Page 42 of You Make Me Feel
There’s something about the painting that meant I couldn’t leave it behind, even though the plan was to escape with one bag and nothing else. I took her off the wall of my old apartment, and brought it with me.
Everything else that belonged to my ex went into storage, prepaid for the length of his prison sentence. I sent aletter with the details and promised myself I’d never talk to him again.
The painting shows a woman standing on a widow’s walk, staring out to sea, her face soft but sad. As if she’s watching for her husband’s ship, searching and waiting every night in the days before phones or telegrams or anything that might have brought him home.
But he never comes.
The brushstrokes are confident and visible, giving texture to the air and movement to the sea. The woman’s dress ripples around her legs, a pale blur against the darker sky, her hair swept back as though caught in a storm she doesn’t seem to feel.
There’s a yearning to her, that I can feel deep in my stomach, pulling at me every time I look at her. I don’t know her name, I don’t know if she even existed.
But from the moment I bought it at a yard sale – as a gift for my ex, because I’m an idiot who thought he loved me – I felt like she could read my mind.
Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t have taken her. It’s his painting. It should be in storage with all his other things. But he never appreciated it the way I did.
When I pull my eyes away from the canvas, I see the two ticks lighting up my phone screen, bookending the message I just sent.
Telling me it’s been read.
He hasn’t replied. Of course he hasn’t. I didn’t leave him the slightest way back in.
I take a breath, turn off my phone, and pull out a pair of fluffy pajamas from my drawer. If I’m going to lose sleep tonight, it’ll be because of a good book, not a man.
And tomorrow, I’ll be fine. The wayI always am. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last few messy years, it’s that the only person I can rely on is myself.
ZACH
A few days later, I’m ignoring the messages from my sister reminding me about tonight’s committee meeting – this one at the hotel – and tackling the inbox that seems to be fuller than Yankee Stadium on a summer night.
That’s when I see the message from Dr. Rogan. Or rather, from his assistant. Thanking me for contacting them and giving me a date for the final batch of tests and a follow up meeting. I get a throb at my temple even thinking about that, so I shut my laptop before the pain starts to land harder.
It’s easy to shift my thoughts. Has been for the past few days. Larry’s hit another wall in his search for the painting, so I’ve been coaching him through the options going forward. If it was me, I’d probably fly to the last known location, but Larry won’t leave the building, let alone get on an airplane.
Instead, he’s arranging a zoom call with an art contact I have, and hopefully that will open things up for him. It’s funny, trying to mentor him. I have to hold myself back, as to not take over.
And that’s not something that comes naturally to me.
My thoughts segue to Sadie. Not that it’s hard because she’s been constantly on my damn mind. Her one word response to my message made her feelings clear. Shedoesn’t want me to check on her. Or call her. Or do anything other than leave her alone.
But fuck if I can’t stop thinking about her. And I guess tonight, I’ll see her too. If I get there early, Autumn will be delighted.
So I push back from the desk, grab my keys, and head for the door, walking along the oak hallway of the private offices toward the Grand Liberty Hotel Lobby.
It’s thronging inside. Full of people checking in for a long late spring weekend, and others heading to the Sun Room Bar and Liberty Restaurant for social gatherings. When Hudson opened the hotel, he headhunted a Michelin starred chef to run the kitchens, and now people travel here specifically to eat, even though we’re a ferry-ride away from the mainland.
“Dear God, you’re actually early,” Autumn says, when she spots me striding toward her. She has a tablet in her hand, a stylus between her fingers, and her hair is up, like she means business. “Is that a Tom Ford shirt?” She reaches out with her stylus-filled hand to touch the cotton. “Ooh, that’s nice. I’ve been trying to persuade Parker to dress up a bit more. The man thinks gray sweats are formal wear. I swear he’s one hoodie away from forming a boy band.”
I laugh, but then my attention is pulled away by the door opening. I let out a disappointed breath when Jesse walks in.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the guy. He’s like another brother, having grown up on the island with us. But still… wrong person. Wrong gender.
He’s followed by Bennett, West’s assistant who’s here to help with any staff needed from the resort. Then Mylene walks in, looking harassed as usual. Before long, there’s awhole crowd of people standing around Autumn, who looks in her element as the center of attention.
“Sadie’s late,” she says, frowning. “She’s never late.”
“She was late for the last meeting, actually,” Mylene points out.
“Has anybody heard from her today?” I ask, my voice thick. I’m about half a second away from calling her, which is a very bad idea.
