If You Never Come Back Page 8

  “That was different.” He sighs, almost like he’s annoyed that I’ve brought that up. “It was just him, his parents, and me. And I knew them for years.”

  Loaded silence takes over once more as I process what he’s saying.

  “You want everything I don’t, Shay,” he says. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  I won’t lie, but I can’t bring myself to say the words. So I stay quiet.

  “This is too much. I can’t handle it. I’m meant to be on my own. And you belong with someone who wants what you want.” He stops speaking as his voice starts to break.

  When he walks toward the door, I’m right behind him. When he reaches for the doorknob, I reach for his hand. This time, when I turn him to me, when I hold his face in my hands, when I press the front of my body against the front of his, he doesn’t move away, he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t reject me.

  I will myself to stand against him, still as stone. We could stay like this forever. I would do it if it meant that I could keep him with me.

  “I love you, Wes. Please stay. Please give us a chance.” I pause to steady my voice despite my urge to sob.

  Snot and tears cover my face, which I’m sure is as red as the paint on my canvas. I am every shade of pathetic, there’s no doubt. But his frown, his unfeeling stare says it all.

  “I can’t. I’m sorry, Shay.”

  One step back and one turn around are all it takes for him to escape me. When the door shuts, he’s gone.

  I don’t run after him. I stand, silent sobs shaking my body, the knowledge of how little I meant to Wes as clear as the sunlight shining through my window.

  I don’t even collapse from the sadness. Instead, I stay standing, right where he left me, a statue once more.

  Chapter Nine

  The two empty tequila bottles on my coffee table say it all.

  One week since Wes and I broke up, and I’m a disaster. Dirty laundry and dishes scatter my apartment. I haven’t bothered to make my bed in days. I can’t remember the last time I showered. For seven straight days, all I can remember doing is alternating between sitting on my couch and sleeping on it, with long stretches of guzzling tequila whenever I thought the pain in my chest was going to kill me.

  I sit up and stare out the only window in my studio apartment. It’s sunny, but I have no idea if that means it’s morning or afternoon. My phone died yesterday and I haven’t bothered to charge it.

  I glance at my phone, still dead on the coffee table. It’s not like it would make a difference if my phone was even working. Not once has Wes called or texted since leaving. The only way I even know that he’s alive is because I texted Colin a few days ago asking if he had heard from him. Because texting your ex’s friend after he breaks up with you is only a tiny bit less pathetic than texting your ex.

  But that got me nothing other than an apologetic message from Colin saying that he didn’t know where Wes was headed, just that he was gone.

  I wish I had more to tell you, but I don’t. He turned in his notice a few days ago and didn’t tell me where he’d be heading.

  The fact that Wes iced out his best friend blew me away. But then the second text Colin completely annihilated me.

  You two were great together. I honestly don’t know what got into him. I’ve never seen him like this.

  I tear up for the millionth time when I remember the hopelessness that overtook me when I read it. If his own best friend has no hope, I shouldn’t either.

  Wes isn’t ever coming back.

  I contemplate a run to the convenience store for another bottle of tequila when there’s pounding at my front door.

  “Shay! You alive?”

  I recognize Remy’s panicked boom right away. I shoot up from the couch, then hunch over when a dizzy spell hits. Eating minimal food while binge-drinking hard liquor these past several days has turned me into a walking hangover. I don’t exist in any sort of worthwhile form anymore. I can’t ignore Remy, though. Judging by how he keeps pounding at the door, he’ll break it down rather than leave me in peace.

  When I get my balance back, I wobble to the door and open it.

  “Thank god.” He pulls me into a hug, then immediately pulls away, his brown eyes wide. Then he cups a hand over his face. “What the hell happened to you? And why the hell do you smell like a dumpster?”

  I wave a hand at him, then collapse back onto the couch. His heavy footsteps trail behind me. A second later he’s standing in front of me, only the coffee table separating us.

