Page 35 of Real Fake Husband

My ex-boyfriend, Chase, wasn’t supportive of my art. He wouldn’t be mean or discourage me from drawing per se, but he wasn’t particularly interested, nor did he go out of his way to encourage me to keep it up.

“Draw my dick bigger,” he always used to say. Such a man. Such a douche.

Just to get a rise out of him, I sometimes drew his dick smaller. You know, for example on days after he forgot Valentine’s Day, or it slipped his mind that I’d wanted a chocolate ice cream cone too (and no, I wasnoton another diet,jerk), or he overlooked the fact that I had a clit, and rolled over after sex.

Then, when he peeked at my drawing and protested, I’d tell him that that was the already-enhanced version. He would getsomad. Especially when I’d draw his nuts smaller too.

Kicking his ass out was the smartest thing I ever did. I still have the drawings of him, only because they’re some of my best work.

“Why not?” Cal asks.

“I just don’t want to,” I tell him, although there is a third, much more important reason.

I’ll never forget when Mom gave me my first sketchbook. I would take it to school every day to draw whenever I had a spare minute. I should have known that I was never safe from Callum Ashford, but he managed to add to my humiliation.

“Let me see!” This time he didn’t even wait before snatching the sketchbook from me. “Oooooh, Nosy Josie is an artist!”

He opened the book and ripped out a page. He might as well have ripped my heart out.

“What’sthat?” He dropped the sketchbook in the dirt. He seemed happy to do that with everything I owned. Then he faced the sheet of paper and pretended to look at it intently. “Hey, guys,” he called over his shoulder. Immediately, his stupid friends gathered around him. “Look at this fugly drawing!”

I jumped towards him. Callum reached out and held up the drawing of my mom. Even though Callum and I were the same age, he was already a head taller than me, and it gave him pleasure to make me jump. All I could do was stare at him with all my hate, which not only didn’t bother him but seemed to encourage him.

“Fugly, fugly,” he sang, and his friends took up the chant.

I was soon surrounded by idiots who were laughing at me and kicking the sketchbook around like a soccer ball. Callum fished a lighter out of his pocket and burned the torn-out drawing before my eyes. How he’d got hold of a lighter remained a mystery to me.

I didn’t cry this time. I never wanted to cry over Callum Ashford again.

When Cal burned my drawing back then, at least he didn’t take away the joy of drawing, unlike a certain art critic did years later.

Cal pulls me out of my memories. “Eventually you’re going to have to share your art if you want to sell it.”

Oh really? And then what? Will I be watching my art burst into flames again?But I don’t say that. Instead, I nod. “You’re right. And when I’m ready for that, I will.”

The conversation falls off after that. We both dig into our food and are too busy eating to keep talking. I finish everything on my plate, and all I can think about is the clawfoot tub that’s calling my name. In one of the bathroom drawers, I found bath bombs in a little bowl, ready for me to use.

I get up from the table and take my plate to the dishwasher, putting it away. Once that’s done, I barely make it two steps down the hall before Cal calls after me again.

“Dammit,Josie.”

“What?” I call back. “I put the dishes in the dishwasher like you asked. What the hell is your problem this time?”

I spin around on my heel, and my bra is dangling from his finger.

With a huff, I walk back and snatch it from him. “Ugh, can you give it a rest for one second?”

“I knew you’d forget.”

“Life is too short to bother,” I argue. “I have more important things to think about than making sure everything is in its place.”

“It’s not about putting things in their place. It’s about treating your stuff and your home with care. Also, a tidy environment promotes a clear mind.”

Okay, I have to admit that I often lack a “clear mind.” But the thing about treating your home with care is wrong. “I’m an artist,” I protest, starting to talk myself into a rage. At the same time, the thought of the devastating review crosses my mind, and I feel like an imposter.Me, an artist?“At work, I’m the neatest person you can imagine. You’re saying because I don’t clean up after myself right away here, in my private space, that means I don’t care? That’s a little extreme.”

“It’s not extreme,” he rumbles. “It’s a fact.”

“Oh, my God, You’re such a weirdo! I can’t believe I considered kissing you.”

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