“Georgette?”
Pausing, I sit back on my heels and swipe errant curls out of my face. “Trevor?”
I haven’t heard from him in a few days, not since our quick phone call when I let him know I’d made it safely and he had to let me go due to a meeting.
“Are you okay?” he asks, the noises of New York in the background. “You sound… out of breath.”
Chuckling, I take a breath, realizing he’s right. “Yeah, fine. I was just… distracted and then you called and it startled me and I dropped a stack of—”
“That’s my Georgette, always a scatterbrain.”
My brows draw together in defense. I hate when he does that.
When I don’t respond, he finally asks, “Are you settling into the new job?”
“Yeah, everything here is great.”
Glancing around the gallery, I feel my heart swell, knowing this is where I’m supposed to be and proud of myself for following my gut on this one.
“Well, you just let me know when you’re sick of the south and ready to come back home,” Trevor says teasingly, but it makes my hackles rise. “I’m running to a meeting so I can’t talk long. Just wanted to check-in.”
And see if it’s too soon to say I told you so, that’s the part he leaves out.
Well, Trevor, don’t hold your breath… or maybe…
“Talk later,” he says abruptly and then the call ends. I glance at the phone and scowl, tempted to dial him back and give him a piece of my mind, but I know it’s futile.
Standing, I tap the portfolio on the desk to straighten its contents, as my mind drifts back to one of our arguments before I left New York.
“You need to stay at Sotheby’s and see this through,” Trevor says, pacing his pristine office on the fortieth floor with windows on two sides of the room and the city lit up behind him. “If you’re always flitting about from one job to another, how will anyone reputable take you seriously?”
When did I start dating my father? Because that is exactly something George Taylor would say. “This is a reputable gallery… a reputable job. It hurts my feelings that you refuse to take it seriously… take me seriously!”
By the time I’m finished with that statement, my voice has risen to an unacceptable octave. I can tell by the way Trevor cocks his head and lifts his eyebrows, as if to ask me if I’m finished with my tantrum, he’s annoyed by my outburst.
But it’s not a tantrum, it’s a plea for him to respect me and my decisions.
“It’s a start-up gallery in New Orleans.” He winces like the words taste bad on his tongue.
“Reputable is Sotheby’s. Reputable is somewhere you can have a future and build a career. Reputable is a gallery that will allow you to be seen and known, let everyone know who Georgette Taylor is and why they should want you and value you.”
See, this is where Trevor and my father typically differ. Where my father just throws down the law of George Taylor and expects everyone to submit, Trevor usually knows exactly what to say to smooth things over. He’s good at turning the tables, making his case sound sugary sweet.
But not this time.
“I’m going to New Orleans.”
Unbuttoning his suit jacket, his tell of frustration, he braces his hands on his hips. “Is this about the proposal?”
I think what he means to say is lack of proposal.
Trevor and I have been together for over four years and I’m tired of being someone’s girlfriend. I want to move on with my life. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had five goals in a very particular order:
1. Get a degree.
2. See the world.
3. Get a job.
4. Get married.
5. Have babies.
I’ve done the first three and I’m ready for the last two. It might sound crazy to most people. I know Trevor thinks I’ve lost my mind. But I can’t help what I want. The way I see it, if I don’t accomplish number four, I’ll never get to number five. Because more than anything, I want to right all my parents’ wrongs.
I want love.
I want a home and not just a house.
I want to take my children to school and cook them dinner.
I want to hug them and kiss them and put Band-Aids on booboos.
And I want all of that with a husband at my side.
There are probably feminists out there rolling their eyes at me, but isn’t that what feminism is all about—women getting what they want in life and not being told what they need. Don’t get me wrong, I still want my career, but again, I want it on my terms. I want to have a job I believe in at a place I feel connected to.
For me, that’s not Sotheby’s.
I want more.
I thought Trevor was the one… I still think Trevor could be the one. Even with his flaws, which we all have, he’s still a good fit for my life. My parents love him. He and my father have a better relationship than the two of us ever dreamed of having. My mother even speaks highly of him, which is rare.
But the Trevor of today is different from the Trevor I met during my first week in New York. That Trevor was supportive and fun-loving. We had similar dreams and desires. He made me feel safe and well-cared-for. When we went out, he always placed his hand at the small of my back and guided me through a room, putting me first. I felt treasured and valued.