by Megyn Ward
I leave her to look while I go into the kitchen to root around in the fridge. Patrick is right. All we have to eat is blueberry yogurt and ketchup. I think about the grocery list we made together in the shower this morning. Suddenly, I’m not hungry anymore.
Through the doorway, I can see Miranda. She’s not sitting anymore. She’s wandering along the line of canvases, propped along the wall, stopping to hunker down every once in a while, her face close, fingertips hovering a breath above the paint, tracing the air above each brush stroke. Steeling myself, I slip back inside and sit on the edge of my bed. I want to ask her what she thinks. If I’m any good. But I don’t. I tell myself it’s because I don’t care but that’s not why.
I don’t ask because I do.
Finally, she stands. “I was married once,” she says, talking without looking at me. “We were kids. Barely twenty—too young, really but he was an artist,” she said as if that explained everything. “Gorgeous. Talented. We met at a small art school in Maine. He was there on a scholarship. I got in because my parents were rich and not above throwing their money around.” Miranda laughs, but the sound is short and bitter. “All the girls wanted him... he was perfect. And he wanted me. Loved me and I loved him back. So much I thought I’d die from it.” She moves down the line, stopping in front of the painting I did of Patrick a few months ago. He’s at his drafting table, head bent slightly. Pencil between his teeth, another one behind his ear. He has CAD machines and computers in the office he shares with Declan, but at home, he still works with a pencil. “We were married for eight hundred twenty days. And I spent every single one of them wondering why he chose me.”
“What happened?” I ask her because I suddenly want to know. I want to know how someone else screwed up because maybe someone else’s suffering will salve the gaping wound in my chest.
“I couldn’t stop wondering,” she says, still wandering down the row of paintings. “I couldn’t accept that someone so perfect could really love someone like me.” She stops in front of the painting I did yesterday morning. The one of Patrick sleeping in the sun. “It bothered me.” She shrugs before hunkering down to study the canvas in front of her. “Confused me. The more I worried it, the more confused I became. Insecure. Angry. Resentful.”
“What was wrong with you?” I say, half to myself. “Why wouldn’t he want you?”
“I could paint, but he was miles ahead of me. I was technically good but lacked the passion it takes to be exceptional.” She stands slowly and moves down the line. “The girls we went to school with were so much... better suited for him than I was. I was boring. Too reserved to be considered fun. Too severe to be considered pretty. Soon it became common knowledge in our social circle that the only reason he married me was because my parents were wealthy.” Her lips twist again, into a rueful smile. “Every starving artist needs a benefactor.”
“He left you.” It wasn’t a question, it was a prediction of the way things would end between Patrick and me. He said he loved me, but he didn’t really. Couldn’t possibly. Someday, he’d realize that, and he’d leave.
“No.” Miranda stopped walking and looked at me. “I went to my father and told him I made a mistake. That I didn’t love him anymore and I wanted to make him go away.” She shakes her head, a small humorless smile patched to her face. “He was relieved, of course. Cut me a check on the spot... even he thought Everett married me for my money.”
Everett. Everett Chase. Chase was the artist Miranda had been married to.
Before I can say anything, she continues. “I gave him the check from my father and told him he was free. He didn’t have to pretend to love me anymore. That I knew. Understood.”
“What did you understand?” I hear myself ask, even though I know.
“That someone as perfect as him could never love someone like me,” she says with a soft, sad laugh. “That he could do better. Deserved better. Was better.” She closes the space between us and sits next to me, perching herself on the edge of the bed. “You know what he did? He tore the check up and threw it in my face. He told me he loved me but couldn’t spend forever convincing me of a truth I’d never let myself believe.” Her lips twitch a quick, sad smile. “And then he left me.”
“Did it hurt,” I say quietly, gaze fixed on the painting of Patrick sleeping in the sun. “Did it hurt when he left you?”
