Chapter 35
thirty-five
VAL
Ipressed the lock button on my keys and strode away, my white Audi’s lights flashing in response. I grimaced at my reflection in the museum door. I looked like I had pulled an all nighter—which I had. I tugged open the heavy door as a blast of air conditioning washed over my Tom Ford button-up.
Camilla had left me with plenty to think about. She always said exactly what she felt—raw and completely unfiltered. She knew me. Probably better than I knew myself at the moment.
I had been so sure that Amantha would eventually tire of my grief. Why would anyone subject themselves to a relationship with me knowing I’d never stop loving someone else?
So I ran away. I had left before Amantha could.
The reminder of Stella’s final wish was as harrowing as it was relieving.
She hadn’t wanted me to be alone the rest of my life.
In fact, it served to reason that Amantha might have had Stella’s cosmic blessing from the first infuriating day I laid eyes on her.
Amantha understood the depths of my love for Stella and chose me anyway.
And I abandoned her without a word.
“Fix it… You’ll regret it forever if you don’t try.”
But Camilla didn’t know the damage I had caused. If I couldn’t forgive myself for leaving Amantha, why should she?
I braced my pounding heart as I approached the curation wing, dread mixing with the anticipation of seeing her beautiful face.
Instantly, my leather dress shoes stopped like I’d stepped in tar.
The desk across from Kate was bare. Anthony’s photo was gone. Amantha’s scattered notebooks, desk organizer, and even her little potted plant had disappeared.
No.
My mind blatantly refused the scene while anxiety threatened me with another panic attack.
No, no, no. I whipped around, searching.
Amantha was gone.
I darted across the room to her raven-haired friend, whom I hadn’t willingly spoken with in a long time.
My voice sounded like gravel as I asked, “Kate, where is she?”
Kate turned on a slow swivel toward me wearing a sleeveless light blue turtleneck. If looks could kill, I would have withered away on the spot. Icy venom dripped from her words.
“She’s gone, Russo. Amantha quit.”
I shook my head, pleading that I misunderstood. “What?”
“She quit.” Kate slapped me again with the words. “Though I’m sure you could guess why.”
This couldn’t be happening. Blythe and Kendra were raving about Stirling’s soirée only a few days ago. Amantha belonged here. This was her career. Her dream. And she gave it all up because of…
Oxygen dissipated from my body alongside any hope I had for forgiveness. I stumbled into my office. The door shut behind me for only a moment before it flew open again.
“Mr. Russo, I’d like a word if you don’t mind.” Kate’s polite choice of words was at odds with her furious tone.
I collapsed into my chair and said quietly, “Close the door.”
The latch clicked for a millisecond before Kate turned, seething. “I respected Amantha enough to keep quiet, but since she’s gone, I’m so done.” Her hateful glare didn’t hold a candle to how much I hated myself.
“You—I don’t even have words to describe you! You just abandoned her! And without an explanation? Amantha is completely wrecked, and I hate you for it.”
“I know.” Vulnerability crept through my exhaustion. “I hate me too.”
“I swear—” Kate opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. Her eyebrows drew together. “Wait… You what?”
“I hate me too.”
My honesty only seemed to puzzle her further. An awkward silence blanketed the room. Kate seemed at a loss for words, steepling her hands against her mouth as she plopped into the chair across from me.
“Well then, for once, we’re on the same team.
Of hating you, of course. I know of at least ten other members we could recruit.
” Kate smirked, though her voice had only warmed by a tenth of a degree.
“Listen. I never understood you and her. Like, ever. But as much as I want to have you murdered, I’d rather see her happy again.
” She rolled her lips before popping them out.
“I can’t believe I’m about to say this—and to you of all people—but Amantha is still really hurt which probably means she still cares. ”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that if you still have feelings for her, man up and take accountability. Put the ball in her court. If she can’t forgive you, at least you’ll both get closure. But if not…”
Hope blazed to life in my chest. “But I—I really messed up, Kate. I don’t even know where to begin—”
“For crying out loud, Val! I’m not holding your hand through this. Figure it out on your own.” She swept her glossy curtain of black hair over her shoulder and stalked to the door.
“Thank you, Kate.”
She hesitated with her hand on the doorknob. “Don’t hurt her again, or I really will have you killed this time.” Then she swept out of the room.
I attempted to process the conversation. Guilt and hope made an interesting concoction in my chest, heavy even beneath the flutter of possibility. Was it possible Amantha hadn’t moved on after all? Camilla was right—I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t try.
Right now.
Heart thrumming in my throat, I reached for my phone, searched for Amantha’s contact, and pressed “call.”
The phone began to ring.
AMANTHA
After heaving my last moving box from the city apartment onto the dining room table, I shoved a damp wave back up into my messy mom bun.
I had been beyond lucky to find a tenant so fast for the remainder of my lease.
I still wasn’t sure if the new renter thought me generous or insane since I re-gifted Val’s brand new couch to them.
I didn’t tell them about my “Plan B” to let Mr. Fluff Buttons rip it to shreds.
It would have only reinforced the level of unhinged I probably seemed.
The morning had gone by slower than a bathroom line in an Indian restaurant. Ryan had promised to call after Anthony's check-up, which had ended over an hour ago. I chewed my lip, checking my watch for the umpteenth time.
A familiar melody began to chime from across the room, my phone dancing across the kitchen counter.
Chest pounding, I rushed to the kitchen counter, skidding across the smooth hardwood floor. The vibrating phone continued to ring on the countertop before I scooped it up.
“It’s about time, Ryan,” I said.
