FIFTEEN
As the early hours of the morning crept over the sleeping city, the charming bing of the penthouse elevator echoed through down the hall of the silent penthouse. On the edge of sleep, I heard it and began to blink awake.
A few moments later, the sound of unsure, stumbling footsteps clopping on the marble floor pulled me entirely out of my doze. I listened closely as I heard keys and other objects being dropped in a wooden bowl; the crinkle of paper; the heavy footsteps of Rafiq as he maneuvered around his living room in the early morning dark.
At first, anxiety clutched my chest as I lay there quietly in the dark of the bedroom. I had hoped not to confront Rafiq again. I just wanted this to be over so both of us could go back to our lives and be out of this misery.
But listening to him sloppily move around in the dark, no doubt drunk but thankfully alone, anger washed over my fear and sadness. The pain we were both carrying—it was all his fault.
It didn’t have to end like this, but Rafiq had to pull his stunts, just like he had from the first day I met him, staging the exhibition for his blonde friends, making his grand gestures to get me to consider the arrangement. Everything he did was a show, a big elaborate scheme to get what he wanted and nothing more.
The anger was too much. I whipped the sheets off my body and threw my feet to the floor. Wearing only pajama shorts and a tank top, it didn’t even occur to me to look ‘proper’ as I stalked into the living room and flipped on the lights in a sudden movement.
Rafiq froze across the room, surprised, and caught in the glare of the lights. He turned around to face me, and the look in his eyes said he wasn’t sure what he was seeing was real.
“Evangeline?” His voice was heavy and slow. “I didn’t think you would be here.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” I said, crossing my arms. “And I guess if I had any brains, I wouldn’t be.”
Rafiq didn’t answer, but looked stricken.
“I can’t believe you did that to me yesterday.” Just like that, the words came pouring out like the water behind a broken dam. “And in front of my clientele, at my place of business. My life, Rafiq! Do you realize what kind of position that put me in? I might have lost customers forever if any of them walked away thinking I’m a selfish, heartless bitch who turned down a romantic proposal for no reason!”
He didn’t interrupt me, only stared at me as I spoke, his face humble.
“You know what? Sure, you’re charming, and you’re handsome, but you treat other people like we’re playthings, as if we were all put here for your amusement.” I took a few hard steps closer to him, gesturing wildly. “You think your fancy, dramatic gestures are more important than being a decent person, but you’re wrong. You’ve been putting on a show since the first day I met you. Well, your shows hurt people, Rafiq. They hurt.” Tears ran down my face, but I was too angry to care. “I would rather have none of this fancy pretense and instead have the real Rafiq, the one who makes things happen. The one who faces the world honestly.”
Rafiq went pale, but still, he said nothing. The way he blinked at me, it was almost as if for once, he didn’t know what to say. I had been expecting his usual arrogant comebacks, and I didn’t know what to do with his silence.
Maybe it was his silence that allowed me to see what I had missed before: the large, wrapped rectangle Rafiq was holding in his hands, clutched delicately against his body.
“What…what’s that?” I asked, pointing.
Rafiq glanced at the package in his hand before he moved around the couches and toward me. As he did, he pulled the brown paper carefully off of what I could see now was a canvas. When he turned the uncovered canvas around to face me, I gasped.
It was me. It was a stunning painting of me, wearing the dark blue cotton dress from our lunch at the bistro a few days before. The painting style was like nothing I had ever seen before, with incredible use of color and thick, deliberate outlines used strategically to draw the viewer toward the focal point: my bright blue eyes and laughing smile.
My eyes filled with tears. “Rafiq, I don’t understand…”
When he spoke, his voice was humble, quiet, and soft. “I didn’t want us to part with me in your debt. You painted a portrait of me…” He nodded toward the painting, still hanging on his wall. “I wanted to give you one of you. Now we’re even.”
My eyes widened. “Rafiq, are you telling me you painted this?”
He hesitated. “Yes,” he said. “I used the photo from our lunch the other day as a reference, since you looked so radiant in it.” At that moment, he couldn’t help but look down and give a tiny smile at his own work. “Do you like it?”
Stunned, I came closer to get a better look. “Rafiq, I don’t know what to say. I love it. I had no idea you had this talent,” I said. “How long have you been painting?”
“I, uh…always,” he said bashfully. I’d never seen him look unsure of himself, but now he was shifting on his feet like a teenage boy being asked to prom. “I’ve always painted, since I was a child.”
“What? Really?”
“Really.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you paint too?”
Rafiq shrugged. “How can I compare my amateur work to yours, Evie? You’re a professional. Honestly, I was afraid you wouldn’t like it.”
“Rafiq, you must be joking. Just look at your work, it’s incredible. Why wouldn’t I like it?”
“I don’t know, Evie. Maybe it’s because my father never succeeded in his work, and he passed that fear of rejection onto me. Once he found out I loved to paint as a child, he put so much pressure on me to succeed in the art world that I ended up hating it, and running away from it at full speed.”
My eyes widened in epiphany. “Running right for the party world, the opposite of what your father wanted.”
Rafiq nodded. “Mehmet wanted to have an artist son more than anything. I loved the art, I loved the work, but like many fathers, he assumed his way was the only proper way to work. My vision began to suffocate until I couldn’t even stand to look at an easel or canvas anymore. I’m not sure he ever really forgave me for that. Sometimes I think that’s why he pushes me so hard into business, as if he wants to punish me for my cowardice.”
“I’m sure it’s not that,” I said softly. “Your father loves you, Rafiq.”
He shrugged, uncomfortable. “He made me give up the thing I loved the most. It’s very hard to reconcile those things.”