“It still hurts,” she tells me, face aimed at the bank of windows overlooking the harbor. “I was stupid. I let other people and my own insecurities push us apart. I couldn’t believe in him. In us. I didn’t trust him to know what he wanted because what he wanted was me and I wasn’t enough. I never was.”
“But you’re friends now,” I say hopefully. “You were able to get past it.”
“We did. We are,” Miranda says, a small smile touching her lips. “Chase and I will always be friends. But we should’ve been more.”
“Maybe there’s still time.” Desperation curdles my belly. “Maybe if you—”
Miranda turns, cutting me off with a look. “Does Patrick love you?” She doesn’t ask if I love him. She doesn’t have to. The evidence of it is everywhere I look.
No.
It’s my knee-jerk response. It’s what I tell myself to keep the possibility of more at bay. The belief that I’m not worth loving. By Patrick or anyone else. Because the possibility of more carries the possibility of pain. Judgment. Rejection. I see Patrick standing over me, eyes as desperate as they are determined locked on mine.
I love you, Cari.
“Yes.” I breathe the word softly.
“Say it.”
“Patrick loves me.” Saying it out loud, it sounds like a lie. How could he, after everything I’ve done?
“Good,” she says. “Now work on believing it.”
Easier said than done. “Thank you, Miranda,” I say, standing up.
“For what?” she says, her tone telling me that she considers the subject closed. “I want them all,” she says lifting a hand toward the paintings. “I’ll send someone tomorrow to pack and bring them to the gallery.”
“Send someone?” My brow furrows slightly. “That’s my job, remember?”
“Not anymore...” She studies the paintings, tapping her finger against her perfectly painted lips. You’re fired.”
“What?” My newfound confidence wobbles on its foundation. “I thought you weren’t mad about the—that you didn’t...” I swallow the rest of my protest when she cuts me a look.
“You’re going to be far too busy painting full-time to answer my phone and fetch my coffee,” Miranda says, picking up her discarded heels. “Now, put on some pants. I’m going to buy you lunch so I can tell you about how I’m going to make you more rich and famous than my very rich and very famous ex-husband.”
Twelve
Patrick
I’m not sure what I expected when I got to the hospital. What I was going to do. How I was going to do it. I know what I wanted. I wanted to make James admit that he was the one who put Lisa up to filing that bogus lawsuit. That he was the one who posted that video of Cari online. That he did it because he’s a sniveling little bitch who got mad because he didn’t get his way. I want to make him admit all of it.
And then I wanted to make him very, very sorry.
It’s what I want, but it’s not what I get because when I walk through the main doors of the hospital, I find Declan waiting for me by the information counter, wearing the same clothes he was wearing yesterday.
Fuck.
Even though I have no idea where I’m going, I bypass the information counter and head straight for the elevators. I’ll stop on every goddamn floor and search every fucking room in this place if I have to. Because everyone else got what they want. Cari got to use me and toss me for whatever fucked-up reason or issue she’s got going. Templeton got to ruin any chance she and I might’ve had of actually making it work. Lisa got to extract her petty revenge over the fact that I regret what happened between us. Yeah, everyone
got what they wanted.
Everyone but me.
I jab my thumb against the call button and stare straight ahead, ignoring the fact that my cousin is standing directly behind me. He can follow me all he wants because he’s not stopping me. No one is.
The elevator doors slide open, and a load of people tumble out. As soon as the car is clear, I step in. Declan steps in after me. An older couple with an It’s a girl! balloon bouquet and a giant stuffed stork try to get on after him. One look at the pair of us has the old man snatching his wife’s arm to pull her off the car. “We’ll wait for the next one,” he says, and the doors slide closed between us.
Good.
“You been here all night, waiting for me to show up?” I say, reaching around him to punch one of the lighted buttons on the panel. It hardly mattered which one.
“Either you or Tess.” He gives me a shrug. “I knew one of you would end up here, eventually.”
