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Grabbing my things from my locker, I exit out the back and hit the sidewalk, opting to walk home to help clear my head and flood my body with much-needed oxygen.
Halfway there, I call Roman.
He doesn’t answer—not that I expected him to.
I don’t leave a message.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
ROMAN
I silence Sloane’s call and let it go to voice mail.
I don’t have anything to say to her—not right now.
I watch my phone, waiting for a chime to indicate she left a message, but it never comes. Perhaps she knows there’s nothing she can say to make any of this better. There isn’t a single word that can undo what they’ve done. There isn’t a broad enough brush she could use to paint this in a better light.
What’s done is done.
She lied.
She lied again.
And then she continued to lie.
I slam my phone facedown on my coffee table, rest my elbows on my knees, and bury my head in my hand, breathing through my fingertips.
For the life of me, I can’t surmise why the two of them did this. If the real Margaux had no interest in dating me, why would she send her sister in her place? And why would her sister continue to date me week after week? Why would she sleep with me? Did she not think everything would come to light eventually?
My phone dings with a text alert.
Lifting my head, I steeple my fingers and stare at the back of my phone, deciding whether I want to read the damn message—if it’s even from Sloane.
After a minute of contemplation, I flip it over, tap the screen to life, and check my texts.
Sure enough, it’s Sloane—though my phone identifies her as Margaux.
Please call me, she writes.
Lifting my phone, I call Harper instead—to see if she’s available to take the girls to dance tonight. They shouldn’t have to see me like this. No one should.
It’s in everyone’s best interest if I keep to myself for the next several hours.
After Harper confirms she’s available, I pour myself two fingers of scotch, change into sweats and sneakers, and locate my MetroCard in the junk drawer. It’s been ages since I’ve had to take public transportation, but I need to get to the studio without inviting a line of concerned questions from Antonio.
Being just another nameless, faceless New Yorker riding on a subway car and staring blankly ahead sounds good right now.
I need to get out of my element.
I need to be someone else for a change, if only for a hot minute.
An hour later, I’m holed up in my studio loft, music blaring as I paint the canvas in front of me the vilest shade of red I can find. And when I’m finished, I trash the fucking thing—the same way Margaux, or Sloane, or whoever the hell she is, destroyed my dignity, shattered my trust, and used my heart like a pawn in some twisted little game.
I hope she’s happy.
Actually, no.
I hope she’s miserable.
I hope she’s sorry.
I hope she feels emptier than the gaping hole in the middle of my chest right now.
By the time I’m done, the canvas is lying in a broken, splintered, ripped heap on the floor, and my hands and forearms are covered in half-dried red paint.
I wouldn’t say I feel better—but the intensity of what I spent the entire afternoon feeling has ratcheted down a notch.
After cleaning up and catching my breath, I grab my phone and type out a single text message: I hope it was worth it. My thumb hovers over the send button for a solid eight seconds before I delete it.
My silence is the only response she needs.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
SLOANE
My feet throb, hot and aching in my cross-trainers. I must have walked a dozen miles today. Or at least it feels that way. After leaving the gallery, I ran home, changed into something more comfortable, laced up my sneakers, and spent hours wandering our sun-scorched city—partly because I didn’t want to run into my sister in case she got canned today and came home early. But mostly I couldn’t sit at home.
I sent Roman a text earlier, asking him to call me.
He hasn’t, though I can’t blame him.
I keep asking myself if it would’ve gone differently had I been the one to break the news to him. If he heard it from my lips, would the words have been easier to swallow? I’d like to think they would have been. I’d like to think there’s some alternate universe where today didn’t happen, where we’re still on for Friday, and where we have a heart-to-heart that involves more laughter than anguish.
But what’s done is done.
Up ahead, I spot an empty bench and decide to take a break from my aimless, melancholic journey around the city. My belly rumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I don’t know that I could stomach anything right now anyway, but I should probably think about grabbing a bottle of water. Sweat collects across my brow, and I drag the back of my hand across it. Scanning the street, I search for a bodega or a Duane Reade—only to spot something else entirely: Halcyon’s loft.
