Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
So I answered. My silence was my only greeting.
My father was quiet too, sitting on the line. He must be able to detect my anger through the hush because he didn’t start speaking right away. “Tesoro—”
The second I heard his masculine voice, the rage exploded inside my chest. It was the only time in my life when I thought I hated my father. I despised him for causing this pain. I despised him for taking away the love of my life. I despised him for being so hypocritical. “I’m not ready to talk to you.” For the first time in my life, I hung up.
I hung up on my father.
I shoved the phone into my back pocket and got back to work, forgetting the phone call happened in the first place. In my heart, I knew I didn’t really hate my father. The rational woman inside me knew he was putting my best interests first. But right now, I didn’t care about that. I saw him as the enemy.
I got back to work.
Two weeks passed, and I spent that time perfecting my gallery and my apartment. Once the gallery was ready for business, I realized I didn’t have any artwork to display. I’d given my pieces to my parents to put up at the winery.
So now I had to get back to work.
It was hard to get back into painting because I’d been too depressed to feel creative. It showed in my work. My pictures were moodier, with darker colors and sensations of isolation and loneliness. I tried to force myself to make paintings that were popular with my customers, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Instead, I painted images that meant something to me.
I painted Bones.
He was everywhere in my paintings, his face never visible. I painted him lying in my bed, standing underneath the stars on a dark night, and working at the winery. I painted the places we’d been together, from Lake Garda to Milan.
Over the course of a few days, I made five different pieces.
I wasn’t sure if anyone would buy them. Most subjects in paintings were beautiful women, whether they were naked or dancing. It was rare to see a beautiful man as the focal point in an image.
But that didn’t stop me from trying.
I displayed them in my gallery, the first artwork that would be available for sale. I wrote down the prices I thought they were worth, making them expensive on purpose so no one would buy them. It was hard to imagine someone taking these artworks, the pictures of my memories, and putting them in their home. A part of me didn’t want to let them go.
I never wanted to let them go.
The front door opened, and my first customer walked inside. It was the first day that I’d been officially open for business, but I didn’t expect anyone to stop by. I didn’t market my gallery or tell a single person that I was open. My family didn’t know about any of it.
I was basically on a different planet.
I heard heavy footfalls against the hardwood floor, so I knew it was a man who’d walked inside. I was adjusting one of my paintings in the corner, so I didn’t see him right away. Once the image was straight, I turned around to see my first potential customer.
But I came face-to-face with my father instead.
He was dressed in dark jeans and a black t-shirt, his tanned skin complemented the dark colors he wore. With jet-black hair and green eyes, he possessed the masculine version of some of my features. His eyes settled on me, and instead of being angry that I’d hung up on him, he looked like the one who’d just had his heart broken.
The anger I felt for him diminished when I saw his expression, when I remembered how much he loved me. He knew I hated him in that moment, but that didn’t stop him from pitying me, from feeling the same heartbreak I did.
I crossed my arms over my torso, my heart racing in my chest. I had no idea how he’d figured out where I was, how he knew about this gallery. I wondered if he and Bones had had a conversation, but after my father pulled a gun on him, that didn’t seem likely.
He stared at me with his hands in his pockets, his eyes hesitant because he didn’t know what my reaction would be.
I wasn’t sure what my reaction would be either.
He stayed quiet for a long time, giving me the chance to speak first if I wanted to.
But I didn’t have anything to say. Right now, I didn’t care about anything. All I cared about was the insufferable depression that had sunk in all the way to my bones. I didn’t want anyone’s company. All I wanted was to be alone.