Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Seymour
You probably hate me.
That’s fine.
Just know I have a completely different side of the story than Mandy Farnsworth.
When I think back on the past week, when I think back to that night under the stars and what happened the next morning, I can see how her assumption and preconceived notions of Seymour Black have painted her point of view.
The memory of her sleeping form in my bed sends an uncomfortable warmth through my chest.
It took one comment from Diana for Mandy to go back to hating me. Screw any kind of trust we’d established. The tentative bridge we’d built crumbled faster than a sandcastle at high tide.
I tried to talk to her, but she’d have nothing to do with it. She made that painfully clear, keeping her eyes fixed on anything but me, her shoulders rigid whenever I entered a room. The gallery suddenly felt smaller with both of us in it.
Well, it’s probably for the best, because now I’m back inside the boundaries of my rules.
I forced Harris to come with me today. Important rule: Never be alone with a woman.
My throat tightens as I remember how close I came to breaking every single one of my carefully constructed barriers that night.
Now you see why. Now you understand.
I broke rules left and right that night. Lesson learned. I was alone with Mandy. We had dinner—way past the no-coffee rule. I shared. I talked. I asked questions. Even worse?
I wanted to kiss her. She slept in my bed, and she looked beautiful, her blue hair spread across my pillow like watercolor on canvas. I wanted to take care of her, protect her, fight for her. It took every ounce of control not to slide under the covers and hold her.
That all leads down a dangerous road. One I’ve traveled before, one that ends in a dead end of disappointment and betrayal.
If Mandy didn’t want to hear that Diana gave me that order after I’d already planned what to do?
Well, fine. She’ll never know. If she knew me, if she took a second to think back on that night, she’d see the truth.
I thought it was painfully obvious how I felt when I reached for her hand in the darkness, when I fought to keep my voice steady while giving instructions.
Not anymore.
She might think her cold front is effective at keeping me at a distance. The way she stiffens when I enter a room, how her fingers clench around her coffee cup when I speak. And to a certain degree, she’s correct. But for some reason, the more she hates me, the more I like her.
Yes, I’m not completely heartless, though most would disagree.
I like that she’s herself around me. My body responds when she narrows those eyes at me, when her cheeks flush with anger. She doesn’t try to impress me or flutter her eyelashes like so many others do.
She stands up for herself. She doesn’t flirt with me and use me just so I’ll bail out the gallery.
I don’t think she has any clue about the kind of wealth I have.
The private planes, the houses, the investments.
And she’s so darn cute and feisty, it drives me nuts.
The way she tilts her chin up when she’s about to argue, how her freckles stand out when she’s angry.
I just want to push her against a wall at the gallery and kiss her. The thought makes my hands clench at my sides.
Harris doesn’t know how close he was to the truth with his night-in-a-hotel comment. But I could never have a one-night stand with Mandy.
I know it would never be enough. One taste and I’d be addicted.
Now, I stand in the back of the classroom, watching her teach a bunch of snot-nosed kids about art.
The room smells of paint and paper, filled with the shuffle of small feet and the scratch of brushes against canvas.
She’s throwing away her talent. She’s working at a gallery.
Supposedly, she’s an artist, but I’ve never seen a painting, outside of her scenic ones.
And she’s talking about a night sky and the beauty of stars.
Her voice grows soft, almost dreamy as she describes the different colors a sky can be.
Ever since I walked through the door, her cheeks have turned scarlet.
I love that she cares I’m here, that my presence affects her even if she won’t admit it.
Or maybe because for some reason she’s focused on a night sky. Maybe she still thinks about that night, too. About floating in cold water under an endless expanse of stars.
I’m not so lost in my thoughts that I’m not mesmerized by the class.
The room buzzes with creative energy as small hands work with determination.
Slowly, with each interaction, with each word of encouragement she gives to a child, I see the importance of what she does.
I watch her crouch beside each student, her voice gentle yet enthusiastic.