“Bet you’re glad it’s me,” I say because I’m angry and he’s as good a target as any. “You can’t even look at Tess, much less talk to her.”
Declan’s shoulders go stiff in front of me. “Fuck you, Patrick.”
“What did Tess do to make you end it?” I glare at the back of his head, my tone practically begging for him to turn around and punch me. “Whatever it was, it must’ve been bad considering you’d rather sell yourself into Jessican slavery than swallow your pride and tell her how you really feel about her.”
“Who says I feel any way about her?” He sounds defensive. Raw.
“The sixty-five surveillance cameras you had installed in my bar.”
He sighs, finally turning around to look at me. The look on his face tells me my comments hit their mark, but he’s not biting. If it’s a fight I want—and it is—I won’t be getting it from him. “You do this, there’s no going back,” Declan says. “Templeton wins. You lose everything. Everything.”
“You think I give a shit?” I say, laughing. “I already lost everything I care about. At least this way, I get the satisfaction of making that fucker bleed.”
Declan shakes his head. “Cari—”
“Doesn’t want me,” I say quietly. “She ended it. What I do hardly matters at this point.”
“This isn’t you.” From the look on his face, it was a development he hadn’t considered. That Cari and I wouldn’t recover. “You’re angry. Not thinking clearly.”
“Is that so?” I say, leaning against the rear wall of the elevator. “Who is it that you think I am, exactly?”
“You’re a good man, caught in a shitty situation,” Declan says. “You’re the best of us, and I won’t let you do this.”
“First of all—I’m not a good man. I think that’s been proven.” The elevator jerks to a soft stop, letting out a ding. “And second—you don’t let me do anything.”
“I’m just asking you to think this through.”
“He released it, Dec.” I stare at him, jaw flexing, hands fisted so tight I can feel my fingers cramping up. “Templeton released the video.”
“Fuck.” Declan swipes a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. “I’ve been here all night—no one came here to see him. No one I recognized anyway.” The elevator door opens on a busy floor, and Declan plants his feet while reaching for the control panel, slapping the button that closes the door. “Give me thirty minutes,” he says, hitting another button, this one marked with the letter C. “We’ll talk this out. If I can’t convince you to dial it down, I’ll watch the goddamned door while you beat that fucker to death. Deal?”
“Sure.” Whatever. It’s not like Templeton is gonna bleed any different a half hour from now. “Why not.”
Thirteen
Cari
Miranda takes me to some swanky restaurant downtown and orders a bottle of wine that I have no doubt cost more than my monthly rent. While she drinks, she makes plans. I think she mentions using the charity show Chase is putting together as a teaser for my solo opening. She talks about which of my paintings she likes. Which ones she loves. Which ones she wants to buy for her private collection.
“That one’s not for sale,” I tell her, my brain finally snagging on and retaining one of the pieces of information she’s throwing at me.
“Excuse me?” she says, an elegant, dark brow arched over one of her dark brown eyes.
“The one of—” I stop because I can’t even bring myself to say his name. “him sleeping in the sun isn’t for sale. It’s mine,” I tell her, my voice stronger and steadier than it has a right to be. “I’m keeping it.”
“Okay.” She studies me for a few moments before lifting a shoulder in an indifferent shrug. “What about the one hanging in in the living room?” she says. “Is that one for sale?”
I didn’t show it to her, but Miranda would have to be blind not to see what is essentially a lewd self-portrait, on display in the common area of my apartment. Of course, she saw it.
“No.” It’s a one-word answer, and I don’t try to qualify it.
Now she smirks at me, but it’s not nasty or mean. It’s like she’s proud of me for sticking up for myself. “Anything else off limits?”
Yes. I want to tell her they’re all off-limits. That she can’t have any of them. That they’re mine. All of them. That Patrick is gone and those paintings are all I have left. Instead, I use the side of my fork to cut into the piece of poached salmon on my plate and shake my head. “Nope. That’s it,” I say, spearing the fish with the tines of my fork and fitting it into my mouth.
