My chest constricted, pain reverberating through me. Not this. Anything but this. “You can’t ever be sure of that, Zakai.”
“Can’t I?”
I looked at him then, met his gaze with resolution. “No. You were set up to think what you felt for me was love. That’s all.”
He studied me for a moment. “If it isn’t love, what is it? If I didn’t love you then, what was it?”
I turned away. “Affection. Possession. Even sickness. Take your pick. It’s not your fault, nor mine. You had no choices. It was only me. You said it once before, Zakai, and you were right.”
“I’ve had choices all these years. I didn’t make different ones. Not once,” he said, his voice so quiet, I stilled my body to hear.
Shock pounded into me. “What?” I studied him in confusion. “Your relationship with Giselle—”
“Business. Never more, though she wanted it.”
Static in my head made the din of the room fade away and then rush back in. Oh no. But . . . Oh God. That couldn’t be true.
“It is true I assure you,” he answered, making me realize I’d uttered the statement aloud. “She wanted a relationship. I didn’t. Her attempts never enticed me. I never pretended otherwise, but she never gave up hope, despite taking on other lovers while I was with her.” He paused. “She represents me, but no more. In truth . . . I owe her. She took me in during a very bad time. I would have been homeless if not for her. Everything I have is because she facilitated it.”
My head was swimming. I gave it a brief shake. She’d made it seem as if . . . “She hated me,” I murmured.
Zakai glanced at me and then away as if in thought. “She was jealous of you. She still is, I think.” He shrugged. “She knows how I feel about you. I’ve always been clear on that subject.”
I took a moment to let the dust of his revelations settle, a terrible clarity descending. But it wasn’t only Giselle who’d insinuated she and Zakai were together. “You allowed me to believe you were with her.”
He was silent for a moment. “At first, it was easier that way. The last time I saw you . . . you were getting married. I was sick with jealousy.” He paused again. “Would it have mattered?”
I thought about that. Not then, but maybe later. Oh God. This was all such a colossal mess. “Probably not,” I murmured.
I’d begun writing after what, to me, was a tragic breakdown. Would I give up my success for whatever might or might not have happened between Zakai and me had we been available during that time?
Regardless of Dawson or Giselle, I’d still been trying to figure out who I was, and Zakai had been drinking his troubles away. I reached up, massaging my temple. All the questions swirling in my head felt too big to answer, especially here and now, sitting with Zakai in the middle of an art museum.
“Do you want to walk?” he asked after a minute. I nodded, grateful for the chance to move my muscles and distract my mind.
We both stood, walking side by side, our gazes lingering on the art pieces we passed. I stopped momentarily in front of an impressionist piece that hung down the hall from where we’d sat. “I bumped into Cody Rutland several years ago,” I told Zakai.
He looked over at me, surprised. “Yeah? How was he?”
“He was good. We had dinner. He introduced me to pointillism.” I smiled softly. “Each painting is made up of thousands of tiny dots. If you’re up close, it’s all jumbled, but if you step away, it becomes clear.” And maybe, somehow, some impossible way, the same was true of us.
“Hmm,” he hummed, looking at the painting, tilting his head. I watched him as he studied it, remembering the disappointing answer Dawson had once given me when we spoke on the subject.
“If you step back,” I instructed, “you can get a better view. It won’t appear such a mess.”
But Zakai looked at me, his smile soft. “I’m learning to like the mess,” he said, tilting his head. “I think it’s the heart of the story.”
I released a smile on a breath of air, charmed by his insight. “Is it?”
Our gazes held. “Yes.”
We both looked away, beginning to walk again. “And you, Zakai?” I asked after a moment, my emotions finally settling. I’d think about the things he’d divulged to me later, the ramifications . . . “Do you find satisfaction in your work?”
He glanced at me, a nervous edge to his expression. “You’ll be surprised, but for the most part, I stopped modeling last year.”
I gave him a curious look. “I’ve seen you recently though. There’s a full-page ad in the latest issue of—”
“All of that stuff has a lag time.”