by R.S. Grey
“What do you want me to say?!” I fling my arm in the air as the truth starts to erupt out of me. “We got fake married! We said vows in a courthouse and they didn’t mean a thing. Don’t you think I know that? And now look at me! I was the idiot who accidentally forgot to hate you. My guard slipped and day by day you just…you made it impossible to not fall in love with you. I actually thought to myself, Well isn’t this nice? Loving the person I’m married to—won’t that work out in my favor?!”
He tries to cut me off, but there is no cutting me off at this point. He opened the valve and now everything is spilling out of me in one big catastrophic rush.
“When I signed those stupid papers your lawyers sent over, I thought we’d be married forever.” I laugh sarcastically as tears spill down my face. “How dumb am I?!”
“Would you please stop? You’re not dumb—”
“Oh my god.” I feel like I’m hyperventilating as embarrassment bleeds into sorrow. “I can’t believe I really thought that.” I’m sliding off the bed quickly, starting to pace, pressing my palm to my forehead as I seem to come to all these realizations at once. “I can’t believe I assumed a man like you would just get forced into a marriage and not have a backup plan. You probably knew this wouldn’t last all along. What were the last few days to you? A nice little bit of entertainment? A way to pass the time while your lawyers drafted the divorce papers?”
I suddenly feel sick. My stomach rolls and I hang up, tossing my phone onto the bed as I run into the bathroom. I dry-heave into the toilet, trying to slow my racing heart. If I had a brown paper bag, I’d huff in and out of it to quell my anxiety. Instead, I force myself to focus on a spot on the back of the toilet seat and take deep breaths as I hover there, trying to calm down.
What is happening?
What in the world have I done?
I slide down to the floor and wrap my arms around my legs so I can drop my forehead to my knees.
That was bad.
Whatever just happened on the phone is the opposite of what I wanted to happen. I left Walt’s apartment today because I didn’t want him to see me like this. I don’t even recognize this version of myself.
I laugh because it’s all so hysterical. I’m hysterical.
I’m hysterical because I’m in love.
I’m in love with a man I just shouted at repeatedly before hanging up on him.
This is so bad. Worse than bad. Abysmal.
Twenty-Eight
I don’t fall asleep easily that night. I tangle up in my sheets, rolling back and forth, onto one side and then the other, staring up at the ceiling, pleading with my body to cooperate. In the end, I fall asleep half-sprawled across the bed, so deeply out of it that, at first, the sound of my phone ringing is incorporated into my dream.
Then, with a rush of adrenaline, my brain says, Wake up! Get your phone!
My eyes pop open as I reach across the bed to grab it and read the screen, only to sag in relief once I see it’s Nadiya and not Walt.
“The show is on!” she says when the call connects.
“What?” I ask, wiping the sleep from my eyes.
“Yes! We’re rearranging the schedule, bumping the other artist and getting your canvases custom framed as we speak.”
I jolt up to a sitting position, throwing my hand over my mouth.
“Holy shit.” I cringe. “Sorry! Pretend I didn’t say that.”
Nadiya laughs. “Listen, I have a few things I need from you. First, a short bio. You might have seen Anya’s the other night. If not, check out our website—it’ll give you an idea of the format we need. I also have a few French journalists who’d like to conduct interviews with you to accompany their write-ups. I know that might not sound like fun, but it’s the best way to get your name out there, so you just have to grin and bear it.”
“It’s fine. I’ll manage.”
“Also, I know you’re still having your lawyer review our contract—”
“She said she could send it back to me earlier than expected. Hopefully I’ll have it signed for you later today.”
“Good. Lastly, I’m going to email you the confirmation for your flight once my assistant books it. I think you should be in Paris at least a few days before the show so you can acclimate and help with final details.”
“So this is really happening?” I sound dumbfounded.
“Yes,” she stresses. “It’s happening. When can you get me that final piece you’re working on?”
“Tomorrow. I think. I’ll work like a madwoman today.”
