Page 3 of The Man I Love

“Shit!” She glanced around the room, remembering the day that had started so well but had gotten away from her. She’d had so many plans that morning. Plans to pack, to make dinner, to clean?—

The thud of his cab door made her eyes widen as she wiped her clay-stained hands down the front of the Guns N’ Roses T-shirt she hadn’t changed out of.

Tristan’s keys jingled in the lock, and her attention flicked from her bare legs to the dirty dishes in the sink that stuck out like a sore thumb. The front door opened, and all the air left her lungs.

The soft light of the afternoon sun filtered through the living room like a floodlight directed at her. In her mind’s eye, shecould see the scene before him. Coming home from a long day of work, finding his girlfriend covered in filth, her hair tied up in a messy bun, not even dressed for the day. This was happening far too often these days. She’d be gone in two weeks and had wanted to leave him with memories of their amazing life together, not this…

“Time slipped away from me.” She swallowed, her throat so tight the action felt like eating sand. “I’ll go hop in the shower.” She almost ran for the hall, but before she made her escape, Tristan grabbed her by the wrist and turned her around to face him.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, almost laughing. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

In a way, she had. The ghosts of the future and the past had been visiting her all week. An accumulation of dozens of voices over their two-year relationship. Voices that asked howhehadended up withher. Voices that alluded to the fact that he was aten, and she was a seven on a good day. Most of the time, she could chalk it up to being a societal problem. One where a woman’s value was determined by her dress size. But as she got closer to leaving him, knowing that women gawked at him wherever he went, her insecurities had started creeping in. He’d been gone all day, for ten hours, and she hadn’t even done the damn dishes.

“Samantha?” He hooked her chin with a finger, lifting it until she met his eyes. “What’s wrong?” he repeated.

“I didn’t even do the dishes,” she blurted, waving her arms toward the kitchen where the piles of pots and pans consumed every surface. She’d wanted everything to be perfect—for these last days with Tristan to be so happy that he’d never want her to leave—but she was failing at even that.

“Neither did I,” he whispered, his brows furrowing as he tried to figure out what had made her so upset.

“You’ve been working all day?—”

He pointed her toward the living room. “You’ve been working,too.”

Chills ran up her body as she stared at the clay-spattered tarp and the sculpture on top of it. She'd been working all day on the sculpture of a man, his chest exposed, his head hanging low in defeat. He was beautiful and strong, yet he held a football helmet in his left hand, barely hanging on with weak fingers.

Tristan was correct. Shehadbeen working all day—in fact, she’d been working for weeks—but this morning, she actually had a breakthrough and wasn’t able to stop. The creative juices were flowing, and she’d been so caught up with her work that she hadn’t even stopped to eat.

So, why did she feel guilty? Guilty about spending time creating instead of doing the dishes?

Her ex, society’s expectations, and the entire world told the same story. There was a ranking system of sorts. Doctors, attorneys, accountants were all at the very top. Below were the respected and noble professions, ones that were never paid their worth, yet no one cared enough to change. Teachers, nurses, and social workers. Next were the essential professions that were never given the respect they deserved.

At the very bottom were the artists. The “starving artists.” People would call them brilliant and talented, though Vincent van Gogh himself didn’t become famous until after his death.

Art was a side hustle––she’d been told that enough that it was difficult not to believe it. Not a ‘real’ career.

Yet, in less than two weeks, she’d move on to the opportunity of a lifetime. An appointment in New York, where she’d been personally selected by Mr. Covington, a renowned art collector with a discerning eye for talent, to attend. She’d be gone a whole year, building the career of her dreams, and Tristan had supported her every move.

His hand cupped her cheek, thumb tracing gently across her skin as he leaned in close, his forehead falling against her hairline. “I missed you,” he whispered.

She smiled and exhaled. “I missed you more.”

For the first time all day, her shoulders relaxed, and she relished their relationship. In an instant, he made her feel calm, accepted, and safe. She inhaled the scent of him, taking in the winter mint gum on his breath. Her arms slipped around the back of his neck, and her heart picked up speed. “I need to shower,” she said against his mouth, knowing exactly where this moment was headed.

He shook his head, pulling her even closer. “I like you this way.”

She threw her head back and laughed but shoved away from his chest at the same time. “Filthy?” She walked down the hall, but he reached out to grab her again, reeling her toward his body.

“Beautiful,” he argued as he lifted her off her feet, turned on his heels, and headed away from the bathroom.

“What are you doing?” She giggled and squealed, kicking her legs to get away, but he held her firmly and kicked open their bedroom door with his foot.

She pressed her nose against his neck and surrendered to him. A mixture of chlorine and something unmistakably Tristan filled her nostrils. “You need to get your eyes checked,” she whispered into his ear.

He stopped a good yard from the bed, his frown jarring her from bliss. “What did you say?”

She laughed. “Never mind.”

“No,” he urged. “What did you say?”

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