Chapter 15 Vince
Vince
The afternoon stretches long and heavy, the kind of heat that makes everything feel sluggish and thick. I’ve been avoiding the main resort areas since my walk with Holly this morning, her words still churning in my head like a storm I can’t outrun.
A sharp knock on my door breaks through my spiraling thoughts. I open it to find George, already dressed in a crisp polo and khakis, his hair still damp from the shower.
“You coming or what? We’re supposed to meet Trevor and his family in fifteen.” He checks his watch.
“Yeah, I’ll be there.”
George studies my face. “You good, man?”
“Yeah, all good.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. “Right. Fifteen minutes.”
After he leaves, I head for the shower, hoping the cold water will wash away some of the tension that’s been building up within me since breakfast. Walking past the lobby, I hear voices from the balcony near Adrian’s suite.
The words are muffled through the sliding glass doors, but I catch fragments. Adrian’s voice, tense and frustrated. Then another voice, tinny through what must be a phone speaker.
I shouldn’t listen. I know I shouldn’t. But something about Adrian’s tone makes me freeze.
“I understand the semi-urgency, Matheo. I know the gallery is pushing through their months-long exhibit with another artist, so we might lose our window. Yes, I know how long this project has been stalled.”
A pause. The other voice, sharper now, though I can’t make out the exact words.
“Look, I’ve found a muse again, okay? I can finish the pieces now. The inspiration is there.” Adrian’s voice is flat and clinical, like he’s discussing a business transaction. “I just need a few more days to work with the subject matter.”
My stomach drops.
“No, it’s not complicated. It’s just…he’s perfect for what I need.”
Subject matter. The words hit like a physical blow.
“Matheo, listen to me. After this wedding is over, after this other gig I’m doing, I’ll be back in L.A.
by next week. I can have the gallery pieces ready for review by the end of six to eight weeks, tops.
This is exactly what we’ve been waiting for, right?
So, can you please lay off the almost daily phone calls and texts? ”
The conversation continues, but I can’t hear it anymore over the roaring in my ears. I stumble backward from the balcony door, Adrian’s words echoing in my head.
Back to L.A., like nothing happened, like these past few days meant nothing. Like I’m just a convenient tool who happens to be where he’s working.
My hands shake as I push them into my pockets, trying to clench and unclench the pressure in my chest away. Everything Holly said this morning takes on a different meaning now. Adrian’s creative block, his sudden burst of inspiration, the constant sketching.
I’m just a means to an end, a way for him to create his art. Now the incident at the hotel with the football scout makes a little more sense.
The meeting with Trevor’s family is supposed to be a distraction, but I might as well be furniture for all the talking I do.
They’re warm, loud in that easy Australian way, trading stories about Trevor’s childhood and laughing at inside jokes I’ll never catch.
Every so often, someone tosses a question my way about football, but it’s clear they’re humoring me.
They’re a rugby crowd, through and through, and my sport feels like the distant cousin they only acknowledge out of politeness.
But I can’t focus on any of it. Every laugh feels forced, every response automatic and hollow.
When we finish around seven, I find Holly at the resort bar where she’s been having drinks with some of Becca’s bridesmaids and cousins. She’s relaxed and laughing, but her expression sobers when she sees me approach.
“Vince? Are you alright? What’s wrong?”
I pull her aside to a quieter corner of the bar. “How long has Adrian been looking for a muse?”
The question catches her off guard. “What?”
“You said he lost his inspiration years ago. How has he been trying to find it again?”
Holly sets down her drink, suddenly more alert. “Why are you asking?”
“Just answer me, Holly. Please.”
She studies my face for a long moment. “There were a few people over the years. He’d get excited about someone, think maybe they’d light a spark in his work, but it never held.
It wasn’t about love, not really; it’s more like reaching for a shadow of something he’d already lost. Ever since he lost his true muse, nothing else has given him the same fire.
The inspiration was there, sometimes, but it was never enough to carry him the way it once did. ”
She may have said a dozen things, but my mind latches onto only one. “A few people.” My voice sounds hollow, even to my own ears.
“Vince, what’s this about?”
