Twenty Three
Painted Facades
AUSTIN
THE GALLERY IS PACKED, the hum of conversation and clinking glasses fill the air. I stand off to the side, leaning against one of the pristine white walls. I have a glass of whiskey in my hand that I’ve barely touched.
The exhibit is good. Great, even. But I’m not really here for the art tonight. I’m here because Callum and Michael insisted. Well, they dragged me out, actually.
It’s Michael’s night, his curated collection on display for an audience that looks like they walked straight off the pages of Vogue.
“You’ve been a miserable sod for days,” Callum had said earlier, slapping me on the back as if that would fix anything. “You need a distraction. Preferably one in a short dress and high heels.”
Right. Because that’s what’s going to fix this mess.
“Time to remind yourself there’s life beyond Mia.”
Life beyond Mia.
As if that’s possible.
Michael approaches me, wine glass in hand, looking every bit the polished art aficionado he is.“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” he says, smirking.
I glance at the nearest painting, a chaotic mix of neon colours splattered across the canvas “This painting looks like someone threw up after a rave,” I deadpan. “So no, I’m exactly where I want to be.”
Michael chuckles, shaking his head. “You’ve got a real talent for seeing the bright side, Austin.”
Before I can reply, Callum saunters up with a glass of something radioactive green, grinning like the devil himself.
How he always finds the most obnoxious drink at every event is beyond me.
“Cheer up, Romeo. You’re in a room full of art and beautiful women.
This is your chance to prove you’re still alive. ”
“I am alive,” I mutter, staring into my glass. “Unfortunately.”
“Mate, you’re practically vibrating with sadness. Women love a tortured man. It’s like catnip.”
Before I can tell him where to shove his advice, a woman appears—tall, blonde, and wearing a black cocktail dress that probably costs more than my rent. She’s stunning in that overly polished way, the kind of woman who turns heads without even trying.
“Hello,” she says, her voice smooth like honey. “I just wanted to say how much I love your work. The textures, the emotions—it’s all so raw.”
I frown, and it takes a moment for the penny to drop—she actually thinks I painted the piece hanging behind me.
I force a polite smile. “Thanks. Glad you like it.”
Her perfume hangs heavily in the air, floral and overwhelming. She steps closer, her gaze lingering. “Are you showing anything new soon? I’d love to see more.”
Michael’s smirk deepens as he takes a slow sip of his wine. Callum, however, sees an opportunity. “Austin’s on a break right now,” he says, completely ignoring my glare. “Heartbreak phase. Very inspiring.”
“Callum,” I warn, my tone ice cold.
Blonde Cocktail Dress’s interest seems to spike. “Heartbreak phase?”
I shake my head. “It’s nothing.” I say quickly, shooting Callum a glare that promises retribution.
But Callum, being Callum, ignores it completely. “Actually, he’s just brooding. It’s his specialty. You know, you two would make a great picture.” He gestures between me and the blonde. “Stand together. Let me take one for Instagram.”
I blink at him, incredulous. “You’re joking.”
“Nope.” Callum grins wider, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “Post it. Let Mia see what she’s missing.”
My grip tightens on my glass, every muscle in my body screaming for me to walk away.
The mention of Mia’s name is like a sucker punch to the gut.
Her face flashes in my mind—those eyes that could cut me down or lift me up with just one look, the way she scrunches her nose when she’s trying not to laugh.
“No way, I’m not posting anything,” I say tightly, taking a long sip of my whiskey.
“Come on, mate,” Michael chimes in, his tone amused. “It’s harmless.”
Blonde Cocktail Dress looks thrilled by the idea, already angling herself closer to me, her hand brushing my arm. I fight the urge to flinch.
Callum nudges me. “One picture. It’ll drive her mad. Trust me.”
I hesitate, staring into my whiskey like it holds the answer. Part of me knows this is a terrible idea. But the other part—the bitter, angry part—wants Mia to see it. Wants her to feel something, anything.
