4. Court
CHAPTER 4
COURT
Day 1—Dallas, Texas
S he what ?
Questions bombard my brain, and I spit out fragments of each one in rapid-fire succession—“How did . . . ? Weren’t you . . . ? When were . . . ?”—before landing on an exasperated, “ Why ?”
Hartley crosses her arms and stares straight ahead. “Plans change.”
“But you had the perfect opportunity on a golden platter!” I hold my palms out for visual reference of said platter because seriously, what the hell ?
“I’m well aware of what I lost,” she retorts before pressing her lips into a thin line.
“Did the breakup play into your decision not to go to Italy?” Wendell asks.
We both reply with an immediate, “No,” which puts me in Wendell’s crosshairs again.
“What makes you so sure of that answer, Court?”
I draw a long breath and release it before speaking. “Hartley’s one of the most determined people I’ve ever met. She’s also a super-optimist. To her, the glass isn’t just half full, it’s overflowing with sparkling water and served with one of those paper umbrellas. I knew if I pushed her away enough, she’d go over there and then realize I’d done the right thing. But apparently, I gave up everything for nothing,” I add with a derisive snort .
It's quiet for approximately three seconds.
Then Hartley swivels her head and pins me with a murderous look. “You what ?”
One thing is on my mind when Hartley’s name pops up on my phone: Bachelor camping trips are infinitely better than regular bachelor parties. Especially when they involve a luxury cabin with a mammoth game room and a hot tub that comfortably seats twelve.
“No girls allowed, Mueller!” Rhett shouts from across the pool table.
“You know the rules,” Nick adds, pointing to the Cone of Shame, which is just an ugly lampshade he found in the hall closet that I’ll have to wear once I’m off the phone.
I respond with a good-natured middle finger, then pass my pool stick to Wade and head to an adjacent bedroom where it’s quieter. “Hello?”
A weird, not-quite-static noise greets me.
“Hartley? You there?”
The noise continues for several seconds, then stops and I hear a muffled female voice say, “—you’re choosing him over Michelangelo. I’d like to go on record and say you’re a dumbass.”
Sounds like Hartley’s roommate Corrina based on the Southern accent.
“And I’d like to go on record and say you watch too many legal shows,” Hartley’s distant voice replies.
Ah, now it makes sense. Also, there’s no way in hell I’m wearing the Cone of Shame for a butt-dial. Nick can kiss my ass.
I’m about to end the call when Corrina says, “Seriously, Hart. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Don’t just throw it away for a guy.”
Wait . . . what? I crank the volume and close the bedroom door.
“You know he’s not just a guy. And besides, I already have a job lined up at the campus gallery.”
“A job that pays minimum wage, and they won’t even let you feature your own work until you’ve been there for six months.”
“Hold up. You were excited for me when I got that job.”
“Of course I was. But this is Italy .”
A door slams, and then I hear Megan say, “Hey, I got your 911 text. What’s wrong?”
“Do you remember the undergrad abroad program Hartley applied to last year?”
“Yeah. ”
“Do you remember how gutted she was when she didn’t get in and they waitlisted her for the paid internship?”
“Yeah.”
“Look what came in today.”
Papers rustle, and then Megan presumably reads, “Congratulations, Hartley. We are pleased to extend an invitation to the Immagiano Museum’s...holy shit. Holy shit! You got in! That’s— wait. Why aren’t we happy dancing right now?”
“Yes, Hartley. Tell our roommate why we aren’t breaking out the Two Buck Chuck from Trader Joe’s.”
“Because I’m not going.”
“What? Why? You wanted this so badly last year.”
“I did, but I can always apply to other programs.”
“What about traveling to see your brother and his family?”
For the first time since I picked up the phone, I know what they’re talking about. Hartley’s older brother, John, married a woman in the air force. They’re stationed in Germany and she’s pregnant with their second daughter.
“I can still fly out there and see them.”
“So you’re really not going?” Megan asks.
“I don’t want to leave Court.”
I don’t want her to leave either, but I don’t want her to miss out on this.
“Have you two talked about what happens after you graduate?” Megan continues.
“He knows I’m staying here to work at the gallery.”
“I mean in the future. It sounds like you’re planning long-term. Is he ready to settle down?”
“We haven’t talked about it specifically, but things are going really well. I mean, you guys know him. He’s a great guy. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love him.”
“He is a great guy, but if he really loves you, he’ll understand what an opportunity like this means to you and your career,” Corrina says.