“He told his manager he found his muse, that he’s perfect for what he needs.” The words taste bitter. “That he’ll be back in L.A. next week because he’ll have the material he needs.”
Holly’s face goes pale. “You heard him talking to Matheo like that?”
“So you knew.” It’s not a question.
“I knew he’s been getting calls from his manager, yes. But Vince, you don’t understand…”
“I understand perfectly.” I turn to leave, but she grabs my arm.
“I’m sorry if I’m overstepping, Vince.” She shifts off her seat, turning toward me, her tone careful like she wants to make sure I don’t twist her words.
“Adrian had sketches of you in art school. I see your sketches around the apartment once in a while. Parts of you, half your face, nothing really resembling the totality of you. He’s like a lost soul trying to hold on to something, to capture its entirety, not just the body, but… his muse."
The final piece clicks into place, and it’s worse than I imagined. “So this whole time, at school, when we were friends…I was just a muse, and he needed to get close to me.”
“That’s not how it was.”
“It sounds like I’ve been his inspiration project since we were eighteen.”
“Vince, you need to talk to Adrian…”
“No.” I gently pull free from her grasp, but composure is the last thing I feel inside. “I think I’ve heard enough.”
I leave and walk straight to Adrian’s suite. My heart pounds against my ribs as I knock on his door, each beat echoing the phrase that’s been torturing me all evening, perfect for what he needs.
Adrian opens the door in sweatpants and a paint-stained t-shirt, a pencil still tucked behind his ear. His face lights up when he sees me, and that makes it worse somehow. That genuine happiness, that relief in his eyes like he’s been waiting for me to come to him.
“Vince! Hey, I was just—”
“Were you going to tell me?” I push past him into the suite, my skin already burning from just being near him. “Or were you planning to just disappear back to L.A. when this is over?”
The light in his eyes dims, confusion replacing the warmth. “Tell you what?”
“That everything between us is just about your art. That I exist only to spark your inspiration.”
Adrian closes the door slowly, the soft click echoing in the suddenly suffocating room. “What are you talking about?”
I go silent for a while, thinking I might be getting too carried away, giving him the benefit of the doubt.
But I need to hear it to hurt enough, enough for me to let things go.
Again. “I overheard your phone call with your manager. About how you found what you needed to finally finish your pieces.”
The blood drains from Adrian’s face so fast I think he might collapse. “Vince, that’s not…”
“Not what? How it sounded? Because to me, it sounded like you’ve been shopping around for inspiration, and I happened to fit the bill.”
“Vince, stop. You need to listen to me.” Adrian runs both hands through his hair, and I can see the panic building in his movements. “I have to say it that way for Matheo to understand I have it under control. You don’t understand the context…”
“Then explain it to me.” I step closer, backing him toward the center of the room. The air grows thick with tension and unspoken history. “Explain how this isn’t exactly what it looks like.”
I’m close enough now that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin and see the way his chest rises and falls with each ragged breath. The urge to touch him makes my hands tremble, but the betrayal burns hotter than the desire.
“My art…yes, it’s important to me. It’s my career, my life’s work, but you…” Adrian’s voice breaks, his eyes searching mine desperately. “You have to know you’re more than that. You have to know what you mean to me.”
I think back to the days and years that came before. I think back to the hurt, the pain I had to bury deep, and I wonder how Adrian managed to make me forget all those years of moving on just by randomly showing up as a stripper at my best friend’s fucking bachelor party.
“Do I? Because Holly told me about the sketches. About how you’ve been looking for inspiration for years.” The words come out sharp, cutting. “Was I just practice back then in high school?”
“No!” The word comes out broken, desperate. “That’s not what this is. That’s not what you are.”
“Then what am I, Adrian?” My voice cracks on his name, and I hate how desperate I sound. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you reconnected with me, got what you needed, and soon you’ll be ready to go back to your real life.”
“My real life?” Adrian’s voice rises, breaking completely.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? This is real. This is the only real thing I’ve had in years.
Stumbling into your hotel suite that night was the best fucking thing that’s happened to me in years.
I’ve never been more grateful for a mistake. ”
The confession should stop me and make me reach for him, but I can’t let myself believe it. Not when I know how this ends, not when I’ve been here before.