After a few more seconds, the ringing cuts out and his voice oozes over the line and wraps itself around my body, the gravelly edge sending shivers down my spine.
“This is Tristan Carter, I can’t take your call right now. If it’s urgent, please call my assistant, Catiya, at…” He reels off a number. “If not, then please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
It beeps and I’m not prepared to leave a message so I stammer at first. “Erm, hi. It’s, Har—Miss Jameson, from Willow Arts. Nothing to worry about, but Clayton and Izzie are upset that they couldn’t show you their project from gallery night, and I… wanted to ask if you’d like to come down sometime so you can see it? They worked really hard on it and… well, now I’m rambling but you’re welcome to come down and see it for yourself if you wanted to. Okay, bye.” I go to hang up but remember I didn’t give him any timings. “Oh, and I’m open until five tonight.”
I hang up, feeling like an idiot for not being ready or having a firmer message for him. Rolling my eyes at myself, I place my cellphone back into my purse and walk out to help Mom with the kids.
I manage to avoid another awkward run-in with Charlotte. As soon as I saw her walking down the cobblestone path, I made a beeline for my office, feeling like a child for doing so. But I’m not ready for more of her… niceness?
Strange thing to think, I know, but we weren’t exactly the best of friends ten years ago, so I don’t see why she’s acting like we are now. Civil? Sure, but how she was this morning? That was weird.
“Why were you hiding from that woman earlier?” Mom asks as we wipe down the wooden benches.
“I erm…” I sigh. “It was Tristan’s mom. I know I’m bound to see her or him, or even the kids’ mom and I know it’s been ten years, I just… it feels like I’m that same nineteen-year-old girl again and with trying to get my life back on track, I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.”
Mom chuckles. “You moved back here and chose an art studio on his side of the tracks. You can’t act shocked that he’s here.”
“Yes, I can. I wasn’t expecting him to turn up with his two kids in tow, so excuse me for needing a little time to wrap my head around things,” I retort flippantly.
She holds up her hand. “I won’t say anymore on the matter after this, but I have to say my piece.” She looks into my eyes. “Don’t let any of this rule your life, or your job for that matter. You can’t hide away from all of the parents and kids, this is your studio. You should be there to greet them when they come in, not hiding away in your office like a child.”
I know what she’s saying is right, but my mind isn’t feeling all that rational right now. “It won’t happen again. I’ll pull on my big girl panties.”
“Now that’s more like it.” She stretches her arms above her head and yawns. “Are you ready to go home?”
I look at my watch, seeing it’s only four thirty; I said I would be open until five. “You take my car, I’ll get a cab home. I think I’m going to get some of this emotion out onto a canvas, I’ll feel better then.” I smile at her but she doesn’t look convinced so I say, “I’m tired and confused, so please let me deal with it the only way I know how. I’m okay despite these feelings, I promise.”
She puckers her lips and blows out a breath before pulling off her apron. “Fine, but you know where I am if you need to talk. Bye, Harmonica.”
I kiss her on her cheek and watch her walk out.
My cellphone’s ringtone blares and I rush to answer it, thinking that it’ll be a call back from Tristan. I’m disappointed when it’s Gerry’s voice on the other end of the line.
“Harmony, I’ve received my divorce certificate in the mail.”
“So?” I told him not to call me again.
“I… I wanted to let you know. I’m coming back to see my parents next week, I was wondering…” He sighs. “I was wondering if you wanted to grab coffee while I’m there?”
The line is silent because I can’t physically push the words I want to say out of my mouth. How dare he! “Gerry, I—”
“Look, I know I’ve been an asshole but… I want to apologize in person.”
His voice sounds small and all of those old feelings I had for him resurface for a second before I squash them back down. “No. I’m sorry but I don’t think an apology is necessary. Years ago? Yes. But now? No.”
“I… Well that certainly changes things. I was hoping you were going to be reasonable.”
I hear a female voice in the background calling his name and my heart sinks.
“She’s… She’s there, isn’t she?”
“I… I have to go.” There’s a click and I know that he’s gone to save an explanation, not that he owes me one, we are divorced now after all.
I’m so stupid! I put myself in a situation where I would get my heart broken; again. I let myself be ridiculed for my career choice on the daily. I let myself believe he was the reason I kept afloat all of these years. He may have been the one that stopped me from drowning at the start, but I’m the only one that’s kept me from falling back under.
Sad tears stream down my face as I slide my cellphone onto my office desk on my way out of the room before walking up the stairs to my studio.
I stand and stare out of the window on the balcony doors for what feels like forever, watching the bright light of day turn to dark before turning and gazing at the covered easel in the corner.
I take tentative steps toward it as if it would scare if I made a loud noise. I touch the soft material of the sheet that’s over the top of it and fist it in my hand, pulling at it gently and revealing my masterpiece.
It screams of happy times and beautiful places, of love and warmth and… everything I no longer have. My hand shakes and a sob vibrates through my body, taking hold of every single nerve ending.
