Page 64 of The Artist and the Muse

I hated that I had thought I could be enough for him—could be the woman he loved—could be enough for him to settle down for. Only to be proven wrong.

Maybe he’d turned right around and hopped on another flight. Too scared of commitment to stick around after telling me he loved me.

Abandoning my culinary exploits—I had started a chicken pot pie, my comfort meal, and moved on to making sheets of pasta for lasagna—I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. I didn’t want to fall asleep. Didn’t want to lie down with nothing to do but think of George. Where he might be, what he might be doing—who he might be with.

“I am not the kind of woman who anxiously pines away by the phone and waits for a man to call,” I told myself in the mirror. “Or text.”

My reflection looked back, unimpressed. Red-rimmed eyes, chapped lips and sallow skin. Was this the glamorous model on covers of magazines and splashed on the countless Instagram accounts of adoring fans?

Or was it just a woman, trying to understand why the man who had claimed to love her hadn’t responded to any of her messages?

I have loved you with an everlasting love. The words drifted into my mind—a Scripture passage from the sermon I’d heard that one Sunday I’d gone to church with my cousins.

Why was I spiralling just because I hadn’t heard from George in a few hours? Why couldn’t I get a handle on my emotions?

Was there something wrong with me?

I have loved you with an everlasting love. The words, more urgent, seemed to push toward the forefront of my mind again.

Stop chasing love. Stop trying to be enough. Stop finding your identity in being perfect.

Find it in Me instead.

A tear trickled down my face that I hadn’t been aware of. I shut off the bathroom light and went out to the kitchen. Sleep deprivation must be making me lose my mind.

That was the only reasonable explanation I could think of for why I’d texted George so many times, thought up so many irrational scenarios in my head, and was now hearing voices.

Retying my apron strings, I finished making the filling for the chicken pot pie. Then I pulled the blind-baked pie crust out of the oven and added the filling before putting it back in the oven to bake. Now for the lasagna.

But as I was rolling out the lasagna sheets with my sleeves pushed up, I could have sworn I heard the voice again.

I am enough for you. I have loved you with an everlasting love. The love of man will not satisfy you.

Had I been chasing that? Seeking adulation from Internet strangers and industry approval? Seeking my worth based on the most fine-tuned version of my appearance?

And now, was I just transferring my need to be loved—to be liked—onto George?

Even if George did love me, and even if he had answered the phone—would he be enough to save me from this gaping pit in my heart that had always been there?

Somehow, I thought the answer would be no.

I loved George. But he couldn’t be the one I put on a pedestal, whose every opinion needed to be consulted before I did anything, or the one who I turned to whenever I needed saving.

He couldn’t be my purpose. Nor could George Devereaux be my reason for living, the one I formed my identity around, the thing I found my worth in.

It would have to be something else. Something that wasn’t external, wasn’t dependent on my appearance or performance or productivity.

I wasn’t sure what that could be yet. But I was willing to look for it.

As I layered pasta dough with ricotta cheese and tomato sauce, my thoughts fell on Italy, and how much everything had changed.

I’d missed so many meals that I could have been enjoying. I’d ruined so many days I could have been living to the fullest. All because of my desire to be some warped genre of perfection that only mattered to people who didn’t care about me.

On impulse, I’d deleted Instagram from my phone during the plane ride home. After powering off my phone, I’d spent an hour of the flight chatting with Jamie, promising to keep in touch after we got back to New York. We’d hugged goodbye at the airport, before Pennington had shown up to take me back to my apartment.

Now, I was in the middle of the kitchen, remembering all the meals I’d made while waiting for my mom to come home from work. I’d always enjoyed cooking for others; seeing the joy on their faces as they took in their favourite dish. But I’d never thought I’d be any good at it—at least, not good enough to consider it as a profession.

But what if I could be, and I was holding myself back because I was too scared of being imperfect to try?

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