The Christmas Crush

Chapter 36

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

In the past, Elena had thought a whirlwind romance sounded enviable. A goal. The kind of transcendent experience you might long for all your life and never have.

Tonight, whipped in that whirlwind, she found herself shipwrecked on a lonely shore. Battered, wet from her own tears, alone in all the places he used to be. She lay on her living room floor, her hair spread out on the braided cotton rug. Candles almost burnt down, flames flickering, reflected in the glass of a half-drunk bottle of red wine. A canvas streaked with gray on the floor beside her. Paint drying to the palette and brushes submerged in dirty water.

Some hollow comfort, at least, in knowing she’d been right. Right to be scared. Right, but for the wrong reasons. It would’ve been better to rush things with him, to not allow herself to get invested, to care. If she’d gone with her initial plan to treat him like a meaningless fling, she would’ve spared herself this piercing discomfort. In all her life, she’d never lost her way so completely.

Elena , Dad loved to say, you have to be strong to be safe. The world is unkind, and you have to protect yourself. I have to worry about you more than your brothers, because it’s twice as unkind to women.

She rolled to her side, the silk fabric of the green robe Lawrence liked pooled around her. Leaned against the TV stand was one of her sketchbooks, open to his portrait. She squinted at it, searching for imperfections, in him or in her work. Broad shoulders, lean waist, that inverted triangle the old masters loved to paint. The body type the ancient Greeks sculpted, trapped in marble to steal breath from observers for millennia. Timeless. Primal, it called to her through the fog of her anger.

A testament to his beauty and her talent. In college, she’d used up all her electives on art classes, forming a strong student-teacher relationship with her gifted instructor. Professor Megan O’Neil would love this drawing, the use of light and shadow. How Elena’s skill had developed with regular practice. The way the paper seemed like it would be warm to the touch, warm as him. Her hand reached out, brought the sketchbook to her.

She rolled onto her stomach, looked down into his eyes. Why had she believed she understood anything about him when she drew them? The arrogance, the foolish na ? vet é in thinking she’d seen something special in him. Something real, and worth recording. Worth keeping.

Without a second thought, she tore the picture down the center, a long, languid rip, fibers fraying.

“Think I’m my father’s daughter, huh? I don’t know you any more than you know me,” she told the left side of his face. She crumbled all of him up, dropped the pieces in the murky water, stirred them with a paintbrush. The paper began to further break apart. It was difficult to imagine in the midst of this pain, her body tired with it, bruised all over without a mark on her, but one day soon she would have a new job, and this ordeal would sting less. Next time she would stick to her convictions, to the guidelines her father gave her, and never mix her professional and personal lives again. It wasn’t worth the disillusionment.

Much as she hated it, Dad had been right to teach her to keep her guard up. Alas, the world wasn’t the pastel-hued Monet landscape she wanted it to be. Rather, it was a place made of legal briefs, reports, suits and countersuits, and romance gone wrong.

Her phone sounded an alert. Her heart jumped to answer before her hand could even lift it.

She would answer this time—if it was him, she would forget everything she’d ever been told and respond. Logically, she knew he deserved to be ignored. But her heart, oh how it abhorred logic.

Turn off All Too Well (10 Minute Version) (TS) , Priya’s text said.

I’m not listening to it.

Liar.

How’s your brother?

Don’t change the subject. Change the song.

But I really do think I left my scarf at his place this morning.

Did not. I saw you in it today.

Elena lifted the record player’s arm, cut Taylor off mid savage burn about broken promises. No, she had left something far worse at Lawrence’s. That self-portrait. She’d give anything to have it back, to have never trusted him enough to give it in the first place. She slipped the album back into its cardboard sleeve. Flipping through her collection in a milk crate she’d covered in painted flowers, she made a new selection. A moment later, guitar chords wavered into the room.

Back to December is no better FYI. Turn it off.

Uncanny. She stopped the player for a second time.

Kiaan agreed to talk to a counselor, so progress.

That’s good.

Did he try to call again?

Who?

Lawrence!

I don’t know anyone by that name.

Ouch.

And I know, you told me so. You were 100% right. Bad idea.

I feel no pleasure in being correct.

Elena pulled herself up to sit cross-legged, took a sip from the bottle. Why had she thought her life would be better if she got involved with some guy she’d met through work? That place brought nothing but misery. Tomorrow, when she felt stronger, she would send out more r é sum é s. Any reluctance to leave the area for a new job had gone up in smoke following the implosion of her relationship with Lawrence.

She could move across the country, and what would change in her life anyway? She’d still see her family a whopping twice a year. Still spend the holidays alone.

Picturing herself still sitting on this rug on Christmas Day ignited a fresh round of tears.

A secret piece of her had dared to hope she’d spend Christmas Day with Lawrence. That all she had to do was tell him she’d be alone and he would swoop in to rescue her, to bring her to his charming town full of people who adored him. To a place with fresh white snow, pine trees, lights, pretty decorations. Where the air smelled like cinnamon. To a place she’d imagined many times as a child but never thought she’d find in real life.

It might as well not exist. She had never belonged there like he did. He was right: she was a visitor, a tourist in his town. And now she was back in her place, by herself on the floor.

Another mouthful of wine, dry and sweet on her tongue.

What had he wanted to say when she’d spoken over him? He’d been about to apologize, she understood that much. And why did he call back twice but leave no message? The savage glee she felt when ignoring his calls had long since disappeared, replaced by a pensive mood. Might he have given a compelling explanation for his actions? Over the years, Dad had talked about mitigating circumstances, reasons a person didn’t deserve the harshest punishment.

Would Dad concede Lawrence should have his say? Didn’t the law require both sides to speak? Perhaps even Dad would want her to listen, hear Lawrence out. It might be the right thing to do, not only in her eyes, but objectively. Shouldn’t she, of all people, know the world wasn’t black and white? Something artists, lawyers, and even bakers could agree upon.

She traded the wine bottle for her phone, clicked on his contact.

Straight to voice mail. Fair enough. “It’s me. I’m willing to talk if you are.”

Late into the night she waited up, pining for a return call. While she waited, she drew, brought him back to her on the page. Over and over again. Until her hands were coated in charcoal, until it lodged under her fingernails in a way she could never wash fully away before work.

Let Derick complain, let him write her up. She welcomed any opportunity to clash with him. It might take some creativity, but she would find a way to best him.

On her fourth portrait of Lawrence, as she drew, recreating his tantalizing eyes, she started to believe this Christmas might still be different and, against the odds, she might not have to spend it alone.

But then he didn’t call, not that night, or into the next day.