Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Josie
My new art studio costs nearly as much as my share of the apartment, but the north-facing windows bathe the space in perfect light that makes even my idle brushstrokes look semi-professional. I've arranged everything with unusual precision—paints organized by color, brushes by size, canvases stacked against the wall like well-behaved children. The space is exactly what I've always dreamed of. Perfect. Pristine. Completely uninspiring. I've been staring at the same blank canvas for three hours, my mind replaying Elliot's voice saying "This was never real" on an endless, torturous loop. For someone who supposedly never experienced anything genuine with me, he delivered that final lie with devastating conviction.
Two weeks since our confrontation in his office. Two weeks of responsible adult behavior—paying off debts, catching up on student loans, putting down deposits on this studio—and I should be ecstatic. Finally, after years of financial tightrope-walking, I have breathing room. Security. The ability to focus on my art without panicking about rent or dog food or whether the electricity might get shut off mid-project.
Instead, I'm sitting here in paint-splattered overalls, surrounded by more art supplies than I've ever owned at once, completely unable to create anything beyond aggressive scribbles that I immediately trash.
"This was never real."
The memory of his face when he said it—controlled, distant, deliberately cruel—makes me want to throw something. Preferably at his perfectly symmetrical head. I'd gone to his office expecting…what? An explanation? An apology? Some acknowledgment that whatever he'd overheard had been taken out of context?
Instead, I got Lawyer Elliot at his coldest, reducing everything we'd shared to a business transaction completed to mutual satisfaction. As if he hadn't held me through the night. As if he hadn't whispered that I was his, hadn't touched me like I was something precious, hadn't admitted his feelings were real even if he couldn't articulate them properly.
"Liar," I mutter to the empty studio, finally putting down the brush I've been strangling for the past twenty minutes. "Coward."
The problem is, calling him names doesn't help. Neither does buying expensive art supplies or paying off my credit cards or finally having a proper bed frame instead of a mattress on the floor. None of it fills the Elliot-shaped hole that somehow formed in my life after just a few days together.
Which is ridiculous. We barely knew each other. The entire basis of our relationship was fake. I should be laughing about it by now—the bizarre weekend that got me out of debt and gave me some entertaining stories about rich people and their weird retreats.
Instead, I find myself wondering what he's doing. If he's working late at his desk, tie loosened, hair slightly mussed the way it gets when he runs his fingers through it in frustration. If he's thinking about me at all, or if he's successfully compartmentalized our entire relationship into a file labeled "Concluded Business" in that meticulous brain of his.
My phone buzzes with a text from Mandy:
Dinner at 7? Marco's making his famous pasta. We need to celebrate your first week as a proper artist with a studio and everything!
I text back a thumbs up, grateful for the distraction. My roommates have been walking a careful line since everything imploded with Elliot—supportive without being pushy, curious without interrogating. They've also been suspiciously well-behaved, as if worried that adding their usual chaos to my emotional state might cause some kind of explosion.
Packing up my unused supplies, I try to summon enthusiasm for the evening ahead. Marco's pasta is legitimately amazing, and for the first time, I can contribute expensive wine instead of the bargain basement swill we usually drink. Small victories.
The apartment, when I return, is strangely tidy. Marco's actually set the table—our wobbly dining furniture now enhanced with a proper tablecloth and mismatched-but-charming dinnerware I don't recognize.
"Are we expecting the Queen?" I ask, dropping my bag by the door. "Or did someone die and leave us a Martha Stewart inheritance?"
Mandy emerges from the kitchen, her hair piled in a messy bun, wearing an apron that reads "Kiss the Cook's Ass" in faded letters. "We're celebrating! You're a real artist now, with a studio and everything. No more painting in the bathroom while we yell at you to hurry up."
"I'm pretty sure having a studio doesn't automatically make me a 'real artist,'" I correct her, but I'm smiling despite myself. "Real artists probably produce actual art, not just stare at blank canvases while having existential crises."
"Blank canvas syndrome is totally a real artist thing," Marco calls from the kitchen, where something smells impossibly good. "Very tortured creator. Very on-brand."
"See? You're nailing it." Mandy loops her arm through mine, leading me to our secondhand couch—now adorned with new throw pillows that don't smell like dog. "Now sit. I made cocktails. Actual cocktails with ingredients and everything, not just vodka and whatever juice isn't growing mold."
"Fancy," I observe, accepting a startlingly blue concoction in what appears to be a real glass, not the plastic cups we usually use. "What's the occasion? Because this feels like more than 'Josie has a studio' celebrations."
Mandy and Marco exchange a look that immediately raises my suspicion.
"What?" I demand. "Did you guys win the lottery? Are you moving out? Is one of you pregnant because that would be biologically fascinating in your case, Marco."
"Nothing that dramatic," Marco assures me, setting a plate of something that looks too sophisticated for our apartment on the coffee table. "We just…we're worried about you. This is an intervention disguised as a celebration."
"An intervention?" I look between them, bewildered. "For what? I'm not the one who spent rent money on weed last month, Marco."
