by Priya Grey
I avoid his concerned look and walk toward a sink in the corner of the room. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say with a shrug. I start to wash off my brushes and set them to dry.
“I think we should,” Harry insists. “She looks exactly like Ashley.”
He’s staring at me with the most serious expression.
“Like I said, I don’t want to talk about it.” I dry my hand with a towel and walk away from him, but Harry is close behind me.
“I thought I had seen a ghost, Jackson. She’s the spitting image of Ashley. Same eyes, same hair, everything.”
“It’s just a coincidence,” I snap.
“That’s bullshit!” Harry shouts. “What the hell is going on, Jackson?”
“Leave it alone, Harry.”
“How did you find her?” he pesters.
I turn and finally face him. “We found each other.”
“What does that even mean? ‘We found each other,’” Harry repeats mockingly. “You don’t just find someone who looks exactly like your dead wife and start sleeping with her. That doesn’t just happen, Jackson. Somebody orchestrates something like that. Have you told your therapist about this?”
I notice the tension in Harry’s body, the frustration in his tone.
“Why do you care, Harry? So, I met someone who looks like Ashley and started seeing her. Why does it bother you so much?”
“Why does it bother me?” Harry repeats in disbelief. “Because it’s fucking crazy, Jackson! It’s not normal. It’s not healthy.”
“But I’m painting again,” I remind him. “I thought that’s all that matters. You just came by to tell me that this DJ Hypocrisy wants to pay us three million dollars for an original. Isn’t that all that matters? That I’m painting again and we’re making money?”
Harry shakes head. “First of all, his name is DJ Mendacity. Not Hypocrisy. And money isn’t the only thing that matters here.”
I let out a sarcastic laugh. “Give me a break, Harry. Money is the only thing you care about.”
I can tell I’ve hit a nerve. “That’s not true,” Harry replies, his feelings hurt. “I’ve had your back, Jackson, for years. I’ve been in your corner this entire time. This isn’t about money. This is about you being with someone who looks exactly like Ashley. And that’s fuckin’ crazy.”
“Are you happy that I’m painting again?”
“Of course, I’m happy that you’re painting again,” Harry replies. “That’s not the point.”
“That’s the only point!” I shout angrily. “Painting is the only point. I’m finally working again. After months of being suicidally depressed, I’m happy and working again.” I take a moment to calm down. “Why don’t you just worry about the business, Harry, and let me worry about my personal life.”
There is a long moment of silence as we both stare at each other. Harry and I have been friends and business partners for years. This is the first fight I can recall us ever having.
“Doesn’t this seem a little crazy to you, Jackson?” he asks softly.
As I stare at my agent/manager and best friend, I admit the truth, “I don’t care if it’s crazy, Harry. It feels right.”
Harry doesn’t know how to respond. The silence lingers. I sense his worry and concern for my well-being, but what I told him is true. I don’t care anymore if what I’m doing with Rebecca is crazy. I finally feel alive again, and I’m happy to be working. That’s all that matters.
“If you don’t mind, Harry, I’d really like to get back to work.”
Harry stares at me and slowly nods. I see the hurt feelings in his eyes. He then turns and walks toward the door. “I’ll call DJ Mendacity and schedule a time for him to come by and pick up a painting,” he mutters.
“Sounds good,” I tell him, following him to the door.
“I’m just looking out for you, Jackson,” he reiterates as he steps into the hallway.
“I have this under control.”
I then close the door and listen to Harry’s footsteps as he descends the stairs.
I let out a heavy sigh and walk back toward the center of the studio. I stare at the multiple canvases I have breathed life into these last few weeks. Harry doesn’t understand that I’ve entered another plane of existence, taken my craft to a higher level. My work is more powerful and inspired than ever before.
I have her to thank for that.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rebecca
After a late night working at the restaurant, Rodrigo invited Todd and I out for a drink. He’s been a nervous wreck all night. Earlier this evening, Nicholas Turner, one of the city’s premier food critics, dined at The Blue Rose. Now, we’re waiting for him to post his review of the restaurant. Rodrigo is on pins-and-needles because a good review from this critic could really help business.
Mr. Turner ordered the roasted Brussels sprouts and apple salad to start, followed by a pomegranate braised pork shoulder with quince, and then a butternut squash and mushroom lasagna. He ended his meal with an apple and blackberry polenta cobbler prepared by yours truly. Todd and I don’t think Rodrigo has anything to worry about. He’s a first-rate chef and his other restaurants have consistently received stellar reviews. That’s why it’s so surprising to see Rodrigo – who is constantly berating us and acting tough – so anxious regarding a review from Nicholas Turner.
“He’s such an overrated food critic,” complains Rodrigo as he checks his phone for the 100th time to see if the review has posted. “He’s a know-nothing jerk. I bet he can’t even fry an egg.”
“Then why does it matter what he thinks about The Blue Rose?” asks Todd, taking a sip from his beer.
Rodrigo shoots Todd a look. “Because even though Nicholas Turner may be a know-nothing jerk who can’t fry an egg, he’s a know-nothing jerk that people listen to. If he writes a negative review for our restaurant, people stop walking through the door. It’s so annoying how society listens to idiots all the time.” Rodrigo takes a sip from his martini to calm down. “This martini is too dry,” he gripes.
