How was it possible? Even with raging music in the background, she was still in my head. When Guinevere left, I got dressed and called Logan, heading to Rue 83, which was currently the hottest club in the city; I figured it had another two or three weeks before people found something new. This was New York; nothing was “cool” for long.
“You were the one who invited me here, and yet I’m having all the fun. What’s up with you?” Logan asked, resting against the bar, his eyes on a pretty brunette behind me.
“Don’t have fun, be miserable,” I muttered to him, downing my scotch.
“Whoa. No seriously, what is wrong with you?”
“Guinevere Poe,” I said, grabbing another shot. “By the way, what is her full name? I can’t curse her properly when I can’t say her entire name.”
“How the hell would I know?”
“You were the one who put her in my face. Don’t you remember? You invited her fiancé to my wedding, and when they ran off, all that was left was Guinevere and Eli, les misérables.” Why are there two of him? I felt…drunk. “So you shouldn’t be having fun, you should be miserable like us.”
“Mom said you saw Hannah today. Is that what this is?”
“No.” I smiled, patting his shoulder. “Everything can’t be about Hannah. I can’t have my life revolve around her. My anger is toward Guinevere tonight, for making me self-analyze when I didn’t want to. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to seduce a woman because that’s what I do.” Spinning around in the chair, I tried to find someone, anyone, really. However, no matter where I looked, it seemed like all I could see was her heart-shaped face and big brown eyes everywhere.
Did it make you feel better? Her voice replayed in my mind.
Sighing, I turned back to the bar.
“What happened to seducing—”
“Just go have fun, Logan.” I nodded for the bartender to pour me another glass.
Note to self: just stay away from women. They can fuck with your head and heart way too easily. There must be a school for it or something.
Chapter Eight
The Cat's Meow
Guinevere
A week had gone by without Eli and I speaking, or seeing each other, for that matter. After that night, we did our best to avoid each other. It rained almost every day, and it was just easier to put a hood up or hide under an umbrella until I was safely within my apartment. I wasn’t sure why I kept thinking about him. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him: laughing at me, or helping me, or just listening. What I missed most of all was him just being there and listening. I felt bad that even though I didn’t mean to be judgmental, I often came off so. I couldn’t help it, but that wasn’t really an excuse either.
I could see him today.
Why do I care?
Because I need to apologize.
“Guinevere, you made it.”
The sound of Mrs. Davenport's voice pulled me out of my mental battle. She wore a nice, simple beige dress under a white coat, with her gray-auburn hair pinned back. “I’m sorry it’s taken so long for me to get back to you about this mural—”
“It’s fine, I wasn’t expecting you to drop everything and come straight over to me. How are you, my dear?”
“I’m well, thank you. I was wondering, should I call you Mrs. Davenport, or Dr. Davenport?” She was the chairwoman after all, and she was wearing a white coat.
“Whichever makes you more comfortable. Please, let me show you where I would like the mural.” She turned to lead the way.
I followed, closing the distance as we walked. I found my eyes shifting from the nurses, doctors, and patients, to the floors and walls, the different blues, whites, and grays.
Like Eli’s apartment. I snickered at that. I was right; he had set up his apartment to match the hospital. I wonder if he even realized it. Why do I care?
“Guinevere, did you hear me?”
Crap. “No, I’m sorry, what were you saying? And please, call me Gwen.”
Nodding, she repeated herself. “I asked, have you thought of anything to put up? Or done a mural before?”
“Yes, I have done a few, but never for a hospital. My first work was painting a mural at my high school; I think it is still up. I probably won’t know what to paint for a while, and my ideas might even change, unless you have thought of something?”
“Sadly, no.” She frowned, crossing her arms as we stopped before a large black and white wall with the hospital logo hanging on it. “For years, I’ve walked past here always feeling like something is missing. It’s so cold, but I can never think of what should be here instead. So if you have any ideas at all, I’ll leave it up to you.”
Having a client tell you to 'do whatever' was both an artist's dream and worst nightmare. Yes, it gave me creative freedom, but what if they hated it? Stepping forward, I ran my hands across the wall before looking up.