“Fair point,” Megan replies. “But I kind of see where Hart’s coming from too. What about trying a long-distance relationship? The program’s only for a year, right?”
“With the possibility of an extension or job offer,” Corrina adds. “And you’ve seen her portfolio. You know she wouldn’t come home next summer.”
“Guys, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but please stop. I’ve already made up my mind. ”
“Why don’t you wait to do that until after you get Court’s input?” Megan asks.
“Because there’s no point. This is my decision.”
“Just do us a favor and give yourself a few days,” Corrina says.
After a long pause, I hear a resigned, “Fine.”
“Good. Now...regardless of what decision you make, I really think we need to celebrate you being accepted to one of the most prestigious art programs in the entire world. Megan, pour the wine. I’ll grab the emergency stash of cookies from my nightstand.”
I end the call and immediately pull up a search for “Immagiano Museum internship.” After scanning through the results, I tap a link that takes me to a short collection of testimonials from past participants. Phrases like, “I owe everything to this program,” “the greatest experience of my life,” and “exponential growth in my art” stand out—and that’s just from the first review.
The knots filling my stomach draw tighter when I tap on a link to a picture gallery and see people touring world-renown museums and bringing canvases to life while sitting in front of architecture from the Roman Empire.
It could be Hartley in any one of these pictures.
Or rather, it should be.
Because as much as it kills me to admit it, Corrina’s right. If Hartley stays with me, she’ll be forced into a life of mediocrity while I finish my undergrad and get my master’s degree. And a long-distance relationship means she’d be tethered to time zones and video dates instead of going out and having fun. As an accomplished artist who wants to advance her career, Hartley deserves to experience Italy in Technicolor, not black and white.
With a heavy sigh, I lean my elbows on my knees and grip my hair while selfishly wishing I’d followed the rules and turned my phone off.
Wade finds me in the same position when he knocks on the door a few minutes later. “Everything okay?”
Nope. Not even close.
I sit up and swallow around the lump in my throat. “If Sophia had a dream career, would you support it?”
“Of course.”
“Even if that dream meant you’d have to make sacrifices?”
He studies me for a moment, then says, “I’m sure there’s a deeper discussion to be had, but simply put, Sophia is my person. I can’t think of anything I’d have to give up that would be more important than seeing her happy.”
I sigh and nod. “Figured you’d say something like that. Guess that’s why you’re the one getting married. ”
“Sorry, man. I can always send Bobby in.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder toward the game room, where Mr. Chronically Single is singing a drunk and curse-filled karaoke version of “I’m Too Sexy” by Right Said Fred.
I offer up a weak smile. “Getting relationship advice from him is about as smart as taking a bath with a toaster.”
“Sad but true, my friend. How about we skip philosophical discussions and toasters and get you drunk instead.”
He extends a hand and pulls me off the bed. I follow him back to the game room, where Nick is waiting with the ridiculous lampshade.
“Rules are rules, dude.”
There’s one thing on my mind as he crowns me with the Cone of Shame: I refuse to let Hartley choose me over Michelangelo.
Dread and preemptive regret have blanketed the drive home. I only took a few shots last night because breaking up with Hartley will be hard enough without dealing with a hangover on top of it. As it is, my stomach is already churning when I maneuver my car into a visitor’s space in her lot. The only silver lining in this shitstorm is the no-phone rule working in my favor today. I told her I’d call when I left the cabin, so she still thinks I’m unavailable and hasn’t tried to contact me.
I thought about calling my sister, Ella, on my way home. She’s the actress in the family and could probably give me pointers on drafting a script for what I’m about to do, but I don’t feel like explaining myself to anyone, blood or not.
Pulling in a few deep breaths, I exit my car and focus on my upcoming performance as I cross the pavement. After a few quick knocks, Megan answers the door and thrusts two twenty-dollar bills at me. “Oh. Sorry. I thought you were the delivery guy.” She steps back and waves me in. “Hart’s on the couch. We’ll have plenty of pizza, so you’re welcome to have some if you want.”
“Thanks, but I won’t be here long.”
Just long enough to rip out your roommate’s heart.
And mine too.
My first gut punch comes in the form of Hartley’s face lighting up when she sees me round the corner. “Hey! I didn’t think you’d be back until tonight. Did you have fun?”
“Yeah, but we should talk. ”
“Um...okay?” She casts an uneasy glance at her roommates as she slowly rises from the couch.
