Page 101

FIFTY-ONE
Cari
Neither one of us says a word the entire way home.I sit quietly, staring out the window as lights and shadows whip past, jaw set in an angry clench, one hand fisted around the little black clutch I brought along. The other toying with the necklace Patrick gave me last night.
He bought my paintings. All of them.
Any other girl would see it as some grand, romantic gesture. A year ago, I would’ve been one of them. But I spent the better part of a year fighting tooth and nail for my independence—making myself believe that I’m enough. Patrick buying those paintings feels like a slap in the face.
Like a big, fat no you aren’t.
I half expect him to drop me off on the curb and leave, but he doesn’t. He parks and gets out. Circling the front of the car, he pulls my door open and offers me a hand, and I take it because this dress is too short and these heels are too high to make a graceful exit on my own.
As soon as I’m out of the car, I pull my hand free and lift my chin. “Thank you,” I say because my mother raised me to have manners.
“You’re welcome,” he answers, his tone thick with sarcasm.
Rather than start screaming in the street, I wait quietly for him to unlock the security door and pull it open, motioning me inside. As soon as I’m in, I turn, reaching for the keys. All I want is for him to leave so I can change my clothes and go to bed.
He makes it clear I won’t be getting what I want anytime soon when he palms the keys and slams the door shut behind us both. Without explanation, he strides down the hallway, taking the stairs, two at a time, leaving me little choice but to follow.
When I get to the top of the stairs, I find the door standing wide open. Slamming it shut, I stomp my way through the laundry room, stopping short when I spot him in the kitchen. He’s got his jacket unbuttoned, tie yanked loose, top button on his collar undone. Leaning against the counter, he’s drinking a bottle of water, and it’s so normal, so Patrick, that for a moment, it’s like the last year and a half never happened.
But it did happen. All of it.
And for better or worse, it’s changed us both.
Maybe too much.
On the counter he’s leaning against, I see the tulips he brought me, and I have this distinct feeling of being caught in the past while being unceremoniously shoved into an unknown future. I don’t like the way it feels. Like things are happening and changing and if I don’t move fast enough, hold on tight enough, I’m going to be left behind.
“I’d like you to leave,” I say, unbuttoning my coat.
“No.”
No. The word, delivered in a conversational tone, stops me short. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me just fine.” He straightens himself from his slouch and turns just enough to set his half-drained water bottle on the counter. “But I’ll say it again—no. No. I’m not leaving. No. You’re not leaving.” He looks at me, his green gaze steady and unwavering. “Not this time.”
That’s when I realize he’s just as angry as I am.
Maybe even angrier.
“When I asked you what you bought with the money from Sara’s father, you said stuff.” I throw my arms up, shaking my head. “Stuff!”
“So?”
“So?” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “So, you had no right, Patrick.”
“I had the money,” he says, shrugging casually before tipping his water bottle to his mouth again. “They were for sale.” He looks at me, his jaw tight. “That gave me the right.”
“Those were my paintings,” I shout. “They were mine.”
“They weren’t yours,” he shoots back. “You got rid of them.”
My mouth hangs open for a moment, no sound coming out. How can I argue with that? To anyone looking at the situation from the outside, that’s exactly how it would look. Because when you don’t want something, that’s what you do. You sell it. Get rid of it.
“I didn’t need you to buy them,” I say, totally ignoring what he just said. “I’m an artist, and a damn good one. I can make it on my own. I don’t need you to rescue me.”