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"Ready for some fun, Mr. Walters?" I ask, playfully offering him a paintbrush. But my smile begins to fade when he doesn't return my banter, instead opting for a strangely somber nod.
"Can we sit for a moment?" He asks, his gaze hardly meeting mine.
My heart hammers in my chest. "Sure, Zak," I murmur, already feeling a frigid dread settling in. We take a seat on the sofa I'd so thoughtfully placed in the room, near the canvases I’d set up, currently blank. They were meant to show the sketches of us creating abstract drawings of each other. Or so I'd thought when I'd planned this evening. I suddenly feel extremely embarrassed and insecure about the obvious effort I’d put into the evening. I have the urge to pack it all away and hide it. But Zak's eyes have already scanned the room, and to my utter sadness he looks apathetic, if not disgusted.
I glance at the mural I’d created at the start of summer. Never one to be shy of my own work. I distract my racing thoughts by getting lost in it, re-imagining how it felt to make each stroke of paint.
"Isn't it beautiful?" I quietly ask, trying to reignite our playful banter - he would usually scoff and tell me it is wonderful how modest I am. Then he might shove me lightly or wink to let me know he’s joking. But he merely watches the incomplete canvases before turning his stormy and troubled gaze toward me.
"Izzie," he begins, a grim expression on his face. "This... this isn't working. Not for me. It was a summer fling, nothing more. I don't do commitment." His words come flying at me like a series of punches I’m not prepared to take.
I sit there, speechless, my chest pounding with a pain I'd never known. All of my dreams about our future together crumble within the span of mere seconds.
“Don’t look like that,” he commands, as if I was a robot in control of my emotions. “You knew what you were signing up for. I never made any false promises, I can't do this any more Izzie.” Every word stings.
I turn to look at him, my vision blurry from unshed tears. "So that's it, Zak? You – you can’t do this?” My voice stutters, barely able to speak in full sentences.
"That's all there is, Izzie," he replies, ice-cold.
His blatant lack of regret triggers something within me. The pain recedes, replaced by a steely determination. "Alright, Zak Walters," I say, my voice colder and sterner than I'd ever thought possible.
“If you can look at me, and tell me honestly,” I maintain eye contact, I am mad now. The tears are done. I shake my head, in disbelief. “If you can tell me that you have no feelings for me, that all this,” I gesture wildly around the room, indicating the entire house, “- if you can tell me that, then-“
“I have no feelings for you.” He interrupts me, his voice harsh and sincere. I search his eyes, search for a sign of regret or any of the softness that I’d seen in him over summer. I can’t find a trace. The man standing in front of me is not the Zak I knew, or maybe he is the real Zak. Maybe the one I knew had been a work of lies, deception, a fiction in my own head.
I stand, turning towards the mural. Grabbing a paintbrush, I dip it into the deepest shade of crimson. With an exaggerated flourish, I splash the paint onto the almost-finished mural. I repeat it, throwing color after color, each splash representing a piece of my shattered heart.
"Do you see that, Zak?" I ask, the last paint splatter marking an abrupt end to our summer fling, as he liked to call it. "That's the final touch to our masterpiece.” The real art of heartbreak.
Zak
There is a newfound comfort ingrained in my friendship with Dave, fortified by our recent hike. It reminds me of how things used to be - the gentle banter, the shared silences. So when he invites me for a coffee this morning, I accept without hesitation. A sense of familiarity washes over me, as if we'd picked up the rhythm from where we'd left off.
As I enter the small-town coffee shop nestled in the heart of this beautiful west coast town, I absently ruffle my salty, damp hair. The aroma of the sea clung to each strand, a refreshing reminder of this morning's surfing expedition. The café is a cozy sanctuary, exuding a rustic charm unique to small communities. The wooden floorboards creak with a timeworn familiarity underfoot, and the mismatched furniture adds to its character. Entrancing aroma of freshly brewed coffee and subtle notes of yeast fill the air, indicating the freshly baked loaves somewhere in the kitchen.
Against the gentle hum of soft music and the clatter of ceramic, a pang of heartache resonates within me. The harsh reality from the previous night echoes in my mind, the dread of those words that I'd forced myself to reflect back to Izzie. It was such a blatant lie, a betrayal of my true feelings. However, the rational part of my mind testifies to its necessity - she deserves better. Even though my feelings for her are genuine, the fact remains that she was my best friend's daughter. That complication was something I am unwilling to surmount.
I approach the counter, breaking away from the thoughts that threaten to overcome me. "One Americano, black, please," I instruct the barista, curt enough to dissuade her from her usual litany of small talk. She seems momentarily taken aback, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. She quickly regains her professional demeanor and nods, welcoming my payment to finalize the exchange. Two of the employees, ensconced in their stations of food prep and brewing, cast furtive whispers to each other as I enter. They would occasionally glance my way, their curiosity evident. I offer a small nod in their direction, met with direct eye contact. They promptly return to their tasks with newfound interest, the once bland monotony of their minimum wage jobs now holding an unexpected allure. I suspect they realized who I was - the invisible hand that held their place of employment afloat.
This is merely another establishment under my purview, another small-town gem that I'd salvaged. Before my intervention, it had been a quaint local coffee shop, churning out artisan brews crafted with love. But then Kenny, the original owner, approached me after witnessing how I'd revived the local bakery from its downwards spiral. He propositioned collaboration, urging that we join forces to refresh his beloved coffee shop.
My curiosity piqued and I challenged him for a business blueprint; a comprehensive plan detailing his ideas. I had initially thought my foray into investing was a one-time escapade brought upon by the pity of the bakery and my own desire to do good; never had I envisioned that I'd become the lifeline of the local commerce.
Kenny returned a few days later, not just with a plan, but an immaculate dossier exuding professionalism, innovation, and pathways for growth. It was an irresistible call to action. I was so impressed that I requested to shadow Kenny, to observe his execution of project management, fueled by my inherent curiosity. This shared journey fostered a friendship between Kenny and me, a bond straddling the line of personal camaraderie and professional partnership. His business rebounded, flourishing with newfound vigor. From the looks of it now, it is doing better than ever.
Ironically though, the success have strained my regular visits to the coffee shop. My sporadic appearances seem to put the younger employees on high alert, their nerves visibly dancing on their sleeves when I am around. I speculate that Kenny might be leveraging my name, my image - the benefactor turned deity - to scare his staff into diligence. But as I savor my piping hot coffee, the rich aroma teasing my senses, I shrug off the odd ritual. If my 'reputation' keeps this place humming and the brews flowing, then they could paint me as a taskmaster all they want. I scan the room quickly before I spot Dave sitting in the corner, coffee already in hand.
"Dave," I greet him, my voice cutting through the murmur of the bustling café as I slide into the seat next to him.
"Hey, what's in the cup?" he asks, curiosity tugging at his brows.
"Just plain black coffee," I answer with a nonchalant shrug, "Not a big believer in dolling up the drink with heaps of flavors and garnish. And what about you?" I mark a pause, interest piqued in what Dave might be savoring.
"Pumpkin spice latte," comes his simple reply. The contrast of our choices dangles in the air for a heartbeat before we both double over in a fit of hearty laughter.
"You serious, Dave?" I manage to sputter through my chuckles, an amused smirk stretching across my face.
"Yeah, it's Mel's doing," he sheepishly admits, "she introduced me to them last year and now I'm hooked. This place, fortunately, helps feed my addiction, with their year-long supply. Come on, give it a whirl, I swear you’ll be sorry you ever mocked it."