I feel the pain of everything all over again: the way that I was left, the months that followed, and then meeting someone else that finally seemed to pay attention to me and care. Then came the ridicule, the arguments, the tamped-down words I always wanted to say.
The finality of it all.
My chest heaves as I pull in big lungfuls of breath as I try to calm myself down now that I’ve had my meltdown. My sobs slowly turn into sniffles, and as I sit here staring at the painting in front of me, feeling numb, I know that it’s time to move on.
Oasis—Don’t look back in anger
I listen to the message over and over again, pressing repeat each time it ends. Her voice is like music to my ears, and I shiver each and every time she speaks. I’ll never get tired of hearing it—not now, not ever.
Then I realize what she said. The kids are there? The blood in my veins starts to boil, the burning flowing throughout my whole body as I stand up and push my chair back in anger.
How dare my mom take them back there when I specifically told her that they weren’t to set foot in there again.
I’m not thinking rationally as I storm down the stairs before swiping my keys off the table and heading out the door to my car.
My mind works on automatic, taking me to my mom’s to get the kids as the anger simmers underneath the surface, ready to boil over and slip free. There’s no way that I’m letting her have them again, not after taking them there and not listening to me.
I park haphazardly when I get in front of her house, pushing my door open and leaving the engine running as I run up to her door and slam my hand on it, calling out for her. “I know you’re in there!” Silence. I bang on the door again and again, the palm of my hand stinging as I hit it as hard as I can to no avail. “Fuck!”
I spin around, my gaze flitting over the street and not seeing Edward’s car here. My gaze settles on my car as her voice floats back into my thoughts. If I can’t get the kids, then I’ll go and confront her first.
It’s nearly dark by the time I get there, the streetlight shining outside, illuminating the cobblestone path and flowers. I jump out of the car, slamming the d
oor and rushing to the start of the path, my head tilting back as I see a light on upstairs.
She’s still here. Good, I can find out what the hell she’s playing at.
I don’t think, I push forward, opening the door and walking into the darkened space. It’s silent, except for the small sniffle coming from up the stairs. I take a deep breath, calming myself and trying to get my erratic heartbeat under control.
For some reason, it feels like a major choice; like if I walk up these stairs, everything will change and my life won’t ever be the same again.
Anger takes ahold of me and my fists clench, my knuckles turning white at the thoughts that are racing through my head. She’s playing one big game, trying to destroy me in the same way that I did with her.
My foot lifts onto the first step, slowly moving to the next one and by the time I’m halfway up, I know I’ve made the right choice.
When I make it to the top, my gaze flits around the space, searching for her. When I spot her on her stool, looking at a painting, I frown. Her shoulders are slumped over, her arms wrapped around her body, holding herself together. Then I hear her small sniffles again and my heart cracks. I could never bear to see her upset, it would rip right through me every single time. Just like it is now. I want to go to her, hold her and comfort her, but I can’t. It’s not my place, no matter how much I want to.
“Harmony?”
She spins around, her gaze catching mine as she wipes at her face furiously, trying to get rid of the evidence of her tears. “You’re not supposed to be up here, I told you that last week.”
I widen my stance, my face stone cold as I stare at her. “You called me, so I came,” I say before taking a couple of steps toward her.
She frowns as she looks down at her lap for a beat then stands up, wringing her hands in front of her as she clears her throat. “I did… for you to see Izzie and Clayton’s painting that is.”
I watch her intently, waiting for her to say something else but when she doesn’t, I move my gaze toward the painting that she was sitting in front of.
My jaw clenches as I see the willow tree painted to perfection. If I was to reach out and touch it, I’m sure I’d feel the roughness of the bark that adorns the real thing against my fingers. She’s painted every little detail and I can’t help but tilt my head as I remember her standing there, waiting for some kind of explanation. I should have said more, I should have done more.
“The painting,” I croak, my voice coming out hoarse. Don’t think about it, Tris, she’s playing you.
“Is none of your business,” she says, covering up the easel. “Shall we go downstairs and I’ll show you Izzie and Clayton’s painting?”
My frown deepens as I stare at her, knowing that she’s trying to put a Band-Aid over a wound that needs stitches. If I’ve learned anything over the last few years, it’s being able to see when someone is trying to cover something up, and I have to say, she’s not doing a very good job of it. I should know because I’ve become an expert.
There’s a reason she was crying, and there’s a reason that she still has tears in her eyes now.
Why the hell am I so bothered by it? Where has the anger that was flowing through me mere moments ago gone?
“I’m sorry,” I say, taking one last step toward her, an irrational want consuming me to know what’s happened for her to be upset. Now I’m within touching distance, and I know if I was to reach my hand out, I could feel her soft, silky skin against mine. “About back—”
“Don’t.”
Her voice is at a complete contrast with the look on her face and the tears that still shine in her eyes. Had she done this back then, back when we were a couple, I would have called her out on it. Told her that I know she’s lying, that I know her better than anyone else. But that’s not true anymore, she probably has someone who knows her better than anyone else.
It’s not me anymore.
I let my hands drop back to my side, taking a step back and waving my arm toward the stairs, signaling for her to go first.