My fingers turned to stone as another dropped into my stomach. It wasn’t Ryan calling about Anthony’s checkup. Instead, Val’s name and contact photo filled the screen.
His golden-flecked eyes crinkled up at me, blue and yellow paint forever immortalizing his lopsided smile. My oblivious heart sang at the memory of crushing paint pods as his lips crashed into mine. I swallowed.
What is he calling to say?
Surely he knew I’d left the museum by now. Was he calling to convince me to stay on? Or was this call personal?
The phone continued to tickle my palm.
“A clean break,” I told myself firmly.
But despite all logic, a part of me wanted to hear his velvety voice just one last time.
I stopped again before I could accept the call.
Even if he did apologize, could I trust it? Trust him?
Anger drew my finger to the red icon where it hovered, millimeters away from declining it.
But I was too weak to do that either.
So I helplessly blinked down until the feeble chiming gave up.
No voicemail.
I let out a breath I hadn’t been aware of.
Mom walked into the kitchen and asked, “Was that Ryan? What did he say about Anthony?”
I shook my head, eyes still fixed on the phone. “It wasn’t Ryan.”
“Well who was it?”
“Val.”
Mom stopped short, the door to the refrigerator frozen in her hand. “Val? And what did he say?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t answer it.”
Mom removed a carton of orange juice, then closed the fridge one inch at a time. “Have you two… talked?”
“Not in so many words.”
I decided to omit my rant at the fountain. I felt ashamed that the night I had desperately sought answers had only resulted in misplaced rage—and the weighty realization I’d never be enough for him.
“I know it’s your business, and I try to stay out of it, but maybe hear him out?”
“I’m sorry, hear him out?”
Mom nodded with a small harrumph. “I know you still care about him, Amantha. For heaven’s sake, you haven’t been out to the pool in weeks. Now I’m not saying he necessarily deserves another chance, but you both at least deserve closure.”
“Closure’s not always that easy to get.” I fiddled with the cap of the orange juice while my mother filled her glass.
“I know Ryan dragged out the divorce like the devil incarnate, but Val isn’t Ryan.”
“How can you be so sure?” I asked quietly.
Sympathy lined Mom’s expression as her shoulders softened.
“Oh, come on Amantha. Val deserves more credit than that, don’t you think?
” She held my chin and booped my nose with her finger, something she hadn’t done since I was a child.
“With Ryan? I watched you disappear. But Val? Well, sweetie, he helped bring you back.” She winked and gave me a quick hug before retreating to her room.
The kitchen swam beneath my brimming tears.
Val had brought me back—until he decided I wasn’t worth keeping.
“Ugh, I’m so sick of crying!” I muttered to myself as I swiped angrily at my cheeks and stalked to unpack the last moving box. I lifted the fragile items from the box one by one and set them on my dining room table.
Gauzy bubble wrap fell to the floor as my hummingbird portrait revealed itself. I fitted it to the nail still waiting on the wall, and the painting reclaimed its place as though it had never left. I unpacked my gifted wedding and divorce plates to hang beside it.
I stepped back to admire the collage: a piece of history, a piece of darkness, and a piece of light.
“We’re home,” I whispered. “We’re home.”
Later that night, Ryan finally did call. Anthony’s arm looked to be healing fine. Anthony even sounded psyched to have a hard cast his buddies could sign when he got home in August. Relief was an understatement.
I retrieved my laptop and retired early to my bed. Couches were overrated, anyway.
My recent devotion to self-love felt promising. I had a life to live—and a career to find. I watched the blank cursor blink in my open web browser, not sure where to begin. A few moments later, a small grin blossomed into an idea.
I stood and waded into the pools of unpacked clothing on my closet floor, promising myself I’d finish moving back in later.
My only fancy purse still lay at the bottom of one of the boxes, probably thinking it wouldn’t see the light of day again.
I fished around inside it until I pulled out a glossy card.
“Hello again, Barbara Gaines.” I beamed at the business card my old mentor gave me at the Felix Andreas gala. Barbara smiled back at me in the photo beside her phone number, email, and her website.
I fought my way back to the bed and typed the URL of her website into the search bar on my laptop. Once the page loaded, Barbara’s winning smile with her ever-present red lipstick greeted me. I chuckled. That woman held more confidence in her pinky finger than I ever would.
In addition to her impressive accolades, the website boasted several videos. Clicking on a video titled, “Why Museums Last Longer Than Fortune 500 Companies,” I smiled as Barbara came to life.
Her ebony skin glowed under a professional lighting kit, though the backdrop appeared to be her own gorgeous kitchen.
With a house like that, I’d work from home too.
I giggled and clicked a second link.
It seemed Barbara was still working as a freelance curator, distributing her talents to museums all over the nation. Her next collection would be featured at a prestigious museum in New York.
I wasn’t surprised in the least. Barbara had a hunger for success unlike any other. With her help and connections, she’d make an excellent networking contact for my new career. I clicked on another video.
My mentor sat behind a shining grand piano, soft music flowing from her fingertips. I was stunned. I hadn’t known Barbara even played. The song ended as Barbara began talking about her newest philanthropic effort—a charity that educated the underprivileged through music.
That’s beautiful.
I replayed the video, fascinated by the notes blending seamlessly together. Toggling the video dimensions, I zoomed in on Barbara’s clever fingers. Their speed and agility was mesmerizing. I started to zoom out, then paused.
The lid of the grand piano she played on was anchored open, likely for acoustics. On the wall behind it, a sleek black frame hung slightly concealed. Between the edge of the frame and the open piano lid, an almost imperceptible water lily sat upon cerulean waters.
And though it was difficult to make out, the petals seemed to be precisely the shade of whipped butter.