Chapter Twenty-One
Sebastian
Two hours later, we stood facing each other like gunslingers at high noon. The street stretched empty in both directions, streetlights casting pools of yellow that made the shadows between them seem darker. Jesse’s arms were locked across her chest—a human fortress I couldn’t breach.
“How could you do this to me, Sebastian?”
Each word slashed at me. Her voice carried a tremor that made my chest constrict. It wasn’t just anger, it was something worse. Betrayal. The kind that carved itself into your bones and stayed there.
My mouth felt dry as sandpaper. “The only thing I did was give Malcom the link to your website and tell him to check it out.”
I kept my voice level, reasonable, trying to deflect her fury with calm. But Jesse’s eyes blazed brighter, and I realized I’d said exactly the wrong thing.
“You had no right to do that.” Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “I didn’t ask for your help. I didn’t want anyone’s help. Can you imagine how I felt when Janine told me that you arranged this exhibit for me?”
Damn my stupid mouth. I could barely remember mentioning this to Janine. I had no idea how I’d phrased it, but it didn’t even matter now. Everything had blown out of proportion and up into my face.
Jesse’s voice slashed deeper, echoing off the buildings around us.
“I felt like a hooker, Sebastian. And an idiot!”
The crude comparison hit me straight in the solar plexus. I actually stepped backward, my heel scraping against the asphalt.
“No wonder she didn’t like me,” Jesse continued with a short, bitter laugh. “She thought I was taking advantage of you, asking you for a favor because I was sleeping with you.”
“I talked to Malcom way before you and I—”
“Started screwing? Yeah, right. Maybe it was just to butter me up.”
Anger started to rise in my chest, and I pointed my index finger at her. “Jesse, you’re out of line. You know very well you’re being unfair to both me and you.”
“I don’t know anything about you, Sebastian.” She shook her head, and in the harsh streetlight, I could see tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “I don’t know you at all. All I know is that you stood by me all these weeks, pretending it was news to you, and I never suspected a thing.”
I watched her face transform. Every ounce of trust drained out of her expression like water through cupped hands.
“You could have lied to me about a million other things, and I never would have known,” she whispered.
“Now, wait a damn minute.”
Something hot and desperate clawed up my throat. I took a step toward her, but she planted her palm against my chest—a barrier of flesh and bone that might as well have been a concrete wall.
“No, you wait a damn minute.” Her palm pressed harder, and I could feel her trembling. “Maybe you don’t realize that what you did was wrong, so let me explain it to you.”
The condescension in her tone made my jaw clench, but I forced myself to stay still.
“You robbed me of the chance to make it on my own, Sebastian. You made a fool of me in front of Malcom, Janine, and whoever else knew that it was you who got me this invitation from the gallery.” She was breathing hard now, each word coming faster than the last. “You sat there, day after day, listening to me babble about how glad I was that people appreciated my talent.”
“And they do! Malcom loved your work the minute he saw it. Those people who came today loved it. Do you think I asked all of them to buy your work?”
“I’ll never know, will I?”
The defeat in those five words nearly brought me to my knees. She dropped her hand from my chest, and suddenly the space between us seemed larger than the Grand Canyon.
Her gaze wandered off in the distance. “I’ll never enjoy praise without wondering whether I’ve earned it or not. And I sure as hell won’t be able to trust you again.”
The finality of it terrified me. I grabbed her arms, my fingers finding the soft fabric of her dress, pulling her toward me with something close to desperation.
“Jesse, I just wanted to make this happen for you sooner, so that you can work as an artist full time.” The words tumbled out, tripping over each other.
“I believe in you, and so does Malcom. It was wrong not to tell you that I knew him, but I was sure you’d be too stubborn to accept any kind of help, even if it was something as insignificant as a recommendation. ”
“So you knew I wouldn’t want something that I hadn’t earned, yet you did it anyway.”
Her voice was deadly quiet now. Worse than the shouting.
“You have earned this, damn it!” The words exploded out of me, echoing off the empty storefronts.