  He leers over me, pointing at the empty glass bottles. “What is that? Why the hell haven’t you answered any of my calls or texts this past week?”

  “Say ‘hell’ again. That’ll make me answer faster.”

  His chest rises in a single frustrated breath. “Do you have any idea how worried your mom is? She called me yesterday and the day before asking about you because you wouldn’t answer your phone. Why are you ignoring her? You know the moms and aunties in our family go berserk when they can’t get ahold of their kids for more than a day.”

  I shrug, trying to play it off like I don’t have a pounding headache that’s about to split my head in two. “I’ve been busy.”

  “Busy drinking yourself to death and refusing to bathe?”

  He swipes up both bottles and tosses them in the trashcan just a few feet away. Then he resumes the position of standing over me, irritation plastered across his face. “Explain. Now.”

  “I was feeling down. That’s all.”

  Arms crossed over his broad chest, he leans over me. “I thought you were dead or kidnapped. You need to explain to me what happened that turned you into such a sad sack.”

  As annoyed as I am, I can’t blame him. If he or my brother went missing for days, I’d be worried sick too. But once he figures out the reason for my self-imposed hermit status is because of a breakup, he’s going to freak. What a pitiful reason to completely let myself go.

  Tears blur my vision. I blink and look up at the dark blob hovering over me that I assume is Remy. “Wes broke up with me.”

  Remy plops next to me on the couch and cradles me while I sob out the entire story. I tell him how Wes meeting my parents turned into a colossal mistake when Mom decided to invite our entire extended family as a surprise. And then I give him a quick summary of Wes’s past and how it played into everything.

  “Good god,” Remy mutters, hugging me tightly.

  “He hasn’t even bothered to contact me since he left,” I sob. “No call, no text. Nothing.”

  Remy’s giant paws grip me by the shoulders. He turns me to face him head-on. “Look, I’m mad as hell that Wes broke up with you. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit here and watch you waste away over him. You’ve had a week to be sad. Enough wallowing. Time to function like a human being again.”

  My mouth trembles with the urge to sob once more. “I…I don’t know if I can.”

  “Cuz, I know you can. And you will. You’re my feisty, confident cousin who can handle anything—annoying douchebros at my bar, a scary career change, and everything else in between. Look, breakups suck. I know that more than anyone. But you can’t let them destroy you. You have to move on.”

  “But what if I don’t know how?”

  Remy winks at me. “Fake it till you make it.”

  I sob at chuckle at the same time. It’s the first happy-like sound I’ve made in days.

  He wraps his arm around me once more, and I settle against his barrel chest. “Aww, cuz, did I make you laugh? After a full week of crying and drinking? I’d say I deserve a trophy for that.”

  This time, a string of proper chuckles falls from me.

  “Well, that one sounded a bit snotty, but I’ll take it.”

  I breathe. “I’ve gone through breakups before, Remy. This one hit hard though…”

  I stop myself before I say the “L” word.

  “That’s because you love him. Love makes everything better—and worse. The pain of losing someone you
love is unbearable.”

  I glance up at him, wiping my nose on the sleeve of my hoodie. “How do you get through it?”

  “Baby steps. One day at a time.”

  “Are you just going to parrot self-help phrases at me now?”

  “You’re getting your feistiness back. That’s promising.” He laughs. “How about helping me at the bar tonight?”

  I groan. “Remy, I don’t know if I have it in me to deal with other human beings right now.”

  “Just try it. If after an hour you can’t stand it, you can go home. But you need to make yourself do normal, everyday things, even if it hurts. It’s the best way to feel like yourself again.”

  He’s right. When I stop thinking about Wes, there’s a sudden burst of hope. It hits right at the center of my chest, cutting through the pain. It’s tiny and fleeting, but it’s there. For the first time in days, I don’t feel like collapsing and sobbing on the floor. I don’t feel good—not by a long shot—but with Remy’s help, I feel better. I feel human again. And that’s something.

