Page 132 of Caper Crush
“And you’re making excuses,” I say. “You know that whether I know anything about accounting or you know anything about art is not important.”
“Isn’t it? Why were you so worried that I’d break up and date Kiyoko if you didn’t think that she was better suited to me? You already admitted it—that you have doubts about us. So let’s end this.”
I want someone who fights for me. I don’t want to be the one who has to persuade William that I’m worth loving.
“Fine. It was a pleasure dating you.” I put out my hand to shake his.
William steps forward, almost as if involuntarily. His skin pales.
His hand is cold as it grips mine.
Chapter thirty-six
I’mnotsurehowI’ll get home. I turn and leave after the handshake, shaking in the elevator. I take a cab home.
For once, there are no tears. I keep taking deep breaths. My whole body is running hot and cold, shivering, like I have a fever.
This is worse than losing my painting.
I thought we were good together—that we complemented each other. Like when he held me back when I was about to rip the forgery off the wall. That warm embrace, enfolding me, saying I’m here for you. You’re not alone out here.
I step out of the cab. The cab driver leans out of his front window and says that he’ll wait to make sure I get into my building.
That small gesture of kindness unlocks me. The tears pour out of me. I run up the stairs to my apartment and curl up on my bed.
My phone beeps and I grab it, hoping that William is texting that he didn’t mean it. His face was so drawn and pale when I agreed to break up.
Peter:Sorry I missed your concert. Made some great connections at Levitt art show. U should go to these shows. See u tomorrow.
I should pick a lane and stay in it, no swerving back and forth between artist and singer. Same with men. But then I’ve only dated other artists before. But I should stick to dating other artists if I’m going to be rejected for being an artist.
I stare at the picture of us from the cherry blossom picnic—the one where we are both looking at each other like we can’t believe we found each other. I turn it facedown on the nightstand. He’s probably discarded it already—in some logical, heartless fashion.
His handkerchief falls off the nightstand. I sniff it. It smells of William. The tears slip down my cheek. I use his handkerchief to wipe my face.
But he’s not heartless. He’s such a romantic.
And then I ball it up and throw it across the room.
I’m mad too. I can’t believe he doesn’t want to fight for what we have. I can’t believe he doesn’t believe in us.
Chapter thirty-seven
Iwanttowallow,but as a starving artist, that is not a luxury I can afford. I did my stint waitressing and met Peter at the Gagosian Gallery. I was amazed when Peter didn’t comment that I looked like shit or that I was wearing a huge amount of makeup.
Jade had no such qualms about saying I looked worn down when we strategized before my waitressing shift. She’d lined up interviews for me to coincide with the Vertex opening. We went over possible questions and a script of points that I could make if necessary. It reminded me of times with John’s press secretary, and I could feel myself tensing. What if I messed this up too?
But now I am home, surrounded by canvases in the empty living room. I should paint.
That’s how I get over breakups. And now it’s even more imperative. If the reviews are positive, I might actually be able to sell some paintings.
I put up a new canvas on my easel and stare at my paint selection. The paints from William make me tear up all over again.
Get a grip, Miranda.
I squeeze out paint on the palette. A tear drops down. I wipe away the wet under my eyes with my hands.
Just try for one painting.
