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It’s my knee-jerk response. It’s what I tell myself to keep the possibility of more at bay. The belief that I’m not worth loving. By Patrick or anyone else. Because the possibility of more carries the possibility of pain. Judgment. Rejection. I see Patrick standing over me, eyes as desperate as they are determined locked on mine.
I love you, Cari.
“Yes.” I breathe the word softly.
“Say it.”
“Patrick loves me.” Saying it out loud, it sounds like a lie. How could he, after everything I’ve done?
“Good,” she says. “Now work on believing it.”
Easier said than done. “Thank you, Miranda,” I say, standing up.
“For what?” she says, her tone telling me that she considers the subject closed. “I want them all,” she says lifting a hand toward the paintings. “I’ll send someone tomorrow to pack and bring them to the gallery.”
“Send someone?” My brow furrows slightly. “That’s my job, remember?”
“Not anymore…” She studies the paintings, tapping her finger against her perfectly painted lips. You’re fired.”
“What?” My newfound confidence wobbles on its foundation. “I thought you weren’t mad about the—that you didn’t…” I swallow the rest of my protest when she cuts me a look.
“You’re going to be far too busy painting full-time to answer my phone and fetch my coffee,” Miranda says, picking up her discarded heels. “Now, put on some pants. I’m going to buy you lunch so I can tell you about how I’m going to make you more rich and famous than my very rich and very famous ex-husband.”