“Did you order any art, Dad?” I ask, as I sign for the tall, rectangular crate.
He shakes his head. “I wonder what it could be.”
We drag it into his office together. There’s no return address on the box, but maybe there’s some paperwork inside. We lower the mysterious package onto the ground and cut through the clear industrial tape holding everything together.
“It’s definitely a canvas,” I say, peeking in the end. “Are you sure you didn’t order something and forget?”
He smiles. “I’m not that senile yet.”
The canvas has been carefully packed, so we can’t get a good look at it without unwrapping the many protective layers, but there’s a note on top. It’s handwritten, and I recognize the scrawl immediately. It feels like someone has kicked my legs out from under me.
It’s yours. This time I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.
There’s no signature. Even now, Calder respects my decision to keep “us” a secret from my dad. There’s no point in starting a family argument over a relationship that’s already over.
I feel sick as my dad and I unwrap the piece. I don’t need to look. I know what’s inside these layers of plastic and insulating foam.
Still, my stomach heaves when we remove the final layer and see the Ludlam painting lying there.
Dad lets out an audible gasp. “Is this…?”
He leans forward until his nose is practically touching the canvas.
“I think this is real,” he says, his voice full of wonder. “Either that, or one of the best forgeries I’ve ever seen. But why is it here? Who sent it?”
I’m going to vomit. I’ve spent all week pushing away thoughts of Calder, trying to focus on my work and forget about the pain. But this gesture brings it all back. The fact that he sent this painting to me means one thing and one thing only: that Calder and I are absolutely, completely over.
“I—I need to go,” I say. If I try to explain this to my dad, I’m only going to break down again.
“Is everything okay?” he asks.
“Fine!” I call over my shoulder. I need to get out of here. I can’t stop. I can’t think.
I’m halfway across the parking lot before I realize I don’t have my purse or my keys, and I can’t go back now. It’s not worth the risk of running into my dad and having to explain why I’m freaking out.
I leave the parking lot and walk down the street, and after a block or so I sink down onto a bench and press my face into my hands.
I don’t know what I expected. Maybe, deep in my heart, I hoped that he’d realize his mistake. That he’d show up at my door and grab me and kiss me and tell me he was wrong to push me away. But instead he’s sent the Ludlam.
That jackass. That fucking jackass.
At least he didn’t string you along forever, a tiny voice reminds me. He might have just continued to use you as a distraction. At least he was honest.
Yeah, only after taking me out on dates and calling me the “one perfect, beautiful thing” in his life. That wasn’t leading me on at all.
I wanted to help him. I told him I’d be there for him, no matter what. And he pushed me away. physical intimacy.
Damn him.
And damn me for trying to be supportive. For thinking that my words or touch would make any difference.
I stand up again and begin pacing back and forth in front of the bench. Why did I let him get under my skin? I knew this would end badly. I knew, deep down, that he would hurt me, and I was right.
Screw him.
I was taken in by the mystery of him. By his dark eyes and burning passion and sweet whispered words. I let myself believe that this thing between us was more than just a fling.
Fuck him.
If he doesn’t want me, if he doesn’t need me, then fine. Let him deal with all of this on his own. I’m tired of worrying about him.
That resolution brings me some peace, at least. But maybe “peace” isn’t the right word; it’s just the numbness again.
I embrace the feeling, let it settle over my bones. I refuse to let this break me.
A couple of deep breaths later and I make myself return to the Center. My cheeks are dry. Maybe I’ve cried all the tears I have for Calder Cunningham.
Back in the hallway, Dad is still bent over the Ludlam.
“Is everything all right?” he says, looking up at me with concern.
I nod and force a smile. “I was just a little overwhelmed. By this.” I wave at the painting.
Dad is already looking back down at the canvas, shaking his head in complete awe.
“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” he says. “I still can’t believe it. Look, it even came with a certificate of authenticity. We should still have it checked out, but it looks legitimate.” He leans back on his heels once more. “But I don’t understand why it’s here. Who sent it?”
Calder’s note it still sitting on the floor where I dropped it. I cover it with my foot.
“Maybe it’s an anonymous donation,” I say.e of his tongue.
“They’d be better off donating this to a proper museum. Not that I’m complaining. Maybe they included the title in here somewhere.”
While my dad looks for some physical proof of ownership, I reach down and grab Calder’s note from the floor.
“I really should be getting back to work,” I say. I don’t know how much longer I can bear to look at the painting in front of me.
“Of course,” my dad says, still distracted. “Do you mind doing a little research on who we might call to confirm authenticity? Maybe we can look at auction records and see if we can figure out who sent it.”
“Maybe they wanted to stay anonymous for a reason.”
Dad nods, but I can tell he’s not really listening anymore.
I return to my office and do as he requested. I know the painting is real, but it can’t hurt to have it appraised.
Calder shouldn’t have sent it. If he was so eager to be rid of the piece, he might have sold it and used the money to help him through this transitional period in his life. Instead, he chose to give it to me.
My stomach twists. He knew how much I loved this painting, and even though we’re no longer together, he wanted me to have it. I’m sure he only sent it out of guilt, the asshole.
But the gesture is still there. Why is he thinking of me when he should be thinking of himself?
The rumors have only been getting worse. In spite of my best efforts, I’ve found myself drifting to the gossip blogs again and again hunting for the latest “information” on Calder’s situation. I’ve even ventured to the site where Garrett contributes, but I’ve found no news of any value. The accusations seem to change every day—pyramid scheme! Love child! Drug cartel!—but no one seems to offer any real proof.