WHY COULDN’T I just ship the painting? I sigh for what seems like the millionth time, and Mia finally switches off the music.
“Okay, talk. I know you’re miserable, and I know how annoying you get when you mope internally, so let it out. What are you thinking?”
I sigh again.
“And stop fucking sighing!” she says in a tone that makes me laugh.
“Sorry. I’m just . . . I feel like an idiot. I knew,” I stop to take a breath and hold back fresh tears. I am so sick of crying over this guy. “I know him . . .”
“You know what bothers me about him?” Mia says suddenly, reaching for my hand to squeeze. “How can someone so smart be so fucking stupid?”
I wipe my face with a laugh. “I wonder that all the time.”
“Just goes to show you. Men. No matter how strong, how smart, how successful . . . they’re just missing that chip that separates them from the better gender.”
When our laughter dies down, I turn and face her. “You know what bothers me about him? That I truly believe that he loves me. I see it when he looks at me. I feel it when he touches me. For the longest time, I wondered what this was to him and the fact that I still can’t get him to actually stay, is pretty telling, isn’t it?”
I lean back in my seat and shake my head, a short laugh escaping me. “Funny thing, all of you think I’m in love with a ghost, and I do love Wyatt, but I’ve been in love with Oliver for as long as I can remember. And everything I love about him is a memory. Good memories, bad memories . . . and it hurts more since Oliver is a ghost I can touch, and feel, and one that beckons to me and brings me under his spell every time he’s around.” I sigh. “Life’s a bitch.”
I check in the painting and board the plane just in time and, as I’m about to switch the phone off, it vibrates with a call from Oliver. I stare at it until it goes to voicemail before I put it in airplane mode. During the flight, I watch a movie that makes me cry, because I’m an idiot and chose to watch one that was nominated for a ton of Golden Globes. By the time I get to New York, I’m ready for a shower and my bed and, after a lengthy conversation with my realtor on the cab ride, I feel like I need a drink to add to all of that. After a long shower, I settle in bed and listen to my voice message from Oliver. My phone is about to die, so I just want to get through this one before I call it a night. As soon as I hear his voice, I close my eyes and wrap my arms around . . . myself.
“I’m so sorry, Elle,” he says, his voice a low rasp. “I know you’re in New York, but we need to talk. Call me, please. I understand if you’re busy, but I’ll be here, so please . . .”
My battery dies before he finishes his sentence. I put it down with a trembling hand and close my eyes. I have other things I need to focus on right now, and even though it may not seem like a huge deal to everybody else, it is to me. Selling Wyatt’s painting was one thing, but physically letting go of it will be a different task.
The next morning, after pushing the snooze button a million times, I rush to make it to the buyer’s apartment on time. Just as I’m reaching her floor, my phone buzzes again. I tear my eyes away from the painting, sitting on the bellman’s cart, to rummage through my purse. When I find it, I see the picture I took of Oliver one night at the hospital. His flirty grin, the twinkle in his green eyes, his dimples, they all beam at me as I hold my ringing phone. When I can’t bear to look at him anymore, I answer the call.
“Elle, I’m sorry,” he says instantly, as if I’m going to hang up the phone before he gets the words out. His words do nothing to alleviate the pain I feel inside.
If anything, it feels like his voice is breaking me open once again. I take a breath once the elevator doors open, and I’m standing in a foyer. Priscilla Woods, the buyer, owns the penthouse.
“Hey,” I respond.
“How was your flight?” he asks, and when I don’t respond, continues, “Elle? Are you there?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” I reply, staring at the dark, paneled door as if it’s going to give me the strength I need to get through this conversation and the meeting inside.
“You busy?”
I clear my throat when the door opens for us, and the bellman greets the coiffed socialite inside. “Yeah. I’ll call you when I get back home.”
He pauses for a long time, and I can hear the argument going on in his head. Do I force the issue, or do I give her space? When he finally speaks again, he sounds defeated. “Please do. We need to talk.”
I press the end button without saying goodbye, and glance up as Priscilla ushers the bellman inside.
“Estelle,” she says, smiling as she turns her attention to me. “Great to see you again.”
“Likewise, Mrs. Woods.” I walk over and extend my hand to her, which she takes.
“Please, call me Priscilla.”
I trail behind her, our heels clicking against the marble floor of her lavish apartment.
“Connor, just settle it down there, please,” she says to the bellman. He does as she asks and bows upon leaving. “I’m thrilled to finally have my painting,” she says, looking at me again. “I was surprised to hear from you as soon as I did. What made you decide to let go of it?”
I stare at the canvas, still covered in layers of wrapping, and shrug. “I realized that sometimes in order to move forward you have to let go of the past, even if it hurts. Especially if it hurts,” I correct, smiling sadly.
Priscilla nods. Her pristine hands reach for two glasses of champagne waiting on the table. I hadn’t noticed them there. She hands one to me and takes a sip of her own. “I lost my first husband when we were pretty young. We were so in love.” Her gaze wanders to the side as she smiles at the memory. “He got killed in a car accident. Drunk driver. We had only been together for a couple of months. We got married after a week of knowing each other. It was a whirlwind romance,” she says, laughing lightly before taking another sip. “When I lost him, I thought I would die, but I didn’t . . . and I found love again in Matthew. We’ve been together for twenty years now. It’s been twenty-three since I lost Eric, and still there’s not a day that goes by when I don’t think of him.”
