Because how could it be true? He’s with her? He’s with her and not me? Did he lie again? Maybe he's still caught up in that web. Maybe he's still a con artist.
The pressure in my chest grows, the pounding in my head becomes a thunder that drowns out everything else.
I stand in the middle of the storage room, frozen in shock and panic. I’m still for so long that my legs hurt when I finally move. I open the text app and type in: FYI: all three Bowan paintings are missing. Also, I quit. And then I press "Send" before I can change my mind. I slip the phone into my back pocket, grab my purse, and head out the door, locking it without setting the alarm.
When I get back to the apartment, Jade’s chatting in the kitchen with her sister, Emma.
Emma looks up and smiles at me. But her face falls after a second. “What happened?”
Words aren’t something I can handle right now. I mostly just want to scream.
So, I walk past the couch, to my room, and shut myself in. I drop everything on the floor, purse, keys and all, yanking off my t-shirt, peeling off my jeans. Then I pull out my oils and brushes, take the tarp off my painting, and finish the first and last piece I’ll be creating for the one guy in the world that I thought would never break my heart.
TWENTY-THREE
My phone vibrates in the middle of the night, waking me up. It buzzes against my night stand and I watch it dance its way to the edge and fall off. Then the ping for the voicemail goes off. I'm guessing it's Diego. And I want to hear his voice more than anything. But something in me is unable to move. I'm not sure how much more pain I can handle.
I stare at it until I fall back asleep. Then I'm woken up again by the phone.
I grunt and reach down, turning it over.
A selfie of Diego and me with ice cream on our noses fills the screen. We took that on the pier last summer after one of Diego's marathon cleaning sessions. He bought me ice cream then made me sit on the beach and tell him all my dreams. I stare at the image remembering the day and I almost answer, but I just don't know.
Is he going to lie, make excuses? How am I so sure that I can trust him? Why would he have been with that woman again, after everything? I have no idea how to process where my head is right now. I want to see him, to look in his eyes and hear him tell me what's true. But I’m too raw, and I don't think I can handle it if he confesses to having slept with that woman, whatever the reason. I just can't. Not after I had to hurt Fin like that.
When I wake up the next morning I get myself a very large cup of coffee and drink about half of it before sitting down to listen to the messages from Diego.
I hear street noises in the background and then he starts to speak. “Verity, I need you to answer.” He mutters a curse under his breath. “Listen, I'll be back before the show. I have the Bowan pieces—I'll explain everything. Just . . . don’t quit on me. And don't have sex with that damn musician.” Then he curses again and hangs up.
I've never heard Diego use so much foul language in such a short amount of time. Ever. It's actually kind of hilarious.
I tap the second message. “I have so much I need to explain, but not over the phone; I just wanted to be sure you're okay. I guess I won't know that yet . . .” He sighs and then adds, “I didn't sleep with Francesca. But I've got a plan and someone is helping me—” and then I hear him say something to someone in French before he cuts off the line.
Good lord. What the hell is going on? I really hope he's not doing anything stupid.
I feel more settled knowing he didn't sleep with her—or at least, he says he didn't. Which is stupid because I should be caring more that he could be doing something that could get him arrested, right? Who's helping him? And what in heaven’s name does he need help for? Damn, I need to see his face. This is ridiculous. Couldn't he have simply told me what was going on before he left? He could've at least told me where he went and why.
I start to dial him back but then change my mind and switch to text.
I need to see you, I type. Where are you? I need to understand what's going on. Why did you leave me like that? I’m trying to trust you, Diego, but I’m not sure what to think anymore.
The rest of the day moves like molasses and I don't hear anything back. The ache in my chest seems to grow with each passing hour.
Eventually I can’t take staring at my finished painting and waiting anymore and I find myself pulling into the alley behind the studio around six in the evening to drop the painting off for the show. I set the wrapped-up canvas against the wall beside the office door, and stand in the middle of the studio for several minutes, taking it all in before I let myself walk away. Because what if this is the last time I’m ever in this amazing place? Should I not come to the show? How can I keep pretending after everything? I’m not sure I can.
I walk across the street heading for the bakery, desperate for one of Gilbert’s chats and scones. Instead of a regular coffee, though, I’m feeling the need for an Irish one. But then that thought leads me to Fin, and then I’m wondering if he’s all right. I don't notice that something’s weird until the bakery door won’t open.
I peek through the glass, surprised to see it’s closed. Gilbert is always open until eight on Mondays. Always. The farmers could set their clock to the man.
Then I notice a note taped on the inside of the glass:
Dear valued customers,
I’ll be out of town for a few days, but I’ll be back, in full scone form by Thursday morning.
Thank you so much for your patronage!
Gilbert Lu
And in tiny print at the bottom:
P.S. Verity, dear, don’t do anything stupid.
What the hell? This is—wait, could Gilbert be the one helping Diego? What the hell is going on?
BY TUESDAY MORNING I still haven’t heard from Diego. I've gone by the studio but he's not back. And neither is Gilbert. The answering service for the studio is on and when I called the distributor he said Diego gave him orders to deal only with him. The show is in four days and I'm totally at a loss.
