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Guess even on the best of days, some things don’t change.
7
Mackenzie
It was strange, walking into Walker’s house alone. I’d decided to get a box—well, three actually, stuffed to the gills with sushi and a healthy serving of gourmet crab rangoon—to go. It was better than sitting in Kyoto’s by myself after Walker left. I knew I shouldn’t feel slighted by his leaving, but I did. I knew it didn’t make sense to feel like it was an insult to our vows when it hadn’t even been a real wedding, but here we were.
The movers were long gone. They’d left boxes of my things stacked neatly in three-box high towers interspersed between expensive black leather furniture and the occasional modern art sculpture—not really my kind of art, but maybe I could convince Walker to invest in a proper Picasso at some point.
There was something cold and sterile about the house. It was big and lavish, but it wasn’t very welcoming. Maybe it felt that way because I’d come here alone. Some part of me I didn’t like to admit existed had pictured me and Walker coming back here hand in hand, laughing after a little too much alcohol and a belly full of food.
At least I’ll have the food part down soon enough.
I didn’t have the energy to deal with unpacking yet, so I grabbed the suitcase I’d packed earlier in the day and headed upstairs. There were about a half dozen bedrooms, all beautifully furnished, but none of them appeared lived in, so I picked one at random and set my suitcase on the bed.
Well, okay, it wasn’t totally random.
I guessed Walker’s bedroom was the one at the end of the hall; it had double doors instead of a measly single one, and it looked slightly more lived in than the guest rooms. So I coincidentally-on-purpose picked a room at the far end of the hall. Maybe it was because I was still a little hurt he’d left me alone at the restaurant. Maybe it was because I didn’t trust myself not to stumble into his bedroom one night if I roomed any closer. But either way, keeping as much distance as possible between Walker Prince and me seemed like a smart call.
Shaking my head at the insanity of this situation, I dug into the suitcase and grabbed out a tank top and a pair of comfy shorts. After slipping out of my dress and into my PJs, I headed back downstairs.
Bruno—Walker’s Great Dane—padded into the living room as I curled up on the couch with a box of takeout sushi. He was a quiet thing, stoic almost. He behaved more like a well-behaved little lord of the house than an animal. When I reached down to scratch between his ears, his tail gave a tiny wiggle back and forth before he went to eat his own food.
I sighed. Well, I can’t say this isn’t what I signed up for.
* * *
One Week Later
“Holy damn, girl! I need to marry a rich man. Look at all this space.”
I laughed, taking another sip of French-pressed coffee. I’d invited Alex over, figuring since I was finally moved into the house properly, it was time to let him see the—fake—life of luxury his best friend was now living. Walker had told me I was free to have anyone over, telling me to make sure they didn’t ‘get any fingerprints on the sculptures,’ before heading out the door. I’d rolled my eyes at the time, calling out a halfhearted agreement, but I didn’t stop Alex from sliding a delicate finger over one of the sculptures in question. Art was meant to be appreciated and consumed after all—through all the senses.
Except, perhaps, taste. Few pieces needed to be consumed, literally.
As I’d quickly discovered, Walker spent most of his days and evenings at work. Barely a week into being married, and that had become painfully apparent. I didn’t complain about it though. The house was lonely, but it was far from empty, and I had plenty of things to keep me busy. I could paint, take Bruno out for long walks in the parks, or binge-watch shows on the giant TV in the living room.
I got to know the neighbors a little, something Walker apparently hadn’t done the entire time he’
d lived there. An older woman with a chihuahua lived next door, and her dog seemed to have a bit of a crush on Bruno. A young polyamorous couple—well, quadruple, actually—lived across the street from us. Old money heirs, apparently, with nothing better to do than go to art galleries and pop-up clubs.
Mostly, however, I painted. I had so much time to paint. Hours upon hours, uninterrupted by work or the noise of a bustling, over-populated city. I could start oils and leave them to dry, move to acrylics, practice with watercolors. I left my studio occasionally for food, water, and playtime with Bruno—if the lethargic bop of a ball across the marble flooring could be called playtime.
Alex looked over at me where I sat, his green eyes shining mischievously, brown hair slicked back in a brand of pomade he said a ‘boyfriend’ of his bought him. I’d never met this alleged boyfriend, and I was pretty sure Alex just wanted someone to pin his unhealthy addiction to hair products on.
“Seriously. I’m extremely upset your lover boy is apparently too straight to make this little arrangement a threesome,” he continued. “I still can’t believe all of this is a thing.”
I couldn’t believe it either, honestly. I couldn’t believe I went from an eviction to a luxury mansion in the heart of New York City. I couldn’t believe I was living in a place that was essentially a small art gallery with the number of pieces Walker had collected over the years. I couldn’t believe, despite having gotten myself unpacked and settled in within a day of our wedding, that I not only had my own room, but my own art studio, too.
That was the absolute best part. The studio. The door always stayed shut, because I was too nervous to let Walker see any of my pieces before they were done, but the entire room was quickly filled with painting after painting, small sketches and studies, and the occasional warm-up doodle.
It was amazing how much art I could create when I wasn’t trying to keep myself afloat with a million different odd jobs. Walker had insisted I pull myself off the roster of the temp agency that had sent me to his office.
A wife of mine, even a fake one, isn’t going to be cleaning other peoples’ offices. Not if I have something to say about it.
After that pronouncement, he’d pulled out a giant bag full of oil paints, watercolors, and acrylics. A wedding gift, he’d said. Just because he could. It would have been crazy romantic, had this been an actual marriage.
I finished up my coffee, pushing that thought aside.