“Alright,” she says, taking a sip of wine. “Now that that’s out of the way—”
“Miss—you can’t just—”
I look over my shoulder to see Tess hustling across the restaurant. She’s wearing her usual tank top, her coveralls peeled down to the waist, their sleeves tied around her middle, tattoos and piercings on full display, dark hair caught up in a messy bun that tells me she came here straight from working in the garage.
“Miss—” The Maître’ d scurries after her, soft hand fluttering in the air between them. “I must insist—”
“Fuck off, Jeeves.”
“It’s alright, Randal.”
Tess and Miranda speak at the same time while I’m left to look around the restaurant at all the people who are staring at our table with avid interest. I’m not embarrassed by Tess. I’m wondering how many of them have a smartphone and now that they’ve gotten a good look at me, recognize me from the video James posted online.
“It’s alright.” Miranda says it again, flicking her fingers at the Maître’ d. As soon as he scuttled back to his post, she looks at me before focusing on Tess. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“Miranda, this is my friend, Tess,” I say, waving a hand between the two of them. “Tess, this is my boss, Mir—”
“Miranda. Got it.” Tess offers her a grease-stained hand across the table, and Miranda takes it without missing a beat. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Miranda draws her hand back and settles it in her lap. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“No.” Tess looks at Miranda like she just suggested she drink her own urine. “Thanks,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.
“How did you find me?” I don’t have my phone, so it’s not like anyone can track it.
“I didn’t. Con did—I don’t know how he does it. Nerd magic.” She turns to look at me, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, you have to come home.”
As soon as she says it, my gut clenches. “I know about the video being released, Tess. There’s nothing anyone can do—”
“Forget about the video,” she says, shaking her head. “Jackson Howard is at Gilroy’s with Con. He wants to meet with you and Patrick. Right now.”
Fourteen
Patrick
Turns out, C stands for cafeteria.
Declan buys a couple of coffees while I snag a table. It’s after noon on a Thursday, and the place is in a lull. It’s empty and quiet, save for a
few doctors and nurses, speed-shoveling food into their mouths, trying to ingest as much fuel as possible before their break is up.
“Okay,” I say as soon as Declan sets a large cup in front of me before dumping a pile of sugar packets and powdered creamer on the table between us. “Start dancing.”
Declan sets his phone on the table and takes the seat across from me, reaching out a massive hand to drag a good portion of the sugar and creamer in front of him. “You agreed to give Con a chance to work,” he says in a conversational tone while shaking a stack of sugar packets before ripping them open.
“I did,” I say, giving the coffee in front of me a testing sip before pushing it away. It might smell like coffee, but it tastes like shit. “It didn’t work out.”
“So now you’re going to throw everything away,” Declan says, lifting his cup to take a drink. “How does that help anyone?”
“It doesn’t,” I tell him. “I’m tired of doing the right thing. The thing everyone expects me to do. I’ve done it my whole life, and it’s gotten me nothing. Nowhere.”
“Really?” Declan set his cup down. “Because from where I’m sitting it’s gotten you everything.”
He’s talking about the inheritance. The money his father gave me. “Do you want it?” I shoot back. “Because I don’t. I’ll give it to you right fucking now. You can have it.”
“Yeah—I want it.” He nods his head, tipping his cup toward him so he can stare into it. “I want it. But I don’t deserve it.” He sets his cup flat and looks at me. “You want to know what Tess did to make me leave her?”
My heart does a double thump in my chest. “Yes,” I say, because maybe if Declan tells me what Tess did, I’ll be able to figure out where I went wrong with Cari.
“Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.”
I watch him for a second, waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, I spoke. “So, you tore out her heart and shit on it for sport?”
“That’s a bit over the top don’t you think?” Declan counters, still not one-hundred percent willing to acknowledge the damage he did.