I take a gulp of champagne hoping to push down the knot in my throat, and realize that the knot is not there because of Wyatt. “You’ve made a beautiful life with him,” I say, pointing at the photo frames on the mantle that hold pictures of her with a smiling man. Others hold photos of graduates and small children.
“We do have a beautiful life,” she says, smiling as her eyes follow mine. When our eyes meet again, hers are full of compassion. “Okay, let’s see my new painting.”
Her painting. I take a breath and realize that I’m okay with that this time. I unwrap the canvas, and as I tear the layers off, the image becomes visible. My fingertips graze the outer part of the eye and the memory of watching him paint it resurfaces. This is my goodbye, I say to myself.
Priscilla clutches the pearls of her necklace as she admires it. “It’s even more beautiful than I remember,” she whispers.
“It is,” I agree, twisting the paper in my hands, as I stare at the eye that’s been watching over me for the past couple of years—the one I felt more potently after Wyatt’s death.
We talk a little longer and when my kaleidoscope hearts catch her attention, she promises to give me a call soon so that she can look at the rest of my catalog. When we say our goodbyes, I look over my shoulder one last time, and I burn the image of the way it looks on her wall into my memory bank. I go back to the hotel and let myself cry a little for my losses, and when I’m finished crying, I put a smile on my face. I’m okay despite these things, and maybe even better than I was before them. When twilight rolls around, and I realize I have one more night in the city with nothing to do, I decide to take a page out of the book of Wyatt and go explore on my own.
Present
I CAN COUNT on one hand the amount of times I’ve felt anxious in my life, and I’m not proud to say that this is one of them, and furt
hermore, that I have nobody to blame but myself. I don’t allow myself to entertain the idea that maybe this time I lost her, because I refuse to accept that possibility. I pick up my phone and dial the number I’ve been calling every day since she left.
“What’s up?” Victor says after two rings.
“Has she called yet?” I ask.
“Dude, you need to chill. Maybe you should take an extra shift or something,” he offers.
I laugh. “I just worked fourteen hours. The last thing I need is an extra shift.”
“I don’t know what else to tell you, man.”
I sigh. Tell me I still have a chance. Tell me she’s mentioned me, that she’s thinking about me, and that she hasn’t given up on us. I don’t say any of those things, only because I know I’ll never hear the end of it.
“Have you talked to her?” I ask finally. She’s been back for two days, and I haven’t heard a word from her.
“For like two seconds. Other than the fact that she’s pissed off at me, she’s been busy. She’s . . .” he pauses, letting out a breath. “She’s moving her stuff out of my house. Apparently her realtor got her a place on the beach that she’s in love with,” he adds in a lower voice.
That she’s in love with. His words simmer in my head for a beat. I want to be the object of that love. I’m not worthy of it, but I want it.
“When is she moving?” I ask.
“I’m supposed to help her this weekend. She’s been busy with the gallery too, though, I don’t think she’s purposely avoiding you, I just think it’s bad timing.”
“Fuck bad timing,” I say, hitting my steering wheel. I let out a long breath.
“I’ll . . .” he pauses. “Bean, you’re my brother, you know that. You’ve been there for me more times than I can count, but she’s my little sister.”
“I love her more than you can ever imagine,” I say, not caring whether that makes me sound like a pussy, because it’s true.
“I know. That’s why I’m going to talk to her, but I really think she’ll come around and call you.”
“Just tell her, please. If you talk to her before I do, make sure you tell her.”
“I will,” he promises. “All right, I gotta go. My client just got here.”
A WHIRLWIND OF emotions runs through me as I leave my realtor’s office with the keys to my new place. When I left, she promised she would call me soon with some possible gallery locations. The lease is up where I am now, and after discussing it with Wyatt’s mom, I decided I want to move the gallery closer to me. It’s currently positioned conveniently close to our old house and his parents’, which is far from my new place and my parents’. Felicia, once again, gave me her blessing and told me to do whatever I needed to do with it. She did ask for one of Wyatt’s paintings, but that was it.
I park outside the gallery, where Dallas has been a permanent fixture for a couple of weeks now, and I’m grateful for it. He’s standing right by the front door, giving me a grand smile when I walk in, and he greets me like a game show host.
“Oh God, I hope this isn’t how you greet people, because at this rate, my three customers will turn into none,” I say, and laugh when he waggles his eyebrows.
“This right here,” he says signaling at himself. “Sold a painting today!”
My mouth drops in surprise for a moment before I beam at him. “What? You’re serious? Which one?”
“One of Wyatt’s,” he says with a shrug, walking toward the one with a sold sticker on the sign beside it. It’s one he drew of a naked woman . . . well, her silhouette. He never told me who she was, but I assumed it was his ex.
“My God,” I breathe. “You really should keep working here.”
Dallas laughs. “I do what I can. I put the paperwork in your studio. By the way, Oliver has come by a couple of times.”