You want to know why I’m so self-sufficient? My knuckles whiten as I grip the back of an empty chair.
Because there’s a reason. Yes, I had two loving parents. There’s wealth in my family for a reason. My dad worked so hard and for so many long hours, I basically raised myself. The empty dining room table, the silence of evening homework done alone. These memories surface unbidden.
That’s why when I see the young boy, who keeps looking back at his father, who is glued to his phone screen and completely oblivious, it sparks something inside me. The boy’s paintbrush trembles slightly in his small hand each time he turns around.
Something close to rage burns in my chest. That this kid so desperately wants the love of his father. Sadly, the father only has a few more years before the boy will stop looking for it altogether. I recognize the hope dimming in those young eyes. I’ve seen it in the mirror.
After about the fifth time the boy looks back, and I see the kid’s whole body droop, his shoulders falling forward, I can’t handle it.
The wooden floor creaks under my feet as I stride to the front of the class and stand next to Mandy, who has moved to help all the children, one by one. An impossible job anyway.
“Hi everyone, I’m Seymour, a friend of Ms. Mandy’s. I’d love to hear about what you’re painting.” I look to Mandy for permission, who is so startled, her eyes widening, for once she doesn’t argue.
I head right to the boy and crouch down, my knees cracking slightly. The scent of watercolors grows stronger at this level. “Hi there. What’s your name?”
“Jerry,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
“What are you painting?” I ask, softly, noting how his hand clenches around his brush.
“The night sky.” He says it as if to say, Duh. His father might have already lost him. The thought makes my jaw clench.
Even though Jerry isn’t much of an artist—his stars are more like blobs and his moon resembles an egg—I make stuff up.
“I love the color of blue you use for the sky. I probably would have just used black. You must have some hidden talent.” The words come naturally, easily, as I remember how much a little praise would have meant to me at his age.
“Really?” His smile breaks through, transforming his whole face.
It doesn’t take much. It’s like I held out a piece of free candy.
Jerry perks up in his chair, his spine straightening.
It takes one more question, and he’s telling me all about his painting, his words tumbling out in excitement.
His eyes are brighter. He no longer droops in his seat.
My heart aches in my chest, because what I can give him here is just a moment.
It can’t take away the years of neglect in the past or what’s to come.
I get it now. The realization hits me as I watch these kids light up under Mandy’s attention.
I know why Mandy is so passionate about these classes, whether they make money or not. The energy in the room, the way each child beams when she praises their work. It’s priceless. Right then and there, I want to plunk down a chunk of money for the gallery, but that’s not how it works.
Nothing happens overnight. And I’m way too much of a control freak to hand over a bunch of cash. That’s why when I donate money, I also donate time, and ask to be on the board.
Before I know it, the kid is practically hugging me, his small arms wrapping around my neck. The paint on his hands probably staining my expensive shirt, but I can’t bring myself to care. “Will you be back?”
Damn right, I will. “You bet.” The words come out rougher than intended, emotion thick in my throat.
The class ends with the scraping of chairs.
Mandy gives them all huge praise and gives public thanks to Mr. Seymour.
Her voice catches slightly on my name, and I notice her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her paint-splattered apron.
I want to take the dad outside and let him know how badly he’s messing up, but I have a feeling it will fall on deaf ears.
He’ll regret it years later, or maybe not.
Just like my father probably never realized.
She’s cleaning up, gathering brushes and organizing papers, and that’s when I leave. The afternoon sun hits my face as I walk to my car. I’m already inside when she knocks on the window, her knuckles tapping against the glass.
Oh, Sweetness, sorry for what I’m about to say. But it’s time for a little revenge. I roll down the window, catching a whiff of paint and whatever flowery shampoo she uses. “Sorry, I only spend time with coworkers during actual work hours.”
Then I drive away, leaving her shocked. Was that the hint of a smile I saw before I drove away? The way her lips twitched upward at the corners? I’ll never know, but the image stays with me as I head home.