Page 19 of Faking With The Frenemy

I was glad she had taken the time to set up another meeting. I needed the break from what had been an intense last few months, starting with what had been a rollercoaster of events in Italy. My work had also grown exponentially since my return, the credit going to Michael.

It had taken me several weeks to finish my painting of him. I had several other smaller paintings and sketches, hundreds of them. I depicted him on every surface I saw. However, the major work remained in my studio, and I took my time with it, painting little, precise details every day.

It was perfect. The day I finished, I stared at it wordlessly for an hour, clutching my chest. It was beautiful and majestic. While I knew how good I was at my craft, I found it cringeworthy to praise or judge my work. With this painting of Michael, my skill, not even to myself.

I missed him; what we had lasted such a short time. Over the months, I constantly asked myself whether I had made the right decision. Could there have been a way to go about it if I had given it a shot? His friendship with Enzo made it tricky, plus the distance between us. However, were these problems so insurmountable as to prevent us from working it out?

The question had plagued me from the moment I stood up from the bench in my father’s garden and walked away from Michael. I remember not having the bravery or will to turn back. I ached as I walked away, fighting back the pain that came on intensely.

I felt his eyes on me as I left, and I hoped he would call out to me. If he had, I would not have had the power to resist. While I was grateful that he did not, a small part of me still wept at how it ended.

I poured all those feelings into the little details of the painting as soon as I was back in Paris. When I finished, the canvas came to life. Painted on it was the most powerful force I had ever experienced in my life. I had touched myself that day for the first time in what must have been ages.

The anger after the release finally made me stop what had turned into an addiction. My anger was at how pale an imitation my hands were compared to Michael’s paralyzing touch. He had taken me on a journey and had disappeared somewhere along the way. Now, I struggled to make my way back and was admittedly lost.

I had lost the desire to be with anyone else - not for a lack of trying. When the longing for Michael had reached a fever pitch, I actively hunted for a sexual partner to sate my desire.

Five dates later, I admitted it was a pathetic waste of time. There was always something missing. Despite how well I profiled and practically picked my targets, they always lacked something. I had created a model man in my mind, and the men I tried to replace him with felt like knockoff versions.

If I had never been with Michael, I would have considered it a fairy tale dream to find a man like him. Yet, he existed. I had had him. I had seduced him. I took him. He was real, and I lost him.

I was not the only person who appreciated the work of art that was Michael. In the weeks after I had returned to Paris, I had completely forgotten that I had an art exhibition coming up. I made only paintings of Michael, unable to focus on anything else.

Upon receiving the email reminder, I tried and failed to produce something valuable for the exhibition. There was going to be a competition between the exhibits afterward, with the best piece earning a spot at the Petit Palais for several weeks.

I would have struggled to create a winning piece with ample time on my hands, but as it was, I barely had the time or focus to create anything of value. I had decline the invitation on the eve of the exhibition after ruining another canvas. I turned to leave the studio and saw the painting of Michael staring at me, the eyes hard and focused.

The painting was intimate and private; I had created it out of leisure. Above all, it was beautiful. It was obscure enough that anyone who saw it would think of it as abstract. Anyone but Michael and Enzo, however. They and whoever else knew Michael personally.

I made the call on the spot and shipped off the painting. The feedback was instant. I walked into the hall later than expected to find a large group of people pressed in a corner. Curious, I walked toward the group, their voices hushed.

“Sorry, what is the problem?” I asked a tall man at the back of the group.

He turned to look at me and smiled lazily. “You have not seen? Only the most beautiful work I have ever seen at such events.”

I looked at him a little closer and recognized Jean Fournier. He was a popular art critic and collector who earned his bread traveling the world and ripping people’s works apart. While there were artists who hosted him in lavish style to get in his good graces, the thought of someone like him sickened me.

I thanked him and took a step back from the group. I assumed they had found a piece they liked and wondered if it was someone I knew. The group dispersed eventually, the crowd thinning out as people went to check out other works. I checked out the painting in question, pushing my way politely through a smaller group.

I pushed through two men and stood face to face with my painting of Michael. I remember how my heart raced at that discovery. Jean Fournier had said my painting was the best work he had seen in such an exhibition. I felt surreal as I stood there, staring soundlessly at my work.

The votes showed I had won the evening unanimously. Jean Fournier made a mock salute as I took pictures with the painting, smiling lazily. When the organizer of the exhibition informed me afterward that it was time to move the painting to the museum, I felt torn.

On the one hand, a certain success came with the exposure I would receive when my work hung on the walls of the Petit Palais; I did not feel comfortable sharing the last reminder of my time in Milan with the whole world. The director deemed me crazy when I turned him down politely.

Ever since the painting was hanging on a wall in my house, it was the first thing I saw every time I entered it and right before I stepped out. It seemed counterproductive to hang a painting of the man I was trying to forget where I constantly would see it.

I looked out the window of the cab as we stopped. The driver parked outside Jenna’s house. I noticed Kelly’s car already parked at the curb, showing I was the last to arrive. I had spent the entire trip here thinking about Michael - something happening more frequently every day.

I ran up the driveway to the front door, the rain much stronger than it had been a short while ago. “Alessia!” Jenna said when she opened the door. “It’s so good to see you. I thought you changed your mind.”

I walked in behind her and hung my coat on a hook beside the door. “I would not miss this for the world,” I replied. Voices floated towards me from the kitchen, and we headed in that direction. Louise and Rachel paused their conversation as I walked in, beaming with happiness.

“Bedroom, phone call,” Jenna said as I asked about Kelly. Rachel and Louise returned to their conversation, a bottle of wine opened between them. Jenna pleasantly hummed as she cooked in the corner. I took it all in and said a small prayer of thanks for another opportunity to spend time with women I considered family.

I joined Louise and Rachel, grabbing a glass from a cabinet. “Hey, what are you girls talking about?”

“Alessia! There you are!”

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