Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Mandy
Holy grilled cheese.
I can’t wait for this night to end.
The leather seats of the limo feel too slick, too perfect against my skin. I shift, trying to find a comfortable position, but everything feels wrong. My fingers keep finding the hem of this designer dress, picking at invisible threads. The fabric probably costs more than my monthly rent.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate the effort Seymour made. I mean, isn’t it every young girl’s dream to be whisked away in a limo for a night of romance? To be wined and dined at the fanciest restaurant in town?
So what is my problem?
He’s making such a beautiful effort, but...but...I guess he doesn’t know this about me yet, but I don’t love surprises. My stomach clenches at the mere thought of them, an automatic response I can’t control.
You know, ever since Todd surprised me with our exciting future that turned out to be his painting of my concept, surprises throw me off. My mind and body sort of shuts down, because that’s what I did that night with Todd. I feel my shoulders hunching forward now, just thinking about it.
Oh, how I wish I could go back in time to confront and challenge what he’d done. Not let him get away with it. My fingers curl into fists in my lap, nails pressing into my palms.
I was in shock.
That’s my best excuse.
Shocked. Stunned. But mostly hurt. That knife of betrayal was so far in my back I’m pretty sure it’s still there. The memory makes my spine straighten, like I’m trying to prove I’m over it. I’m not.
This is a nice surprise though. Right?
There’s also the fact that I don’t feel like myself.
The spa treatment was nice, but now my hair is perfect—they touched up my roots with blue, and it’s so sleek and shiny I barely recognize it when I catch my reflection in the window.
My nails are shaped, filed, and painted in a neutral tone that seems too safe, too proper.
The makeup is flawless but heavy on my skin, making me feel like I’m wearing a mask.
I don’t feel like me.
Maybe that’s why I can’t relax at dinner. I’m so glad no one is here to see it, the stilted, too-polite conversation. Like we’re on a dating reality show. Trust me, I’d be booted from the show. Or they’d cut to commercial during my awkward silences and forced laughter.
My biggest mistake?
Thinking a few glasses of champagne would fix everything.
Nope. Because now, the world tilts slightly whenever I move my head too fast, and the pain has settled into a dull throb behind my eyes.
Really, I just want to be home, curled up on the couch, wrapped in my paint-stained sweater, and fall asleep.
In the limo, on the way to dinner, I try to articulate in my mind how to explain everything to him.
My fingers absently trace the leather armrest as I search for words.
This isn’t the reaction he expected, that’s for sure.
But somehow, I can’t find the right way to tell him that all this luxury makes me feel small. Insufficient.
So I say nothing.
Yup. Complete silence the entire way to the Lakeside Inn. We pull in and what I wish for won’t happen. That Barrie will have opened Beachside Java just for us, and Jamie is making us his famous grilled cheese. The comfort food I actually crave.
The click of my heels against the hardwood floor seems too loud as we walk inside the inn. I feel like everyone is looking at me, their gazes catching on my too-perfect hair and designer dress that screams “trying too hard.”
Seymour’s hand finds mine, warm and steady. “I’m ducking into the rest room. Meet you at the bar?”
I nod, grateful for a moment alone. “Of course.”
The first thing I order at the bar is a glass of water.
I down it quickly, hoping to calm the headache.
The cool liquid helps clear my head a little.
I smooth my hands down the front of my dress, telling myself that this night can still be salvaged.
We’ll sit down at a private table. I’ll apologize and explain everything to him.
I feel the slight nudge of an elbow against mine, so I turn with what I hope is a genuine smile.
It. Is. Not. Seymour.
It’s Todd Stane.
In the flesh. Standing there and grinning at me like when we first met. My smile drops so fast my face hurts, but Todd doesn’t notice or can’t read the room. He never could.
“Wow, Mandy, you look gorgeous,” he says, flashing that sexy smile that once made my knees weak.
Now his words make my skin crawl. I resist the urge to wipe my arms, as if I could brush away his gaze.
I don’t answer. He keeps talking, his cologne too strong, too close.
“I’m really excited about the upcoming event at the gallery.
I’m not surprised you ended up working there. You always loved art and painting.”
I choke on nothing but air. I signal to the bartender, my hand slightly shaking.
“Wine, please.” I always loved art and painting?
