“I’ll tell my daddy. He won’t let you do this to me.”
I chuckle as I retrieve my bag. “You did this to you. Not me. I just gave you a little incentive to come clean.”
“You almost choked me.” She starts crying. Normally, I’m moved by a woman’s tears, but her tears have no impact on me. Irrespective of how I feel about Kendall now, I never wanted the news about us to come out or for the truth of our relationship to hurt her in any way. Curtis and Gayle have ruined that, but I’m going to get him back too. I know where he parks his Mercedes at night, and I plan to pay him a visit before I skip town. He helped set the match that has burned my world down, so it’s only fair I repay the favor.
“You won’t tell anyone because I’ll instruct my father to sue you for slander if you do,” I lie. “If your father attempts to come at me, please remind him who my father is. I’m pretty sure Miles knows my dad has criminal affiliations and what that would mean for anyone who crosses him or his family.” No one outside my small inner circle knows about my fucked-up relationship with my father, so she’ll buy this. I unlock the door as West grabs his bag. “Prove you’re not as foolish as we think,” I say, opening the door. “Shut your mouth, accept responsibility, and walk away.”
West drills her with a look. “This ends now.”
Slowly, she nods, and we step out of the bathroom.
“This changes nothing,” West says as we walk toward the vice principal’s office to hand her the video.
“I know.” I drag a hand through my hair. “I’m leaving tomorrow. You’ll never have to see me again.”
His face betrays no hint of shock or relief or any other emotion. He nods his head tersely. “Good.”
As I walk out of the school gates for the last time an hour later, I can’t wait to put hundreds of miles between me and Colorado.
48
VANDER - 8 YEARS LATER
I stand in front of the painting with my hands shoved into the pockets of my pants, staring at the woman who has held a recurring role in my dreams since the time I first met her when I was fifteen.
“She’s beautiful,” Mara says, materializing beside me.
“She is.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her tilt her head and look at me with sad brown eyes. “She’s the reason you don’t date. Why you aren’t interested in me.”
Jesus, not this again. Turning to face her, I nod. “It’s always been her. No other woman has ever interested me. Kendall is the reason I’m here.”
She tucks strands of her jet-black hair behind her ear. “As in Portland or were you speaking metaphorically?”
“The answer is yes to both.” It wasn’t until my senior year I learned Kendall had visited Yale on the down low and organized for me to receive full financial support. That was the year I sold my first big NFT and I contacted the financial aid officer to stop my funding as I no longer needed it. Now, my digital art business is my main source of income, and I have opened galleries in three different locations purely for the joy of showcasing my paintings in my own space and granting opportunities to new artists to present their work. I have ambitious plans for expanding into other states, and I’m busy building a team around me who can help to deliver that goal.
Mom left me a sizable inheritance when she passed from lung cancer two years ago. One month ago, on the day my father was sentenced to life in prison, I sold my latest NFT for ten million dollars. I’m extremely fortunate I don’t have to worry about money anymore. I have more than enough to last several lifetimes.
“We’re not open yet.” Mara calls out as footsteps resonate behind us. “The exhibition starts at eight. You can come back then.”
“I was hoping to have a word with the artist in private,” someone with a familiar voice says, and I whirl around, coming face to face with West for the first time in eight long years.
“That’s out of the question.” Mara’s prickly voice confirms she’s ready to go into full-on military mode.
“It’s okay,” I tell my assistant. “I know him.”
West’s gaze lands over my head as he walks toward me. He comes to a stop alongside me, staring at the painting of Kendall and me set in ancient times.
“That’ll be all, Mara.”
She purses her lips, and a scowl mars her forehead. Mara is very organized, and she has helped me to open three galleries in the space of three years, so she is very good at her job. But her personality leaves a lot to be desired at times. She doesn’t like to be cut out of things, and she doesn’t like to be told no. I have never given her any indication I am interested in her, yet she pursued me to the point I had to tell her to stop or I’d fire her. Tonight is the first time in six months she has broached the subject. I really hope I don’t have to terminate her employment, but I will if she gets in the way of my plans.
Her heels clack on the tile floor as she walks away.
“You fucking her?” West coolly asks while his eyes remain glued to the painting.
“No. I have never touched her. She’s my employee and nothing more.”
His eyes drill into mine as we stare at one another. He looks the same yet changed. It’s not just that his dirty-blond hair is a little darker than I remember it or he’s a bit leaner than he was back in the day. It’s the world-weary look in his eyes and the weight pressing down on his shoulders that make him seem older than his twenty-six years.
“Is my mom your muse?” he asks, breaking eye contact and returning his attention to the painting.
“Yes. She always has been.”
“Even now?” He arches a brow. “After all this time? After everything that happened?”
I have a sense Mara is eavesdropping, and I really don’t want to discuss this out in the open. I jerk my head toward the stairs off to the side. “We can talk in my office. It’s more private there.”
West follows me up the stairs to the large open-plan second floor that houses my office and my studio. Until I lay down permanent roots here, this is my only studio. I close the door behind him and flick the light on.
“It’s good,” he says as I walk toward the small seating area which separates my office from the painting side of the space.
I glance over my shoulder at him as I bend down to retrieve a couple of beers from the small drinks refrigerator I keep fully stocked.
“The painting,” he clarifies, accepting the beer I offer him. We sit down on the couch. “You’ve done well, Vander. You’re living your dream.”
I’m only living half my dream, and half a dream means nothing without the woman who inspired it—who helped to make it happen—by my side. “I’m sorry about your football career. I thought about reaching out to you at that time.” West was in a bad car accident during his junior year in college. There was talk of him going into the draft early, but the injuries he sustained in the wreck ruined any NFL career and shattered his dream. He’s a sports agent now, or so I read online.
“Why didn’t you?” He raises the bottle to his lips.
“I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me. You made your feelings crystal clear before I left.”