A knock sounds on my bedroom door, breaking through my thoughts.
“Yeah,” I say. “Come in.” I’m lying on my floor, staring at the ceiling like it has all the answers. My head is my new favorite place to be—and lately it’s the worst place ever.
Emma peeks in. “Hey, Jade was wondering if you wanted to come out for Chinese. She said it’s your favorite. I think she’s worried about you.”
I sigh and sit up. “No, thanks. And tell her I’m in tip-top-shape. No worries here.”
Emma comes into the room and closes the door behind her instead of going away. She sits on the bed and looks down at me lying on the floor. Her colorful head scarf slides across her shoulder like fabric hair. She’s such a big sister, even now in her sickness. I remember her as always full of wisdom and dry snark at life. I suppose it’s how she hasn’t fallen apart from everything she’s going through. I’m not sure I’d be as strong as she is.
“So, what’s going on?” she asks. “Is this about that Fin guy? I haven’t seen you two hang out since the night he snuck into my bed.”
I shake my head and sigh. I wish that’s all it was.
She slides down to the floor next to me, leaning closer with a frown creasing her pale forehead. “I didn’t know he was yours, I swear. I would’ve kicked him out of the room. I’m really sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “It’s not that.”
“Well, I have to tell you, he fell asleep. And nothing permanent happened. I may have kissed him, but he was only being nice because I asked—I’m just. . . well, my head’s a mess.”
“It’s okay, I swear. Fin and I are just friends.” And it is okay, actually. Sadly, it’s perfectly fine. I could give a crap that Fin kissed Emma when he was flat-dead drunk or stone cold sober. That’s a fairly good sign the two of us weren’t set for some great romance.
“Well, I just wanted you to know,” she says. “I wasn’t sure what was going on with you guys.�
�� She tilts her head and I notice a huge bruise on her shoulder, and running down her back.
I blink at it for a second. “Are you okay?” I reach out to touch it but she moves away.
“I’m fine. I bruise easily.” She looks a little disturbed, though.
Emma used to be the most beautiful girl I’d ever met in real life. I had such a girl-crush on her in Jr. High. I wanted to be just like her. With her soft features, her confidence, and her thick black hair—instead of the muddy brown mess on my own head. I used to sleep with curlers in my hair and color them with a Sharpie, trying to get those rich dark curls like she had. I used a whole box of black markers once. And now Emma has no hair at all.
“How have you been feeling since the chemo started?” I ask, before I realize it may not be polite.
She doesn’t seem bothered by the question, though. She shrugs and touches her scarf, moving the tail of it so it covers the bruise on her boney shoulder. “I’m surviving. One day at a time.”
“Jade’s so happy you came to stay. She’s been really worried. We all are.”
“I know,” she says, looking at her hands. “My little sister and her delicate heart.”
Jade was on medication for chronic depression before her sister was diagnosed. Everyone was concerned about her when Emma got sick. Especially when the first round of chemo nearly killed Emma last summer. I’ve tried to comfort Jade but there are only so many pep talks you can give a person. She’s been her old self, lately, more social and brighter. She still walks around with this deer-in-the-headlights look, but she’ll at least talk about stuff more with me now.
“It’s nice that you’re here,” I say. “You should stay as long as you want.”
She nods, frowning down at her hands in her lap. Strong Emma from the high school years, the girl that got into Pepperdine University at sixteen on a full-ride scholarship for her music and math skills, the girl that dated a pre-med and a pre-law guy at the same time, I don’t see her at all anymore.
“Thanks, Verity,” she says. “And I’m here if you wanna talk about things—whatever it is that’s got you so down.”
“Thanks.” And then I lie, “I’ll be fine.”
She pats me on the knee in a sisterly way, then rises from her spot beside me. “So, no to Chinese?”
“Nope, I’m good.” I give her a quick grin and she slips out, leaving me alone to continue staring at the ceiling.
WHEN I HEAR THE APARTMENT go quiet I make my way out to the kitchen to find food. I’ve barely been eating the last few days and my body is starting to rebel, growling at me like it’s ready to munch on itself.
String cheese and an apple in hand, I’m heading back to my room when my phone starts buzzing.
I pull it from my pocket and see Fin’s face on the screen. Well, his eyeball, really. He took the picture when he put his number into my phone.
I plop into the green chair, not sure what to do. But like my finger has a mind of its own it taps the green answer button and I put it to my ear. “So, you are still speaking to me.”
There’s a pause before he speaks. “Always. You’re my little nymph.”
I smile in spite of myself. His casual tone calms my insides a little. “Good. I miss your dumb face.”
“Well, that’s quite a coincidence, because my dumb face misses you.”
In a simple world I would've just liked this guy instead. “So . . .” I’m not sure what to say.
“So . . .” he echoes. “I wanted to know if I could talk to you.”
“I believe you’ve already achieved that goal.”
“No, in person.”
“Oh.”
“Is that a, no?”
“No.”
“So, I can’t talk to you in person?”
“No—I mean, yes.”
“And females wonder why we men are so confused.”
I laugh. “Yes, you may speak to me in person.”
“Good, because I’m here.” A knock sounds on the front door.
