Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Damien
Our footsteps echoed against the marble floor as we moved from one exhibit to the next. The Metropolitan Museum of Art bustled with the usual Saturday afternoon crowd. Still, I barely noticed the other people around as I followed Willa through the Greek and Roman sculpture gallery, figures frozen in poses of power. I walked over to a weathered bronze statue and studied it.
“Interesting choice, Willa said, standing beside me. “Most people gravitate toward Aphrodite over there.”
“I prefer the imperfect ones,” I said, gazing at the centuries-old statue. They feel more—honest.”
“Is that how you feel about people?” she asked, glancing at me.
My eyes caught hers, and the corners of my mouth lifted. “I don’t think anyone in this world is perfect. Perfect is an illusion, a facade people try to be but can’t achieve such an unattainable thing.”
After leaving the museum, we went to Central Park. Climbing out of the sedan, I extended my hand to help her out of the car, but I didn’t let go of it this time. I’d contemplated holding her hand in the museum, but didn’t know why I didn’t.
The air was warm, flowers were in bloom, and the smell of hot dogs filtered through the air as we approached the vendor’s cart and stood in line.
“What can I get you two?” the vendor asked.
“Two with everything,” I said, pulling out my wallet.
“Except no onions on mine,” Willa said.
“I’ve seen you eat onions.” I smirked.
“I just don’t like them on a hot dog.”
We found a bench overlooking the pond, where families gathered with their remote-control boats, gliding across the water’s surface. A couple was walking by, arguing, and stopped in front of us.
“Just tell me the fucking truth for once in your life, Dean. Did you sleep with her?”
“Keep your damn voice down, Maggie. Yes, I did. There.” He held out his arms. “Are you happy now?”
“How could you do this to me? To us?”
“We’re going in different directions, Maggie, and you know it.” He pointed at her and then walked away. She chased after him.
I glanced at Willa. “Well, that was awkward.”
“Why do guys always say that?”
“Say what?” I asked.
“We’re going in different directions. That’s what my ex said to me. It’s just an excuse to avoid telling the other person the real truth.”
“I don’t know. I think people’s lives go in different directions at some point.”
“I agree. But as a couple, you should talk about it and figure it out instead of just running away. Do you tell women that?” Her brow arched.
I stared into her eyes, which demanded to know the truth.
“No. When I stop seeing a woman, I tell her she knew it wouldn’t be long-term from the start.”
“So, you use women until you get bored and then toss them to the side and find another piece of meat to chew on for a while?”
“No.” My brows furrowed.
“You can be truthful. I won’t judge you.” A smirk danced on her lips, challenging me to be honest.
“I don’t do relationships. I usually see a woman for about a month and then move on. It’s a boredom thing.”
“Really?” Her head cocked. “You get bored that fast?”
“Yeah. I do.” I finished my hot dog.
“Then I guess it’s good that we’re getting this marriage annulled soon. I would hate for you to get bored with me. But I think I know your real problem, and I don’t think boredom is it.”
“Enlighten me.” I smiled.
“It’s not that you’re bored. It’s that you’re afraid of being known, really known. Because once someone sees you—all of you—they might decide you’re not enough. And that would confirm everything you secretly suspect about yourself.”
I opened my mouth to object, but she continued talking.
“You cultivate these brief relationships or whatever you want to call them because they’re safe. No one gets close enough to see past the charming facade you’ve perfected. Your mother died when you were very young, your father never remarried, and you hadn’t been exposed to what a real loving relationship looks like outside of your family.”
“That’s quite a psychological profile you’ve created. Did you lie and really major in psychology at NYU, or is psychoanalysis just a hobby of yours? And you’re right. My father never did remarry because he was too busy building his empire to bother with something as trivial as emotional connections.”
“You honestly think emotional connections are trivial?” she asked.
“I do. They’re nothing but a distraction—chemical reactions that are temporary and inconsequential.” I stared at two ducks, one male, one female, gliding across the water.
“They look like they’re in love.” Willa pointed to the ducks.
“They bond for practical reasons, Willa. For survival and reproduction.”
“But look how they swim together. That right there is devotion to each other.”
My brows furrowed as I stared at the ducks.
“Devotion?” I chuckled. “Did you know that when a mate dies, the surviving duck finds a replacement within days. There’s no mourning, no visits to the spot where they once nested together, nothing. They just move along and find a new mate as if the other never existed.”
“My gosh, Damien Blackwood. I had no idea you were a duck emotional expert. So, basically, you’re calling yourself a duck?”
I was done with this conversation.
“We’re done talking about relationships and ducks. How the hell did we even get on the subject of ducks? Oh, that’s right. You pointed them out because you think human and duck relationships are the same.”
“That is not true!” She smacked my arm, and I chuckled.
“Imagine a world where nobody broke up, ever, or went in different directions. You’d be out of the breakup box business.” I smirked. “Then what would you do? I suppose you could go back to school and get a degree in psychology since you like to psychoanalyze people.”
“You know what, Damien?” She stood from the bench with a bit of mustard on her chin. “You’re a jerk. I can see why you’re single.” She began to walk away.
I stood, followed her, and gripped her arm, turning her around and wiping the mustard off her chin with my thumb.
“That mustard was driving me nuts. And don’t forget, I’m not single anymore.”
“You’re only not single on paper at the moment. But every other part of you is.”
“Where is all of this coming from?” I frowned. “You know what? Fine. When I was sixteen, my father confessed to me that my mother had an affair during their marriage. He’d found the letters from her lover tucked away in a box in the closet. He hired an attorney and was filing for divorce when she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He never filed, and he never told her that he knew. He carried that secret with him all those years until he finally told me. It was enough to shatter everything I thought I knew. Was her love for him even real? I always thought my father became a different version of himself. Angry one minute and completely shut down the next. It was because of what my mother did. She betrayed and hurt him and left him feeling like their love meant nothing. So, yes, emotional connections are trivial to me. My father spent his entire life in a relationship that was fundamentally false. Every memory was tainted, and every sacrifice he made was for nothing. It was never enough. She had to seek happiness in the arms of another man.”
“I’m sorry, Damien.” She reached up and hugged me. After breaking our embrace, she hooked her arm around mine as we walked through Central Park.
I’d never told anyone, not even Charlie, what I told Willa, for it was a private piece of my life. For the first time in my life, I opened up to someone other than my father with something so personal. That had to count for something, right?