Page 16 of If You Never Come Back
“What’s all this?” he asks.
I stand over him, shuffling back and forth on my bare feet. I must look like I have to pee.
“It’s um…nothing.”
That’s the most pathetic excuse I could have come up with, especially when the truth is so obvious.
He frowns at the watercolor, then twists his head to the charcoal lying on the floor just a few inches away.“These are me?”
His face goes pale.
“Yes.”
“Wow. Okay.”
Judging by the stunned look on his face and how he says nothing else for several seconds, he is not flattered. He is shocked and terrified.
When he finally turns to me, he doesn’t even look at me. He just grabs his coat and scurries out the door.
Stunned, all I can do is stand and stare at the door. It’s official. I’ve solidified my status as a creepy artist who spends my free time drawing the guy I’m sleeping with. I’ve sprinted past the admirer category. I am the queen of the stalkers.
I look over at the scattered artwork on the floor once more. From this angle, it looks like a creepy mosaic. I walk over, stack the drawings, and shove them under my desk. Tangling both hands in my hair, I blink back tears. In ten minutes, I ruined everything between us.
Chapter Five
“Four shots of tequila, please.” The college-aged hipster doesn’t smile when he speaks or hands over the cash in his hand.
Good. I don’t think I could take a smile on top of his drink order. Just the mention of tequila reminds me of the one person I shouldn’t be thinking about.
Four days since Wes discovered my stash of sketches and paintings, and we haven’t spoken. No calls or texts from me, of course. No way in hell am I initiating contact after what I’ve done.
He hasn’t reached out, either.
I thought leaving the ball in his court would be best. He’s the one who’s had to process the shock and surprise. He needs time to think, to decide what to do next.
I was hoping for at least aWe should talktext, but not even that. As terribly as that conversation would most certainly go, it would be better than the limbo I live in now, where I don’t know where we stand, where my feelings track up and down every hour of every day like I’m riding an out-of-control roller coaster.
I hand the hipster his change. He says a quiet “thanks” before taking the shots to his table.
Remy saunters up next to me while I wipe a towel over the surface. “Romeo hasn’t been in for a while. What’s up with that?”
“I don’t think he’ll be coming back. Ever,” I mutter.
Remy gently grips me by the arm and leads me to the end of the bar where there are no customers. “What are you talking about?”
I cross my arms, my eyes refusing to look anywhere than the floor. “I’m pretty sure I screwed up everything.”
“You two have an argument or something?”
“I wish.”
There’s at least a playbook for making up after an argument. Storming out, cooling off, a night of fitful sleep. Then someone bites the bullet and is the first to call or text. Apologies are exchanged. Then copious amounts of makeup sex ensue.
There is zero guidance for what to do when the person you’re dating stumbles upon a stash of stalker artwork you’ve made of them.
I look around the bar to make sure no one is paying attention to our conversation. “I’ve been doing drawings of him ever since we got together.”
Remy frowns. “And?”
