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I’m too damn tired to cook, and pizza seems like the perfect kind of meal to eat when it’s Valentine’s Day and you have no place to go and no one to see.
After a quick wardrobe change into my favorite flannel pajamas, I send Matt a brief text thanking him for the flowers. Then I grab my laptop, flip on the television, and make myself comfortable on the couch while a rerun of The Office plays in the background.
Not even five minutes later, my phone vibrates with a call.
Incoming FaceTime Call Matt
My thumb hovers over the screen before tapping accept. When I finally do, his hazel eyes and jovial smile light up the screen.
“Hey, baby,” he greets.
Baby.
I rub at my cheeks and lift my mouth into a smile. “I’m surprised you’re awake.”
He offers a little shrug, and I force myself to focus on the way the fabric of his shirt forms to his muscled shoulder as he moves—as opposed to the way he would look without it. The image is blurry and half-formed because I can’t remember the last time I saw him without a shirt. “I just wanted to make sure I got to wish you a Happy Valentine’s Day before I went to bed.”
“That’s sweet.” I point the camera of the phone toward the bouquet of flowers in the kitchen. “Thank you for the pretty flowers.”
“I’m glad you got them,” he answers, and I put my face back in front of the camera to meet his eyes. “Sorry I’m not there to celebrate with you, but just know I miss you like crazy, baby.”
“That’s okay,” I respond easily. Perhaps too easily.
I’m not sure when I got so okay with him being gone. “I doubt I would’ve been much fun today anyway. I had one hell of a long day with the kids. I ordered a pizza, and I’m settled in for the night.”
“Pizza? That’s kind of sad, baby.”
“Meh.” I shrug. “I think I’ll live.”
“I would expect someone with your status to be out and about, schmoozing the town,” he says.
I tilt my head to the side.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I hear you’ve been outed as the muse of a certain famous artist.”
“W-what?” I stutter, and the hand holding my phone begins to shake of its own accord. Why is he bringing this up?
I’ve told Matt exactly nothing about Ansel or the time I’ve spent with him. I haven’t told anyone.
And the painting? Jesus. I thought the media had moved on.
It takes everything inside me to keep my face neutral.
“What are you talking about?”
“I saw Lily’s article.” Matt’s smile is nothing more than a soft crest of his lips.
What is he talking about?
“What article?”
“You didn’t see her article, baby?” he asks, and his eyes crease with incredulity. “It published this morning.”
My God. The press did die down. It’s my sister who didn’t.
“I didn’t,” I answer truthfully. Because, yeah, honestly, I haven’t seen or heard a thing about this supposed article. “But I was pretty busy today with classes and music lessons…” I can barely get the lame excuse past my lips because the guilt that’s starting to migrate up my throat is almost too much to bear.
The fact that I haven’t told Matt anything about the time I’ve spent with Ansel is starting to feel like a thousand tons on my shoulders. I know I should, but I can’t find the words. I don’t know what I would say or where I would begin.
I don’t understand any of it myself.
It’s not like you’ve cheated on Matt, I try to reassure myself. You just spent time with him. That’s it.
“You look like you’re exhausted,” Matt says and pulls me from my scattered, racing thoughts. “I hope you’re planning on calling it an early night.”
“Pretty sure you should be the exhausted one,” I retort, trying to make him feel that way with subliminal nudging at this point. I can’t keep my freak-out inside much longer. I need to get off the phone. “I mean, it’s what, after midnight your time?”
“Yeah.” A yawn escapes his lips, and he grins. “And I have to get an early start to prepare for a breakfast meeting. Mind if I let you go now?”
“Of course.”
Thank God.
“Well, I’m glad I got to see you today,” he says with a sweet smile. “Miss you, baby. And Happy Valentine’s Day.”
We say our goodbyes, and when I tap end on the call, the very first thing I do is snag my laptop from the couch cushion beside me and go to the New York Press’s website.
My sister’s article is the first thing to pop up in the arts and leisure section.
Ansel Bray Accidentally Painted My Sister: An Exclusive Interview
Just the fucking title of it makes my heart take a nose dive into my stomach.
Oh. My. God. What was she thinking?
