21. Red Flags
Samantha
My graduation project is coming along well.
Out of the thirty works required, eleven are already finished: seven oil paintings and four watercolors.
I paint both at school and at home. In fifth year, personal work takes up a considerable amount of space.
Once my pieces are completed at school, I bring them back home.
Suffice it to say, the Lacroix sisters’ living room and dining room are as much a place to live as they are a miniature artist’s studio.
Today, I’m working at home. I need quiet to paint. Watercolor does not forgive distraction. Once the color is laid down, it’s almost impossible to go back. It demands a clear decision, absolute trust in the gesture.
I prepare the sheet, the composition already sketched out. I gently wet the paper. Too much water and it warps; not enough and it resists. Then I glue it carefully and let it dry.
When everything is ready, I sit at the dining table. Natural light floods the room. I lay out my brushes, my pans, my jars of clean water. It’s a chance to break in the Raphael brushes and the new pans Alexander gave me.
Then I begin.
The sky first. A wash of blue mixed with violet spreads slowly. I preserve the whites, let the water do its work. The trees come next, blurred, distant. Finally, the architecture in the foreground—sharper, more assertive.
Very quickly, everything else disappears.
Time.
The world.
Thoughts.
Until I stop short.
The brush trembles slightly between my fingers. I frown. That never happens to me.
I breathe and try again. But something resists. The wash freezes where I don’t expect it to. The color no longer flows the way it did before.
I set the brush down.
My phone is there, on the table. Screen black. Silent.
I glance at it absently… then pick it up. Still nothing. No message from Alexander.
It’s been like this for two weeks. Since our relationship became real.
No more museum visits or Friday afternoon outings.
We only see each other on Friday night for our public appearance.
Then he takes me back to his penthouse, where he makes love to me late into the night before dropping me off at home the next morning before ten.
Like me, he works on weekends too. Saturday night, same routine, then radio silence.
No calls. I get one or two texts from him during the rest of the week, and I admit—it pisses me off.
I sent him a message yesterday, then another today. Both went unanswered.
I stare at the little blue check marks for a few seconds too long, as if they might eventually disappear.
I could text him again, but I’m not in the habit of harassing my boyfriends.
Around two o’clock, hunger pulls me back to reality—or maybe it’s simply exhaustion. I snack absentmindedly, my eyes drifting back to my phone again and again. Like a reflex.
Nothing.
I return to my work, forcing myself to concentrate. The hours pass. I add layers, details. The image gains depth, but the momentum is gone.
By late afternoon, the light fades. I stop.
Still no news.
When Emelyne comes home around six thirty, I’ve just finished putting my supplies away. She walks straight over to the table.
“Wow… Sam, it’s beautiful.”
I smile despite myself. The watercolor is promising, but fragile. One move too many, and everything could collapse.
“Thanks. How was your day?”
She drops onto the couch with a sigh.
“Léo tried to talk to me again. He says he loves me, that he’d do anything for us to get back together.”
“Like going out with his friends instead of you on your birthday?” I say as I head toward the kitchen.
“Exactly. He minimizes everything. Worse, he tries to make me believe I’m overreacting.”
“He’s an asshole. You lost nothing.”
She smiles at me.
“And you? Any news from your sweetheart?”
I pause for a fraction of a second before answering.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Not since his text Tuesday night.”
She frowns slightly, then softens her voice.
“Give it time. Your relationship is brand new. Maybe he’s just not much of a texter.”
“Maybe…”
I’m not convinced. An “ok,” an emoji—anything would have been enough.
We prepare dinner together in a comfortable silence. Mara joins us a little later, and the evening drifts by gently, filled with light conversation and familiar routines.
But even while laughing, even while talking, part of me remains elsewhere. Suspended.
Still waiting.
When I finally slip into bed, convinced he won’t text me tonight either, my phone vibrates.
My heart leaps.
Alexander: The day was endless. I’m thinking of you. Good night.
That’s all. No question. No opening.
I reread the message. Once. Twice. Searching for what isn’t there.
I type a reply. Delete it. Start again. Delete it again. Then I simply write:
Sam: I’m thinking of you too. Good night.
I turn off the screen and place it on the nightstand. Face down.
In the dark, eyes wide open, one thought settles in, stubborn and persistent.
He’s there—but he’s not committed. Not the way I need him to be.
And with a heavy heart, I finally drift into restless sleep.