Betrayal

Chapter 52

Ali

As I pack my last order of the evening, I sip on a glass of wine and sing along to the soft music that's playing. I've spent all day sketching, painting, putting finishing touches on portraits, and my hands are worn. It happens when Christmas is coming up. I know from last year when I started doing this as a way to make money. I could hardly keep up and have a much better system in place now.

Snowball hops into my lap and I stroke her back, then get up. I stretch out, then walk slowly to the windows. It's been snowing all week and it's starting to pile up on the sidewalks. We're supposed to get a lot tonight.

He pops into my head.

For three years, without fail, he's sent me a card and flowers on my birthday. At Christmas he sends one or two gifts. I've wanted to text him or call him and say thank you, ask how he's doing, but I can't bring myself to. It would just bring everything back up. I think of the fact that his gifts should be coming any day now because Christmas is next week. Maybe I can muster up the courage to call him.

My apartment is scattered with moving boxes. After the holiday I'm moving to a new apartment in SoHo. More spacious than this one. I need the space. It's too small to have people come in and have their portrait painted. That's where most of my money comes from, though I also do remote portraits. They send a picture, I sketch, paint, and ship it to wherever. I prefer in person sessions.

He's not been on my mind much lately. He was at first, for a long time, but I found ways to ease the pain. The medicine helps my depression. Talking to my therapist helped a lot. I dove back into my art at full speed, enjoying it more than I ever have, graduated, and make a very good living off of it now.

I think of what I would tell him if we talked. I've wanted to tell him how good I'm doing. I know he would be proud of me. He always loved my artwork and complimented me on it. He buys my portraits when they're in a gallery. It makes me lose my breath when I'm told he's bought one. He always leaves his name.

Not seeing his face or hearing his voice in so long seems unreal.

What else would I tell him?

That I can't mesh in with another man? I've attempted to make a start of trying to move on from him. None of the ones I've started friendships with seem to understand me. The bond I had with him can't be recreated. I've accepted that. I know it's because he's my first love and the only man I've ever loved. He knew me inside and out.

I'd tell him one of those men didn't want to take no for an answer. He was someone I met at a gallery opening and looked so similar to Warren that I was taken aback. When he invited me to have a drink with him, I accepted. I drank too much and went back to his apartment. He tried to rape me. I fought back. He hit me so hard that I had a black eye for a couple weeks. My nose was broken and had to be reset. He seemed like a nice man. I only knew his first name and didn't file a report on him.

I still regret it. It was another thing for me to work through, more trauma to push past, bad dreams, and coping. I blamed myself for drinking and going with him to his place and still have trouble placing that blame on him. That was this past summer. I've stopped putting myself out there in any way or speaking to any men I don't really know and try not to drink as much.

I wonder what Warren would have done if he knew about that? It gives me a chill. There are moments of such immense sadness and darkness that come when I find myself missing him, but they pass, and I feel okay again.

I tell myself I'm not waiting for him, but waiting for whatever comes to me. But I've thought of the fact that Ella is thirteen now and Wyatt is fifteen. I don't know anything about Rebecca. I don't speak to Dominic. I had to cut that relationship off. It was too difficult to see him. I've wondered if Warren is seeing anyone or if he's been with anyone else. I'm sure he has. It's been three years, after all. He didn't last five months after he left his wife.