A hollow laugh threatens to escape. He’s got to be joking.
I shared all my dreams with him, spent nights explaining my vision, my plans.
He knows exactly what my aspirations were and where I wanted to go with my art.
Has he truly forgotten? Or is he just pretending?
“Do you still dabble in painting?” he asks, leaning against the bar like he owns it.
Dabble?
My fingers tighten around the stem of my wine glass.
The urge to scream builds in my throat, and I swallow it down with another sip of wine.
I want to tear at my perfectly styled hair.
I want to throw my wine in his smug face.
I want to punch him right in his perfect nose.
Instead, I drink half the glass in one go.
Maybe if I drink enough, he’ll disappear.
The entire past four hours will vanish. Like they never happened.
“Come on. Don’t be shy,” he teases, and grazes my arm with the back of his fingers. The touch makes my muscles tense, and I have to force myself not to jerk away.
“Yes, I still dabble,” I grit out between my teeth, tasting the bitterness of the lie. “I do landscapes.”
“Is it that time of the month?” he says in that intimate way that used to make me feel special. Like he knows me so well. His eyes search my face with false concern. “You always did get a bit grumpy around that time.”
I inhale deeply, counting to three, then turn to face him with my most gracious smile plastered on my face. My cheeks ache with the effort. “How’s your art coming along?”
If he was half paying attention, he’d hear the slight venom in my undertone. Instead, he preens.
“Fantastic. I can’t believe I’ve refused for so long to show my art here.”
“Yes, Todd. Why did you refuse for so long?” I ask, searching his hazel eyes that I once found so entrancing. Now I see nothing but emptiness. Just a flatness that makes something click in my mind. He’s not doing as well as he pretends.
His hand shoots out and grabs mine. Actually holds it hostage on the bar. “Honestly, I didn’t want it to upset you.”
Upset me? My heart pounds harder. Is he about to admit what he did? That he stole my ideas after I made myself vulnerable and shared my work with him?
I pull my hand back. “Why did you think it would upset me?”
He squirms on his barstool, his confidence wavering for a moment before he says, “I loved you, Mandy. We had a real connection. I wanted to share the rest of my life with you. I thought we were in this together. Forever. You broke my heart, and I’ve been patching it together ever since.
You remember what it was like, don’t you? ”
I don’t want to, but I feel the stinging in my eyes. I blink hard, refusing to shed one more tear. If I did, it wouldn’t be about losing him.
He reaches out and plays with a strand of my hair, like he used to.
My stomach turns. “I like the blue. It suits you.” He takes a breath, and I catch a whiff of scotch.
“There’s another reason I agreed to show my work at the gallery.
” He lowers his voice to a whisper that makes my skin crawl.
“That’s you. I still don’t understand what happened with us.
You were my muse. I’ve felt lost ever since. ”
Now I want to laugh, but it comes out as more of a strangled sound. His muse? I guess that’s in the literal sense. “Have you worked on any new concepts?”
“A little here and there, but it’s not the same without you.”
“You’ve done well with my Picasso version of New England historical figures.” The words taste like acid in my mouth.
Yes, this is a jab. I want to see if there’s even a flicker of guilt on his face, because how could he not consider what he did stealing? Or at least unethical?
He blinks, all wide-eyed innocence, then shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Well, I’m not sure it’s fair to call it your idea. It was our idea and you walked away from it.”
The room suddenly feels too warm, too small. I scan the entrance, willing Seymour to appear. This conversation was briefly diverting from my uncomfortable date, but now, I’d rather go back to that awkward silence. Did his zipper get stuck or something?
“About that.” He softens his voice, leaning closer. The scent of his cologne mingles with scotch as he turns his body toward me, his eyes wide, almost begging. “I’ve heard of a Blackbeard painting out there. I’m still trying to track it down. It shouldn’t exist. Did you sell one of our paintings?”
My fingers tighten around my wine glass. “It was my painting. It was my idea.” My voice turns to steel. “I sold it before I even showed you the rest of them.” The ones covered up by tarps in my studio-slash-shed.
If Todd picks up the edge in my words, and the accusation underneath, he doesn’t show it. His smile never wavers.
“Hey, I don’t blame you, but you should’ve told me about it. We were a team.”