Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ROSE
Some days it’s really hard to stay positive.
It all started out okay.
First, Ian picked me up and we had breakfast together before he had to head in to the gym. We went to Rise and Shine, which is a cozy diner that serves breakfast all day and has muffins that are better than the ones from my favorite bakery in the city. While we were there, we ran into at least ten people Ian knows, including smoothie-aficionado Mrs. Plimpton.
She was ordering a smoothie, of course, and Ian whispered, “Just wait. She’ll come over to say something about how I’m losing business by not offering them at the gym.”
Ian was half right. Mrs. Plimpton did come over to talk to us. But she was much more interested in his new girlfriend than talking about smoothies. I got a little nervous when she pinned me with this examining gaze and stated, “So, you’re the artist from the city.”
Ian’s arm tightened around me protectively, and tension laced his tone as he replied, “Rose is much more than that?—”
But Mrs. Plimpton barreled right over him. Her expression softened, and she continued, “I’m so sorry to hear about what happened to you, dear. And I’ve seen your paintings. They’re wonderful. If there’s anything you need, you have Ian call me.” Glancing at him, she added, “He’s a good man. He’ll take care of you.”
After she left, Ian was nonplussed. “She’s never said that about me. And that’s the nicest I’ve ever heard her.”
“She seemed nice,” I agreed. “Maybe you should get the smoothies.”
So the morning was going well. Ian dropped me off at home with the promise of coming back after work so we could have dinner and watch a movie together. “We could get pizza and watch that new horror movie on Netflix,” Ian suggested hopefully. “It’s supposed to be really scary.”
While I’m not a huge horror fan, there’s something appealing about the idea of cuddling into Ian’s arms at the scary parts and hiding my face in his chest. So I agreed, saying, “Okay. But I want to make something for dinner this time. Ari gave me this pizza casserole recipe that sounds really good. And it should be easy to make, too.”
I could tell Ian wanted to argue; insist that I let him get food or cook instead, but he used admirable restraint considering how protective I’ve discovered him to be. He just said, “Okay, hun. Be careful. And I’m sure it’ll be delicious.”
Hopefully . Ari promised the recipe was impossible to mess up, but I’m not entirely sure about it. That’s why I’m keeping a fire extinguisher on hand, and I have a frozen lasagna Thea gave me as a backup.
I have it all planned. I’m going to make a nice dinner, with wine and cannolis for dessert, we’ll watch the movie snuggled on my loveseat, kissing and touching each other, and then…
Then I want to spend the night with him.
Not here, since Ian has to take care of Baxter, but we can drive over to his place after the movie. We can sit on the hammock and watch the stars and then head inside to his giant king-sized bed. And then we can do all the things I’ve been fantasizing about for weeks.
I’ve been ready ever since that day at the Food Fest, but there’s always been some reason not to. Ian had to volunteer at the station. I fell asleep in the car coming back from Ari and Cash’s house after a game night ran late. There was an early-morning meeting at the gym.
And of course, the nights when I just chickened out. It’s not that I haven’t had sex, or that I’m afraid of saying what I want, it’s just… with Ian, the stakes just feel so much higher. He’s the first man I can see a real future with.
But I want this—want to make love to Ian—and I’m not letting my nerves or the crappiness of this afternoon ruin it.
And it was truly crappy.
First, the appointment with my doctor. It was just a checkup, since my cast isn’t due to come off for at least another three weeks. But I was hoping to hear something promising, like, your hand is healing perfectly or you should have full use of your hand once it’s healed.
Overly optimistic? Maybe. But I couldn’t help hoping.
Then solemn-faced Dr. Yates gave me the more depressing reality. “There are still some misalignments,” he explained gently as I bit back tears. “We may have to perform surgery again once the cast is off.”
“Okay.” My stomach twisted in knots. “And after that? Will I get full use of my hand back?”