  “We’ll even do a shot of tequila to kick things off if you want,” he says.

  I glare at him, shaking my head. “No. No more tequila. Ever.”

  Remy shoots a confused frown at me. “Excuse me, but I’m the one who turned you on to the good stuff. I gave you that decent stuff when you started your website—”

  I hold up my hand. “Tequila was mine and Wes’s drink.”

  This time when he glances at the empty tequila bottles scattering my living room, a look of recognition flashes across his face. I have to move on now, just like Remy said. That means not touching tequila for the foreseeable future.

  I sniffle. “If I have any hope of getting over him, I can’t…”

  Remy nods once. “Enough said.” He gives me a light tap on my back. “Now get yourself in that shower and scrub like you’ve never scrubbed before.”

  Chapter Ten

  I tuck an order form in the envelope and seal it, then check the clock. “Damn it.”

  The post office is closing in twenty minutes. I’ll never make it.

  The momentary frustration melts away and all I feel is exhaustion—but for the best possible reason. My business is picking up. Every day I’m painting, sketching, creating.

  One month post-breakup, and I’m surviving. I catch my reflection in the window and run my fingers through my newly short hair. This shoulder-length bob has been difficult to get used to, but it was a needed change. I needed to shed the long hair that Wes loved so much. Every time I brushed it, braided it, ran my fingers through it, I ached. So I said goodbye to thirteen inches and donated it. Through the reflection, I give myself a soft smile. I have to admit that I wear this new style well.

  That first night back at Dandy Lime wasn’t easy, but Remy was right. It was necessary. It showed me I could go through the motions of daily life even through the pain. And that’s what I do, night after night, day after day. I shower, get dressed, put on makeup, eat, and work during the day. At night, I run the bar with Remy. I’m so exhausted by the end of the evening that I don’t have time to wallow.

  I’m not completely out of the woods, though. Every week it gets easier, but it’s not without its dark moments. Last week a guy walked into Dandy Lime wearing the exact same red and black flannel shirt Wes wore the night we met, and I froze. I should have suspected it. It’s September—autumn—and that means everyone will be wearing flannel. But all I could do was stare at the stranger, then excuse myself to the back room where I had to calm myself with deep breaths and a hushed pep talk.

  It’s okay. I’ll be okay. Just breathe.

  Crazy how a random piece of fabric has the ability to destroy weeks of progress. But I deep-breathed my way through the setback and worked the rest of the night.

  I am fine. I will be fine.

  My phone beeps with a text from my mom.

  Mom: Anak. You okay? You need more food?

  Ever since I came clean to mom about the breakup with Wes, she’s been fussing over me. Multiple phone calls and texts every day to check in, in addition to a handful of surprise food deliveries. Even my dad, who showered me with loads of concerned calls the week after I told them about my breakup, tells her to ease up on me daily.

  I let out a sigh, reminding myself that she’s fussing because she loves me.

  Me: I’m doing fine, mom. I still have that container of fried rice and the pansit you dropped off the other day.

  Mom: Okay, that’s good! I love you! Don’t forget to eat! And call or text me anytime you need anything!

  I text “I love you” to her, then stop to eat leftovers. When I sit back at my desk, my phone beeps again. An alert from Instagram.

  I squint at the heavily filtered photo of a woman clad in a white one-piece bathing suit facing a window in a chicly decorated living room. Only her back is visible. When I tap the photo, my Instagram handle pops up. And that’s when I see it.

  One of my watercolor cityscapes is framed on the white wall of her living room. I smile to myself, giddy that someone likes my art enough to post about it on social media.

  I skim the caption below the photo.

  Finally finished decorating my new flat. Absolutely LOVE this piece by artist @ShayAlexander. My #cali home feels complete now #californiadreamin #lifeloveart #artfanatic #shayfanatic

  When I focus on the name of the account, I almost choke on a swallow. Mari Dash, the famous DJ, is the woman in the photo. She has a million followers and just tagged me in her post.