“Good. Call Stein Gallery when you’re done, ask for Mark. He’ll have one of the guys come pack up the canvas for shipment. Call if you need me, but I might not be quick to respond as I’m about to get on my flight now.”
I wish her safe travels and then we hang up. For thirty seconds, maybe a minute tops, I’m ecstatic over the news, dreaming of seeing my art hanging in the Stein gallery in Paris. Then, I look up from my phone and my cold, empty hotel room stares back at me. My eyes dart from my makeshift studio by the window to my suitcase with clothes spilling out over the side.
The excitement from my phone call with Nadiya doesn’t seem to have the staying power I was hoping for. My current situation refuses to be ignored.
Paris! I remind myself.
Walt, my brain responds.
This lonely hotel room drags me back into a foul mood I can’t seem to escape. I slide off the bed and fling open the curtains, hoping to see a glimmer of sunlight. It’s a foggy overcast morning though, weather that matches my mood.
I have a lot of work to do on my last piece, but I need to eat something first. I throw on some yoga pants and a sweatshirt and head down to the hotel lobby to pick through their breakfast offerings. Watery eggs and processed pastries are pretty much my only choices, so I spoon some eggs onto my plate and fill a Styrofoam cup with as much coffee as it can hold.
At a table in the corner, I eat and flip through a New York Times someone left behind. In the arts section, I’m not so surprised to see a small feature on Anya’s show from two nights ago. There’s an accompanying grid of photos from the event that highlight her work as well as notable New Yorkers that were in attendance. My heart skips a beat when I see one of Walt and me. I lean down to study the image. In it, we were looking at Anya’s final piece in her show, the adaption of Van Gogh’s Chair. The photographer caught us from the side. I take up most of the frame, but Walt towers a head taller than me on the other side, his hand pressed to the small of my back. I was leaning into him, something I don’t recall doing at the time. We look relaxed together, comfortable in each other’s arms.
The caption simply reads, “Mr. and Mrs. Walter Jennings II.”
I push the paper aside and take a bite of my eggs.
Oof. Somehow they’re worse than they look, if that’s even possible. After my first bite, I ignore my plate and focus on my coffee. I try very hard not to look down at the newspaper again. I mostly succeed, but every now and then, my eyes betray me.
I tug the paper toward me again and narrow my gaze on us. God, we look adorable. In love.
I purposefully place my coffee cup on top of the image, blocking it from my view. That works well until I want to take another sip of coffee.
My phone vibrates beside the newspaper with a call from Matthew.
I don’t answer it. Instead, I tap my fingers on the table, waiting for it to go to voicemail, and then I immediately listen to the message he left me.
“Elizabeth, hey. It’s Matthew. I know you might not want to talk to me right now, but listen, I hope you’re okay. Walt called me last night worried about you. He asked if I’d seen you, which made no sense until he told me you’d moved out. Did I miss something? You guys seemed pretty good the other night…I don’t know. I’m probably the last person you want to talk to, but if you do want to talk, I’m here. I swear I’m your friend, not just an informant for my brother.” He laughs. “Anyway, yeah, seriously, I hope you’re oka
y. Right. Bye.”
I feel bad for ignoring his call, so I text him back.
Elizabeth: Hey, thanks for checking in. I’m fine.
Matthew: Hey. You sure?
Elizabeth: Yeah, just figuring some stuff out. All good.
Matthew: My brother’s really worried about you. Not to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, but I’ve never seen him like this.
A part of me wants to ask him to elaborate. What’s he doing? Wallowing? Is he angry? Sad? How sad? But I know it’s not a good idea. Instead, I silence my phone, clear my table, and head back upstairs to my room to get to work.
I don’t look at my phone again the rest of the day. I have to focus on this final piece for my show, and the last thing I want to do is get distracted and not fulfill my promise to Nadiya to have it done in time. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for my career, and as much as I want to draw the curtains and curl up in my bed, I have to just compartmentalize. Work now, fall into a pit of despair after my show in Paris.
