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“Dante, you. The whole story was on the news this morning. They’re not going to forget about you that easily. They’re going to want updates and intrude. You should’ve stayed anonymous like you wanted, but I—” he flexes his hand.
“It’s not your fault.” When I meet his eyes, the coward in me wants to glance away, but I keep my eyes steady on him, “I should’ve told you. You didn’t know,” I need him to believe me when I tell him it wasn’t his fault because it wasn’t, “I…don’t like that…what happened is everywhere, but at least I have more eyes on me, and on him.” Evan studies me over.
“Rumors are already circulating,” he states. “A viral post saying it’s a stunt to keep yourself in the spotlight…another about you and me. They are citing infidelity as the reason Dante is taking‘revenge’on you.”
“And that’s bad for business,” I comment. His eyes flick back to me.
“That isn’t the point I was making.”
“But it’s true. I’m sorry.”
“You aren’t at fault either,” he affirms, intent unwavering. I feel my heart stutter—the table quiets.
“I wanted to ask,” I already regret saying anything as he focuses his attention back on me. I think that’s all I wanted because as soon as I caught sight of his diamond-like eyes, I forgot what I was going to say if I did have anything to say.
“Yes?” he prompts after a couple of seconds pass. Emerging from my trance, I refocus.
“Well…I was wondering why you were at my apartment,” I probe.
He clears his throat, “I was coming with a job offer,” he answers—a job offer. The confusion has to be apparent on my face.
"My publicist insisted I make another appearance with you since you were gaining popularity. Now, I’m an honest man. I wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but finding other talented artists in the area is difficult. They're all‘abstract artists’or contemporary—the lazy kind,” he sighs, “But my publicist already planned a charity event where I’m supposed to auction off paintings signed by me with my likeness,”
“Goodness,” I mutter.
“So, I figured, why not use the same artist? Finding a new one would cause more problems, I’m sure, questions and questions,” he states, “But, I’m glad I decided to go when I did.” With that melancholy ending to his little story, the mood darkens again.
“Yeah,” I add, “me too.”
“Would you mind me asking about…Dante?” he inquires. I wish he’d stop saying his name. The question catches me off guard. Emotions blend inside my stomach like a broken blender; everything melts together until I can’t distinguish happy from sad. Bittersweet. Well, our story went from sweet to bitter.
“What do you want to know?” I pose the question. For a fleeting moment, the idea of taking another bite of the chilly meal crosses my mind, perhaps to sidestep further conversation.
“How did this all start?” he settles on his questions. It's a valid one; it has a lot of answers. Too many.
I shrug in a way meant to convince myself that it wasn’t a big deal, “High school,” I reply, “fell into the same trap that every rebellious teen with shitty parents had. He was an escape, not in a drugs and booze kind of way. I thought he was kind and smart and genuinely wanted to help me get away from my family, but obviously, that was not the case,” I sip on my water. I decide it's better than forcing down one more bite of fish.
Evan doesn’t say anything. Neither does his face. He keeps his eyes on his plate silently, like he is waiting for me to continue. So, I do.
“We were together for nine years before I realized he was insane, and I tried to leave. It’s been a six going on seven-year-long game of cat and mouse since. The police thought I was overreacting at first, but then it became apparent that I wasn’t, and they couldn’t bother to sit outside my house anymore to see if he’d come around….he was effective at making me look stupid,” I stopped talking. My body won’t let me say anything else. Not without crying.
Don’t cry.
I'm trying so hard not to. Evan puts down his fork, eyebrows raised at the incredibly long timeline of my being stalked.
“How’d he find you this time?”
Words fail me, especially when they threaten to bring tears. I'm determined not to shed them in his presence.
“I apologize. You don’t have to answer that,” he remarks.
“No,” I quickly interject.
Always the people pleaser.
“I was just taking a moment,” I utter, blinking back any excess moisture, “Uh, he pretended to be a client to get my address,” I tell him. It sounds stupider than I thought. It seems I inadvertently paved the way for him.
“I suppose you won’t be doing any freelance work again any time soon then, not with him prowling Manhattan,” Evan sneers in disgust. This selfish joy lightens me when he expresses his dislike forhim.It makes me feel right and accepted, “Good thing you have the charity event,” he affirms.
