Page 6 of The Man I Love

Sam’s eyebrows arched as she turned to face him again. “It’s not that funny.”

Tristan sat up too and leaned in close, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Could have fooled me.”

The memory was dull and faded, but for a moment, she was there again, back in their home, nestled into his chest.

“Damn it.” She sighed and wrung the sponge firmly with both hands before dropping it back into the water basin.

She missed everything about him. Being in his presence, finding complete comfort in silence, waking up with her body completely wrapped in his, but somehow not feeling trapped.

“You’re living a dream, Samantha. You’re living a God-damn dream. Get it together!”

Funny, but it didn’t feel like a dream now. In fact, some days felt like a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from.

She was being dramatic.

Yes, she was emotional, ridiculously so, but homesickness didn’t allow her to think straight. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. An experience most artists dreamed of. Move to the big city, collaborate with other creatives, and have her work seen by the masses! It was something others killed for.

Shaking away the uncertainty, she closed her eyes and picked up the sponge again. She ran the wet mass along the sculpture for a second time. Each bump, tiny hole, and flaw became evident in the darkness. She’d used this technique a thousand times. On days when she couldn’t trust her eyes to see past thedoubts she’d planted deep inside. When she needed to put her faith in other things and allow her fingers to guide her.

She wished life was like that, that she could close her eyes and have all the answers present themselves like they did with her sculptures.

Was this a mistake?

Her eyes shot open, and she dragged a breath into her lungs.

Her roommates were all out for the evening, leaving her alone in the tiny apartment with only her thoughts. Usually, she welcomed a night like this, but tonight, she felt isolated. How would she get through eight more months of this? A year of artistic exploration…but at what cost?

“Go.”

She thought back to the single word Tristan had used when she’d told him of Mr. Covington’s proposal.

“Go.”

Without questions, without answers, with no guarantees of what this commitment would mean for him, or them.

“It will be for an entire year,” she’d argued.

“Go,” he repeated. “You have to.”

A gentle drip came from somewhere in the apartment and snapped her back to reality. It was soft, almost nonexistent and would’ve gone unnoticed if she was back in L.A. For the past two years, life with Tristan had been everything but quiet. It was full of commotion, noise, and adventure. She’d loved every second. He filled her soul with laughter and left little room for boredom. Now, the drips came loud and clear, even over the sounds of the city. She inhaled the earthy scent of clay and examined the work before her. She couldn’t figure it out. Her sculptures often started this way—with more of a feeling than a vision, but this was different. This felt like a puzzle of life was handed to her in clay form, and she couldn’t seem to decipher it.

Her eyes shifted to the rusty sink, where the dripping became more insistent. She crossed the room to stand before it. The concrete floors cool, even beneath her slippered feet.

This was a privilege. Beautiful, old, and wonderful—this space she was fortunate to live in.

Her hands gripped the handles of the rusty faucet and twisted hard until the soft drips faded into nothingness. A random thought slipped into her mind. Had Tristan been right in telling her to go? Had it been his insistence that made her take this leap? Or possibly her fears of missing out and always doing the right thing?

Loud footsteps immediately filled the space, and she flipped around, heart hammering in her chest. She blamed Tristan for the paranoia. He’d filled her with caution the moment she left Los Angeles.

“Lock the doors.”

“Never make eye contact on the subway.”

“Always ask for the price of a hot dog before you commit to condiments.”

The glimpse of her roommate’s fiery red hair made her calm. Margaret stumbled up the steps, followed by a tall, dark-haired gentleman who pinned her against the wall.

Samantha froze. The man’s broad shoulders were hunched over her roommate’s frame. Samantha turned away, but not before she noticed the overgrown locks peeking out of the man’s collared coat. A familiar pang shot through her chest, and longing twisted in her belly. She plunged her hand noisily back into the water to alert her roommate to her presence.

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