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She glanced at my movements before she looked me in the eye again. “I understand you better than anyone, but right now, I have absolutely no idea what’s going on. Tell me.” She stepped closer to me, dropping her hands to her sides.
I looked past her and focused on the painting. Artwork was supposed to stimulate the mind in beautiful ways, to bring a sense of peace to the home. But this painting tortured me, gave me heartache.
Her eyebrows rose in confusion, not understanding what my gesture meant.
I kept looking at it.
She finally peeked over her shoulder, paused as she looked at the painting, and then slowly turned back to me. She was still confused, but her eyes slowly started to fill with fear. She wasn’t sure if I’d figured it out, probably because it seemed unlikely that I spotted his scribbled signature in the corner.
“I want that shit out of my apartment.” My shoulders tensed as the rage vibrated through my body. Finally addressing the painting only made me angrier. Saying the words out loud only made me realize how much it really bothered me. Having it there was an insult. She hadn’t had time to take it down because she didn’t know she would see me in Milan, but that didn’t sway my rage.
She was absolutely still, even her chest motionless because she stopped breathing. All the anger she’d directed at me evaporated like it’d never been there at all. She didn’t bother pretending the painting wasn’t exactly what I thought it was. She didn’t apologize for it either because she shouldn’t have to. So she said nothing, knowing there was nothing to say to make this situation better.
“Now.” I didn’t want it to sit there for another moment. I didn’t want it to infect the sanctuary of our home. I bought this apartment for her because I was her man. That asshole didn’t deserve to have a claim on any of it. The only reason I didn’t yank it down myself was because that would have made me seem petty.
She finally turned around and did what I said. She lifted the painting off the wall, the nail remaining behind. She turned it around before she leaned it against the wall, making sure it was no longer visible to the rest of the apartment.
That wasn’t good enough for me. “I want it in the dumpster, Vanessa.”
She turned around again, the sadness heavy in her eyes. “Let me get dressed, and I’ll take care of it.”
I stormed past her into the bedroom, pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and then walked back into the living room. “I’m going out. That shit better be taken care of by the time I get back.” I walked out without looking at her.
“Griffin—”
I slammed the door behind me, my arms shaking the second the closed door separated us. I stopped on the landing, gathering my bearings before I made my way down the stairs to the sidewalk. It was nine in the morning and I had nothing to do, so I’d walk around the city until my temper was finally subdued.
I knew I shouldn’t be this angry, but logic was the loser in this fight. I’d suffered so much in the last three months. That piece of shit never would have given her that painting if I’d never been gone. They wouldn’t have met in the first place. Now she was mine again, and I didn’t want a single memory of that horrific period to be in my own damn house.
Sixteen
Vanessa
Once Bones told me what the problem was, it all made sense.
I hadn’t even thought about the painting hanging up in the living room. I bought it from Antonio eight weeks ago, and since I hadn’t been at the apartment alone since Bones and I got back together, I hadn’t taken it down.
I never thought he would figure out Antonio painted it.
And if he did, I didn’t think it would bother him this much.
He wasn’t the jealous type, but he was definitely the possessive kind.
I didn’t blame him for being upset. If something another woman made for him were in his apartment, I wouldn’t like looking at it either.
I considered throwing the painting in the dumpster like he wanted, but that seemed wrong. Antonio had made such a beautiful painting, and it would be a disgrace to his talent to throw it away. Someone else could enjoy it. Someone else could love it as much as I did.
I carried the painting up the street toward his gallery. My heart pounded with the thought of coming face-to-face with him. Ending things over the phone was hard enough when I couldn’t even see his expression. If I looked at him now, I would probably feel worse.
But he wasn’t ever there, so I might get lucky and drop it off without interacting with him.
