*Where did everything go wrong?
When Calder met me at the door, he grabbed me as if he couldn’t bear to be away from me for a moment longer. Hell, we got so caught up in each other that we literally set the kitchen on fire. It was only a few days ago that he confessed he needed me. What’s changed? Or has the guilt been there all along, just carefully hidden away?
I’m a mess at work the next day. I do my best to avoid both Morgan and my dad because I can’t bear for either of them to see me like this. I spend the better part of the day out of my office, doing inventory in the supply room. That way, when I inevitably find my eyes welling up again, there’s no one there to see.
I’m completely pathetic.
I grab a box of crayons from the nearest shelf and hurl it across the supply room. It hits something and the cardboard box splits open, spilling crayons everywhere.
“Fuck him!” I say, throwing another box, then another. “Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him!”
This time I don’t pay attention to what I’m grabbing. It’s not until my latest projectile hits the wall that I realize I’ve just hurled a pack of paints across the room. They explode, splattering the wall and floor and a stack of blank white canvases in the process.
I sink down to my knees, too overwhelmed to look at the damage.
I’m an idiot. After my last disaster of a relationship, I promised myself that I’d take things slowly in the future. I promised myself that I wouldn’t let my emotions race ahead of my common sense. Calder’s been blowing hot and cold for a couple of weeks now. He’s been keeping secrets, holding back on me. Those were all signs to step back, to keep my emotions in check, but of course I ignored them.
I can’t blame him. I can only blame myself.
But acknowledging that doesn’t make me feel any better. I bury my face in my hands, trying to fight back the sobs that rise in my throat.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Calder and I—we were something different. My body reacts to him as it’s never reacted to any man before. But what we had goes deeper than that intense physical connection. My time at his estate changed me. Calder challenged me. He made me feel wilder, stronger, and more alive than I’ve ever felt before. I don’t want to go back to being “ordinary” me again.
I don’t know how long I sit like that, but it’s much longer than I mean to.
Dammit. When did I turn into such a blubbering mess?
I wipe my face on my sleeve and force myself to take a deep breath. I can’t do this. If I let myself sit around and think about Calder, I’m never going to get anything done.
I drag myself over to the mess I’ve made and begin cleaning it up. I won’t think about last night. I’m stronger than that.
It’s easier said than done, of course.
Every time I close my eyes I see his face—his dark eyes and his strong jaw and his perfect lips. I see the dusting of stubble on his cheeks, the soft curls of hair around his ears. Sometimes he looks upon me with such emotion and desire I feel my heart swelling in my chest, but other times his expression is distant and closed off, and I feel a new stab of pain through my belly.
I’m being selfish, I know. I can never truly understand what he’s going through. His entire life has turned upside down this past year, and it will only change more in the coming months. He needs to figure out who he is without the money, and he needs to do it on his own.
But why did he let things get this far? Why did he take me out to a beautiful restaurant or kiss me as if he could never have enough of the taste of me? It was a cruel, heartless joke.
The tears have mostly dried by the time I’ve finished cleaning up the crayons and paint. The numbness has set in again, but at least I know I can get things done when the emotions are at bay. I stop by the bathroom to splash water on my face and freshen up a bit, and then I head back to my office.
*
The package arrives the next week. It takes two men to haul it into the Center.
I’m still playing damage control, trying to repair our image now that the disgruntled Gina Billings has called every donor she could find through our lists. My dad decided to refund her deposit—against my own advice—and the loss of funds has set us back some more. The work helps me keep my mind off of Calder, at least, but the unexpected delivery still comes as a welcome diversion.
“Did you order any art, Dad?” I ask, as I sign for the tall, rectangular crate.
He shakes his head. “I wonder what it could be.”
We drag it into his office together. There’s no return address on the box, but maybe there’s some paperwork inside. We lower the mysterious package onto the ground and cut through the clear industrial tape holding everything together.
“It’s definitely a canvas,” I say, peeking in the end. “Are you sure you didn’t order something and forget?”
He smiles. “I’m not that senile yet.”
The canvas has been carefully packed, so we can’t get a good look at it without unwrapping the many protective layers, but there’s a note on top. It’s handwritten, and I recognize the scrawl immediately. It feels like someone has kicked my legs out from under me.
It’s yours. This time I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.
There’s no signature. Even now, Calder respects my decision to keep “us” a secret from my dad. There’s no point in starting a family argument over a relationship that’s already over.
I feel sick as my dad and I unwrap the piece. I don’t need to look. I know what’s inside these layers of plastic and insulating foam.
