The Girl in the Painting

I hate the fact that throughout our entire relationship—before that, even—I’ve basically been sleepwalking through my life.

And I really fucking hate the fact that it was another man who woke me up.

But all the hate in the world for what is doesn’t change that it is. And Matt deserves to know the truth, even if it makes me feel ugly.

“Okay,” he says slowly, trying to get his bearings in a storm he had no warning was on the horizon. “Let’s talk about it.”

It’s the last thing I want to do—to admit so many faults in myself—but I refuse to allow myself cowardice any longer.

I follow his lead into the living room, and when he sits down on my sectional, I have a hard time forcing myself to sit beside him.

Fuck, this is awful.

“What’s going on, sweetheart?”

Just tell him, Indy. It’s not going to go well, no matter how you word it.

I look into the depths of his hazel eyes, and my heart aches. So much time with one man that I gave so little effort. I mean, we’ve been together for a while, and I never once even considered moving in together.

“I…” I have to swallow hard just to open a path through my throat for the words. “I don’t think we should be together anymore.”

“What? Why?” he asks, his head jerking back with the blow. “I know I’ve been gone a lot, but I’m willing to change that.”

I’m shaking my head already, and the motion gets a little bit harder with every word he speaks.

“I know you haven’t been happy—”

“Matt,” I interrupt softly. “That’s just the thing. I haven’t been happy or unhappy or angry or sad or any other blessed thing. I’ve just been going through the motions for a long, long time.”

“Indy,” Matt starts, reaching to my leg to squeeze it. I pull it away, but he pushes forward anyway. “We can work on this. We can—”

The pressure of each word he speaks builds and builds inside my chest until I can’t take it anymore, and my emotions explode all over the room.

“I haven’t been faithful to you while you’ve been gone!” I nearly shout, unable to contain my sins any longer. It’s a far more aggressive delivery than I would have liked, but at least I don’t feel trapped inside my own body anymore.

His brow furrows, and his hazel eyes search mine, almost as if he’s not sure he’s actually understood the language I’ve used. “You…you’ve been with another man?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“I can’t fucking believe this!”

All I can do is nod. Because honestly? Neither can I.

One day, I was just kind of muddling through each day.

And the next, I met Ansel, and my life was changed forever.

“What the fuck? Is that why you look like this?” he questions, and anger raises his voice as he takes in my less than stellar appearance. “Like you’re wearing yesterday’s fucking clothes? Because you were just with him?”

I don’t know how to respond to that.

But he takes my lack of response as answer enough. He runs his hands through his hair erratically and looks toward the window. It takes a good thirty seconds before he can look at me again. “Who?” he asks. “Who is he?”

I shake my head because I can’t bring myself to even say Ansel’s name. There’s too much at work here, and despite the fact that I want to be honest with Matt, I won’t tell him this.

“Fine,” he says. “Don’t tell me. It doesn’t matter anyway. You’ve already made up your mind, right? I mean, that is how you started the conversation. You and I are done?”

“Yes.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen Matt angry like this, and that only makes me feel worse. I’ve driven him to a place inside himself he’s not even familiar with. I know it doesn’t help with the shock or the hurt, but giving concise, truthful answers will at least shorten the experience for both of us.

“I’m sorry, Matt,” I say, but I know an apology given like this seems empty. Still, I try. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. This isn’t what I intended.”

“Oh, so you accidentally fucked him?”

I cringe at his poisonous, potent words, but I know I deserve it.

Matt grabs his coat and stands, and the effort it takes to follow him with my eyes feels Herculean. But I breathe through the anxiety and discomfort. It’s the least I can do after everything I’ve just done to him.

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

“Me too,” he says, and the silence stretches between us like a rubber band. It’s tight and constricting, and I feel like a bird locked inside a fucking cage.

He lets out a heavy breath and, with a sudden start, walks to the door without looking back.

It shuts behind him with a click, and just like that, an entire chapter of my life is over.