What's Left of Our Hearts

The Yellow Dress

"Mr. Cole, who knew you're such a riot!" Dominic knew he wasn't that funny, but he enjoyed the attention and flattery just a teeny-tiny bit, even though Sophie was three drinks in and trying to work him like a fiddle made of euros. She was in thrall by Dom's story when, out of nowhere, she started bouncing up and down and waving at someone behind him.

"Clara is here," she said, trying to get Clara's attention by becoming the energizer bunny. She was surprisingly springy for someone who'd spent the day on six-inch stilettoes. Even with those, the top of her head barely brushed Dom's shoulder.

Dom braced himself, and his inner voice immediately scolded, why do you keep doing that?

Oh, that's why.

A little bright canary number hugged Clara's curves in such painfully right ways, it was very, very wrong. It brought back an onslaught of memories from another time, another yellow dress. Her blonde hair, nowadays a little lighter—more platinum, less daffodil—fanned in curls around her shoulders. Her skin had a pearlescent quality in the dim light. She met his eyes across the room and his head emptied of all coherent thought. It took a few more heartbeats to register the hand that interlaced its fingers with hers, and the man it belonged to. "Wait. That isn't..." Dom started. Was this the same man he'd seen her with at that resort? He didn't think so.

"That's Owen, Clara's boyfriend," said Sophie.

"Then who was—never mind," he muttered, downing the rest of his drink in one gulp. Turning to the bartender, he said, "your cheapest whiskey, neat." He wanted it to burn. He watched Clara approach hand-in-hand with Owen. "Make it a double," he added to the bartender. He heard Sophie and Clara murmur greetings as they hugged each other hello. Sophie then spotted another familiar face and hopped off, leaving Dom without backup. Although he was about a foot taller and a hundred pounds bigger than Sophie, somehow he felt exposed without his new BFF. Sophie made an excellent Clara-buffer, distracting him with her constant questions and jokes.

"Clara, good evening," Dom said. He extended a hand to the man at her side. "Dominic Cole, pleased to make your acquaintance." Solid handshake. Wanker.

The boyfriend flashed a friendly, pearly-white grin. "Owen Creed."

What kind of name is Owen? It sounds like a dog name.

"What are you drinking?" asked Dominic.

"Oh, we really don't have time for a drink," said Clara quickly.

"Nonsense! Come now. Owen, what can I get you, mate?"

Owen looked at Clara. "We have time for one drink," he said, one hand on her hip pulling her closer. She smiled uneasily, glancing between the two of them.

"I'll just have a Bud," said Owen.

Dom had to restrain a chuckle. Americans.

"My good sir," Dom called after the bartender. "A Bud and a Mai Tai."

"Actually, I'll have a Macallan," he heard Clara say.

Dom's knee almost gave out at the same time that a doubt started burrowing in the back of his skull like a mite. What if he didn't know her at all? Of course, he didn't know her. Seven years, he reminded himself. He handed them the drinks and it was as if he were observing himself doing small talk than actually partaking in it. He loved to hear Clara laugh, he thought as something Owen said made her giggle. She would squeeze her eyes shut, press those long lashes over her cheekbones, and twin dimples would emerge like slopes in a vanilla pudding left by the spoon. He could eat that pudding all day long.

"So, Owen, what do you do?" asked Dom.

"I'm a writer," he says. He had the easy-going manner of someone who's played team sports his whole life and was voted "Most Likeable." Dom wanted to punch his wholesome face.

"Oh? Anything I would know?"

"I doubt it. I mostly contribute to local news outlets online."

"Any bigger plans in the works?"

"Um... I don't know. We'll see," Owen said, twirling a lock of Clara's hair.

Dom briefly wished he had a machete handy.

"Ah," Dom let that response hang. "And how did you two meet?"

"At a cooking class," Owen smiled at her.

"I thought Clara hated cooking," Dom's eyebrow moved on its own volition. He probably looked like his father at that moment. He caught himself and consciously relaxed his facial muscles.

"I mentioned to Mr. Cole earlier that I used to be terrible at it," Clara said quickly, then added with a fond smile at Owen, "but now we enjoy it very much."

"Mmhmm. Sunday nights are the best. A little wine, a little music..." Owen trailed off with a conspicuous smile that made Dom's stomach turn. He decided to blame nausea on the ghastly excuse for a whiskey he was drinking.

"How charming," Dom interrupted. "And call me Dom, please. We've certainly known each other long enough," he held Clara's gaze, a dangerous glint in his eye.

"Actually, Mr. Cole—Dominic," said Clara. "Before we head out, I wanted to get your first impressions on the properties from yesterday. Owen, darling, would you be a sweetheart and excuse us for a moment?"

"Of course," Owen said with a peck on her cheek, .

Dominic watched him as he walked away without a care in the world. Little did he know he was leaving his canary with the cat. Run along, little pup. Go bleach your teeth some more.

"Let's get some fresh air, Mr. Cole," she said, wrapping her arm around Dom's elbow. She led him to the back where a door opened onto a secluded, empty terrace. The thick smell of the day's garbage below mixed with the lingering smoke of cigarettes and, from somewhere, the meaty scent of falafel.

A wisp of Clara's perfume tickled Dom's nose as he trailed after her. In another time, in another life, he'd have closed that door behind them and pushed her up against the wall.

In this one, it was she who had him up the wall, and not the way Dom would have liked.

What do you think she's going to say to Dom?

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