Jay said nothing and Mace thought he’d hung up. “Jay?”
“I’m thinking.”
Mace waited. He might stoke out but he waited, and Jay told him the one thing he needed to know—where he’d find her.
He flew out that night. Days twisted, the date line loomed, and it hardly mattered how long it took him to get to her, or what time it was. She might not want to see him. She’d given him nothing to indicate she did. But Jay told him where she was and though he couldn’t imagine why she’d stayed in the loft, it meant something.
It was night again but he’d slept on the flight, the need for respite from the mess his head and his heart were inflicting on him knocking him out. Smart would be calling her, but smart where Cinta was concerned had never been his signature move. She was his boss’ boss’ boss when he’d first lusted after her. He should have called her months ago and never stopped.
He turned his phone on and it flooded with messages: Jay once. Dillon, till his message bank filled and wouldn’t take another call. He turned it off. There were emails too, he ignored them.
He’d didn’t want to surprise her in the dark. He’d wait till morning for his grand romantic gesture, one that belonged with Buster’s books, with Antonio and Lucinda, out of place with anything off the page, like his founding role in Ipseity was now a text book example of how not to.
He took a cab to the old neighbourhood, planned to find a hotel nearby. He felt disembodied, like a puppet without strings. He had no ties to anyone or anything. He was nobody, expected nowhere, having burnt his life and anyone who mattered to him to get there.
He got out of the cab at the pizzeria. The street was busy, it was warm and he’d forgotten it would be. All the cafes and restaurants were doing good trade. The gallery was open. He shouldered his bag, and when the cab pulled away he had a clear view of the window. But not clear enough to absorb the shock.
He crossed the road, stood in front of the gallery window and looked at his image. Painted not drawn, colour not black on white, different but the same. His eyes open, movement in his eyebrow, a sly smile, no sticking plaster under his foot, but it was him, as she’d first sketched him in her bed and as he’d changed when they’d shared their lives. It was signed Jacinta Wentworth.
He was still staring at it when the gallery owner stepped out to lock the door behind him.
“How much?” It didn’t matter what it cost. He’d have this piece of her, if nothing else. The man looked confused so he pointed at the window and repeated his question.
The man abandoned keys in the lock. “It’s called One Night. Price is on application.”
“I’m applying.”
“You need to understand, the artist is reluctant to sell. She might be angry with me for putting it in the window. I can’t guarantee she’ll part with this, but for the right price I might convince her.”
The artist, not the student. Jacinta, not Cinta. “Name your price.”
“It’s a Wentworth.” The man dithered, turning to the window to study the painting as though he’d never seen it before, then he said, “Ah,” as if he’d settled an argument with himself. “That’s you.”
“Whatever she wants for it, whatever your commission is, I’ll double it.”
Doubling stopped the dithering. He’d have quadrupled the price to own it. It might be all of her that remained available to him. The door was reopened, details exchanged, an offer figure agreed to. And now he’d have to wait to see if she was willing to sell.
In ten minutes he was back on the street, looking for somewhere to grab a snack before heading towards the one hotel close by.
She came out of the doorway of a restaurant two doors down and his shock had recoil. His heart contracted, his muscles tensed, his throat sucked brain tissue. She was laughing, her hair caught up in a loose knot, a summery dress swirling around her knees. His own nearly gave out. He leaned back against a closed shopfront. Where were her dark suit, her heels and briefcase? A man followed her out, the recipient of her laughter. He knew that hair—Alfie.
Failure was a serrated knife in his ribs, carving the truth into his bones, scarring him deep. Jay might’ve told him, but then he’d always treated Jay more as a rival than a friend.
He watched Cinta laugh again at something Alfie said and accept his arm around her shoulder. He needed to move if he didn’t want to be seen. He needed to turn away before he had to witness her kiss Alfie, take him home to the loft. But as much as it hurt, he couldn’t. He was watching still as Alfie tried to kiss Cinta and she shoved him playfully away, turning her head and laughing again, until she saw him standing there with his shattered dreams and his scar tissue, torn and bleeding.
Their eyes locked.
Her hand came up to her face, her body jolted.
He had an ache in his chest the shape of anticipation.
She waved Alfie off with a few quick words, but she never looked at him again. Alfie scowled, sent a mock salute Mace’s way and went in the opposite direction.
And in all the known universe that mattered to him there were just the two of them.
He’d come halfway across the globe on a hopeless quest, but he couldn’t walk two car lengths to get to her.
She came to him. “Mace, what are you doing here?”