It’s not until I’m lying in bed at 11:32 PM, about to go to sleep, that I check my phone again and see a missed call from Walt from this afternoon.
Following that, he sent a text.
Walt: I guess I’m supposed to give you space, but I can’t. Meet me for dinner? We need to talk, and I leave for a device conference in California tomorrow morning.
Instead of texting him back, I scroll to my recently missed calls and hover my thumb over his name. God, I want to talk to him. I miss him so much it hurts to lie here knowing he’s only a ten-minute drive away.
I press my thumb down on his name before I can second-guess myself, and then my heart races as the phone rings. Anticipation sends my pulse into overdrive. In a moment, I’ll hear his voice. I’ll close my eyes and listen as he talks and I’ll pretend everything is going to be fine. He and I will figure this out.
But the call never connects. Walt must already be asleep. I set my phone on the bedside table, roll away from it, and close my eyes.
In the morning, I check my phone to see the first in a series of missed connections.
Walt: Hey, I was asleep when you called. I had to be at the airport at 4:45 AM so I crashed early. Call me when you wake up.
I call him, but he must still be on the airplane.
Later, when I’m in the shower, he calls back. I curse, absolutely furious at the universe for doing this to us.
When I call him back, he answers on the first ring.
“Elizabeth.”
“Walt. Hi. Sorry. We keep—”
“Missing each other. I know. Listen, I’m about to go up on stage here in a few minutes for a keynote.”
“Mr. Jennings,” a man says in the background. “We need to do a mic check.”
He sighs, sounding like he’s at his wit’s end. “Elizabeth, I’ll call you later when I get back to my hotel room. Have your phone on you.”
“Okay.”
I do exactly as he says. I turn my phone’s volume to the loudest setting and keep it by me all day while I paint, while I email with Nadiya, while I coordinate a pick-up time for my completed canvas with Mark from Stein Gallery, while I walk to get a cheap dinner from a takeout place down the street, while I eat on a park bench, watching kids play a pickup game of tag football.
He doesn’t call back until I’m in bed, scrolling through Reddit on my phone.
I answer immediately, relief flooding me.
“Boy we suck at this.”
He sighs as a door slams in the background. “I just walked into my hotel room. God, it’s been a long day.”
I imagine him tugging a hand through his hair, exhausted.
“Have you had dinner?” I ask.
“I’m about to order room service.”
“Oh. I could let you go so you—”
“Elizabeth.”
“I was just—”
“Yeah, I know what you were doing, and I don’t care. We’re not getting off this phone until you’ve heard me out.”
I sit up in bed, settling back against the pillows.
“But just give me two seconds. Where’s their goddamn menu?” I hear him shuffling around as he grabs the hotel’s phone, then the telltale sound of him dialing down for room service. Someone must answer fairly quickly because Walt speaks right away, ordering a cheeseburger.
They must ask about a drink because Walt responds with, “Water’s fine. Add a salad on the side, please. Whatever house dressing you have is good.”
There’s silence for a moment, and then he thanks the person on the other end of the line and hangs up.
“Elizabeth? You there?”
“Yes.”
“Right. That should take them about two hours to bring up.”
I smile. “Why does room service always take forever?”
“I have no idea, but it’s a universal law. Hang on, let me change out of my suit. I’ve been in it all day. Ugh, I could use a shower.”
“So shower.”
“Right, and chance losing you?”
“I’ll stay on the phone, I swear.”
“Fine, but I’m bringing you into the bathroom with me,” he says.
I listen to a door open and then the shower turns on. Water sprays against tile and glass, which means he must be in a really nice hotel. No plastic beige shower curtain for him.
“Can you hear me?” he asks.
“Barely.”
“I’ll be quick.”