“Fine,” I mutter, draining my glass. “But make it quick.”
Callum’s practically giddy as he positions his phone. The blonde presses closer, her hand resting on my arm, her laugh high and practiced.
The flash goes off, once, twice. Callum immediately starts typing on his phone, his grin widening with every tap of his thumb.
“There,” he says triumphantly. “Posted. She’ll see it soon enough.”
Blonde Cocktail Dress leans in, her voice low. “If you need company later, let me know.”
Jesus Christ.
I nod vaguely, barely acknowledging her as she walks away. The second she’s out of sight, I turn to Callum. “You’re a fucking idiot.”
“An idiot who’s trying to help,” he says, raising his radioactive drink in a mock toast.
Michael shakes his head, his smirk replaced by something more thoughtful. “What if she doesn’t care?”
That thought is enough to send a fresh wave of bitterness crashing through me.
What if she doesn’t?
What if Mia sees that picture and feels nothing?
I glance at my empty glass, wishing it wasn’t empty. Wishing it could fill the gaping void she left behind. “Then I guess I’ll know, won’t I?” I say quietly, my voice barely audible over the hum of the room.
I set my empty glass down on the nearest table with a little more force than necessary, ignoring the raised eyebrow Michael shoots my way. “I need some air.”
Callum chuckles. “Sure you don’t need another drink? That usually helps your mood.”
“Helpful as always, Callum,” I mutter, turning away before I can say something I’ll regret.
The cool night air hits me like a shock as I step outside onto the gallery’s terrace. The buzz of the event filters faintly through the open doors, but out here, it’s quieter. More still.
I lean on the railing, staring out at the city lights stretching across the skyline. It’s beautiful, in a way. But tonight, it feels hollow.
I pull my phone from my pocket, staring at the screen. My fingers hover over the messages app, as they have so many times in the past few days. Her name is still pinned at the top of my chats.
It’s pathetic, really, how many times I’ve opened our thread, typing something out only to delete it before I hit send.
What would I even say?
I miss you?
Why did you lie to me?
Do you even think about me the way I think about you?
I let out a bitter laugh, scrubbing a hand over my face.
No. I can’t reach out to her. Not after what she said.
“I don’t love you.”
The words play on a loop in my head, cutting a little deeper every time. Even though I saw the way her hands trembled, and the way her eyes couldn’t meet mine, a part of me knows she was lying.
But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.
The sound of footsteps pulls me from my thoughts, and I glance over to see Callum sauntering out, his ridiculous drink still in his hand. “Figured I’d find you out here, brooding.”
Oh fuck off.
“I’m not brooding,” I say flatly.
Callum leans against the railing beside me, taking a sip of his drink. “You saw the picture went up, yeah?”
“Yep.”
“Good. Let it do its work.”
I roll my eyes. “And what work would that be, exactly? Making her jealous? Driving her back into my arms?”
Callum shrugs, his expression maddeningly carefree. “It’s a strategy. Not a great one, but a strategy nonetheless. You can’t just sit around waiting for her, mate. Do something.”
I laugh dryly, shaking my head. “She’s not coming back because of a bloody Instagram post, Callum.”
“Maybe not,” he says, shrugging again. “But at least it might remind her what she’s missing. You’re a catch, Austin, whether you want to believe it or not.”
I let out a long breath, looking back out at the city.
“It’s not about reminding her. It’s about .
. .” I trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence.
What is it about, exactly? Closure? Clarity?
Or maybe just the chance to hear her admit the truth—that she does love me, that she’s just too scared to let herself feel it.
“You love her,” Callum says, his tone softer than usual. It’s not a question.
I nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah. I do.”
“And she loves you,” he adds, his voice firm.
I glance at him, my brow furrowing. “You don’t know that.”
“Oh, please.” He scoffs. “The way she looks at you? The way she’s always in her own head when you’re around? That girl’s got it bad, Austin. She’s just stubborn. Like someone else I know.”
