Upstairs, the loft stretches across half the room where I sleep, eat, and pretend I’m a functioning adult.
I love my place. My home. I really do.
But right now, none of it helps.
Because none of it gets me Kaiden back.
“I know you are. But he’s leaving for Spain,” I mutter for what also feels like the umpteenth time, the knot in my stomach pulling even tighter as my sister moves to the kitchen to make coffee.
He told me that. Standing there in the snow, both of us shivering, teeth almost clattering as we shared bits and pieces of our lives between stupid grins and stolen glances.
Told me he was more than ready to escape the miserable Dutch weather for a bit and head to the sunny south of Spain. Spend Christmas there with his mother. Spend the winter there with his family.
For two. Fucking. Months.
And shit, if I can’t get ahold of him today, he’ll probably forget all about me during that time.
When he got a call right after the kiss, he apologized, said he had another job he needed to get to. Gave his number, made me promise I’d call him so we could meet up this weekend before he left.
To see if we matched.
So I did call him. I fucking did.
And when it bounced, I immediately re-downloaded the HandlR app—I’ve actually used their services before—and requested some last-minute help through their platform yesterday. And again this morning.
Just to see if he’d be the one who showed up to haul several completed pieces through Amsterdam to their designated new homes.
Spoiler alert: he didn’t.
“I know, honey. You can try to call Sadie again?”
Yeah. Did that too.
I caved this morning when my second request on HandlR wasn’t fruitful either. It was a last resort, because one: if he had indeed given me a fake number, it would’ve been embarrassing as hell. And two: I’m pretty sure she’s not allowed to give me any information without his consent.
Which turned out to be true.
“She was boarding the plane to get back home but will contact him when she lands,” I explain as I push off from my desk and move to the kitchen beneath the loft, where my sister is already pushing a mug of coffee intomy hands like I’m five and need supervision. Her own coffee is in a to-go cup since she has to leave for the ballet soon.
“See? It’ll be okay. Just wait for her to call back, okay? He’s probably waiting to hear from you.”
I groan when she pulls on her stupid metallic jacket and steps into her Uggs, ready to head out like she hasn’t just dismantled my entire emotional stability for the day.
“I know. I let him down. He probably hates me now.”
And the stupidest thing is, even though I explained to him I get lost in my world sometimes, this time I didn’t. Not at all.
I worked, of course. I’ve never finished my outstanding commissions this fast. He was like a damn muse, a flash of inspiration. I spent that first day in my bubble, a manic grin on my face as I finished piece after piece, glass bending perfectly under my hands.
Because I thought about him the whole damn time.
His eyes. His soft chuckle. His damn lips I want to feel again.
So yeah, I didn’t get lost in my art. I got lost thinking abouthim.
“You’re a bit dramatic sometimes, you know that?” A smack from her leopard-printed gloves lands against my head.
“I’m an artist. We tend to be a bit moody.” I push past her to the fridge and pull out a bag of M&M’s like that’s a perfectly reasonable coping mechanism.