"That was one time!" he protests, then shakes his head. "No, this is about Mr. Lawyer Man. The walking suit. The guy who has you looking like someone killed your puppy for two weeks straight."
My stomach drops. "I don't want to talk about Elliot."
"We know," Mandy says gently, sitting beside me. "That's the problem. You paid the rent, caught up every bill, even bought us these cute pillows—which, by the way, Pancake has already tried to murder—but you haven't said his name once since you came back from his office."
"Because there's nothing to say," I insist, taking a large swallow of the blue drink, which turns out to be surprisingly potent. "It was a business arrangement that got complicated, and now it's over. End of story."
"Bullshit," Marco says cheerfully, sitting on my other side so I'm effectively trapped between them. "You're miserable. You've been sleeping with his shirt."
I choke on my drink. "I have not!"
"The blue Oxford," Mandy confirms. "It's under your pillow. And you talk in your sleep, by the way. Mostly his name and some creative expletives."
Heat rises to my cheeks. I didn't realize I'd taken the shirt—must have accidentally packed it when gathering my things from his apartment. The fact that I've been sleeping with it is…problematic.
"Fine," I admit, slumping back against the couch. "I miss him. Happy now? I miss a man who made it abundantly clear that I was nothing but a paid escort to him."
"He said that?" Marco looks genuinely outraged.
"Not in those exact words." I stare into my drink, watching the blue liquid swirl as I tilt the glass. "But he implied it. Said he heard me talking about the money and realized that was all I really wanted from him."
"But that's not true," Mandy says, frowning. "I mean, yes, you needed the money. We all did. But that's not why you stayed at his place after the weekend. That's not why you've been moping around like someone canceled all dog walking forever."
"It doesn't matter why," I say, the words tasting bitter. "He made his decision. I went to his office, I confronted him, and he literally said, 'This was never real.' Case closed."
Marco exchanges another look with Mandy. "Okay, but what if he's just as miserable as you are? What if he's sitting in his fancy apartment right now, drinking fancy scotch and staring at his fancy walls, thinking about you?"
"He's not," I say with more certainty than I feel. "Elliot Carrington doesn't do 'miserable.' He does controlled and logical and completely devoid of messy emotions."
"The guy hired a fake fiancée because he panicked and lied to a client," Mandy points out. "That doesn't scream 'logical' to me."
She has a point, but I'm not ready to concede it. "Whatever. Can we eat pasta and not psychoanalyze my disaster of a love life? Please?"
They relent, moving to the table where Marco serves his signature dish with a flourish that makes me smile despite myself. The food is delicious, the wine I brought pairs perfectly, and for brief stretches of conversation, I almost forget the constant ache in my chest.
Almost.
"So," Mandy says when we're on our second bottle of wine, her tone deliberately casual. "Blake called today. The gallery owner? He wanted to know if you were free for dinner this weekend."
I blink, caught off guard. "Blake? From the retreat? How did he even get our number?"
“He’s rich,” Marco supplies. "And he's in town for some art thing and thought of you. He seemed nice on the phone. Very charming Southern gentleman vibe."
"He is nice," I admit, remembering his easy smile, his genuine interest in my work. "And he does own a gallery..."
"And he's hot," Mandy adds helpfully. "Based on that photo on his website. Very rugged-but-refined silver fox energy."
I consider it for a moment. Blake is attractive, successful, and we had good chemistry—even if most of our interaction had been deliberately designed to make Elliot jealous. A date could be exactly what I need. Something normal. Something uncomplicated.
"I'll think about it," I say finally, though the prospect generates none of the excitement it should.
Later that night, after too much wine and pasta, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, Barney curled against my side. Despite my best efforts not to, I've extracted the blue shirt from under my pillow, the fabric soft against my fingers. It still smells faintly of Elliot's cologne, that expensive scent I couldn't name but would recognize anywhere.
The truth I've been avoiding crashes over me with the clarity that only comes in the quiet darkness of 3 AM: I'm in love with him. Not just falling for him, not just attracted to him, but fully, stupidly in love. With his control-freak tendencies and his perfect ties and the way he'd looked at me in unguarded moments, like I was something wonderful he'd discovered unexpectedly.
And I hate him for it. Hate that he could make me feel so seen, so valued, and then discard me based on a misunderstanding he never gave me the chance to explain. Hate that he could reduce what we shared to a business transaction. Hate that even now, knowing how cruelly he dismissed me, I still miss him with an intensity that physically hurts.
I bury my face in the shirt, allowing myself the weakness of inhaling his scent one more time. Tomorrow, I'll throw it away. Tomorrow, I'll call Blake and accept his dinner invitation. Tomorrow, I'll go back to my pristine studio and actually paint something, even if it's just an angry abstract of blue eyes and cold words.
Tomorrow, I'll start the process of getting over Elliot Carrington.
But tonight, just for these quiet hours in the darkness, I'll admit the truth: what we had was real. No matter what he said in that office, no matter how convincingly he lied, what we shared was genuine. I felt it. And somewhere beneath all that carefully constructed armor, he felt it too.
He just wasn’t brave enough to admit it.