  I choke for real when I see that her photo boasts a few thousand likes and comments.

  That painting is almost as gorgeous as you are, Mari!

  OMG who is this @ShayAlexander person?? I need her artwork ASAP!

  I heave a breath. Tickets to her concerts sell out in minutes. How in the world did she stumble upon my tiny, insignificant website? She could probably afford a Picasso for crying out loud.

  I shove the thought to the back of my brain. How she found me doesn’t matter. What matters is that a celebrity is a fan of my artwork and that means a level of exposure I’ve never had before.

  I indulge in a few seconds of jumping up and down and squealing. And then I check my email inbox.

  Holy fucking shit.

  Fifty-seven new orders for various pieces of my artwork have just filtered through my site. With unblinking, disbelieving eyes, I quickly scan the orders for digital prints I’ve designed, my canvas paintings, sketches, pretty much everything I sell on my site.

  I grip the back of my desk chair to steady myself. I try and fail to stand up straight.

  “Oh my god.”

  I think I just got my big break.

  I check the clock. An hour until I’m due at Dandy Lime for my shift.

  Shock turns to laser focus. I call Remy. Holding the phone between my chin and my shoulder, I plop down at my desk and start working on the orders. My smile is so wide that my cheeks ache, but I don’t care.

  Remy answers on the third ring.

  I pause for a beat to inhale. “Guess what just happened?”

  “What? Is everything okay?”

  “More than okay. Try freaking fantastic.”

  “What is it?” Remy’s voice goes pitchy and breathy, a sign I’ve sold this well.

  “You know that DJ Mari Dash?”

  “Of course. I love her.”

  “She bought one of my paintings and tagged me in her Instagram post. The orders are pouring in.” I click my mouse like a madwoman. “I don’t want to jinx things, but I think this could be big. I got fifty-seven orders on my website just from her post being up for half an hour.”

  “Oh my god, cuz!”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

  A month after I blew up on social media and I’m still riding the wave. I’m spending my daylight hours painting and sketching, then the evenings processing orders from my website and updating social media.

  Already I’m reaping the
benefit. I’m earning more money than I ever have. I peek around from behind my easel out the window.

  “Holy crap,” I mutter when I take in the dark sky. I could have sworn that just minutes ago, it was daylight.

  I pad to the kitchen and pull out a carton of eggs. Scrambled eggs and toast are a sorry substitute for dinner, but I don’t want to do anything other than work. The big break I’ve been waiting years for finally happened. I’ll do everything I can to make it last.

  When I finish eating, I contemplate a shower, but as I gaze out the window, I’m taken by the cityscape glittering in the distance. It would make one hell of an oil pastel rendering in my brand-new sketchbook.

  I open the drawer of my desk, lift up the sketchbook, then freeze at the sight of what’s underneath.

  Wes’s face. Wes’s beautiful, flawless, perfectly angular face stares back at me in black and white. It’s a charcoal rendering of him, my favorite one that I’ve ever drawn. I lift the corner of the sheet up to reveal his perfect face once more, this time in watercolor. My favorite painting of him and my favorite sketch of him, hidden away all this time.

  The evening when Wes and I made things official replay in my mind like a highlight reel. I swallow, but the inside of my mouth and throat are so dry, I end up coughing. So, so foolish.

  It’s the stranger in the red and black flannel moment from last month, but with a dagger to the heart added in for good measure. I wasn’t ready to see Wes’s face this close, this clear.

  These are paintings, images—nowhere close to the real thing, but they still look exactly like him. The only thing worse would be him in the flesh right next to me. And if I want to continue moving on, I have to get rid of everything Wes around me.

  I pull out my camera, place the artwork on the floor, adjust the lighting, and take photos. Then I upload them to my website along with information about dimensions. The blank spaces for the title of the works stare back at me, burning my eyes. It’s never been this hard to title my own work.