“Hell, yeah, I earned it on my back. On my knees, too.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. She might as well have slapped me.
“If I hadn’t slept with, you none of this would have happened. Was this a reward or something?”
I stared at her, my mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.
The woman I’d held in my arms, the one who’d traced my tattoos with her fingertips and made me explain each one to her, the one who’d made me believe in forever.
She was reducing everything we’d shared to something despicable.
She shook her head, pulling free from me with a sharp jerk that left my hands grasping empty air.
“You know what, Sebastian? It doesn’t matter. The bottom line is that I’ll never be able to trust you again. I realize how easily you can lie to me, and I’d never have a clue.” She took a step back, then another. “I don’t want people like that in my life.”
I dragged my fingers through my hair, willing myself to make her see reason. “Jesse, don’t you think you’re overreacting? It was one goddamn small gesture.”
She shook her head. “I’m overreacting? Is that what you think? You’re unbelievable, Sebastian.” She gave a shrug so casual it was obscene under the circumstances. “Hey, at least your sister should be happy we’re done. She never liked me.”
Panic clawed at my chest as I watched her retreating. “That’s it? You’re walking away because I made one mistake?”
My voice cracked on the word ‘mistake.’ She kept backing away from me.
I followed her like a man walking off a cliff. “I’m sorry, Jesse. I was wrong. But my intentions were good. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
She gazed past me, her eyes focusing on some distant point over my shoulder. In the amber streetlight, I could see tears shining in her eyes.
“The road to hell is paved with good intentions. My dad loved that saying.” Her voice was hollow, empty. “Have a nice life, Sebastian.”
She turned to walk away, and something inside me snapped.
“This is just an excuse, Jesse!” The words ripped from my throat, raw and desperate. “You’re running because you’re scared. We are so fucking good together that you’re terrified about what could happen next.”
She didn’t turn around, but I saw her shoulders tense.
I went on, the words torn straight from my heart. “You accused me of having commitment issues, but you’re the one who’s always run away. That’s what you’re doing right now. You’re running away because you’re scared!”
Her silhouette grew smaller with each step.
I stood there, defeated, watching the best thing in my life disappear into the shadows between streetlights.
My hands hung useless at my sides, my throat burned from shouting, and my chest felt as though someone had reached inside and ripped out everything that mattered.
I should go after her. Every instinct screamed at me to follow, to keep fighting. But my feet felt welded to the asphalt. Pride—stupid, destructive pride—kept me rooted in place. And the certainty that nothing I said could change anything now.
The sound of her heels on concrete faded until all I could hear was the distant hum of traffic and the ringing in my ears.
I stood there for I don’t know how long, staring at the empty street where she’d been, replaying every word, every gesture, every moment where I could have done something different.
Maybe if I explained better, begged harder… Maybe she wouldn’t have walked away.
I shook my head, a merciless grin splitting my face. I’d begged Lara not to leave me, but she’d done it anyway. And she’d been right. Maybe this was the same. Maybe Jesse and I were just not meant to be.
The bus ride home passed in a blur of red lights and pain. My apartment felt like a tomb when I walked in—too quiet, too empty. I paced the living room like a caged animal, running my hands through my hair until it stood in wild peaks. The silence pressed against my eardrums.
I kept reaching for my phone, then setting it down again. What could I possibly say? ‘Sorry I broke your trust? Sorry I made this decision for you? Sorry I screwed up the best thing that ever happened to me?’
Damn it! I still didn’t think I’d done anything that wrong. Maybe that was the problem? Maybe I couldn’t see straight and I was wrong thinking she’d overreacted?
The minutes crawled by. I tried watching TV, tried reading, tried anything to stop the endless loop of our fight playing in my head. But Jesse’s face kept appearing—the way she’d looked at me as though I was a stranger. As though I’d hurt her unspeakably.
I found myself standing in front of the aquarium, staring at my ladies as they drifted through the water, oblivious to my misery.
Venus came up to the glass the way she always did, her golden scales catching the dim light.