I stand in a swift motion. “Now?”
“Unless you’d like me to hang out in the hall for another ten minutes so you can collect yourself and then I’ll knock again.”
“Fin, what are you doing?”
“I wanna talk.”
I stare at the door, trying to understand what I’m supposed to do. As if this is some monumental decision. Which it isn’t. He’s here. And I want to be friends with him. I really do. So, I should move and let him in, right?
“Hello, there?” he asks. “Did I lose you?”
I hang up and open the door. Fin’s leaning on the jam, hovering, with the phone still at his ear. A huge grin lights his face when he looks up. “There’s my girl.”
My stomach flips at the sound of the words, the familiarity. “Hey.” Because I have no clue what else to say. It’s a mystery where I stand with Fin right now. He doesn’t seem upset at me anymore. Does that mean he’s happy to just be friends, or is he about to try to win me over again?
He slips past me, into the apartment. “You okay? You look a little green.”
“I’m fine. Just . . . tired.”
“Ah, I see.” He gives me a look that says he does see. Right through me. “Is tired the new freaked?”
“Something like that.”
“Don’t be freaked. I swear, I come in peace.”
He plops himself onto the couch and I sit across from him in the green chair, not wanting to get too close. “Things have been . . . difficult.” Seeing Fin now makes me feel like my heart was just dragged across a hundred miles of asphalt. His presence is a painful reminder of how screwed up my love-life currently is.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His copper-blond hair falls over his eyes a little. “You really like this guy.”
“Yeah.” My God, I do. I just wish I knew where he was.
“I can see it on you.”
And I’m not sure why but I confess, “I’m pretty sure that I actually love him, but he's totally mysterious and I have no idea where he went. It’s like he freaked out and disappeared or something.” Why do I feel like it’s all my fault somehow?
Fin sits back and releases a sigh, and I wonder if I’m making a mistake opening up, if this is hurting him and I’m a total bitch for thinking he’s ready for the friend zone.
But after a second he says, “That’s not a good feeling.”
“No.”
“You need a night out.”
“What? No.”
“Absolutely. A good rebound roll is just the thing.”
The mere thought of some stranger touching me the same way Diego did is a little terrifying. “I don’t want to roll. And if I did I wouldn’t be doing it with a club hopper, I’d do it with you.” I realize what I said too late to suck it back in. I can’t help looking up from my lap to see his reaction.
He’s staring at me like he did that first night he kissed me, all heat and focus. The seconds tick by in a thick silence. He doesn’t look away. But neither do I. We’re locked in together, both a little too raw for this moment.
And when he moves, he moves slowly, standing to hover over my chair. I know my words opened a door I hadn’t intended to open. Or maybe I did intend to. Like I'm trying to get back at Diego even when he's out of sight. Please don't sleep with that damn musician.
Fin's fingers tangle in mine and I have no will to resist as he pulls me up to meet him. The ache in me, the sore places, dull a little as his eyes take me in. His gentle touch makes pain and confusion rise into my throat. Tears cloud my vision, and I know that I can't do this.
"Please," I say through the pain. "I just need a friend."
“I know, little nymph.” He wipes the tears from my cheeks with his thumbs. He kisses my forehead. And then he wraps his arms around me in a hug that encompasses my head, my chest, my heart.
We stand like that for a long time. To my relief Fin doesn’t head in a direction where I'd have to push him away. He rocks a little, c
omforting, warm. And strong. I settle into it, allowing myself the simple connection. The relief it brings. Like a weight sliding off my shoulders. No guilt, no hurt, just peace.
I’m not sure how much time passes with us like that, two cracked stones holding each other up, before Fin ends the silence.
“You need to talk to him,” he whispers into my hair.
I pull back to see his face. “I tried.” The memory of the sexy woman’s voice rushes an ache through my gut. I should've picked up when he called back. "It's complicated."
“I saw how the guy looked at you. That’s not a man who’s indifferent to this face.”
"Yeah?" It's strange to be getting encouragement from a guy I was going to ask to have sex with me a week ago.
"And you love the guy."
I nod, pretty sure I've loved him for forever and just never let myself admit it. But then I look up at Fin. “Why are you doing this?”
He blinks, obviously knocked by the question. “I think if you love him it’s worth a bruised ego to say so. You don’t want to let that go, trust me.”
“Because of Gwen?”
“Because I failed Gwen. I should’ve told her how I really felt, instead of being a coward. Maybe then she wouldn’t have run to my brother. Maybe then I wouldn’t be standing here, watching a girl I care about cry from a broken heart.”
A small bit of hope trickles into my skin again. “I’m not broken. Not yet.”
TWENTY-FOUR
That night I dream that I’m back in the studio with Diego standing a few feet away. He gazes at me with those amber eyes, inviting me closer, then he reaches out and takes me by the hand, into his arms. He tells me he’s sorry, that he loves me. He touches my face, my hair, begging me to forgive him. And then he pulls me down to the ground with him and begins to show me what he wants.
I wake with a gasp of remembered pleasure, my body aching as if he’d really been touching me again, his hands exploring me, making my body coil tighter and tighter . . .
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