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As Dad pulls the car out of the lot, against my better judgment, I gaze at the gallery’s two glowing bay windows as we pass by. The venue is still swarming with people clinking glasses and laughing while they admire Vanessa’s art.
Then I see him, just a quick glimpse, a tall, handsome statue striding over to rejoin his guests.
My heart skips a few beats, yearning for what it can no longer have, but then I peer back over at Dad, and the corners of my lips curl up.
Maybe some things really are for the best…
Chapter Fourteen
Nathaniel
I’m holed up in one of the back workrooms of my gallery. I’ve spent most of my waking hours here, and too many of the hours in which I should have been sleeping. It’s been a week since Poppy walked out on me for good, and I’m a fucking mess. I can’t eat. Can’t sleep. It feels like someone turned down the color settings in my world. Everything had seemed vibrant and alive when I’d had Poppy in my life, and now everything’s gray and muted. I don’t want to do much of anything besides stare at the walls.
And paint.
I’ve been painting. It’s the only thing, besides Micah, getting my ass out of bed this last week. I didn’t expect it to hurt this damn much. I haven’t been this wrecked since Danneel died. Even that, though, was a different kind of wrecked. It was heartbreaking and sad, and I was angry, and I was sure I’d never, ever love anyone again. Definitely not the way I loved her. And I hadn’t wanted to. She was my one and only. I spent the last five years, before Poppy, sating my needs with women who meant nothing, because I didn’t want anything more than that. None of them was my wife.
And then Poppy opened the gallery door, letting in a flurry of wind that knocked over that damn painting. What started out as lust and desire became so much more. I started seeing her as my forever, a woman that my wife would have liked, a woman who pushes me to be better, to feel more.
And she’s gone.
This heartbreak is different, I think as I lay more paint on the canvas. I didn’t have the power to save my relationship with Danneel because it was just her time, but Poppy is alive. She’s here, in this city, and I can’t have her. She’s so near, and she doesn’t want me.
Old and dirty. That’s how she sees me.
I try to force my mind off Poppy, breathing in the comforting scents of oil paint and turpentine. Rock music plays from the speakers, and I’m wearing a pair of paint-smeared jeans and a T-shirt. It reminds me of my college days; getting lost in work, dealing with life through my art. I miss this. I’d stopped completely after Danneel’s death and was sure I wouldn’t bother with it again.
I add a little more ochre to the canvas, and my mind goes to Micah and the talk we had earlier this morning. We’d been sitting at the island in the kitchen, eating bowls of cereal, his short legs dangling, kicking the legs of his stool. He’d looked at me with his big hazel eyes and tilted his head.
“Is that pretty lady coming back?” he’d asked, and I’d barely been able to breathe.
“Maybe,” I said, not wanting to go into it more than that.
“Is she going to be my new mommy? I really want a mommy, and she seems nice.”
It had taken everything in me not to lose my shit and break down at that moment. The memory of Danneel’s death had washed over me again, taking me right back to that night when I’d held Micah in the aftermath, knowing it was just going to be him and me. Knowing that I’d have to raise him alone as a single father. I was so scared at that moment, and when the nurses came to take him for a few hours, so I could allow myself to grieve, I’d gone straight to the hospital’s stairwell and let it all out, wailing into the echoing metal.
This morning, I’d changed the subject with Micah by talking about some cartoon he liked, but it felt as if I’d been knocked flat.
I’m in love with Poppy. Completely, utterly in love with her.
I hadn’t realized it until the moment of Micah’s innocent question that, even if I hadn’t wanted to admit it, I’d already been thinking about forever with Poppy.
I don’t know how I’m going to do this. How am I supposed to live the rest of my life without seeing her beautiful face? Without her giving me that devilish little lift of her eyebrow that tells me she thinks I’m full of shit? How am I supposed to live without those little smiles of hers, the ones that make me feel like I’m about a hundred feet tall?
How am I going to fall asleep every night for the rest of my life without her in my arms?
I toss the brush down. Fuck it.
I head up to my office. More importantly, I head for the bottle of whiskey I keep in the liquor cabinet in there. Micah’s nanny has agreed to stay in the penthouse for a few days while I work through this, and I’m all for taking advantage of that. Getting good and loaded sounds like a fantastic idea.
