Page 60 of Traitor
Chapter Twenty-Three
Peyton
I throwmyself into my art so I don’t have to think about anything else.
Not the fact that Ford dumped me. Not the fact that it hurts so damn much.
Certainly not why I care about one or the other.
As the days pass, the investigation continues. I tell myself I’m not waiting to hear from Ford, but every time my phone rings with a call or text, or I hear a car out on the gravel, I’m disappointed when it’s not him.
Alice is busy arranging the funeral and dealing with the police, so there’s no telling when she’ll open Splatters back up. In the meantime, I’ve been job hunting, hoping she’ll give me a break on rent, but not wanting to ask considering the circumstances. I thought I had my life figured out when I drove into town on a mission. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
So in between job hunting and waiting for news about the investigation, I lock myself away in my spare room and bleed onto the canvas.
In art, there are no one’s expectations but my own. Well, at least until it’s out of my hands. I can create purely to please, amuse, or distract myself. I let it consume me to the point where days pass and I pay no mind. The lamps I set up in the spare room create a casino-like effect where I don’t notice the sun rising or falling. All I see is the finished product in my mind’s eye and the steps I must take to get there.
I come to, blinking blearily at my surroundings, and realize the stench that’s distracting me isn’t the noxious smell of paints, it’s me. With a grimace, I wash my brushes and store the painting for later, even though my fingers are itching to dive back in. A refreshing shower, some food, and a good glass of wine will help me clear my head of the distractions.
A trail of clothes mark my journey to the shower and pile on the tile floor at the base of the sink. Arms too sore from the constant back-and-forth of angry brushstrokes, I leave the clothes right where they lay to deal with later. The hot spray sluices over my shoulders and I moan in relief. My aching muscles never make themselves known after a long stint in front of the easel, until I manage to pull myself from the creative trance. Boy, are they screaming at me.
The paint isn’t the only thing the hot sluicing water washes away. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. But no matter how many showers I take, no matter how hard I scrub my skin clean, nothing can take away the throbbing hurt at the center of my chest.
Now that my mind isn’t preoccupied with the canvas, it’s free to wander. To worry. To obsess.
Purposefully, I uncap the shampoo and focus on spreading the solution over my hair and lathering it into suds. Over the years I’ve learned I can control my anxiety in one of three ways: art, sex, or routine.
Everything in my life revolves around keeping the memories, and the accompanying stress, at bay. When I can’t paint, and when obsessing about the order in which I conduct my life doesn’t even help, sex is my go-to.
Until Ford.
Now, I can’t think of anything but him, and I wonder if sex will ever be the same without those filthy, sweet words in my ear as I go over the edge.
As I carefully spread cream over my legs, I consider maybe men in general are more trouble than they’re worth. Granted, I don’t normally choose men like Ford. My typical type is overworked, slightly younger, and more than happy to satisfy my need for no strings.
Ford, however, didn’t fit any of that criteria.
And look where that got me.
“I can’t thankyou enough for coming in,” Alice says, concern knitting her brow. Behind her the parents of today’s birthday girl hover with matching nervous expressions.
“It’s no problem, Alice.” I hadn’t expected the call, but I was grateful. Money was already tight and I wanted to do something, anything, to help. “Are you sure you don’t want to go home? Be with your husband. I can take care of things here or we can call in Carrie.”
After a week of painting and being cooped up, I was starting to get antsy. Alice’s husband, Jim, had come along with her and he sat, hovering on the edges, his face taut with worry. The other manager, Carrie, had offered, but Alice turned her down. There were three birthday parties back-to-back today and after the funeral, Alice had called me in to help because she didn’t want to cancel on the kids.
“Can we have the canvases now?” the mother asks.
I force a smile. “Of course, let me run and get those.”
Alice follows me back to the stockroom and I glance at her over my shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t want to go home?” I repeat. “I know how annoying it is to get asked that all the time, believe me when my parents died, I got enough concern to last a lifetime. I want you to know I’m here if you need anything at all.”
Her eyes are red and still swollen. No amount of makeup can cover the dark shadows underneath. The smile she works up trembles a little, and her hands shake when she moves to help me grab supplies for the parties. “Now, Peyton I don’t want to get upset with you, but if one more person asks me if I’m sure that I’m okay, I may scream. We’ve got work to do, and honestly, being busy will help me more than anything else.”
I pile canvases on my arm and extend them to her. “Well then, we had better get back to work before my boss fires me.”
She gives me a thin smile. “We’d better get these to those children before they cause a riot. We’ll need twelve of those canvases now. And don’t forget the party favors, okay?”
“Right behind you,” I tell her as I gather the supplies.