I’d told Jesse they were good company because they didn’t talk back.
What a stupid thing to say. What I’d really meant was that they were safe.
They didn’t ask for anything I couldn’t give.
They didn’t expect me to be better than I was.
Jesse had expected more from me. She’d trusted me to respect what she needed. And I’d failed her spectacularly.
“I fucked up,” I told Venus. She bumped the glass with her nose, then swam away.
Even the fish knew when to keep their distance.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table. For one wild second, I thought it was Jesse. But the name on the screen was Mia.
Hey stranger. It’s been a while. You up?
I stared at the message, thumb hovering over the screen while I tried to remember who Mia was.
Eventually, I recalled a leggy brunette with long hair.
She was a yoga instructor and lived in Tribeca.
We’d hooked up for a few weeks last spring—the kind of casual, uncomplicated arrangement I used to prefer.
She’d understood the rules. No expectations, no strings, just good company and great sex.
I could text her back right now. Be at her place in twenty minutes.
She’d welcome me with that easy smile, no questions asked, no emotional landmines to navigate.
We’d fall into bed, and for a few hours I could forget about green eyes, paint-stained fingers, and the way Jesse’s face had looked when she’d called herself a hooker.
I stared at the phone. I hadn’t the faintest desire to reply.
A couple of months ago I would’ve jumped at this.
I would’ve seen it as the universe offering me an exit ramp from complicated feelings.
Back then, I’d been the guy who could enjoy a woman’s company without letting her get under his skin.
Who prided himself on knowing exactly when to walk away, always with a charming smile and a ‘let’s stay friends’ that usually worked.
I’d thought that made me honest and mature—better than the guys who led women on with false promises.
Now I wondered if it just made me a coward.
With Jesse, there was no compartmentalizing. She’d gotten under my skin, into my chest, and wrapped herself around my heart. And instead of walking away as I always did when things got too serious, I’d stayed. I’d wanted to stay.
I’d changed my whole life for her without even realizing it. I’d started thinking in terms of ‘we’ instead of ‘I.’ I’d imagined futures that stretched beyond next weekend. And I hadn’t felt trapped or suffocated the way I’d always feared I would.
Did I miss the easy sex? The drama-free hookups? The ability to wake up alone without feeling like something was missing?
Maybe a little.
But I missed Jesse more. I missed her so much it felt like a physical ache, as though someone had hollowed me out and left me empty.
I deleted Mia’s message without responding.
Around 1 a.m., I broke and reached for my phone again. I opened our message thread and texted Jesse:
I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I need to know you got home safely. Please text me.
I stared at the screen until my eyes burned, willing those three dots to appear. When they finally did, my heart hammered against my ribs.
I’m home safe. Thanks for checking up on me. Goodnight.
Relief and devastation hit me simultaneously. She was safe, but the formal politeness of her message was a door slamming in my face. This was how it ended—not with passion or promises, but with the kind of careful courtesy you showed strangers.
I collapsed onto my couch, phone still clutched in my hand, and let my head fall back against the cushions. The ceiling stared back at me, blank and unforgiving.
I’d truly thought I was helping her. I’d seen her talent, her fire, her incredible dedication to her art, and I’d wanted to give her the world. Instead, I’d stolen something from her—the satisfaction of earning it herself, the knowledge that her success was hers alone.
The worst part was, I’d known. Somewhere deep down, I’d known she wouldn’t want help. I’d known she was fiercely independent, that she needed to prove herself. That’s why I hadn’t told her.
I’d done it anyway, telling myself I knew better, that she’d thank me eventually. I’d done it so I could feel like a superhero. I’d been so damned arrogant. So convinced that my way was the right way.
Now she was gone, and I was alone in my apartment at 1 a.m., finally understanding what I’d lost. I’d lost the future we could have had, the mornings waking up next to her, the evenings cooking while she painted.
I’d lost her laugh, her stubborn streak, the way she’d trace patterns on my chest while we talked about everything and nothing.
I’d lost the woman who’d made me believe in forever.