Then I got the answer I’d been dreading for weeks. His face creased in apology, and he said, “It’s likely you’ll regain most of your mobility with physical therapy. But I’m not confident that you’ll get back to where you used to be. I’m sorry.”
At that point, I wished I’d asked Ian to come with me instead of taking an Uber by myself. He would have come with me if I’d asked, but I didn’t want to burden him with my problems again.
Even though Ian’s been nothing but supportive, I don’t want it to always be about me. I want him to feel like he can talk to me about his problems, like the other night when a call went badly and the patient didn’t make it. Ian knew the guy—he was a regular at the gym—and while he tried to hide it, I could tell Ian was really upset.
“I never would have guessed,” he told me that night over the phone. He’d texted me late, asking if I could talk, and I immediately got up and called him. “Tom always seemed so healthy. And he was only sixty. I can’t believe he had a heart attack.”
My heart hurt for Ian, and as we talked, I thought about all the other instances when a call didn’t end up the way they hoped. So I want him to know he can always come to me without having to worry if his girlfriend is struggling with yet another issue of her own.
Still. Sitting in the exam room blinking back tears, I wished Ian was with me.
I thought the day would get better after that. Potentially career-ending news was enough for one day, right?
Wrong.
Avery called and she officially canceled my show. “I’m sorry,” she told me. “But I have to think about profits or I won’t stay open. I need a full exhibition, guaranteed. With your injury… do you really think you can have the paintings done in time?”
No. I didn’t. I don’t. Not if I’m being honest.
“Maybe I can get some of your work into a Christmas exhibition,” Avery offered. “It would only be two or three paintings, but it’s something. Until you’re all healed and back at it again. Then we’ll reschedule your full show.”
It's hard not to cry whenever I think about it. Not just the loss of money and sharing paintings I’ve spent hundreds of hours on, but it’s my passion. The thing I love to do. Creating something new and escaping into it, pouring myself into each painting…
And now it could be gone. If my hand doesn’t heal correctly, I won’t be able to paint like I used to. Or maybe not at all.
It’s crushing. Like weighted blankets are being piled on me, one after another.
If not for Ian…
And my new friends in Sleepy Hollow.
And this town that’s embraced me.
So it’s not all bad.
I did get a bit of good news; the head of the art department at NYU called to let me know they have two courses available for me to teach for the fall semester. Apparently, the previous instructor took a leave of absence, which left the position open for me.
It’s not what I love to do, but I’ll take the work gladly. Especially considering the uncertainty of my finances. Now that my show in Manhattan is officially off, I’ll have to start searching for someone else to sell my work, and there’s no guarantee they will. I’d been planning on the income from the November show, and now that I don’t have it…
I’m just a little nervous. It’s not that I’m broke, or close to it. But I need a regular income, and if painting is out…
Ugh.
It’ll be okay. I’ll figure it out.
Maybe I’ll find a job in Sleepy Hollow; I could teach some art classes, wait tables like I used to, or maybe there’s an opening for an assistant at the library. And if things keep going well with Ian and I, we could live together in his cute little house, and we could get another dog, and?—
My phone chimes, and I snatch it up, expecting to see Ian’s name on the screen. Or Ari. Or Thea. Or Willow, who I met at the Food Fest and was thrilled to hear I’m going to join them for trivia.
Unfortunately, it’s none of them.
It’s Diem, who I’d generously refer to as an acquaintance, and definitely not a friend.
Rosalyn! It was so terrible to hear what happened to you. I would have reached out sooner, but I’ve just been so busy. Shows and such. You understand!
I bare my teeth at the phone. I’ve known Diem since we were in art school together at RISD, and she knows I prefer to be called Rose. Also, she never texts me. I see her at events and shows, we exchange polite small talk, and she gives me compliments that always sound like thinly veiled insults.
Like at my first show in Manhattan, when Diem told me, “That new landscape over there, the one with the sunset? It’s lovely, really. So simple. Almost primitive in technique. It reminds me of those paintings you did during freshman year of college.”
