He hadn’t lost his virginity until he reached the pros because it never felt right in college, though there was certainly no lack of opportunities. And the memory of that night was still a source of humiliation for him because it had made him sick to his soul. So sick that he’d stumbled out of bed and went into the bathroom and heaved the contents of his stomach into the toilet. Because that part of him was supposed to be for Gracie. They’d waited. It had been important for him to wait until they married. With her being four years younger, he never wanted to feel as though he’d taken advantage of her in any way. He wanted their wedding night to be special. Hell, he couldn’t even remember the name of the girl he’d lost his virginity to. What kind of ass did that make him?
Thank God she thought he’d just had too much to drink, since they’d met at a team party after a successful playoff win.
He pounded his hand against the steering wheel, anger rising, self-loathing overwhelming him. He’d dissed a perfectly good woman tonight because of his own personal hang-ups and his inability to move on and get the fuck over it.
Twelve years. Twelve goddamn years. Enough already!
This was bullshit.
Either Gracie was dead, or she’d simply chosen to disappear. Neither was a possibility he could do a damn thing about and it was time to stop existing like a fucking zombie and get on with his sorry-ass life.
This shit had to end right now. It was ending right now. Because he refused to spend another goddamn day thinking about what could have been when any sane person would have gotten it through their thick-ass head that what could have been wasn’t ever going to happen and no amount of regret or wishing would make a damn bit of difference.
He cranked the engine and curled both hands tightly around the steering wheel, resolve surrounding him like a steel case.
Let go.
Move on.
Quit being such a miserable fuck.
Be happy.
And starting tomorrow, that’s precisely what he was going to do. Tonight was about saying goodbye to old dreams and what would never be. Tomorrow?
It was going to be about embracing a future without all the fucking baggage he’d been carrying around for more than a decade.
THREE
ANNA-GRACE lifted her arms toward the wall, frowning in concentration as she tilted and turned the painting to allow the light to strike it just so.
“If only you’d ever look at me that way,” a male teased.
Instantly losing the frown—and concentration—she turned, a ready smile on her lips as she registered Wade Sterling’s presence.
“I had no idea you preferred women who scowled at you,” she said lightly.
It was a familiar repartee, one that had taken considerable effort to establish between her and the wealthy, handsome gallery owner. Most, if not all women, would consider her a fool for not returning Wade’s overtures, which had grown subtler, not bolder, with time.
He snorted. “You may scowl when the light is not quite right, but then, when it is, you gaze at your painting as one would a lover.”
She hated the faint heat that stole over her cheeks. And the fact that she instantly averted her gaze, looking away, anywhere but at him. He was no threat to her. Logically, she knew that. But logic never won over fear because fear wasn’t rational. It defied all the rules of logic.
He sighed but didn’t comment on her rejection. But then he’d grown quite used to them in their acquaintance. At first they’d been purposeful and adamant. Even forceful. Over time, however, she’d tried to relax, to soften the often unconscious rejection, but it was simply too ingrained in her to halt them all together. And her regret grew with each one rendered, unintentional or not.
“Here, let me,” he said, seemingly unruffled by the awkwardness of the moment.
He took the painting, affixed it to where she’d found the best lighting and then stood back, studying the effect.
“It’s good,” he said simply. “But you know that. You wouldn’t agree to display it otherwise and neither would I, despite our friendship. This show is going to launch you, Anna-Grace. About the last piece . . .”
He purposely trailed off, looking inquisitively at her, and she fidgeted self-consciously under his scrutiny.
“It’s done,” she hedged.
Or at least it would be once she let it go. Figuratively speaking. Thank God, Wade understood it—and her. That the painting in question wasn’t merely an object of commercial art meant to showcase her talent. For that matter, it wasn’t even for sale. It was too deeply personal to ever part with, and was the method of communicating her vow to herself. Not to others. She’d questioned even showing it at all, what purpose it truly served. But, it was, in many ways, symbolic of . . .
Well, there were many words applicable to the painting and its symbolism. Moving on—she nearly laughed, though there was nothing remotely amusing about the situation. Moving on indicated getting past something . . . difficult. The end of a relationship, perhaps. The death of a loved one. Personal recovery. Reaching a point where one decided to take a stand and refuse to allow oneself to dwell—and exist—solely in the past. Well, at least that last one was applicable to her situation.
For her, the title said it all.
Dreams Lost.
“Destroyed” was more apropos, but too dramatic for a painting that was almost whimsical when viewed through unknowing eyes. An image that would invoke nostalgia for the sheer innocence that seemingly radiated from the light and shadows captured on the canvas.
It had taken her many attempts before she’d settled on the look she wanted to achieve. And in fact, the title had been indicative, and settled upon, after her first rendition of the place that had played such an important role in her formative years.
It had been dark, haunting to look at. One couldn’t help but feel sadness when viewing the barren landscape and the sense of loneliness that was prevalent in the painting. For that matter, she wouldn’t have been able to look upon something that brought back such heartbreak and despair.
She readily admitted that it was the more accurate version, the one that most represented her pain and grief. It was just simply too personal to share with strangers, those who didn’t—who couldn’t—understand. How could they? But the original depiction represented the person she’d been for far too long now and it was time to portray herself differently to the world. Even if the world, for her, was still a narrow, shielded familiar path she never ventured from. No one else knew of her demons. She shared them with no one, and she preferred to keep it that way. Only in Wade had she confided, and it had taken a long, winding road to open up to even one person. She had no desire to broaden her circle of confidants.