Chapter 36
I’m not sure how I’ll get home. I turn and leave after the handshake, shaking in the elevator. I take a cab home.
For once, there are no tears. I keep taking deep breaths. My whole body is running hot and cold, shivering, like I have a fever.
This is worse than losing my painting.
I thought we were good together—that we complemented each other. Like when he held me back when I was about to rip the forgery off the wall. That warm embrace, enfolding me, saying I’m here for you. You’re not alone out here.
I step out of the cab. The cab driver leans out of his front window and says that he’ll wait to make sure I get into my building.
That small gesture of kindness unlocks me. The tears pour out of me. I run up the stairs to my apartment and curl up on my bed.
My phone beeps and I grab it, hoping that William is texting that he didn’t mean it. His face was so drawn and pale when I agreed to break up.
I should pick a lane and stay in it, no swerving back and forth between artist and singer. Same with men. But then I’ve only dated other artists before. But I should stick to dating other artists if I’m going to be rejected for being an artist.
I stare at the picture of us from the cherry blossom picnic—the one where we are both looking at each other like we can’t believe we found each other. I turn it facedown on the nightstand. He’s probably discarded it already—in some logical, heartless fashion.
His handkerchief falls off the nightstand. I sniff it. It smells of William. The tears slip down my cheek. I use his handkerchief to wipe my face.
But he’s not heartless. He’s such a romantic.
And then I ball it up and throw it across the room.
I’m mad too. I can’t believe he doesn’t want to fight for what we have. I can’t believe he doesn’t believe in us.