No One Knows Us Here(34)

I bought a handwoven, fair trade–certified pouf ($143) and a wheeled midcentury bar cart ($299) from West Elm.

I bought four gallons of paint at the hardware store at $50 a gallon.

I bought a huge antique brass lamp that shot up from the ground and arched overhead. I don’t remember where I bought it or how much it cost. Everything went on my card. I would worry about it later.

Then I went back home. I flopped down on my new couch and rested my feet on my new handwoven, fair trade–certified pouf. The lamp shone down on me like a spotlight. It was dark outside, though it was only five o’clock in the afternoon. Quiet, too. The city muted. No sirens or the clanking of shopping carts down below. Not even the sad, mournful tones of the viola interrupted the cold, perfect silence.

I tried calling Wendy, but no one answered. I called Margorie, too, perking up the moment I heard her voice and deflating again as soon as I realized I’d only reached her voice mail.

I was alone. I padded into the kitchen, filled a gigantic Beaujolais wineglass to the top with red wine, and sat back under my spotlight. I tried summoning up the triumphant feelings of earlier in the day. It had all been so very romantic, hadn’t it? A whirlwind romance, destined to end. Sam would be heartbroken. That was understandable. But maybe . . . maybe our brief but ill-fated connection had been good for him. Maybe I’d taught him that happiness was still possible. Maybe he would go on to meet someone new. He would look back at the time we spent together, that one long, beautiful night, and he would thank me.

My wineglass felt light in my hand. It was empty. I set it on the hardwood floor and sank back into my couch cushions.

No, I didn’t like that little story. How about this? He’d be angry. Understandably angry. But then—then he’d realize it was all for the best. That I’d given him a reason to live again. He would play the viola more beautifully than ever, with more soul. He would travel the world, win some sort of international prize. He would credit me for everything. He’d never love again. Not after what we’d experienced, together.

I sat on my new couch and looked out over the trees. I tried to make myself cry. I needed to cry, to feel like I was mourning what could have been. I couldn’t seem to will myself to produce tears, so I just sat there, staring.

An idea—a perfectly formed idea—sprang into my head: I would paint! I’d bought all the supplies. Drop cloths, brushes, rollers. I would start in the dining room. That peachy color had to go.

Three hours later, I stood back and admired my work. I was good. If this sugar-baby gig with Leo didn’t pan out, I should offer my services as a professional painter. The color was perfect, a muted gray, a Northwest winter sky.

In the kitchen I ate three peanut butter and honey sandwiches in a row before getting back to work. Wendy’s room was next. She had asked for something beachy, so I settled on aquamarine, a shade called Balmy Sea.

With my music blaring, I painted. I painted until my arms felt sore and limp, until my head was light from paint fumes.

When I heard the knocking on my front door, I kept on painting. When I heard the pounding on the wall, the wall between Sam’s bedroom and my bedroom, I turned the music up as loud as my little speaker would go.

Someone was calling my name. I put down my paint roller and leaned out the open window. Sam was doing the same thing, twenty feet away. “I’m coming over,” he said.

Then there was Sam, standing in my doorway. He gave me a hard look and ran his hands through his hair. He looked so tortured and sexy that I almost gave in and flung my arms around him. Just kidding, I wanted to say.

That was why seeing him was a bad idea. It would have been so much easier if he had simply read my breakup text and accepted it, first thing.

“What the fuck, Rosemary?”

“I’m painting.” I was barefoot, still wearing the tight white dress, only now the dress was splattered in gray and aquamarine. Paint had dried and crusted on my skin, in my hair.

“So this is it, huh?” Sam held up his phone and shook his head. He read my message out loud in a monotone voice: “Sam, I’m sorry. I have to end this thing between us.” He tucked the phone in his back pocket and then shook his head again, as if to say, really?

“It’s not like we were together,” I said. “It’s not like we’re . . . breaking up.”

Sam shook his head and squinted at the same time. He was disgusted with me, or angry. Probably both. He looked . . . really good.

My eyes squeezed shut. It would be easier if I didn’t have to look at him making those damaged hero faces at me.

“I’m very serious.” Then I opened my eyes.

We looked at each other, and I tried to keep my gaze very neutral and steady. His mouth was set in a firm line, and his eyes darted all over my face. And then, as if by sudden mutual agreement, we lunged for each other. He kissed me so hard I couldn’t breathe, and we crashed up against the wall, knocking over a little console table I’d bought. The vase I’d arranged on top of it tottered and then fell, smashing into a thousand pieces. When it crashed to the floor I didn’t even flinch. Sam’s hands were under my dress, pushing it up. I repositioned myself, allowing him to remove my underwear, while I raced to undo the buttons of his jeans.

We kept kissing, hard, our teeth clicking together. I liked it, the urgency of it. This would be our last time. He seemed to sense it, too. It seemed like only yesterday we’d had slow-motion sex on the blanket spread out over the Persian rug, gazing into each other’s eyes in the flickering flames of the candles, our naked skin bathed in an orange glow. That was yesterday. Now we were clawing at each other, smashing faces against each other, rolling around on the floor like animals.