Page 23 of Choosing the right Man

He lets out a huge sigh. “It’s marked on the calendar, Chloe.”

I move over to the calendar I never look at, and sure enough, the conference is marked in small black letters. Now I feel foolish.

“Well, why couldn’t you answer your phone?” I ask, deflated.

He lets out an annoyed sigh. “We’re adults, Chloe, and don’t need to check in with each other every five minutes. I was busy all weekend. This was an important conference.”

He’s making me feel like a nagging girlfriend. Is it because of my guilt over what I did with Mason, or am I really hurt? I don’t seem to know anything anymore. I reach for him. He hesitates for a moment, then folds me into his arms. I hold on to him tightly. I don’t know why. I’m not sure what I’m hoping for. Neither of us say more as we stand together in our home that’s feeling emptier by the second.

We eventually let go of one another, and then, just like that, we separate. He heads to the bathroom to shower, and I sit in the living room and try to read a book. Why is he hitting the shower first? Does he need to wash off the scent of a woman? Why in the world aren’t we ending this? It’s becoming more complicated by the minute. I try to talk myself into packing a bag and leaving. I can’t do it yet. Soon. I assure myself I’ll do this soon.

Chapter Sixteen

Mason

It’s another gala night, another event where my art is on display, though none of the people here know I’m the artist. I was very clear that my name is never to be given out. It’s not that I’m ashamed of what I do; it’s just that this is personal to me, and I don’t want the world to know it’s me creating this erotic imagery. This has nothing to do with my work life. It’s a hobby, one I love, one I work on when I need a release. It’s personal.

The only reason I allow the art to be sold is because I don’t know what else to do with it. Sure, it pulls in a ridiculous amount of money, but I have enough money. I don’t sell it because I need more. I sell it because I believe it needs to be released into the world. It brings joy to many. It’s a release of something animal inside all of us, something that sees beauty and freedom in the shape and feel of a body.

I nearly laugh aloud at this. I’m known as a man who doesn’t give a damn about anyone. I like people thinking this about me. It makes life a hell of a lot less complicated. If people think you don’t care, you won’t get caught up in all of the crap in the world. The thing is, though, I do care, I care more than I’d ever be comfortable admitting.

Maybe through my artwork, I find the joy I’m not able to find in other aspects of my life. When I started painting, I heard that many artists commit suicide, that artists are all struggling with inner demons. Maybe we are. I’ve never had any desire to take my life, though. I find joy in living. The art simply allows me to let out feelings I can’t otherwise set free, I can’t openly express. I do have a certain idea of perfection, though I’ve never been able to master it. Maybe that’s why I still paint. Maybe someday I’ll find my masterpiece and then be done with it. For now, I’m not even close.

I’m standing back in a corner, just another patron as far as the people here are concerned, as I watch the crowd in the dim lights of the gallery. Servers pass out food and drinks. Some people stop and chat with me as they move from one piece to another. I give them false smiles and chat, but I’m ready to leave. There’s no need for me to be here. Bella likes me to attend, and she’s one of the few people who knows who I am. She sells my work. She does a good job. She’s become too clingy this past year, though. I will soon need to end the relationship.

Smiles abound around me as piece after piece sells for exorbitant prices. I don’t care. It isn’t that I don’t appreciate people buying my creations, it’s only that I don’t find joy in this part of the work. I also haven’t felt a connection with my art for a while. Something’s missing. But I’m not sure what it is.

I sneak off to a back room. I need a break from the noise, the constant conversation, the food, even the drinks. It’s time to leave. Her scent hits me before I see her. It’s the only one she’s ever worn. I have no idea what it is, but the rare times I smell it on another woman, it feels wrong. There’s a slight difference, but not enough to make me wonder what they’re doing with her scent on their body.

“Hello, Mason,” she says, her voice slightly annoying. Yes, it’s time to end the work and personal aspects of our relationship. Idon’t often sleep with her, but I have used her when I’ve needed an outlet and didn’t want a stranger. She’s always eager... but this doesn’t make it right.

I slowly turn.

She’s already my past, but I’m well aware women like her don’t give up easily. I stay still, leaning against the wall, looking out the open doorway, wondering if anyone will walk in. Do I care? Not really.

“Hello, Bella,” I say after an uncomfortable pause.

She smiles, not at all offended by the coldness in my voice. She could turn and walk away right now, and I wouldn’t care. She truly is buried in my past now. When I decide on a course of action, nothing will change my mind. Chloe is now my present, but I’m not at all sure what will happen with her.

“I can see you’ve missed me,” Bella says with a fake laugh. I honestly don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve seen her. I don’t care.

“I haven’t once thought about you,” I tell her. I know it’s cruel, but she knows who I am. She doesn’t even flinch. She’s incredibly hard to offend... something I’ve always liked about her.

“We’re going to be in each other’s lives for a very long time,” she assures me. I smile, a cold, unfeeling turning of my lips.

“We’re done, Bella,” I tell her. Again, she doesn’t flinch.

“We’ll never be done, Mason. We have contracts,” she tells me.

I barely hold back a roll of my eyes. I can get out of any contract. I don’t point this out to her. “Do not make me cruel for rejecting you,” I say. “We’re done with the personal aspect of our relationship."

She laughs. “If you recall, I once turned you away. Maybe you still hold a grudge because of that.”

“I don’t hold grudges. That gives people far too much power over you,” I say.

“You’ve always have enjoying having power, Mason. I’m surprised you became an artist, since so much of your life is out of control in this line of work.”

“I think this is one area of my life where I don’t have much choice,” I admit. I’m slightly softening as we talk. I realize this is a bad idea, but I can’t seem to help myself.

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