I’ve been quietly nursing my cranberry and vodka while we’ve been waiting for the review to post. The bar we were lucky enough to get a table at is packed with a bunch of hipsters. As Todd and Rodrigo go back and forth about how the city food scene is changing, my mind wanders.
I replay the tender moment I shared with Jackson in my head. I still get goosebumps thinking about the affectionate look in his eyes.
But then I’m filled with conflicting emotions. The longer I pretend to be Ashley, the more I sense my own identity slipping away. I feel like I’m losing my center. I find myself increasingly envious – if not flat-out jealous – of her sexual confidence and relationship with Jackson. It’s all I can think about.
I never envisioned myself talking to a man the way she talks to Jackson. She’s so dirty, so in charge of her sexuality. And never in my wildest dreams did I ever think a man like Jackson could truly exist – someone with a good heart and an incredible capacity to love and comfort. When you combine that with the hottest body and most gorgeous face on earth, you have a killer combination. That’s why I’m starting to freak out about our arrangement. The more time I spend with Jackson, the more I’m growing to like him. Who am I kidding? I’m falling in love with him! Which is insane because I’m pretending to be his dead wife!
I’m so jealous of what he and Ashley shared.
“Yes! Finally!” shouts Rodrigo from across the table.
“Is it the review?” asks Todd.
“Of course, it’s the review,” snaps Rodrigo. He begins scrolling through his phone reading the review to himself.
“Read it out loud,” Todd pleads. “So we can all hear it.”
“Fine,” replies Rodrigo.
“This evening, I had the distinct pleasure of dining at Chef Rodrigo Morales’s Blue Rose for the first time. At his other restaurants, I’ve always been impressed with his presentation and the quality of his food. Chef Morales pri
des himself on using the freshest and most intriguing combination of ingredients. After dining at his other establishments, I expected a similar dining experience at The Blue Rose. I was not disappointed. Rodrigo has outdone himself once again. The roasted Brussels sprouts and apple salad tasted as though their ingredients were picked from the garden moments before arriving at my table. And the pork shoulder that followed melted off the bone. Its quince and pomegranate infusion hypnotized me with its aroma. I savored every tantalizing morsel. Then came the lasagna. Forget your standard lasagna, Rodrigo’s ability to mix the seasons into a traditional Italian dish with my favorite fall vegetables was not only creative but meticulously crafted. At The Blue Rose, you are dining in the hands of a true artist. But let me not forget to mention the dessert. To take simple fall fruits and blend them with a non-standard dessert ingredient like polenta resulted in a warm and fruity cobbler that was nothing short of heavenly.”
Todd gently shoves my shoulder and whispers in my ear, “I told you your cobbler was awesome. Even one of the top food critics in the city thinks so.”
Rodrigo finishes reading the review and then places his cell phone down. He throws back his head and smiles.
“Thank God,” he cheers, looking at us. “I told you Nicholas Turner is the only food critic in the city who knows what he’s talking about.”
Todd and I share an amusing look.
“We need more drinks!” Rodrigo exclaims. “Same thing?” he asks Todd and me.
We both nod.
Rodrigo gets up and steps to the bar, not wanting to wait for table service. While he’s gone, Todd turns to me and says, “Thank God that was a good review. If it wasn’t, I was worried Rodrigo might have a nervous breakdown.”
“I know,” I reply with a smirk. I finish taking the last sip of my cranberry and vodka and prepare for another round. I’m really happy my dessert got well reviewed.
I notice Todd looking at me with a curious expression.
“What?”
“Are you seeing anyone?” he asks. “I mean dating. Because my boyfriend has a friend who I think you might like. He’s a doctor. Very smart and very good-looking.”
I take a moment to respond. I don’t think with everything that’s going on between me and Jackson – with our arrangement – I could handle dating someone else right now.
“I sort of am, seeing someone, I mean.”
Todd raises an eyebrow. “Sort of?”
I sigh. “It’s kind of complicated,” I confess. “I don’t really want to go into the details, if you don’t mind.”
Todd nods. “No worries. Although I must admit, it does sound intriguing,” he teases playfully.
“You have no idea,” I reply.
“Well, if your complicated relationship doesn’t work out, let me know. I’ll set you two up. I think you guys might hit it off.”
“Will do,” I nod.
Rodrigo returns to the table with our drinks.
“Cheers,” he grins as we clink glasses. “You two are doing a great job.” He then turns back to his normal, threatening self. “But don’t let it get to your heads. You still have a long way to go, so don’t fuck it up.”
Todd and I share another playful look and enjoy our second round.
Then I get a notification on my phone. It’s from Jackson. He has sent me the next memory.
“Is that your complicated boyfriend?” jokes Todd.
“Yeah.”
I’ll have to read the scene later, when I get home. I continue enjoying my time with Rodrigo and Todd. But in the back of my mind, I’m anxious to read the next memory. Will it be as emotional and hot as the last one?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jackson
“I think we need to talk a little more about this woman you’re seeing.”
