Deeply Personal

Chapter 11

Jessica

Even though Jessica was still trying to get over her heartbreak, she didn’t feel heartbroken anymore—and there was a difference. Memories of Adam continued to haunt her. She couldn’t stop them resurrecting themselves from the graveyard of her past.

When she’d been with him, she’d felt so fulfilled, as if her life had meaning and contained an abundance of joy. Their connection was so strong. He’d turned out to be as intoxicating of a man as his wondrous art was enlightening and beautiful. His touch, his laughter, his smile—even the way he artistically brooded at times. Once he’d made some chicken soup for her when she was sick and kissed her after she’d eaten it, not caring if he caught her cold. That was how caring he could be, how romantic.

When he told her he was leaving, she’d been sitting on the bed they had bought together on sale at a local furniture store, a four-poster king-size. It was the very same bed they’d made love in, eaten cheese and crackers in, and, after Adam had sold one of his moonscape paintings for a whopping sum, it was where they’d spilled expensive wine on in a fit of celebration—a provocative Torami Umbria red with hints of plum and chocolate.

I need to spread my wings.

Jessica had been unable to breathe. Spread his wings? Why had he put it like that? What did that mean?

He’d stepped over to her chest of drawers, on top of which lay the rose quartz crystal they’d bought in Sedona on a short vacation. He’d picked the stone up and played with it, moving it from one palm to the other as she watched him, hypnotized.

The crystal was supposed to have a calming effect, resulting from the powers of the iron magnets in the rocks at Sedona.

Whatever.

She’d never believed in anything like that. A choked laugh had escaped from her mouth. It hadn’t done anything close to its job.

“Can’t we work this out?” she’d said, remaining on the bed. She could see her reflection in the full-length mirror on the opposite side of the room. Her face looked flushed, her eyes dark. Her neck had reddened too—it always did when she got emotional—turning the skin splotchy.

Her entire love life, splotchy.

“You know how I always wanted to study the masters up close, Da Vinci, Titian . . . Well, I’ve decided. I’m going to do it. I’m going to Rome.”

Jessica’s eyes widened. “Rome? But what about work?”

“I’ve been granted a sabbatical. I leave next month.”

Jessica had felt like wringing his neck and throwing her arms around him simultaneously. But she knew deep down that her arms couldn’t fence him in. She couldn’t keep him with her, geographically or emotionally. Nothing could. What if she went with him to Rome? Why hadn’t he asked her? She thought about asking him but couldn’t work up the courage. Talk about awkward.

Honestly, she’d seen it coming, but she’d refused to admit it. He’d been too tired to have sex, or so he said. His silence at the dinner table had spoken volumes. Those wistful, faraway looks when he stared out the window or just stared into space had become far more frequent. You can’t cage the wind.

Now, six months later and post-Adam, Jessica was watching Patty Preston on her computer. It was six-thirty, time for dinner soon, and she couldn’t decide what she was going to eat. Patty was being her usual wise self. “I’ve talked a lot about being on your own and thriving. But there will also come a time when a man comes along, one who you don’t want to pass up. So, if you ever do decide to rope one in,” she went on, drawing Jessica’s attention back to the YouTube video, “make very sure, ladies, that you don’t go overboard this time. Put yourself first.”

Jessica had to smile at that. How did Patty know? Jessica was always going overboard when it came to men. She’d fall in love with some guy and start living for him, for The Relationship , relying on a man for her emotional sustenance. She’d pour herself into us , getting into it so deeply that she actually started emulating the skills of the man she was with, prioritizing him and his happiness over her own.

With Adam, she’d taken up pottery because he was an artist. She was terrible at it. With Frank Armstrong, a realtor who flew planes, she’d studied aviation. Scott Niehermeyer, an interior designer himself, had loved playing piano, so she’d tried to learn classical guitar. Even developed calluses on her fingers.

Each time, she had given part of herself away and had lived in the shadow of the man. And then when it didn’t work out, all that was left was a broken heart and a guitar for sale on eBay, or books about Amelia Earhart to get rid of, or a sad-looking potter’s wheel she’d donated to charity.

She wouldn’t text Adam back, though. Not now. Not ever. She was done.

That night, Jessica fell asleep on her couch watching a rerun of Friends. She dreamed of potter’s wheels and guitars and two-seater airplanes, and then there was that guy again, coming for her, arms outstretched. Dream Guy . . . Paul . . . Dream Guy . . . Paul? Who was it really emerging from a clear-blue swimming pool. Once again, he disappeared before they could embrace.

Rude.