Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 35946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 180(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 180(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
But the only thing in my head is her.
* * *
Jamison ends up bailing me out. We both agree my dad’s dealt with enough shit for the day. He shoots me a look when I tell him to drop me back off at campus, but he doesn’t question it. He drops me at the gates, and I’m off and running, my lungs burning and my pulse racing as I charge right for her house.
It’s dark when I get there, but deep down, I knew it would be. It’s empty too. That I think I also knew. I stand cold and hollow in the doorway, my heart stopping as I just stare at the empty cottage.
Well, not totally empty.
Because there, in the middle of the floor, propped against a chair, is a painting. It’s me, shirtless and slumped against the window of her Grand Wagoneer, grinning. There’s an orange glow over me, and you can see the rain just fucking pouring down behind me outside. And in my hand, is her hand.
Also, there’s a note.
Ethan—
Sometimes, I like to take a photo of something incredible so I can paint it accurately later. I didn’t have one for this, so, it’s from memory. But I think it turned out exactly how I remember it. I want you to remember us like this, not from today. You’re going to do amazing things, and I can’t wait to read about you in the New York Times or something. Go live your life, Ethan, and remember us like this.
I love you,
Emily
I drop to my knees, the note falling from my hands as something cold slices through my heart.
14
Emily
One Month Later
There’s a cool chill in the air as I step out of my apartment building. I shiver, the wind whipping through my hair as I turn up the collar of my jacket and dip my head into the chilly air. My feet move, my body walks forward, but as usual, my mind lingers somewhere behind me, barely able to catch up.
And my heart? Well, that’s been missing for weeks now.
Chicago is colder that Southworth, that’s for sure. Especially as fall begins to turn into winter months. Another shiver hits me as the wind whips up the back of my jacket, and my hands push deep into my pockets as I trudge towards work. Well, one of my works. Since landing in Chicago, I’ve kept myself busy working two jobs: days at the art supply store down the street from my Wicker Park apartment, and nights bartending at an obnoxiously clubby bar a few blocks the other direction. It’s a grind, I’ll say that, but it’s keeps me busy. And they keep my mind occupied. Kind of. Sort of.
…But not really.
Between the two jobs, I barely have time to paint or draw. What I do have plenty of time for is regrets and second thoughts. And missing him, a lot, all the time. But, on the upside, I tell myself it could be worse. I could be in jail, I guess, if circumstances were slightly different.
I haven’t even bothered to look for teaching jobs. A few weeks ago, I did get a nice email from Colton Kane, telling me he was sorry for the way things shook out, he hoped I understood that he didn’t have any other option but to let me go in light of what happened. He did tell me he’d be happy write me a recommendation, and while that’s a nice thought, I know how small the world is, especially the world of academia and art. Maybe Principal Kane’s recommendation would open some doors for me—and I’m sure it would—but word would eventually get back to whoever I spoke to about exactly why I left Winchester.
I know damn well there’s a scarlet letter on my back now, and no academic institution is going to take me with that.
And so, I walk on, through the cold late fall air, to my art supply store job. And mostly, I just miss Ethan. A lot, even though I know deep down this is the right way we need to go. Or at least, I’m still trying to convince myself that this is the right or only way for us to go. I left because I love him, and I knew loving him mean letting him go, for his sake. I wasn’t about to make his life any more complex, or any more marked up. Or any more messed up than the life of a guy his age should be. He’s already dealt with an absent mother, and then reform school. He didn’t need me and the drama being with me would have brought down on him.
I brush away a single tear as I duck my head down further into the wind and trudge on down the street. I stopped answering Ethan’s texts three weeks ago. He stopped texting at all a week later. And maybe that hurts even more than leaving him the way I did, but again, I know it’s the way it has to be.