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“Well, some girls are confident enough in their skin not to bring down others. Your relationship was seriously messed up.”
“While I second your statement, I think we can both agree Paul wasn’t the stuff dreamboats are made of either.”
I open my mouth to argue with him, to defend Paul, but the right words escape me. He is right. Paul cheated on me with Grace. He has the receipts to prove it. It is foolish to pretend our relationship was bulletproof.
To the expression on my face, he grins. “What, no comeback? Very good, Winnifred. I’m seeing progress, and I like it.”
“So?” I ask dispassionately. “Where are you going with this conversation?”
“Since you’re obviously as uninterested in this place as I am, I thought we could head over to Grace’s apartment and go through her things. See if you recognize anything of Paul’s.”
A smart woman would say no to this offer. We’ve already established Paul and Grace bumped uglies behind our backs, and often. What’s the point in poking this open, raw wound?
My suspicion is that Arsène and I keep doing it because it makes us feel something; otherwise we’re completely numb. Pain is a great substitute for pleasure. Both are radical feelings, even if one is positive and the other negative. And maybe, just maybe, Arsène is as lonely as I am, and this project reminds him that once upon a time, he belonged to someone.
Isn’t that what we crave, at the end of the day? To belong. To a family, to parents, to partners, to communities?
“Well?” he asks. “What do you say?”
No.
I have an early morning tomorrow.
All we’re doing is hurting ourselves.
This is going to bite us in the ass.
In the end, though, I’m just like Arsène. Addicted to the feeling that comes with the pain.
“Call a taxi.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
WINNIE
Grace’s apartment is luxurious and chic. Everything is in either black or white. There are expensive throws everywhere and vases that were once stuffed with fresh flowers, I’m sure. I give myself a tour of the place while Arsène turns on the lights.
“And you keep paying rent on this place?” I glance around at the glass fireplace and custom-made curtains. Surely, it’s $15K a month minimum, before utility bills.
“Yeah,” he answers shortly, ambling to the kitchen and getting both of us bottles of water. It soothes me to see her apartment is still equipped with refreshments. It makes my Paul mania seem almost normal. Arsène is keeping this place livable too.
“Why?” I turn around to face him. “You always lecture everyone about smart investments. How’s paying rent for your dead fiancée’s old apartment a logical decision?”
“It’s not.” He leans a hip against a kitchen island, taking a sip of his water. “I don’t usually do irrational splurges. This is a rare indulgence, and I’m hoping after we’re done with each other, I’ll find it easier to terminate the lease.”
His words hit me somewhere deep, because a lot of the time, I wish I could hate Paul too. It’d be the easiest way to get over him.
Approaching Arsène, I grab the small water bottle he handed me and unscrew it. “And when do you expect us to be done with each other?”
“That depends on your cooperation, Bumpkin.”
“Stop calling me Bumpkin.”
“Stop being offended by it,” he fires back. “You shouldn’t care what anyone thinks of you. It never does a person any good. And, at any rate, people’s opinion of you is a reflection of themselves. Not you.”
“I always feel like you’re expecting me to be embarrassed about where I come from.”
“And what if I do?” He lingers on this point. “Why should you succumb to other people’s wants and expectations? You have free agency and an admirable mind. Keep shutting me down. Fight back. Never be ashamed of where you come from. A person has no future without first owning up to their past.”