I stop walking and turn around. “And?”
“Just letting you know. He has a busted lip. He still looks good though,” he says with a wink. I roll my eyes and smile. I step into my studio, picking up the paperwork as I sit in my chair. I leaf through it, making sure Dallas filled it out properly, and look up when I notice something in front of me. There’s a large white canvas sitting on the easel that faces my desk. Oliver’s handwriting covers it. This is our canvas. Let’s paint it how we want it. I love you, always, Oliver.
Happiness blooms inside of me as I stare at it. It’s so simple . . . so him . . . and I love it. I know I have to call him, but every time I think about it, my heart sinks at the thought of him leaving. I finish signing the papers and leave them in the same spot. When I step out of the room and start making my way back to the door, I see Dallas on his phone.
“When did he do that?” I ask, nodding toward my studio.
“Last night.”
“Does he know I haven’t been in since I got back?”
“I told him you hadn’t,” he says.
“If he comes back, tell him I saw it. I left the contract on the table. Thank you so much, Dal,” I say, kissing him on the cheek.
“Anything for you, dahling,” he responds. “I’m taking lunch in two minutes, wanna grab something?”
“Not today. I have to go have an actual conversation with my brother and convince him to help me move this weekend.”
“You let me know if you need anything,” Dallas calls out as I shut the door behind me.
On my way to Victor’s, I call Mia and tell her about the canvas.
“That’s so sweet,” she says. “Are you going to call him before or after you move?”
I groan as I park my car outside of Victor’s law firm. “I haven’t had time, and I don’t think what needs to be said can be said over the phone.”
“I don’t think he’s left to San Fran yet,” she says.
“I don’t know what I’m more scared of—calling him and him being over there or calling him and him being here. If he’s over there, I know he left for good. If he’s here, I’ll get my hopes up that maybe he’s staying . . . but it’s Oliver. He’s not going to back out of a job once he got it,” I say with a sigh as I turn off my car and walk toward the building.
“He might surprise you, Elle,” she says reassuringly.
“I don’t know if I want him to. I don’t want him not to take the job and hate me for it.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
Upon hanging up with Mia, I greet Victor’s secretary and sit and wait until he’s done with his meeting. She calls to tell him somebody outside of his schedule is there to see him. He growls for her to let whomever it is in, and I can already picture him rubbing his forehead as if he has a ton of bricks on it.
“I would never hire you if I was a new client,” I say, walking in. His head snaps up from his hands, and his eyes widen. He stands quickly, but stays behind his desk.
“I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I noticed.” I take a seat in one of the chairs across from him. “Don’t worry, I’ll only be ten minutes.”
“I can cancel my next meeting.”
I put my hand up. “Not necessary.”
His lips twitch into a smile. “You ready to talk to me without chopping my head off?”
“I can’t promise that last part, but yeah,” I say with a smile.
“Sit,” he says, taking a seat across from me.
I take a breath and let it out, trying to figure out where to begin. “You tried to kill Oliver,” I say, pausing when he rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “The guy who beat up those guys who were making fun of you and kicking you into the ground in sixth grade. The one who was there for you when you didn’t make the varsity baseball team in school and decided to quit, even though he would have been starting pitcher. The guy who left his house, numerous times, in the middle of the night to pick you up at parties because you were too drunk to drive. The one who would take you home and make sure you made it all the way into your room.”
“How did you know about that?” he asks quietly.
“Because he told me. Because every time he did those things for you, he would come up to the roof to talk to me, because I was up.”
Victor looks away, his eyes settling somewhere between the big globe bar in the corner of his office and the bookshelf beside it. “I was pissed off. We already hashed it out, Elle. It was just a tough thing to come to terms with like that . . . and it’s Bean, you know? I freaked out.”
“He’s a good guy,” I say quietly.
“He’s a great guy, but you’re my baby sister. Nobody’s good enough for you,” he says, flashing a smile my way. I return it and lean forward, resting my elbows on his desk.
“I don’t know if it’ll work out,” I whisper, dropping my eyes to the stack of papers on his desk.
“Why not? Because of the job?”
I nod, looking at him again. “Yeah. He lied to me. Or omitted the truth, I guess.”
Victor shrugs. “That doesn’t hold up in court, you know?”
I frown. “What?”
“Omitting the truth . . . it’s not really the same as lying. If you were getting a divorce . . .”
I put my hands up before he can finish his sentence. “Victor. For five minutes can you please not talk about work or divorce or court?”
He makes an apologetic face. “Sorry. Anyway, I think you should just talk to him, Elle. Hear him out.”
I nod slowly, tearing my eyes away from his.
“How did you know?” he asks. “That you were in love with him, I mean.”
I shrug, smiling. “One night, he dropped you off after a party, and I was crying over my blown knee. It was the day I found out I wouldn’t be able to dance. He came up and talked to me. I asked him to come back, and he did. It was innocent. We were just talking, but you know how Oliver is when he tells a story. He gets all animated, and his eyes light up, and well . . . I fell in love with him. I fell in love with the way he was, with his caring heart and his loyalty to you guys. I guess I’ve been in love with him since,” I end in a whisper.
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