Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
The illusion of this marriage is well and truly over.
Twenty-Seven
The fact is, I was supposed to be at Walt’s apartment temporarily. I was supposed to be here for a few days, and then I got distracted by A Banquet Still Life. In reality, this isn’t my home. Walt didn’t invite me to live with him permanently. I can’t stay here, pretending this is all normal. I can’t stay here, tricking myself into believing I’m actually Walt’s wife. God, I wanted that. I wanted to be vital to him in an irreplaceable way, and that desire blurred the lines for me.
Obviously, it’s time for me to move out.
Though I’m tempted to, I don’t leave Walt’s apartment that night. I don’t work up the courage until the next day when I wake up to find the apartment empty and a note left for me in the kitchen. Walt had to run to the office and he won’t be back until after lunch, so I start to gather my things. I think it was smart to give myself the night to sleep on my decision, and in the light of the new day, I still know it’s best that I move out before he has to ask me to leave. The mere thought of having to endure a conversation in which he politely presents the idea of me getting my own apartment is enough to make my stomach clench with unease. I imagine how it would go, the excuses he’d use:
I think you’d be more comfortable.
I want what’s best for you.
You’ll have more room for your art.
He could dress it up a million different ways, but the fact is, he wants me out of his place—hence the mention of that lump sum—and the last thing I want to do is overstay my welcome.
Fortunately, I still have some money in my savings. Walt never cashed the checks I wrote to cover rent and the cost of the damaged rug, which means I still have enough to cover a hotel for a little while until I figure out my next move.
It doesn’t take me long to pack up my belongings. I leave the fancy dress from the fundraiser and any other items I purchased that were only necessary for this new life with Walt. My old clothes fit into my old suitcase just fine. Unfortunately, it’s my art that will be the most difficult to transport. I can pack up my supplies into cardboard boxes easily enough, but my canvases for Nadiya pose a unique problem.
I call her and tell her the situation. I don’t go into the gritty details about why I’m moving my art out of Walt’s apartment, just that I am. She’s the one to come up with the idea to move them to Stein Gallery’s New York headquarters. In fact, she has a crew of three guys at the apartment by 10:30 AM to help pack them up with gentle care so they aren’t damaged in transport.
Terrell’s in the lobby when I go down with them to help load my pieces into the back of their van.
“What’s all that?” he asks, looking at the flat wooden boxes protecting each of my canvases.
“My art.” I smile.
His eyebrows shoot up. “No shit? That’s cool. Wish I could have seen some of it before you boxed it up.”
Later, after I’ve finished collecting the last few things from Walt’s apartment, I grab a piece of printer paper from Walt’s office and sketch Terrell from memory, adding a little note of thanks for him at the bottom of the page.
He’s at the door when I roll my suitcases through the lobby.
“Going on a trip?” he asks with a gentle smile.
“Yes,” I lie, worried that if I let him in on what I’m actually doing, he might involve Walt.
“When will you be back?”
“Oh, I’m not sure.” I hold out the piece of paper. “This is for you, though. For helping load those boxes earlier.”
He glances down at the sketch I hold out for him, and he grins from ear to ear. “What?! Looks just like me! How’d you do that, though?” He laughs in amazement. “That’s insane.”
He folds it up neatly and makes a big show of tucking it into the front breast pocket of his uniform jacket. Then he pats his hand over it for safekeeping.
“I’ll keep it here with me,” he says, holding the door open for me. “Need me to get you a cab?”
I glance up and down the street, realizing I have absolutely no idea where I’m going. “No, that’s okay. I’ve got it from here.”
He nods and heads back into the lobby in a rush to help another resident.
With no tether to a specific neighborhood in the city, I decide to check into a budget hotel in Midtown East, that way I can walk to MoMA anytime I want.