Page 58 of Love Is an Art
I just make the light to cross over to the next street. I don’t turn around, but I suspect she’s still standing where I left her.
Was she mocking me by pretending to paint?
What is real, and what is fake?
I pass by Columbus Circle, skirting the groups of people hanging out on the plaza, and stride up Central Park West, as if I’m trying to outrun my thoughts. One look at my face, and people walking toward me give wide berth.
My lawyer.
Lied to once again.When we were discussing careers on the walk to the Pier. When we were eating dinner on the roof-deck. When we were biking around Wall Street.
I’m a fricking idiot. Why do I keep falling for women like this? I think about calling Jasmine, my college girlfriend.Did you cheat on me too?
Central Park is murky in the night, the leaves of the trees rustling in the slight breeze. No one else haunts the street, except the lone doorman standing by an apartment building entrance under the awning. I reach the crosswalk and look for cars turning and then forge forth, against the red light, my hands shoved deep in my pockets. A scratching, scampering sound reveals a solitary rat foraging in the black garbage bags piled up to be collected tomorrow. I take a deep breath but inhale only the pungent smell of rotting refuse.
My phone beeps. Is she texting me? I pull my phone out of my pocket.
It’s Paisley. Of course.
Paisley:Can’t we talk? We’re going to see each other at Lindsay and Dylan’s wedding. Let’s not make it awkward for them.
I click off. We just need tonottalk to each other and leave the focus on the happy couple.
I keep walking.
I feel cold. I really liked Tessa.
I button up my jacket. A bitter chill seeps into me.
And I didn’t trust my instincts. Again. I suspected something was off. My gut was right.
Chapter eighteen
Tessa
Ifeelnauseated.Hisface went gray.No.Ashen.
My eyes feel sore, as if I’ve been crying. But I haven’t. My stomach roils, and my legs feel weak. I lean against the wall of our hallway, my eyes closed.
I let myself into our apartment. Only the dining room lamp is on. The rest of the living room is shrouded in darkness, the easels looking like bare stick figures that have nowhere to go.
“Did you tell him?” Miranda asks. Her laptop is open in front of her on the dining table. Probably working on art show applications.
“Yes.” I sink into a chair at our oak table. “I told him. It didn’t go well. He walked away.”
“He walked away?” Miranda asks. She stares at me in disbelief.
“Yes,” I say.
“Didn’t he understand about Scammer Guy?” she asks. “And that you just wanted a chance to be liked for yourself? Are you okay?” She comes over and hugs me. “I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. We should have given up on Scammer Guy.”
I cling to her.
Miranda looks like she is going to cry. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I really like him. I wish I’d never lied to him. And the thing is, he’ll never forgive me. He said his feelings for his ex-girlfriend were immediately gone when he found out she’d cheated.” I take a deep breath.
Miranda hugs me tighter.