I guess Harry isn’t the only one who’s concerned about my arrangement with Rebecca. I’m sitting in my therapist’s office for our next session, and I can see the worry on Michael’s face as he sits across from me.
I shrug my shoulders. “What do you want to know?”
“I want to explore a little further why you’re attracted to her?” Michael begins. “Are you truly seeing this woman for who she is? What characteristics does she have that remind you of Ashley?”
As Michael waits for a response, I straighten up in my chair and debate how to answer. I realize I can’t dance around this issue with my therapist any longer. I really don’t want to have another conversation with him about politics, which is how we ended our last session. I hate politics. And it’s also sort of ridiculous to be lying to your therapist when you’re paying for the sessions. Besides, everything between Michael and I is strictly confidential, so I don’t have to worry about him telling anyone else about my strange arrangement. I decide to tell him the truth about Rebecca.
As I give Michael all the details, the look on his face grows more serious and grave.
“She even dyed her hair the same color?” he asks
I nod.
“And you’re paying her $200,000 to pretend to be Ashley?”
I nod again.
Michael furiously jots down some notes and then puts his notepad and pen to the side. He looks at me and slowly sighs. “This isn’t healthy, Jackson.”
“Is being suicidally depressed any better?” I ask somewhat sarcastically. “Before this arrangement, you had me on a bunch of pills that did nothing to improve my mood. And even though I was seeing you every week – talking nonstop about my feelings – I still couldn’t paint or even face the day without a tremendous sense of dread. All I know,” I tell him, my voice strong and firm. “Is that since I started this arrangement with Rebecca, I’m happy and excited. I’m also working again. So, I’m not sure what your definition of healthy is?”
Michael shakes his head in disbelief. “Your relationship with this woman isn’t real, Jackson. You’ve created an illusion for yourself to cope with your sense of loss. At some point, you’re going to have to accept reality. Ashley is gone. But you’re still here. You have to keep moving forward with your life.”
“Don’t talk to me about reality,” I reply, angrily getting up from my chair. “Nobody lives in fucking reality anymore. People see what they want to see. Everyone is glued to their cell phones, not paying attention to the people around them, obsessed with their Facebook or Instagram account. None of that shit is real.”
“That’s not a reasonable argument,” criticizes Michael.
“We don’t live in a reasonable world,” I shout back. “You keep telling me to live in reality, but reality sucks. We live in a society where you can eat anything you want, watch anything you want, communicate with anyone you want, but everyone I see is still fucking miserable. Who wants to live in a world like this? I’d rather live in the world I’ve created.”
Michael leans back in his chair and keeps staring at me in disbelief. “What’s the end game here, Jackson? How long will this charade go on for?”
“Until my gallery opening,” I inform him.
“And you think it’s going to be that easy for you to let this girl Rebecca go?”
“Sure,” I reply with a shrug – although I haven’t really thought about it. I don’t want to because I love having Ashley back in my life again. I love reliving those honest real moments with her.
“As a trained medical professional, I’m telling you, Jackson, that this isn’t going to end well. It’s not healthy for you or for this young girl.”
I stare at him, angry and annoyed. I’m tired of people like Michael and Harry telling me what makes me happy isn’t healthy.
“If that’s how you feel, Michael, then maybe it doesn’t make sense for me to see you anymore,” I declare. “Consider this our last session.”
I turn and leave. As I walk out of his office and take the elevator back to the lobby, I’m not only angry but extremely frustrated.
Why does everyone want me to live in reality? All the real world has done for me these last severa
l months is caused me nothing but pain.
Chapter Thirty
Rebecca
I need to buy some boneless pork chops, parmesan cheese, and Italian breadcrumbs. I check the cookbook to make sure I’m not forgetting anything. That’s when I discover that the recipe also calls for some rubbed sage. I remember cooking this recipe years ago, when I was still a senior in high school, with my mom, back in our kitchen in North Carolina. Fortunately, I salvaged this cookbook from the flood. So, I can always use it as a reference in case I forget any of the ingredients.
I scan the aisles of the uptown supermarket I am shopping in. In this part of town, where the rich live, not only are the ingredients more expensive but everything is fresh and organic. As I order some pork chops from the butcher in the store, I go over my lines for the next memory. According to the script I received, the next memory takes place two years later, when Ashley and Jackson have moved into a new apartment uptown. The apartment is around the corner from the food market I am in right now. I decided to stop here – before venturing over to the apartment – because in this encounter I cook dinner for Jackson.
I guess Ashley must not have been a very good cook because Jackson makes no mention of the meal she prepared that evening. I find that surprising since he’s been so specific with everything else regarding these memories. I realize this is an opportunity for me to express a little bit of who I am, instead of just losing myself in her. I can showcase my talent in the kitchen, and I’m really excited about that. My enthusiasm, however, is somewhat tempered by the fact that this next encounter will be extremely emotional. Not for me, but for Jackson.
Even more reason to cook him a great meal, in my opinion. There’s nothing like a good meal to mend a broken heart.
As the butcher hands me the fresh pork chops, I plop them into my shopping cart and head toward the checkout. I carry the bags out of the food market and make my way toward the luxury apartment building. As I lug my groceries, I continue going over my lines.