It’s acute torture to stay on the phone with Walt, listening as he strips off his clothes. My ears prick with every tiny sound: a zipper sliding, clothes bunching, the ting of metal hitting tile. The sound of the shower grows louder as he opens the door and steps inside. His body partially blocks the stream, deadening the sound. I close my eyes and listen, imagining what he looks like, water dripping over his muscles as he lathers up his body.
Another few minutes pass like this and I wriggle with impatience on my bed, trying to ignore the fact that my cheeks are starting to grow hot.
The water cuts off and the shower door opens again. A new mental image replaces the last: Walt stepping out of the shower, glistening, naked, and clean. Water drips from his dark hair, droplets rolling down his neck and chest. I hear him whip open a towel and start to dry off.
“Elizabeth?”
I tug on a stray piece of thread on the top sheet.
“I’m here.”
“Good. Let me grab some clothes.”
“Was this all part of your ploy?” I ask, only partly teasing.
“What?”
“To get me on the phone and make me listen to that?”
He chuckles. “It was all done in innocence, I assure you. Though to be fair, I would have never been able to listen if the situation were reversed.”
A shiver runs down my spine, and instead of tempting me further into illicit topics, it forces me back to the task at hand.
“You wanted to speak to me about the other day? Clear things up?” I ask, my tone shifting to something a bit more serious.
“Yes, though I’m not sure how to launch into it like this. It feels so strange to be talking to you this way. I wish you could come to California. Can you? Come? I’ll be here until Sunday.”
A laugh tumbles out of me because it’s so absurd. “No. I…no, Walt. I’m actually flying to Paris on Saturday.”
Nadiya’s assistant sent over my confirmation number and flight details earlier this afternoon.
“Paris?” he asks, sounding taken aback, and well, it makes sense.
“Yes. For my show with Stein Gallery.”
“What show?”
I explain to him the change in schedule, how Nadiya placed me in the slot that was previously filled, unable to keep the smile off my face as I go over the details. Even after everything, it feels good to share this with him. I realize now he’s the only person I wanted to tell.
“It’s been a little bit of a whirlwind, actually. I only found out about this yesterday, so I’
m trying to finalize everything as quickly as I can.”
“That’s…” His voice trails off as if he’s not sure what to say. “Elizabeth, that’s… Congratulations. You should be really proud of yourself.”
“I am. Yeah. Thank you.”
“How long will you be there?”
“A week, I think. Just enough time to help with final decisions about the show, and then actually attend, of course. There’s some press I have to do, nothing major, but yeah…”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, it’s going to be a lot of work.”
“Sounds like it.”
There’s a long pause as I glance up at the ceiling, unsure of where to go from here.
“Walt, do you think we should just talk when I get back from Paris? Try to figure this stuff out then? That way we’ll have had some time to think about everything? I’m just…I’m not proud of my behavior from the other night—”
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Still, my cheeks redden. “I know, just…”
I can’t actually explain to him what my motive is in delaying this talk, because it’s not something I’m particularly proud of. It’s just that, for me, space amounts to hope…hope that he and I might actually straighten out this entire mess after my show. I worry if he and I talk now, if we go our separate ways, I might spend the next two weeks in a depressed haze, unable to enjoy this huge moment in my career.
“Two weeks isn’t long,” I continue. “Let’s just… We’ll talk when I get back. Okay?”
I didn’t even realize I wanted him to disagree and force the issue, declare his love right here and now, until he says, “Okay.”
I feel as though my heart’s splitting in two.
“Good luck in Paris.”
“Thanks. I’ll…yeah, I’ll talk to you after.”
“After,” he repeats back to me before I hang up.
Twenty-Nine
My show takes up most of my attention span for the next week, but not all of it. I still somehow find time to Google Walt and read boring tech articles about the conference he’s attending. Journalists home in on details about Diomedica’s future. Apparently, they just completed clinical trials for a new wearable insulin pump, and stock prices are soaring. Walt trends on Twitter alongside Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos. I’m slightly amazed to even know him, much less be pretend-married to him.