Still, my stomach heaves when we remove the final layer and see the Ludlam painting lying there.
Dad lets out an audible gasp. “Is this…?”
He leans forward until his nose is practically touching the canvas.
“I think this is real,” he says, his voice full of wonder. “Either that, or one of the best forgeries I’ve ever seen. But why is it here? Who sent it?”
I’m going to vomit. I’ve spent all week pushing away thoughts of Calder, trying to focus on my work and forget about the pain. But this gesture brings it all back. The fact that he sent this painting to me means one thing and one thing only: that Calder and I are absolutely, completely over.
“I—I need to go,” I say. If I try to explain this to my dad, I’m only going to break down again.
“Is everything okay?” he asks.
“Fine!” I call over my shoulder. I need to get out of here. I can’t stop. I can’t think.
I’m halfway across the parking lot before I realize I don’t have my purse or my keys, and I can’t go back now. It’s not worth the risk of running into my dad and having to explain why I’m freaking out.
I leave the parking lot and walk down the street, and after a block or so I sink down onto a bench and press my face into my hands.
I don’t know what I expected. Maybe, deep in my heart, I hoped that he’d realize his mistake. That he’d show up at my door and grab me and kiss me and tell me he was wrong to push me away. But instead he’s sent the Ludlam.
That jackass. That fucking jackass.
At least he didn’t string you along forever, a tiny voice reminds me. He might have just continued to use you as a distraction. At least he was honest.
Yeah, only after taking me out on dates and calling me the “one perfect, beautiful thing” in his life. That wasn’t leading me on at all.
I wanted to help him. I told him I’d be there for him, no matter what. And he pushed me away.
Damn him.
And damn me for trying to be supportive. For thinking that my words or touch would make any difference.
I stand up again and begin pacing back and forth in front of the bench. Why did I let him get under my skin? I knew this would end badly. I knew, deep down, that he would hurt me, and I was right.
Screw him.
I was taken in by the mystery of him. By his dark eyes and burning passion and sweet whispered words. I let myself believe that this thing between us was more than just a fling.
Fuck him.
If he doesn’t want me, if he doesn’t need me, then fine. Let him deal with all of this on his own. I’m tired of worrying about him.
That resolution brings me some peace, at least. But maybe “peace” isn’t the right word; it’s just the numbness again.
I embrace the feeling, let it settle over my bones. I refuse to let this break me.
A couple of deep breaths later and I make myself return to the Center. My cheeks are dry. Maybe I’ve cried all the tears I have for Calder Cunningham.
Back in the hallway, Dad is still bent over the Ludlam.
“Is everything all right?” he says, looking up at me with concern.
I nod and force a smile. “I was just a little overwhelmed. By this.” I wave at the painting.
Dad is already looking back down at the canvas, shaking his head in complete awe.
“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” he says. “I still can’t believe it. Look, it even came with a certificate of authenticity. We should still have it checked out, but it looks legitimate.” He leans back on his heels once more. “But I don’t understand why it’s here. Who sent it?”
Calder’s note it still sitting on the floor where I dropped it. I cover it with my foot.
“Maybe it’s an anonymous donation,” I say.
“They’d be better off donating this to a proper museum. Not that I’m complaining. Maybe they included the title in here somewhere.”
While my dad looks for some physical proof of ownership, I reach down and grab Calder’s note from the floor.
“I really should be getting back to work,” I say. I don’t know how much longer I can bear to look at the painting in front of me.
“Of course,” my dad says, still distracted. “Do you mind doing a little research on who we might call to confirm authenticity? Maybe we can look at auction records and see if we can figure out who sent it.”
“Maybe they wanted to stay anonymous for a reason.”
Dad nods, but I can tell he’s not really listening anymore.
I return to my office and do as he requested. I know the painting is real, but it can’t hurt to have it appraised.
Calder shouldn’t have sent it. If he was so eager to be rid of the piece, he might have sold it and used the money to help him through this transitional period in his life. Instead, he chose to give it to me.
My stomach twists. He knew how much I loved this painting, and even though we’re no longer together, he wanted me to have it. I’m sure he only sent it out of guilt, the asshole.
But the gesture is still there. Why is he thinking of me when he should be thinking of himself?
The rumors have only been getting worse. In spite of my best efforts, I’ve found myself drifting to the gossip blogs again and again hunting for the latest “information” on Calder’s situation. I’ve even ventured to the site where Garrett contributes, but I’ve found no news of any value. The accusations seem to change every day—Pyramid scheme! Love child! Drug cartel!—but no one seems to offer any real proof.
