Page 3 of Omega Artist
Sure, whatever.
See what I said about the bad boy appeal? And I would never take advantage of it because I’m married and adore my wife. Because I voiced my vows and have no intention of breaking them. Because I’ll always belong to one woman, until death do us part.
While Delia’s gone, I don’t hear much from her, aside from a few texts. Either way, we’re not one of those couples who spends hours glued to our phones when we’re apart. As much as I’m looking forward to hearing about the fun she’s having, I bet she’s swamped with work and I refrain from calling her both Saturday and Sunday.
Remember, she said something about the crappy connection anyhow.
It won’t make much of a difference anyway. Her side of the bed will only be cold for one night, so I sprawl in the middle to keep it warm. Must be why I’m dragging when I wake up on Sunday.
Thank God, work is great and flies by, but I still miss her and am eager to catch up at tonight’s reunion.
Yes, can’t wait for our date!
When I’m done with work, I grab lunch and spend the entire afternoon working on a new painting. It’s pretty nice, yet a part of my stupid heart feels empty without her near me. I had been on a painting hiatus for months, which somehow dissolved when I came back from the parlor today. My tension has vanished. My heart has grown lighter. My mood has settled on joyful. I scrub off the paint stains, get changed in no time, and hurry to our usual neighborhood spot.
Unfortunately, I’m facing an empty chair. According to the oversized clock at the Heights Cafe, she’s already forty minutes late. I curse quietly and fidget in my seat while pouring another glass of their featured wine of the month to relax. My first two texts were mainly to check on my two favorite girls; I intentionally don’t call when she’s driving.
I worry the corner of my lip with my canine tooth, shooting her a third one as I grow more worried by the second. This isn’t like her, and a bad connection can’t be an excuse any longer. I scratch the back of my head and shake it at Hugh, the waiter, as he approaches to take my order.
One sip of wine later, my thoughts clear, and an idea strikes me.
“Hey, Soraya.”
“Tig, ‘sup?” I hear a baby crying in the background. She asks me to hold on, yells at Graham to take the baby, and gets back on the line. “So sorry that I couldn’t make it this weekend, I wish I could’ve gone to Woodstock with Del.”
Wait, what?
Why is she home? Why is she talking to Graham? Why isn’t she with Delia? My agitation skyrockets, and I rush out of the restaurant to have this conversation while pacing on the street, thankful that the rain has stopped.
“What do you mean, you couldn’t make it? Delia never mentioned that you bailed on her.” I’m freezing since I stupidly left my coat inside, but my sudden numbness is a perfect shield against the cold weather. On top of that, my heart is beating so fucking fast that my lungs seize.
“I’m sorry, Tig. Lorenzo’s sick, so I couldn’t go. Del called and got someone from the convention to sub for me.” My friend pauses, and I hear a distinct swallow on the other end of the line. “She isn’t back yet?” Her voice mirrors my concern. “But she should have been back at least an hour ago!”
“I know.” My strangled voice can’t do much more than tell her that I have to go and will keep her posted.
I call her. Voicemail. I text her. No reply. I implore her. No use. I leave the restaurant, apologizing on my way out, and sprint back home. What the actual fuck? Why isn’t she responding to my calls or texts?
That’s when I notice it. One tiny detail on my phone that I didn’t pay attention to previously. One alert for a missed call that holds the answer to my future. One missed call that proves that nothing lasts forever. One missed call that changes my life for the worse. Out of breath, I rush to the hospital to see my wife, only to have the surgeon inform me of my new status.
A widower.
Chapter One
You Are My Sunshine
TWO YEARS LATER…
Tig
“Enough, Tig de Luca!”I register the command moments after it’s voiced. I’m so out of it that the yelling bounces around my mushy brain without penetrating any nerve endings or setting me in motion. What does, though, is the swaying of my mattress, unless someone transported me to a ship. My stomach races into my mouth needing immediate release, and not the good kind.
“Dammit, Tig, these are brand new.”
I hear zipper noises. I hear angry mumbling. I hear people talking. My empty stomach helps me to regain some consciousness, and I reluctantly pry open a heavy eyelid.
I see red. As in Soraya’s dyed hair tips when she’s fucking mad. It finally hits me; I’m in so much trouble. Yeah, she has this habit of changing her hair color depending on her mood. Graham experienced it years ago, and he confessed that it wasn’t fun; I haven’t had the pleasure… up until now.
I see green. As in the contents of my stomach that emptied on my best friend’s boots. I can’t be sure that she’ll be able to wear them again. Did last night’s excesses lead me to ruin them?
