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I close my eyes and wait for a mortified “what?”
Instead, she’s deathly quiet before she says, “Oh, Paige. What did he do to you? You knew the engagement was fake.”
“Yeah, well, the engagement was fake until it wasn’t. I know that’s my fault for opening the door, but...” I trail off, closing my eyes.
But what?
Ward asked me to stay in his room. I was totally good enough to fuck. Not up to snuff for anything more.
I can’t tell my mom that, though.
I’m not that big a sucker for punishment.
“Honey, what are you going to do now?” she asks. “You can’t keep working there, I’m sure.”
“Yep. No idea. But I have a lot of savings and they didn’t dispute my unemployment claim. I have time to figure it out.”
“This is what I was afraid of...” she whispers.
Awesome. Here it comes.
“I knew this would happen.”
That counts, right? Totally an I told you so without using the words.
“Do you need me to make you a trophy saying you’re right, Mom?”
“I’m sorry, dear,” she says after a long pause. “Why don’t you come home for a few days? I’m sure we could still convince your dad to invest in your studio. Whatever else happened, now’s the right time to go after your dreams. You’re young, you’re free, and I’ve been telling you for years that you’re too dang talented for anything else.”
See? She can be sweet.
Even so, I’m frowning. I don’t want Dad funding my studio, and no big fat mistake with Ward changes that.
I’m a grown woman. I don’t admit defeat.
“I don’t know. I’ll probably just go back to freelancing or something.”
“Come home anyway,” she insists.
“We’ll see. Today, I’m just staying in. I don’t feel well.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I just need some sleep.”
“Should I bring you soup? Tea? Something with rose hips will have you doing cartwheels!”
I let out a low sigh. If only rose hips could mend frayed hearts.
“I need a nap, not gymnastics. I’ll let you know what’s going on this weekend,” I tell her.
“Okay. Rest up, sweetheart.”
“Love you,” I say.
“I love you too.” She ends the call.
Thank God.
To think I used to like talking to my mom before I went and hooked up with my boss.
Still, I can’t waste another three weeks like I’ve wasted the last three. I have a comfortable savings nut built up, but I can’t hide away from life forever.
I need a plan, but I’m so miserable it’s hard to think. I force myself into the shower.
A trip to Sweeter Grind and then the art museum has to make things better.
After I’m cleaned up, I put on a summery green dress and try to forget how Ward used to say it brought out my eyes, then head for the door. A large white envelope snags my eyes, sticking out of my mail slot.
It freezes me in place.
I came home from Brina’s one day and found it under my door, my name written across the top in Ward’s chicken scratch.
I should just rip off the bandage and open it...
...but I promised I’d wait one year.
That’s long enough to resist his excuses, his lies, his bait.
My fingers itch with curiosity, though.
I sigh, pick up the envelope, and carry it to my top dresser drawer.
Out of sight, out of mind.
I’ll last a full year without opening it on pure willpower, but not if I have to see it every day.
There’s no dialogue left with Ward flipping Brandt and the Pandora’s box of feelings with sharp little teeth he unleashed.
We’re over.
Done.
Kaput.
Later, I go through the barren members only line of the Art Institute.
The first place I ever laid eyes on Ward. He was a couple paces ahead of me and my dating wreck. He looked like a dark knight from the back, broadside shoulders ready to face down anything.
Then I saw his grumpalicious face, already taut with frustration at the seemingly drunk girl and her horrible date.
Why did I come here again when everything reminds me of us?
That’s how bad this lovesick virus is.
He’s even invaded my favorite place, leaving scorch marks everywhere on the fabric of my life.
Ridiculous. I blink back tears. I’m not going to cry.
Straightening up, I wander through the abstract paintings and contemporary photo section. I must want to punish myself—or maybe I just have Ward on the brain—but I’m also facing my demons.
I don’t even pause when I get to the architecture exhibit.
All the snarly, hurtful barbs in the world can’t murder the beauty of Beatrice Brandt’s work.
He won’t ruin this for me.
I won’t let him—or will I?
My stomach sinks. Every step feels like weighted cement in this exhibit.
Around the corner, there’s the place where Tinder-freak had me cornered. I twisted my ankle, slid across the floor, and plowed headfirst into a sculpted god’s very human knee.
He did the pretending then.
He took me in, a stranger damsel in distress, already entranced by his smoldering charms.