Unable to look at the damage I’m already causing, I retreat to her bedroom like a coward. One of her senior capstone canvases is sitting on her easel, with two others propped against the legs. She’s spent months on these pieces, and I’ve been looking forward to seeing her show them off next month. I guess that makes Gallery Night another casualty of what I’m about to do.
Hartley closes her door with a soft click but doesn’t say anything until she’s sitting on her bed, knees crossed and fingers twisting in her lap. Her eyes meet mine briefly before dropping back to her hands. “What do you want to talk about?” she asks in a small voice.
My mind races with answers I can’t give, like my immense regret for answering my phone this weekend, how I don’t mean anything that’s about to come out of my mouth, and how I already know I’ll never completely get over her.
Leaning against the dresser, I release a quiet breath and start with the words I practiced on the drive home. “Being at the bachelor party and hearing Wade talk about his future with Sophia forced me to open my eyes about our relationship. When I sat down and looked at everything objectively, it became clear that we’re at two very different points in our lives. It doesn’t make sense to keep wasting our time on something that won’t work long-term.”
I’ve shocked us both—me, that I was able to get through it, and her, that I said it in the first place.
Hartley moves her head back and forth. “Wh-what are you talking about? We’re both in college. That doesn’t put us at two different points.”
“You’re getting ready to graduate, and I still have a year left. I don’t even know where I’m doing graduate school or where I’ll end up after that.”
“I thought we’d figure that out together.”
So did I.
“I don’t want to hold you back. If we stayed together, you’d put your life on pause for who knows how long and you shouldn’t have to do that.”
Hartley’s brows bunch together. “Court, where is this coming from? What happened at that bachelor party?”
I answered my goddamn phone! I shout in my head. Outwardly, I release a heavy sigh and cross my arms against the rubber band forming around my chest. “Nothing happened, other than me taking a good hard look at reality. You deserve a life I can’t give you.”
That, at least, is the truth.
But she’s not buying it .
“Uh-uh.” She shakes her head. “Everything was fine on Friday before you left, and all the months before that. There’s no way you went from ‘I love you, babe. See you Sunday,’ to ‘I’ve had an epiphany about my life and it doesn’t include you anymore.’ Something happened at that bachelor party.”
Before I can respond, her eyes go wide and her mouth falls slack. “You were with someone.” It comes out in a whisper, like she’s testing the words before giving them a voice.
I did the same thing on the way home—thought that maybe I’d just tell her I got drunk and hooked up with an exotic dancer or a bartender or someone from high school—but the thing about crafting a convincing lie is using as much truth as possible. For example:
“There’s no one else.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well then I can’t help you.”
“I’m not asking for help.”
“What do you want then?” I push away from the dresser and pace the carpet. “I told you nothing happened. I can’t make it any clearer than that. Why are you making this so difficult?”
She’s off the bed in a flash, flinging her arms out wide. “Why am I making this so difficult? Pardon the hell out of me for not understanding why the man I was considering spending the rest of my life with would throw everything away for a weekend fling and then lie about it. Quit acting like a coward and at least have the goddamn decency to tell me the truth.”
I am, I am, I fucking am!
My lungs choose this moment to malfunction, and my stomach threatens to follow suit. I didn’t practice a closing speech on the way here and really, there’s nothing left to say anyway.
So I leave.
I walk out of her room and out of her apartment and out of her life.
I make it halfway across the parking lot before retching on the cracked concrete.
Wendell swings his gaze to the ball of anger simmering beside me. “How do you feel after hearing Court’s explanation?”
“I feel stabby.”
I swear I see the corners of his lips twitch.
“And why’s that?” he continues.
“Because if he’s even telling the truth, his explanation means he doesn’t respect my ability to make decisions on my own. I didn’t need Captain Caveman to barge in and decide my future for me.”
“I wasn’t barging in. I was trying to keep you from sacrificing a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“Don’t you get it?” Her arms fly out as she whips her head toward me. “ You were my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Courtney. Me choosing not to go to Italy was the easiest non-sacrifice I’d ever made, which you would’ve known if you’d actually talked to me.”
I stare ahead and force myself not to react to the sting of her words.
“And besides, his explanation leaves out one very important detail,” she says to Wendell.
“And that is?”
“The woman he brought to the gallery.”
“I already told you that’s not—” I release a long sigh though my nose. “You know what? Never mind. It’s not like you’re going to believe anything I say anyway.”
She fires a contemptuous smile at me. “Finally, something we can agree on.”