I laugh again, though there’s no humor in it. “Yeah, well, stubbornness doesn’t help much when she’s halfway out the door.”
Callum claps a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe not. But you’re still here. And as much as you’re pretending not to care, I know you’re not done fighting for her.”
I look at him, startled by the sincerity in his tone. But before I can say anything, Michael steps out onto the terrace. “You two girls done with your little heart-to-heart? They’re about to unveil the centerpiece.”
I nod, pushing off the railing. “Yeah. Let’s get this over with.”
As we step back inside, the hum of conversation and clinking glasses wraps around us, but I feel like I’m still standing on that terrace, Callum’s words echoing in my head.
“You’re not done fighting for her.”
I glance at him as we weave through the crowd. He’s sipping his ridiculous coloured drink with all the nonchalance in the world, like he didn’t just blow up my entire thought process.
“You know,” he says casually, barely glancing at me, “it’s not too late to say yes to the York project.”
I stop dead in my tracks, turning to face him. “What?”
“The York project.” He shrugs like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Biggest career move of your life, remember? Insane exposure, actual legacy-level stuff. Ringing any bells?”
“Yeah, I remember,” I say flatly. “I also remember why I said no.”
“Because of her,” Callum says, cutting right to the heart of it. “And I get it, mate. Believe me, I do. But here’s the thing—she’s not here right now, is she?”
I grind my teeth, my jaw tightening. “No, she’s not.”
“Right. So, what’s stopping you from reconsidering?” He takes another sip of his drink, looking at me like this is just another conversation about football scores or where to order takeaway.
“What’s stopping me?” I repeat, incredulous. “The fact that taking it now would feel like—”
“Like giving up on her?” he interrupts, his brow lifting.
“Austin, mate, taking that project isn’t giving up.
It’s moving forward. You think Mia’s sitting in her flat waiting for you to come knocking?
No. She’s doing what she always does—retreating, overthinking, and convincing herself she doesn’t deserve you. ”
I flinch at the bluntness, but he’s not wrong. That’s exactly what she does. It’s why I fell for her in the first place, her mix of vulnerability and fire. But it’s also what’s tearing us apart.
Michael joins us again, clearly sensing the tension. “What’s this about York?”
“Austin’s still holding out,” Callum says before I can answer. “Thinks saying yes means he’s throwing in the towel with Mia.”
Michael tilts his head, frowning. “Is it, though? Throwing in the towel?”
I let out a frustrated breath. “It feels like it, yeah. Like I’m choosing my career over her.”
“Mate, she made a choice too,” Callum points out, his tone softer now. “And it wasn’t you. At least not yet. You can’t put your whole life on hold waiting for someone to realise you’re worth it.”
I run a hand through my hair, my mind spinning. “It’s not that simple.”
“It never is,” Michael says. “But Callum’s right about one thing—you deserve more than waiting around for someone else to make up their mind.
This York project is massive, Austin. Don’t throw it away just because you’re hoping she’ll come running after you.
Maybe this is what she needs to see that you’re serious about your life, too. ”
I glance between them, their words sinking in despite my resistance. The York project has been a golden opportunity since the moment it landed on my desk. It’s everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve wanted—except now, the idea of leaving London feels like turning my back on her.
But maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe I’m standing still while she’s pushing me away because she doesn’t believe I’ll move on without her.
“Just think about it,” Callum says, patting my shoulder. “You’ve got until the end of the week, right? Plenty of time to decide if you’re going to be a martyr or a bloody legend.”
I laugh despite myself, shaking my head. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”
“An idiot who’s usually right,” he counters, grinning.
Michael smirks. “Debatable.”
We head toward the centerpiece unveiling, the conversation fading into the background. But Callum’s words linger, gnawing at me.
Maybe it’s not giving up. Maybe it’s moving forward.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s the only way to make her see what she’s losing.