Maybe I’m just a masochist because now, even now, I want to know the truth behind those shadows in Calder’s eyes. I want to know the name of the weight he’s been carrying. I’m probably being stupid and sentimental, but I want to understand him—truly, deeply understand him—even as another part of me wants to hunt him down and punch him in the face.
He might have sent the painting as some twisted parting gift, but that understanding will be my parting gift to him.
*
Asher Julian stops by on Friday.
I’m working at my desk when Dad pops in, the boyish reporter in tow. “Look who I have here!”
“Your father’s just finished showing me the Benjamin Ludlam piece,” Asher says. “It’s remarkable. And from a mystery donor, I hear.”
“Never a dull moment around here,” Dad says with a smile.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead,” Asher says. “But I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stick my head in and see if you could spare a few minutes.”
“Did you speak with your editor?”
He gives that charming dimpled grin. “It took some convincing, but I think I’ve worn her down to a nice compromise.”
“Compromise?” Dad says. “What are you talking about?”
Asher smiles at my dad. “My editor wanted to capitalize on the whole Cunningham bonanza by playing up that angle of your story. But Lily says you guys don’t have much information to contribute on that front.”
“What sort of information do you need?” my dad says. “I still have that first letter he sent us stashed somewhere. You know, the one breaking the pledge contract.”
“I’d love to see it,” Asher says.
I stand up. “Dad, is that really a good idea? We want this article to come off as friendly, optimistic—not bitter and angry.”
Asher cuts in before my dad can respond. “As I tried to tell your daughter, sir, I think the Frazer Center might earn more sympathy and attention if we tie your hardships to the Cunningham family. I only wish to explore the truth.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad, honey,” Dad says. “There’s no harm in being honest. We have nothing to hide.”
Oh, that Asher is a sneaky bastard. There’s no way for me to argue without having to explain why I’m trying to protect Calder—because I find that I still want to protect him, even after everything.
Dad runs off to find the letter Calder’s lawyers sent all those months ago—the one that started it all—while Asher walks toward my desk.
“I thought you said your editor approved another angle?” I say. “Why are you still pursuing the Cunningham matter?”
He shrugs. “If your father still has the letter, it’s worth a look.” He glances up at me, and his smile drops. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset,” I say quickly. Gah, am I that obvious? “Just a little stressed today.”
“You’re always stressed when I talk to you,” he says. “Maybe you should give yourself a little break.”
“I’m fine. There’s just always a lot to do around here.”
He leans across my desk and flashes me a flirtatious smile. “Come on. It’s Friday afternoon. What do you say to skipping out of here early and letting me take you to dinner?”
Dinner. Oh. Oh, no.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t—”
“Boyfriend?”
My cheeks go hot. But it’s best to just tell the truth and get it over with. “Not currently. But I’m not really in a place where I’m comfortable dating right now.”
“Recent breakup, huh?” He shoots me a sympathetic look.
“I’m sorry,” I reply, hoping that settles the matter.
But he’s studying me, and after a minute he says, “You still care for him. A lot.”
I blink. “What?”
“I told you that I’m pretty good at reading people. And you, Lily Frazer, might as well be writing depressing love sonnets on a cliff somewhere.”
“Excuse me?”
“Deny it if you want,” he says, settling into the chair in front of my desk. “I think it’s sweet. If a bit disappointing for me personally.”
I’m not really comfortable discussing this with him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Julian. Do you have any other questions for me about the Center?”
He nods and pulls out his digital recorder. “Just a few.”
By the time my dad returns with the letter, Asher and I have been chatting for a good ten minutes, and I’m just starting to feel comfortable again. In fact, he doesn’t bring up Calder or the Cunningham family to either myself or my dad for the entire rest of the interview.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that Asher Julian knows a lot more than he’s letting on. About me. About the Center. About Calder—especially Calder. If he and I were alone, I might even risk asking him about all the Cunningham rumors floating around. He’s pretty astute, and I have no doubt that he’s good at separating the truth from the fiction in his line of work.
But I don’t. It’s too dangerous. The minute I press too hard is the minute I give everything away. So I smile and nod and answer questions with as much grace and intelligence as I can muster under the circumstances. Asher departs with a smile on his face, promising us that the story will appear in next week’s issue of Intown Voice.
Dad struts around beaming for an hour after Asher leaves.
“This is just what we need,” he says. “Some good local press will definitely spark things around here. Isn’t it exciting?”
I want to agree. I want to think that this article will be our saving grace, the one bright spot in an otherwise hellish week.
But maybe it’s precisely because this has been a hellish week that I can’t bring myself to believe it.