It wasn't. And there was no similarity. But that’s the kind of person Diem is. She’ll never be happy for someone else’s success, and she’s endlessly jealous of mine.
I have a thought of ignoring her message, but I’m mildly curious to find out what she wants. The details of my injury? To share some illicit art-world gossip? To ask me to put in a good word for her somewhere? So I type a quick reply.
Thanks. It’s no problem. How are you?
Three dots blink for several seconds.
Oh, I’m wonderful! Thank you for asking. I just finished the fifth in a new series, all in oil. I’m calling it The Tiny Apple because it represents tiny bits of the city. One is a sewer grate, another is a discarded hot dog. They’re just so poignant.
I nearly dislocate my eyeballs from rolling them so hard. A sewer? Poignant? I can’t wait to tell Ian about this. He’ll be on the floor laughing.
But honestly, the art world is strange sometimes. I bet someone will buy them, no matter how odd they are. But that’s not what I’m going to say to Diem, even though she annoys the crap out of me. Instead, I go for polite and supportive.
That sounds great! It sounds like things are going well.
This time her reply takes longer, like she’s taking a long time to type it.
They are! But that’s why I wanted to text you. Just to give you a heads up. Since your show at the Williston Gallery is off, they had an opening. I’m going to be showing there in November instead. So at least there’s a silver lining to what happened.
Oh.
This, I wasn’t expecting. And it feels like I’ve been punched in the stomach. Avery never mentioned this when we spoke. Did it just happen?
Does it matter? The outcome is the same. Awful Diem is going to be exhibiting her work, and I’m not.
Another text comes in.
I hope this doesn’t upset you. I just found out and wanted you to know immediately. I hope it’s okay that I told you.
A tiny growl of frustration and anger slips out. Of course she wanted me to know right away. I bet Diem couldn’t wait to rub it in.
The tears I’ve been battling all day are about to spring free.
No. Ian is coming over, we’re going to have a nice night, and I’m not letting all this crap ruin it. So I grit my teeth and tap out a quick response.
It’s fine. Congratulations. I hope it goes well.
Then I set my phone down on the coffee table instead of throwing it like I really want to. After a minute of breathing deeply—this box breathing technique Ian showed me when I told him about how strange noises during the night make me anxious—I’m much calmer and the tears are reined in again.
There’s no reply from Diem, thankfully, so turn my focus to my plans for the rest of the evening.
Casserole prepped and ready to go in the oven? Check.
Apartment freshly dusted and vacuumed? Check.
Cannolis and a bottle of Pinot Grigio chilling in the fridge? Check and check.
All I have to do now is get changed into the new dress I picked up with Thea the other day. It’s a cute sundress in a greenish shade that complements my eyes, and it even makes my admittedly small breasts look a bit bigger. “Ian will love you in that,” Thea enthused when I came out of the dressing room. “You look amazing.”
Thinking about Ian’s admiring gaze makes me feel a little better.
He’s supposed to be here soon—he usually comes over around six, but today they had a staff meeting so he won’t be here until seven. It’s only ten minutes to, so I hurry into the bedroom to put on my dress, lingering in front of the mirror to inspect my breasts.
And yes. They do look a little bigger in this. So that's another good thing.
I decide to check the kitchen again, making sure everything is all ready. I tried to prep as much as possible during the day, so it’ll be easier once Ian is here. One-handed food prep is still hard, so having everything set out ahead of time will make it a lot easier.
While I’m fussing with everything, I notice the trash needs to be taken out. I chopped up onions for the casserole earlier, and now the trash has a distinctly pungent smell. Definitely not the aroma I want for our romantic dinner.
A minute later, I’m trying to maneuver the bag into the trash can one-handed and discovering it’s a lot heavier to lift than I expected. Carrying it normally is one thing, but hoisting it high enough to toss into the tall can? Not so easy.
