Page 101 of I Love My Mistake

My eyes narrow and it occurs to me that if he’d told me these things before I’d met Mark, I would have bent over backwards to find a way to make us fit and be happy. I would have run into his arms and maybe even cried. But now that I know what happiness feels like, I know that Michael and I could never be happy. We have that tortured kind of connection that makes for a great emotional rollercoaster. We would tear each other to shreds.

I sigh and wait for him to meet my eyes again. “Michael, even if I believed you have no love for her – which I don’t, because you couldn’t look at me when you said it – I know that she loves you. I saw it. Why don’t you go do the right thing and open up with her? I don’t want you anymore.”

I didn’t say it to be mean, but as soon as it falls off my tongue, he blanches. Hate is not the opposite of love – indifference is. And we both heard my indifference. He stares at me from behind the pain of heartbreak. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be cruel.”

He gives a small, distracted nod as he looks around the room and back to me, saying, “You’re just mad. Give me some time to earn your forgiveness.” He bites his lips, struggling. “I love you, Nic.”

“Oh Michael.” I reach up and touch his cheek. “I’m so sorry for coming here tonight. The kindest thing I can do is not give you any hope.”

He scoffs. “How is that kind?”

My hand falls. “Because hoping for something that will never happen is worse than seeing the truth, and walking through the pain so you can let it go. I want you to be happy, but that’s not going to be with me. I’m in love with someone else.”

His eyes flash. “That guy.”

At the mention of Mark, my heart pulls. “Yes.”

He backs away, looking at me like he doesn’t know me. Shockwaves flow through him as he realizes I’m not going to change my mind. He turns to his easel and walks to it, touches the side of the frame and looks at the image that I can’t see from where I stand. The way he looks at the canvas, I can’t help but wonder. He motions for me to come. I’m reticent though. I want to leave, but curiosity is tugging at me because Michael’s work has always moved me so much. I want to see what’s in that painting.

“Come,” he whispers, looking at it. “Give me one more minute of you. I need to show you this.”

I walk slowly and turn to face his latest work. My breath catches in my throat. Staring back from the fabric is me. But not the me from the other painting before; not dark and tortured. This is the me he must have seen when he was trailing us, the night Mark and I walked all over the East Village and came back to my apartment. There are pinks, magentas, oranges, reds and yellows. The essence of me in this is tranquil, happy beauty and it’s by far the most sensually optimistic painting he’s ever created, so soft and bright.

Amazed, I breathe, “It’s gorgeous.”

Beside me, his eyes are locked on the gentle flowing strokes. “Yes. You are.”

I glance sideways to his profile. His jaw is set and firm. “Thank you for showing me this, Michael.”

He doesn’t nod. He doesn’t even move.

Out of compassion, I step away from him. I break the connection we have, for the final time. Slowly I walk to the stairs thinking, I’ll never come back here. I said that before, but for once I know it’s true. I hesitate at the top of the stairs and touch the wall again, like I’d touched it before. He’s frozen where I left him and the light from the outside lamppost drifts in to outline his hair, the skin on his bare legs, the cotton of his torn t-shirt. There in the lamplight is a beautiful silhouette of a man I used to love.

“I want you to know you helped me. I’m proud of my work now. That’s because of you.” I pause, feeling a lump form in my throat. My voice lowers as I say, “You changed my life, Michael.” I wait, but receive no response from him. I drop my hand from the wall and pull my gaze away, walking slowly down the stairs.

A deep sadness washes over me as I pick up my things. A chapter of my life is closing. Where I go from here, I don’t know. I’m so tired. I push open the door that feels extra heavy tonight. Just as I’m about to walk through it, he speaks. I freeze and listen to his deep voice, thick with his beautiful accent, echoing off the walls as it travels down to lick my ears for the very last time.

“You changed my life, too, Nic.”

I pause and soak it in. Blinking away tears, I step out into the cold night air and don’t look back.

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