Page 35 of The Man I Love

“Which way did he go?”

“Ma’am?”

“Which way did he go?” Her voice was guttural.

He pointed down the sidewalk into the city.

Without another thought, Samantha picked up the edge of her gown and began running. No shoes, no coat, but it didn’t matter. All she cared about was finding Tristan. Finding Tristan so she could explain.

15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

January

Seven Months Earlier

New York

It wasa culture shock moving to New York. She’d been witnessing breakups, job losses, and proposals, all while walking the streets of the city—yet no one seemed to pay any attention. As though they didn’t see. As though they didn’t care.

Samantha had thought it heartless at first, but over time, she realized it was a gift. A silent understanding amongst the people. What she once saw as a lack of empathy was respect. Respect that ran through veins, hearts, and minds. It was the gift of privacy when there was none. It didn’t matter if you were black or white, gay or straight, man or woman, if someone cried, people pretended not to notice.

With her head down and legs curled beneath her gown on the subway seat, her entire body wracked with sobs. She screamed with the pain in her chest. Howled with the anguish that threatened to split her body in two, and relished in the privacyonly the people of New York could provide. The silent gift that said they accepted her as one of their own.

She ran the scene with Tristan and his father over and over in her mind, wondering how it had gone so wrong. The look on Tristan’s face haunted her. He’d thought she betrayed him. Thought she’d planned to, and out of all the things that broke her heart the most, that fact was the most painful. After two years together, after all they’d been through, he still had so little faith in her.

He’d left without giving her a chance to explain, and she’d run the streets calling his name, looking for him in every alcove, in every store, for what felt like hours … until she eventually hopped the turnstile of the subway almost a mile away, nearly falling on her face when her dress got caught on the spokes—but no one tried to stop her, no one even came to her aid to help her off the ground. That’s when she realized it didn’t take years to become one of the crazed and feral men on the subway she’d been afraid of when she first moved here. It took one single day—one single moment—and everything in her life had fallen to pieces around her.

Finally, making it onto a train, she collapsed on a seat, and a man who appeared homeless dropped a pair of fur-lined boots and a blanket at her feet as he exited the car. At first, she tried to ignore them, but her feet were so cold, the boots looked clean enough, she could barely feel her toes any longer. She slipped them on one at a time, wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, and rode the train back and forth, letting her mind go numb as she replayed the scene back at her apartment.

Her thoughts eventually settled on The Gallery opening, on all the people she’d disappointed tonight. She turned to the window, catching her reflection in the graffiti-etched glass. She almost didn’t recognize herself. Her eyes were puffy and swollen, mascara stained her cheeks where it had mixed with her saltytears, and the hair that once looked effortless, appeared rattled and frizzy from being out in the elements for too long.

“Shit,” she whispered. But there was nothing within her power to change it.

Mr. Covington had given her a chance of a lifetime, and this is where she ended up. Instead of sipping cocktails and mingling with potential buyers, she found herself in a subway car, her feet swimming in a pair of unfamiliar boots.

The car began to slow again, and she realized she was back where she had started. Everything inside of her wanted to stay where she was, to run away and never face the people she had disappointed, but she needed to go back—to face the carnage that awaited her.

She stood on shaky legs, her stiff fingers gripping the handrails until her knuckles turned white and walked toward the exit. Back to The Gallery. Back to the heartache she knew waited for her.

When Samantha approachedthe building hours later, the sidewalks were teeming with people. Media with bright lights still lingered outside the event, filming interviews and taking photographs. She walked by them, her head down, and the security guard from earlier let her sneak by without saying a single word.

As she climbed the steps to her apartment, a nagging thought slipped into her subconscious. What if he’d come back? What if he was waiting for her? What if her search in the city had been for nothing?

Energy filled her legs, and her hands gripped the railing until she reached the very top. Margaret stood in her ball gown in thekitchen. “I was about to call the cops,” she shouted. “Where the hell have you been?” She rushed toward Samantha, slamming her phone on the counter as she pulled Samantha into a hug. “Are you okay? What happened? Why didn’t you answer my calls?”

Samantha's chest was hollow as she shook her head, scanning the apartment for Tristan. “I didn’t bring my phone with me,” she said with an empty voice, but then her eyes stopped on the unmistakable silhouette that stood in front of the dark window. “Excuse me,” she said, pushing out of Margaret’s embrace as she walked toward the living room.

Renee's whole body became rigid, and she twisted her hands at her belly. “What happened?” she whispered, her voice so guttural that it made Samantha’s knees weak.

Samantha walked closer, the raw texture of her throat making it almost impossible to speak. “Have you talked to him?” she asked, ignoring the hoarseness in her own voice.

Renee shook her head, the pain in her eyes haunting. “He called,” she whispered. “I gave him the subway route back to the airport.”

The news hit Samantha like a punch to the stomach and she fell to her knees. “What?” White lights flashed behind her eyelids and the entire room began to spin. “I’m going to throw up,” she whispered.

“Samantha.” Renee lowered herself to the floor, grabbing Samantha’s icy hands in her warm ones. “What happened?” she repeated. “Where have you been?”

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