When a hand touches my shoulder, I’m not even concerned.
I’m sure it’s Ian. He saw me out back, and of course, he came over to help.
Then another hand clamps over my mouth, and I know I was wrong.
No .
This can’t be happening again.
The grip is rough and punishing. Big fingers dig painfully into my skin.
I’m grabbed, yanked back, a strong arm locked around my chest.
God, no.
A voice by my ear hisses, “Don’t fucking move. Or I’ll kill you.”
My heart stops.
Terror freezes my lungs.
No no no no no .
The man—is it the same man who hurt me, oh, please no—drags me toward the detached garage, and my brain is screaming, please no, please no, not again.
His meaty hand stifles my screams.
I try to kick at him, but he just laughs darkly at me. Then he spins me around and slams me into the side of the garage.
The impact is so powerful the wall shakes, and all the air whooshes out of my lungs.
As I’m gasping for breath, his hand claps back over my mouth, and it feels like I’m suffocating.
But now I can see him.
Not the same man. But just as menacing.
Hat pulled down low. Another gaiter. Dark eyes with a malevolent gaze.
“This is going to be fun,” he purrs, and he grabs at my breast, pinching and twisting.
Where are my neighbors? Why isn’t anyone around to see this? To help?
But there’s a fence around the property. And the guy who lives on the other side of the house is away for the summer, working at some resort or something.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
The man leans closer and licks my face. Bile burns the back of my throat.
Panic threatens to take over.
But no. Ian taught me things. Skills. I’m not helpless here.
My terrified mind tries to sort through everything. Eye strike. Throat punch. Hammer strike. Groin kick.
Yes.
This could work, or I could make this man incredibly angry.
But I try it anyway.
And I punch him in the throat.
It’s weak—I’m still not as coordinated with my left hand—but it does something.
The man gags, and his grip on me loosens. He wheezes, “You fucking bitch!”
I raise my knee and aim it at his groin.
But before I make contact, the man is ripped away from me.
Ian!
His features are like stone, his eyes filled with incandescent rage.
Then Ian attacks.
His arms are a blur.
A flurry of kicks sends my attacker to the ground.
A series of wicked strikes leaves him groaning in pain.
Ian pins him down and snarls, “You’re lucky I don’t want her to see this. Or I’d fucking kill you.”
Then Ian works his face into a carefully calm expression and looks over at me. His voice is rough but gentle. “Rose. Can you get some rope out of the garage? Or something to tie him up with?”
I want to, but my body doesn’t seem to be working. It doesn’t feel like my own.
“Rose, honey. I know.” Ian holds my gaze. “It’s scary. If you can’t, it’s okay.”
“I can.” It’s barely a whisper. “I’ll do it.”
And I force myself to move, to search through the garage until I find a wad of bungee cords, and I hand them to Ian with shaking hands.
Once my attacker is fully restrained—he’s semi-conscious, groaning and whimpering—Ian whips out his phone and calls 911.
As he gives information to the dispatcher, he pulls me into his chest, still glaring daggers at the man on the ground.
Everything feels so surreal.
My heart is still jackhammering, my face is starting to hurt, and I can’t stop shaking.
“Rose, hun.” Ian’s off the phone, and he looks at me with a mix of pain and worry. “Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”
“Um.” My brain doesn’t seem to want to communicate with my mouth. “I’m okay.”
Not really. Not at all.
“Ah honey.” He brushes his fingers lightly across my jaw. “I’m so sorry.”
I don’t trust myself to say anything else without bursting into hysterical tears, so I just burrow my face into his chest instead. Arms snaking around his waist, I pull myself as close to Ian as I can.
If I could get inside him, I would.
I can’t believe this happened again.
“It’s going to be okay,” Ian croons, as the sound of sirens gets closer.
His arms come around me, strong and comforting. They’re the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
Once could be random. But twice?
Who wants to hurt me? Why?