Page 106 of The Unraveling

“Wow,” I say. “That’s amazing.”

“I didn’t tell anyone right away, not even Jordan. I don’t know why, I guess I was embarrassed to be trying to make it in L.A. or whatever. But yeah, actually everything’s been great. I chopped all my hair off and work out every time I feel depressed, and now I’m super skinny!”

She laughs, and that gives me permission to laugh.

Last I knew her, she was living in Orange County, working a job she hated, with a husband who never wanted to do anything more with his life than he was already doing. Most of what she and I talked about was Bravo TV, so I’m not surprised I was not someone she confided in.

“You look incredible,” I say. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

I feel so relieved that this isn’t some gorgeous woman Jordan is dating that I can hardly breathe.

She glances between us. “Great to see you, Jocelyn, but obviously this is awkward, so I’ll let you guys catch up. I’m going to go look at some pretentious art and find the caviar.”

Once she’s gone, I look back at Jordan’s face and I feel compelled to touch it.

I don’t, of course.

“Jocelyn, I—”

“Jordan Morales,” says Alistair, appearing at my side. “I hoped we’d get a chance to meet. Alistair Cavendish.”

Jordan’s eyebrow flicks at the sound of the name. “Nice to meet you,” he says.

“I hoped Jocelyn could introduce us,” he says. “I’m interested in buying one of your pieces. In fact, I have a proposition for you.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Jordan and Alistair then step away from the crowd. Away from me. Away from my control and my listening ears. Jordan gives me a last, conspiratorial look before he goes, something that acknowledges that, yes, this is very weird.

My heart lifts, unexpectedly, at the little moment of us-ness, and I steady myself by taking a glass of champagne off a passing tray and saying, out loud to myself, “Okay, okay, all good, everything’s fine.”

I busy myself by staring into the abyss of dark ruby crimson in the piece closest to me. I look at it without really seeing it, my mind whirling as I try simultaneously to guess what Alistair could be proposing and also try to take my mind off of it.

I drift around the gallery looking for Jordan’s pieces, my mind a million miles away, but find myself coming back to the present as I realize I don’t recognize some of his work.

It hasn’t been that long since we broke up. Only a few months. Last I was around Jordan, he was in kind of a slump. Painter’s block. Nothing was coming to him. Every time he went to his studio, he came home frustrated because ever since moving to London, he’d been completely dry.

But judging by the unfamiliarity of some of these pieces—and the fact that the information tiles beside them say they were painted this year—he’s been extremely prolific since we broke up.

What is he, Adele? He can only create his art after a breakup?

His pieces are all gloomier than they had been previously. Lots of cadmium red and Prussian blue. Payne’s gray and onyx black. Instead of the soft varnish he usually does, these are all finished in thick, high gloss.

So he’s not with anyone—or at least, the blonde was his sister, not a girlfriend—and he’s been making moody art ever since we broke up. So then how is it possible that he hasn’t tried, not even once, to get in touch with me?

I take a sip of champagne and look across the gallery at Jordan and Alistair, who have been joined by a man in thick-rimmed glasses and a narrowly tailored suit. If I had to guess, I’d say that Alistair is making a purchase and that man is the gallery owner.

Why does Alistair want to buy a piece of Jordan’s? Not that I don’t think they’re good, have value, or have an appeal to a rich man who likes to acquire things, but why has he brought us here?

Is he fucking with me?

My defenses rise, and I remember that he’s given me no reason not to trust him. Except for the whole he’s married thing—but that has nuance.

Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

The three men do a round of handshakes. Alistair looks pleased, and so does the gallery owner, but I’m fluent enough in Jordan’s body language to see that he seems uncomfortable. Something is off.

He looks around the room for a moment, searching, and when his eyes land on me, I see a look I can’t translate.

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