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SIXTY-TWO
Cari
I’m almost finished when the door buzzer sounds.Confused, I look out the window, trying to gauge the time. It can’t be later than eight o’clock. Brushing my hands against the seat of my pants, I head for the door.
“Yes?” I say, pressing the intercom button.
“Open the door.”
It’s Patrick. He sounds angry.
I stare at the intercom for a second, suddenly unsure what to do next. This afternoon, when I demanded he bring my painting back, it all seemed so clear. Now, it’s like I’m stuck in place.
“I thought you had a dinner,” I say, stalling for time.
“Cancelled it,” he says, his tone impatient, like he just wants to get it over with. “Now, open the goddamn door.”
“I—okay.” I jab my thumb against the lock release before turning the deadbolt on the laundry room door. As soon as I hear the door slam downstairs, I scramble back to the living room, my heart jammed in my throat.
Jesus, what am I doing?
There’s no time to second-guess myself. Within seconds I hear Patrick on the stairs, getting closer. In the laundry room, I hear the door open and close. The deadbolt being re-engaged.
And then he’s here. Patrick is standing in front of me. No suit this time. No cufflinks. Just jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. The same battered jacket he’s worn every winter since I met him. Hair tousled. Jaw set at a wary angle I’ve come to recognize. Green eyes clear and sharp. His fingers are hooked around the canvas frame of the painting I gave him before I left. The first one I ever painted of him. The night we met.
The night I fell in love with him.
He stops in front of me, leaving a few yards of space between us, like he doesn’t want to get too close. Looking around the room, seeing the stack of wrapped paintings I’ve moved out of my old room and parked my suitcase near the front door, his expression hardens. Goes from wary to angry.
“Was this a lie?” he says, holding up his free hand. Only it’s not free. Between his fingers is the card I left with the painting. I know what it says. He doesn’t even have to show me.
I love you too.
My first instinct is to lie. Pretend I have no idea what he’s showing me. Asking me.
For once, I fight those instincts. “Will you let me explain—please?”
His shoulders tighten and he looks away from me, swallows hard like he can’t breathe. “I’m listening.”
Opening my mouth, I’m not surprised when nothing comes out. Okay. I didn’t expect that. I expected a fight. Angry accusations. Instead, he’s willing to listen. To let me explain myself.
Another indication of how much he’s changed since I left.
I open my mouth again. Instead of giving an explanation, I ask for one. “Why did you buy my paintings?” I say, shaking my head before he can give me the same answer he gave me last night. “The real reason, Patrick. I want the truth.”
He tilts his face away, like he can’t look at me head on. “I wasn’t trying to buy you, if that’s what you’re getting at—I just…” He sighs, shaking his head. “You didn’t even ask me how I felt about you selling them.” He makes a sound, deep in this throat. I think it’s a laugh. “You just did it. Like they didn’t matter.” He doesn’t say it but I know what he’s thinking.
Like we didn’t matter.
“I know,” I tell him, shame burning its way across my chest. “I didn’t think—I mean, I should’ve…” I feel like a fish out of water, flopping and struggling against its newfound freedom. Taking a deep breath, I try again. “I didn’t want to sell them.”
“If you didn’t want to sell them, why did you?” he says, tone impatient, voice nearly raised to a shout.
Truth. He deserves the truth. “Because I was ashamed of them.”
He stares at me for a second, mouth slightly open before it snaps shut, slashing a thin, hard line across his face. “Wow...” He tosses the monogrammed notecard on the coffee table. Rubbing his free hand across his mouth, he looks at it like he expects it to come away bloody. “Ashamed? Good to know,” he says, nodding his head. “At least you’re finally being honest with me about the way you feel.” Stepping forward, he leans the painting in his hand, carefully against the stack. “They’re all yours—do what you want with them. Set fire to the whole fucking lot of them if you want to—” he looks up at me, giving a cold smile that tightens the nape of my neck. “just don’t do it in my bathtub this time, okay?”
He turns away, is halfway to the door before I find my voice. “You didn’t answer my question,” I say, expecting him to keep on walking. Instead he stops, forcing me to continue. “Why did you buy my paintings?”