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Mackenzie
Alex and I stayed at his place for a week before we both moved into a new apartment just a block away from the studio—close enough to walk, far enough away that it didn’t feel like we might as well live in the studio. I begged Alex to move with me and insisted on paying his rent, partly because I wanted to give him the same kind of support he’d given me when I’d needed it over the years, and partly because I’d gotten so used to living with someone else that it was hard to imagine being on my own.
I almost broke down and bought a puppy the first week, but Alex talked me out of it.
He was right. We were so busy with the move and the studio that it wouldn’t have been a good idea.
But I missed Bruno.
I missed Walker.
That was somewhat pathetic, I knew, but there was no point in denying what was the God’s honest truth.
Alex didn’t complain about our new digs at all—a three bedroom, with two full baths. It was pricey, but I paid the first year of rent on day one; for the first time in a long time, I knew we wouldn’t have to worry about whether we’d have a bed to sleep in, or lights and heat on, for the next twelve months. That kind of stability was a strange, freeing feeling. It was one of the many things in my life that was going well. With the apartment paid up, utilities covered, and essentials bought, I still sat with more money than I could ever know what to do with in my bank.
I let it sit, for the time being. I’d been able to talk myself into using it for housing, especially because I was taking care of Alex at the same time, but beyond that, I couldn’t bring myself to touch the money from Walker. I felt dirty and sad every time I thought about it.
After moving out of Walker’s house, I threw myself fully into art. Alex and I ran showings every week at the gallery, and I was booked steady with commissions for the next seven to eight months.
I kept busy—anything to keep my mind and body occupied—by putting myself out there in the eyes of the art-loving public. I even worked up the nerve to do chatty live painting sessions on Instagram, steadily painting and talking about what I was working on, sharing inspiration, or doing little Q&As with my followers who were curious about my work, my life, and what it was like to have shot up from vague obscurity to a measure of notoriety that still had me reeling. Sometimes I still couldn’t believe it. How in the world had I managed to make art that people actually wanted to see?
It became easier, the more I did showings, booked commissions, spoke with people who found themselves moved by my pieces, to see the talent that lay within me. I accepted it, and with a lot of pushing from Alex, I finally embraced it. It wasn’t dumb luck that I’d gotten where I was; it wasn’t even Walker’s help, although what he’d done had been amazing.
All of it came down to the art. As my best friend reminded me often, I could have had all the luck in the world—but without any talent, I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere or stayed there for long.
Those were the good things. They were the things that kept me going in the month after I said my final goodbye to Walker. And yet, despite all that good, whenever I paused, I felt the high of the success waning as the reality of my loneliness left me hollow.
I missed him. So fucking much.
The logical part of me knew I shouldn’t feel like this. That side of my brain insisted I’d known what I was getting into when I’d made the deal with Walker. It didn’t make s
ense to wallow in misery as I reached the professional goals I’d always dreamed of just because I didn’t get the guy in the end.
I wasn’t even a woman that had dreamed about getting the guy in the end. After Walker left me behind for the first time, I’d pretty much shut off that part of my heart. But now, in the aftermath of our brief reunion, my traitorous heart kept whispering what if.
The bitterness I’d had felt when I signed my name and sealed our divorce faded after the first few weeks until all that was left was the sinking realization that I’d made a huge mistake.
“Motherfucking bag of floppy cocks.”
I sighed, wiping off my hands on a kitchen towel and reaching for the coffee pot. Alex and I had lovingly furnished our new kitchen with shiny chrome appliances and cute little novelty knick-knacks. Coffee had become my second best friend; it was the thing that fueled me in twelve-hour art shifts and kept me wired enough to focus on painting without slipping too far into my self-imposed pit of despair.
The aroma of the dark roast tickled my nose and woke me even before my first sip. As the hot coffee warmed my belly, I sighed again.
Footsteps sounded from the back of the apartment, and Alex and his beau of the last two weeks stumbled into the room, both looking even more groggy than I felt
“Hey Jeremy. Alex.”
“Morning, sunshine.”
“Mackenzie.”
I liked Jeremy. He had a strange brand of calm shyness that Alex didn’t usually go for, but it seemed like Jeremy was interested in Alex. Interested, interested. As in, he actually knew about art and appreciated Alex’s skill; their little late night rendezvous were usually filled with Alex describing the methodology behind various pieces. It sure beat the last guy Alex had dated, who’d been so loud in bed that my earplugs were basically useless.
I hoped they lasted, honestly. They seemed like the perfect example of the phrase ‘opposites attract’.
“What’s on the agenda today?” I asked, grabbing them each a coffee mug. We had an exhibit—a big one—coming up in a couple of days. Alex was hard pressed to get the bulk of the prep work out of the way in the next day or so.
“Well, we’ve already got the lay-out set up, and most of the pieces have been turned in and ready to be put up. Only ones that aren’t finalized are a couple of Drake’s, but you know how he is, he’s always a last-minute kind of guy.” Alex tilted his head as Jeremy pressed a kiss to the back of his shoulder. “And, well… your last piece. But you said you were just finalizing details on it and would have it finished by the end of the day, right?”
