I’m going to need all the coffee in the world if I’m going to get through this day. And having a bubbly twenty-something-year-old bouncing around my house is going to be torture enough.
I pick up the mug and head straight for my studio. Even though it’s still dark out, the painting I finished before I fell into bed last night stares back at me, a reminder of what that twenty-something-year-old did to me.
There’s no explanation as to why or how she managed to force my creative brain to spark, but she did. And now, I’m stuck in the limbo that comes after I create something exquisite. I feel as if I can’t make anything that could match it.
Sipping my drink, I stare long and hard at the colors swirling together, and I get lost in it. My focus blurring as a memory hits me suddenly— the fierce nature taking hold and dragging me into the past.“Are you going to spend all day in here?” My wife’s voice is cold, angry, but right now, I’m lost in the work. I don’t turn to her. She doesn’t come near me, and I continue painting. My hand moving of its own accord, and nothing can stop the need to get the paint on the canvas.
Bright red, soft blue, and gray that make up the sky. The water is a navy shade that melds with the horizon on the painting I’m creating. I haven’t answered her, but I can’t. She knows, when I’m in the zone, to leave me be, but lately, we’ve been fighting more and more.
Her need for freedom and my need for creativity have locked us in a prison I’ve found we can’t break free from. I feel the fire of her gaze burning into my back, but I still can’t stop.
“I’m so done with this bullshit, Julian,” she says from behind me, and I know I should go to her. Perhaps I’m the asshole she always tells me I am. Maybe I’m not the good husband I thought I could be. But right now, I know even if I did go to her, it wouldn’t change the anger she’s spewing my way.
“Please, can you just . . . Please, Shay,” I plead with her as my focus starts waning. This is what happens when she interrupts me. The money that I’m being paid to create this will pay for her shopping sprees, but she doesn’t understand. I’ve tried so hard, I’ve done everything I can, but my wife is lost to the promises of money and fame instead of life with me.
It wasn’t long ago that I loved her with everything I had. All the while, I knew she wanted my family’s money and name rather than a husband who loved her. And that’s what breaks me.
Anger overtakes me, but I don’t look at her because I know I’ll tell her to leave. And if I do that, I’m going to break myself in the process. Because as much as I know she hates me now, I realize I never loved her either. Will I live in this guilt forever?
The door slamming is the first indication that my wife has walked out. The sound of the car tires squealing against the driveway is the second. And the silence that greets me seconds later is the third.
And then, I’m alone.My coffee is gone when I am drawn back to the present. Turning, I head to the kitchen. It’s been so long since she walked out, but her absence is still so evident in this house. She hated everything about it, always complaining that we couldn’t move closer to the Quarter. She wanted a life filled with the nightlife that Bourbon Street offered, but I couldn’t leave my family home.
This was my life, and Shay couldn’t understand it. She was too young for what I needed, and that was my first mistake. I won’t be making that again. The moment the thought enters my mind, so does Nea. As attractive as she is, she’s young, just like Shay was.
And even if she wasn’t, she’s my employee, and one thing that I pride myself on is my professionalism. That’s what I need to put my focus on.Chapter 6NeaI’m ready. Almost. I think. I’m so nervous I’ve been up since five thinking about what’s going to happen today. Even though I have the experience, every gallery has its own set of rules, and Mr. Elliott seems to live by a completely different set of rules altogether.
I’ll show him that I’m not some frivolous girl who’s only here to party. His judgment of my tattoos and perfume yesterday was disarming. I don’t mind someone who sets out rules, but he was more of an arrogant asshole than anything else.
He’s not the easiest person from what I gathered through our interaction yesterday, and I’m sure he likes things done a certain way. All I can hope is that I don’t piss him off. I’ve opted for long, black pants with a soft-pink blouse that buttons up in the front. The sleeves are capped, so they don’t hide who I am. If he can’t accept it, then we’ll be at odds. Even though the artwork that snakes along my arm is representative of my job, I’m not going to be around clients, so he has no need to worry about appearances. Not yet, anyway.