Page 27 of The Painter and His Poet

“My brain short-circuited from the over-stimulation, and I passed out,” I say, with a shrug. “When I came to she was crouched beside me. She wanted to call an ambulance.”

My mother gives me a knowing look. “I’m guessing you didn’t end up in A&E?”

“No.”

“Sterling!” she scolds.

“You know as well as I do that there isn’t anything they could’ve done,” I say in an attempt to placate her. “Anyway,the bouncer kicked us both out. He thought I was high, Friday helped me to my feet and kept me steady as we left the club.”

“She sounds like a good person,” my mother says.

“She is, at least Ithoughtshe was,” I reply, swiping a hand over my face, feeling the sting of Friday’s rejection still.

“What do you mean by that?”

I wince. “Let’s just say I invited her back to my place, we spent the night together but when I woke up she was gone.”

“Ah, I see.”

“She left a note, gave me a false number, and I haven’t seen her since.”

Though not for lack of trying.

“That must’ve stung.”

“It did. Itdoes. I thought she’d felt what I’d felt too, which is fucking stupid, right? How could she possibly? It was just a one night stand for her, just sex, but for me…”

“It was more?”

“So much more. I can’t get her out of my head,” I say, reaching up and tapping my temple. She frowns at that, but keeps her thoughts to herself.

“Because you felt connected to her in a deeper way?”

“Exactly. I can’t stop thinking about her, and it’s messing with my head. No matter how many times I paint her, this feeling remains. In fact, it just deepens.”

“And what exactly is it that you’re feeling?” my mother questions softly, cautiously almost.

“I honestly don’t know,” I lie, because Idoknow, and this obsession is getting worse every day. Most nights I can’t fall asleep, so consumed by the memory of Friday’s body beneath mine, how it felt to be inside of her, to kiss her, to taste her. Fuck, I can barely remember to eat most days because all I’m doing is painting her image over and over and over again. If I didn’t leave my apartment much before, then it’s even worse now, onlyventuring out late at night to search another club or bar in my attempt to find her. The only reason I’m sitting in this café freshly showered and wearing a different set of clothes, instead of the same jogging bottoms and t-shirt I’ve been wearing for fucking weeks, is because of my mother’s visit.I’m a fucking mess.

“Have you tried to find her?”

“Yes. I’ve searched every bar and club in New York City. She’s disappeared. It was like I imagined her or something…”

“Oh Sterling, I am so sorry. I wish I could help.”

“There’s nothing you can do. She clearly doesn’t want to be found, and I’ve just got to find a way to get her out of my system once and for all. This will pass in time.”

But even as I say those words, I know it's bullshit, that I won’t rest until I find her, until I make her mine.

My mother nods. “Well, now that I’m here visiting for a while, I can help to take your mind off things, yes?”

“That’d be good,” I reply, plastering on a smile as I reach for the bill and move to stand so I can pay it.

“Sterling,” she says, grasping my arm.

“Yes?”

“I know you said that you don’t want to return to Princetown for your father’s wedding, but perhaps it’ll be a good thing?”

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