Why am I letting her show me this painting? I should tell her that the kids won’t be coming back, that I know exactly what she’s trying to do. But I do none of those things, instead, I wait as she hesitates a second before blowing out an audible breath. She crosses the space to the stairs, walking down them as I follow close behind, not able to stop the invisible thread that pulls me to her.
She carries on walking to the right, into another room and toward where paintings line the wall.
“This is theirs.” She points to a painting of four people. “They worked really hard on it and Izzie wouldn’t stop talking about ‘Eddie.’” She chuckles but it holds no humor. “They were so excited for you to see it, they’ll be happy when you get home and tell them.”
I blanch as anger rolls through me at the fact that they’re not at home, they’re still with my mom. I tilt my head to the side, looking at the four people. There’s me, my mom, Amelia, and Edward; the plaque underneath it says, “my family” and my heart beats faster. Their mom should be on this painting and my heart breaks that she isn’t.
I stumble slightly at the thought, my eyes widening at Harmony. She’d have been the perfect mom. Showering them with all the attention they needed, reading stories to them before tucking them into bed and kissing them on their heads, telling them that she loved them—just like Natalia used to do.
My mind swirls with images of how our life would have been had I not made the mistake of being dictated to.
She spins around after I’ve been silent for a while, her brow furrowing. “Tristan? Are you okay?”
“I… I…” I swallow against the lump forming in my throat as I back away a step, my hand coming up between us. “I can’t do this.” I spin around, taking giant leaps for steps toward the door.
“Don’t do this again, Tris, this isn’t about us anymore,” I hear her mutter under her breath.
I halt in the middle of her studio.
I’m doing what I did all those years ago, I’m running away again. Only this time it isn’t just me and her, there’s two children who have built a relationship with her over the last six weeks.
That mixed with the thought of not seeing her again, not looking into her honey colored eyes or feeling her face in the palm of my hand; it breaks me. I can’t bear thinking of not seeing her again. I may have walked away from her once before, but I know in my heart and soul that I’ll never be able to do that again.
I turn around, my chest rising and falling on erratic breaths as I watch her. She’s so much stronger than she used to be, standing tall with a fierce look on her face but still the softness to her features that has always been there.
“I’m sorry,” I say, for the second time since I got here. “I know it’s not about us, I know that. But I can’t stand here and look at you—be around you—when I know what’s going on here.”
She frowns, tilting her head. “What do you mean, ‘what’s going on here’?”
My nostrils flare and I look away from her, knowing that if I keep my eyes connected with hers that I won’t be able to get out what I need to say. “This game you’re playing,” I grit out.
“Game?” Her voice wobbles and I snap my head back to her. “I’m not playing any game, Tristan.”
I laugh, but it’s not a humorous one. “You think you can pull the wool over my eyes, huh?” I shake my head. “The only reason you’re doing this is because you knew Clay and Izzie are my kids.”
She rolls her eyes, pushing her shoulders back. “That’s exactly what I did,” she spits out, taking a step toward me as her eyes fill with untamed fire. “I came back here, spent all this money to open my own studio, just on the off chance that you would bring your kids here.” She pauses. “Kids I didn’t even know that you had!” Her chest heaves as she gasps for breath, her cheeks flush as she stares at me.
My eyes widen as I watch her, the cogs in my brain finally starting to turn as if they needed the oil to work
again. And that’s what she is, the oil that gets them to turn.
“I...
“You’re unbelievable. I’m going to pretend you didn’t just accuse me of playing your kids off and be the bigger person. We're not those people anymore,” she says, dropping her arms by her side as the anger slowly ebbs away replaced with sadness. “You broke me beyond repair, or so I thought, but we’ve both grown up and moved on. The past doesn’t matter, all that matters is the here and now, and that is me being Clayton and Izzie’s art teacher.”
She’s right, the past doesn’t matter but I can’t stop living there.
She clears her throat. “Today was watching week. Izzie and Clayton missed you there. You’re welcome to come and watch next week if you’re not busy? I’m sure they’d love you to.”
Next week? I’m at war with myself on whether I want them to ever come again, never mind coming to watch them.
But the more I stare at her, entranced by her beautiful eyes, the more the anger starts to slip away and an incessant need to have her in my life rolls through me. I know that I can’t have her how I used to, that it will never happen again, but now that she’s back in my life, in our lives, I don’t know if I can turn my back on her again.
I know that I’ll take her any way that I can; even if that means we’re just friends, because having her in my life in any capacity means more than not having her there at all.
A smile slowly lifts the corner of my mouth as I step toward her, feeling her anger still rolling off her like thrashing waves in the sea.
“You’re more than ‘just an art teacher,’ you always have been.” My arm lifts automatically, my hand reaching out to touch her face, but she stumbles back a step before I touch her, almost as if she’s afraid for our skin to touch. What am I doing?
I shake my head, not quite believing that I was caught in her web again,—the same web that trapped me all of those years ago—before I spin around and storm out of there.
Etching Our Way (Broken Tracks Series Book 1) Page 20