From the Inside Out: The Compilation (Scorned, Jealousy, Dylan, Austin) by S. L. Scott Page B

feeling lead to like one day or will I be living with a lighter version of this hate forever? I’m disconcerted by my kinder thoughts toward him and spin to return to my office, hoping to remain unseen.
    “Jules?”
    I stop, but don’t turn around while taking a deep breath before releasing a shaky exhale.
    He’s in my gallery, so I must play nice, I must play hostess. It’s my job and there are other visitors, witnesses around. Instead of avoiding him like I want to, I turn with purpose as if I intended to speak to him the whole time. “This Chihuly is quite remarkable,” I start, sticking to my role. “I haven’t seen those shades accomplished this eloquently before. And we’ve had a few Chihuly’s over the years.”
    He’s not buying my act. I can see it in his eyes. I worry he still knows me too well. He plays along with my game. “It’s interesting. Pretty.”
    Novice description. There’s no deep emotion evoked when something’s called interesting or pretty.
    I start to turn back around, since I have nothing more to say, but apparently he does, “Wait. Please. Can you spare a few minutes?”
    The interns provide a happy diversion. They’re sloppily dressed, which is unacceptable, but when I look at my watch, they don’t have time to change. I lead them into the office and point at the painting, reminding them of the delicate nature of the piece they’re handling.
    Stepping into the doorway, I reply, “Only a minute.” I sigh as if he’s interrupting my important business of avoiding him.
    He’s cautious in his expression, realizing that him needing to speak with me is not a mutual desire. In thought, he eyes the wood floor beneath his feet, drawing my gaze down with him. His shoes are Gucci, easily identifiable in design. I look him over as I scan back up to see his face. His suit is tailored to fit… in all the right ways. He’s too handsome to be such a bastard, his looks wasted because of his lack of soul.
    Catching me appreciating the physical package he presents, his smile turns hubristic and I shrug, silently admitting my act. Owning it, I cross my arms over my chest and raise my chin a bit. I look him directly in the eyes and wait for him to say his peace.
    “I don’t know why I’m here,” he says. “It’s as if I was already here before my reasoning kicked in. I know you don’t want to see me. The other day at my office, I could tell. I could also tell how much I’ve hurt you, the pain I’ve caused. But ever since I saw you…” He runs his hand through his hair, then gets this determined look on his face.
    I grip the doorway not sure if I want this conversation to continue, but the silence holds me captive. His eyes hold me prisoner. I’m statue still when he steps closer. My breath caught in my chest. I grip harder, my fingers curling around the casing.
    “I should go,” he says, then rushes out the open front doors.
    My fingers release and I push off the wall, running after him. “Wait!”
    Suddenly being face to face with him like this, I’m not sure what to say. He waits for me to speak this time, for me to say something. Expectations I falsely gave him when I chased him down. I have nothing left to say, nothing except, “You didn’t finish. What were you going to say?” I shift uncomfortably, keeping five feet between us. “Ever since you saw me? What, Dylan?”
    His face contorts and this time I see the pain in his eyes when he replies, “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
    My response is automatic, not rehearsed. “You must.”
    “I tried. I’m trying, but I’m failing—miserably.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I can’t stop.”
    “You left! And you’re trying to not think about me?” My anger peaks. “Fuck you!” Years of pent up emotion building and releasing together. “You’re all I’ve thought about for 3 years.” I turn abruptly and go inside, grab my purse from under my desk, and march straight toward the back door. The severe click of my