Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Did she actually want any of that? I sat and watched her for a little over an hour, the entire time trying to decide what the right move was.
Did I show her I loved her by letting her go?
Or did I run after her and drag her back here, force her to listen to me? To tell me what she wanted, and I would give it to her. Anything at all, anything as long as it wasn’t freedom from me.
That wasn’t fair. She deserved more. I picked up my phone and called my head of security to have one of my guards figure out how to get to the next train station and board so he could follow her. The very least I could do was know where she ended up and see to her safety.
She lifted her head and for a moment, I thought she was looking at me. Then I saw she was looking at the monitor under the camera. She gathered her things and stood like she was getting ready to get off at the next stop.
She couldn’t be too far from New York. Why would she take a cross-country train just to get off after an hour?
“She just got off the train. Do you know where she is?”
“Yes, sir. She is in New Jersey. I have a few friends out that way. I will follow her on CCTV and keep eyes on her until I have a man there. Do you wish for us to detain her?”
“No, follow her, but stay back. I don’t want her to know I have her.”
“Yes, sir.” The line disconnected, and I ran down to the car.
If she left, really left, I would leave her alone, but she didn’t. No one ran away from home to go to Jersey.
They said if you loved something, let it go. It would always come back. That was for people who believed in destiny.
Fuck that. I was going to find her now. She was mine, and she was coming home.
I made my own destiny.
CHAPTER 32
AMELIA
Ithought I’d make it at least to Chicago before I got off the train, but I only stayed on it for about an hour when I saw an ad for the Grounds for Sculpture in New Jersey.
My father had taken me there a few times as a child, and I wasn’t sure if I could say that was the place where I fell in love with art, but it was definitely one of them.
The ad flicked through a few pictures of their exhibits. When I saw the sculpture of Manet’s Dejeuner Sur L’Herbe, the luncheon in the park, I knew it was a sign. I didn’t know if it was from the universe or from God, and I didn’t care. I needed to see that painting rendered life-sized, in person.
It felt a little dumb to get on a west-bound train to run away from home as an adult and still only make it as far as New Jersey, but I’d walk around for a bit, gather my thoughts, and make a plan.
The rain that was pelting New York when I left hadn’t touched the park. It was midafternoon, the sun was out, and the grass a brilliant green. The air was sweetly perfumed by the wisteria tunnel, and its thick bunches of purple flowers hanging down attracted honeybees, as well as butterflies with their gem-toned wings.
This place truly was paradise, and it was exactly the distraction I needed.
With the paper map clenched in my hand, I followed the paths, looking at the art, trying to find the one sculpture I needed to see. Everything was so beautiful, and under any other circumstances, I would’ve taken the time these sculptures deserved to appreciate each one. Not now.
Now I needed to see that woman, freed from the confines of society and expectations up close. Something told me that if I could find her, see a version of that woman nude in the grass, freed from all expectations of decency, it would help me figure out what I needed to do next. She would somehow have the answers I was looking for.
It was silly, really.
When I found the sculpture, I kicked off my shoes and sat in the grass and just thought through what I wanted. The sun felt warm on my skin. The grass was cool under me, a little damp even, but it didn’t matter.
I just sat with the sculpture, first studying her, wondering what her life was, what it could have been. Was she just a prostitute, like many art historians theorized, or was she more? Did she represent more?
That was the beautiful thing about art, and many people disagreed with me, but I always felt that the meaning of a piece could differ. Each person interpreted the piece in their own way, shedding the artist’s intentions and deciding what it said. Of course, artists had different techniques to bring out specific qualities, but ultimately it was up to the viewer to see what they wanted and feel what they felt. Each person could have a different interpretation. Or maybe it was the same interpretation but through a different lens.