Chapter Eight Declan
Chapter Eight
Declan
I find peace in my studio, even this late at night and even after the day from hell I’ve had. The naked woman on the grass stares back at me as if she’s waiting for me to find the inspiration, but there is none.
The allure in her eyes is gone.
All I see now is the look on Colin’s face as he smiled at his new man.
I don’t understand why I feel so crummy about this. I should be happy for my friend. Maybe part of me feels like shite because I’ve missed out on so much. He fell in love with someone, and I wasn’t there to hear about it. He got engaged, and I had no idea.
I don’t matter to him anymore.
God, I’m pathetic. I’ve been hanging on to this friendship when he clearly hasn’t. He wasn’t even going to invite me to his wedding.
There’s a creak of a floorboard on the stairs followed by the quiet padding of feet as someone tiptoes down the hall toward my studio. Frozen on my stool, staring at the painting, I don’t bother turning around because I know who it is.
“I don’t like it,” he mutters from the doorway.
I let out a huff of a laugh. Not because he hurt my feelings; because with four words—an inside joke plucked from an old memory—he made it feel like us again. And I nearly forgot what that feels like.
“I don’t like it either, Shakespeare,” I say, staring at the painting.
“I told you not to call me that,” he replies, walking into the room.
“Since when do I listen to you?”
As he comes to stand in front of the painting, his head tilts to the side like it always used to, and his eyes scrutinize every brushstroke. In my periphery, I take in the surreal sight of him standing in my studio.
“It’s terrible,” he whispers.
“You’re just saying that,” I say with a shake of my head.
“No, I’m serious,” he replies, glancing toward me. “It’s truly awful.”
The corner of his mouth tugs with a smile, and warmth blossoms in the center of my chest.
“Thanks,” I reply, knowing full well what he really means when he says how bad it is. It’s an old game we used to play. Shelby knows how much I hate taking compliments, so he offers criticism instead. Like he could ever criticize me and mean it.
When he says he hates it, I know it means he loves it.
When he says it’s awful, I know he means it’s exquisite.
It’s quiet again, and my traitor of a mind immediately goes to the last time Colin and I were alone in this room. Seven years ago, a night I will likely never forget.
Just before it all came to an end.
“So…” he says, turning toward me. “You’re not really going through with this, are you?”
The question takes me by surprise. Rotating toward him with a furrow in my brow, I ask, “What are you talking about?”
“You can’t host our wedding, Declan.”
“Why not?” I ask, feeling blindsided.
His shoulders slump away from his ears, and his smile fades into a cold, flat expression. “You know why. Get Anna to do it.”
It’s cute when he tries to be bossy.
“Since when are you the one telling me what to do?” I quip back.
I have a choice here. Give in to his request and take the easy way out of this situation or make things difficult for everyone. And I’ve never been suited to make things easy on anyone.
“Don’t,” he mutters, turning his seething gaze from my face. I can’t believe how quickly we’ve changed the tone in the room from playful old friends to bitter and resentful ex-friends. As if we left this fight lying on the floor and one of us just picked it back up again.
“Don’t what, Shakespeare? You’re the one who invited me to lunch today. You’re the one who showed up at my house to marry your hot American boyfriend.”
“I told you not to call me that!” he barks.
Seeing him fired up only gets me fired up. I’ve always loved Colin’s antagonistic side. I never got to see it very often.
“Why? Because it reminds you that we were once friends? Until you left.”
“Me?” he replies with outrage. “Do you not remember why I left?”
I stand from the stool and pass by him toward the table where my brushes and paints are stored. I’m purposefully not engaging with him. I don’t want him to think he’s getting under my skin or that I’m bothered at all by this situation.
“Honestly? No. I don’t think about it much at all anymore.”
“It is so typical of you to conveniently forget your own blame in any situation. You truly think of no one but yourself. You are such an arsehole, Declan,” he says.
The hint of pain in his words has me faltering as I reach for the black paint.
It hurts Colin to be vexed with me. To call me names. To hate me.
“Don’t act like this is news to you,” I reply flatly.
“You’re right. It’s not. I always knew you were heartless,” he says in a biting tone.
“Right, so you can go ahead and stop flirting with me or whatever this is. It’s pathetic, Shakespeare.”
“We are not flirting, Declan. We’re not fucking either.”
I let out a clipped laugh as I pry open the can of paint and sloppily stir it up, letting the thick black contents splash onto the table and my hands.
“You made that very clear when you brought your fiancé to my house,” I reply with a chuckle.
“I’m not playing games here, Dec,” he says with a serious tilt of his head.
“Och,” I reply with a grunt. “That’s exactly what you’re doing, Colin. But don’t worry. I can play games too.”
“I’m not—” he argues, but something in me snaps. I put a paint-covered hand on his chest to stop him. Abruptly, I shove him back, and in typical Colin fashion, he relents, obeying my push.
“Yes, you are. You’re the one who came up here, thinking you could tell me what I can and cannot do, but that’s not how this works and you know it. You never could stand up for yourself, so why don’t you go back to doing what everyone tells you to? Like the little pushover you are.
“And listen, I don’t care that you think I’m a selfish, ignorant prick.
I don’t care that I hurt your feelings, so now, you want to hurt mine.
And I don’t care that you’re getting married.
I’m happy for you. I am, so why don’t you stop trying to pick this fight just so you can feel something with me again, because it’s not going to happen.
We’re done, remember? We ended things seven years ago, Colin.
I feel nothing for you anymore. You’re just someone I used to know. That’s it.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I have a wedding to host, and you have a man to marry. So why don’t you just leave me the hell alone so we can both get what we want?”
He’s breathing heavily, the sound of it audible in the now-silent room. And I’ll admit, I love the vitriol in his eyes. After so many years of his eager compliance, I love seeing Colin show a little teeth.
It gives me something to tame. And tame him, I will.
My hand slides slowly from the center of his chest up to his throat. Carefully, my inky black fingers encircle it, feeling his pulse against my palm.
For a moment, we’re frozen in this position.
He’s fuming, nostrils flared and chest pumping with rage.
I notice a tremor in his bottom lip, and it brings back so many memories that singe my heart like poison.
Memories of vulnerable nights and passionate reunions.
It really doesn’t matter how much I say I don’t care about Colin anymore when I can still remember how that bottom lip feels against my tongue.
His gaze briefly drops to my mouth, and I wonder if he’s currently reliving the same memories. But then, he roughly shoves me away until I stumble backward, releasing his throat.
“Fuck you, Declan. You are a miserable bastard. You’re just jealous that I’ve found someone who actually cares about me, and you’ll probably die alone.”
“Good,” I bark through gritted teeth.
“Honestly, that’s what you deserve.” There’s a tremble in his voice, and it hurts more than the words themselves.
There is still black paint smeared across Colin’s throat and the front of his blue satin pajamas as he rushes out of my studio. My heart is pounding in my chest as anger courses through my veins.
This is only the first day of this fucking bet, and already it’s a disaster, but I don’t care. I’m going to get through the next six days and finally have this place to myself.
Colin was right about one thing. I am going to die alone.
With no one to disappoint me. No one to abandon me. No one to break my fucking heart.
On that thought, I grab the can of black paint and splash the entirety of it over the painting of the woman on the grass. I watch as the last six months of work fades behind the darkness. It devours every inch of the image, and I try not to feel anything as she slowly disappears.