Chapter 25

Blair

Samson’s chocolate-brown eyes stared at me. The ever-there smirk twisted the left corner of his lip upward, and the wrinkles weren’t as pronounced. I folded my arms and stared at the painting of him, still incomplete, and allowed the anger to stream through me again.

The day he’d left, I’d regretted asking him to go. I’d missed him. And the day after? I’d discovered he’d fucking thieved my sketchbook right out of my desk, which meant two things.

One, he’d seen the painting of himself, which was ultimate cringe fest 2017.

And two, he was a dick.

The former revelation had been reinforced by the fact that he wouldn’t answer my damn calls! Or my messages. Or the voicemails I’d left him demanding he return my property.

I kicked the edge of my desk and stubbed my big toe for the third time in a week.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” I grunted and bent, lifting my foot and catching it in my hand. I hopped around, gripping my toe and the end of my sock. “For god’s sake.”

I gritted my teeth and dropped my leg again. What made me the angriest out of all of this, though, wasn’t that he’d taken it, or that he’d seen my painting of him, or even that he’d invaded my privacy in the process but that I still couldn’t shake the overwhelming sense of guilt I woke to every morning.

I sat down on the Gudetama bedsheets and sighed. I’d slept up here since Christmas.

Samson’s smell was entrenched in the guestroom downstairs. The barest whiff sent me spiraling into memories of him inside me or his lips on my neck or face. I couldn’t handle it or the wash of emotions that came with it.

He’d said I was his, that he’d claim me, and goddamn, that was exactly what he’d done.

And to make matters worse, the day I’d found my book missing was also the day I’d found the keys to the Audi TT on my pillow. I hadn’t driven it, simply shoved the keys into my desk drawer and left them there. How could I accept the gift after the way I’d behaved?

A knock rat-tatted at my bedroom door.

“Yeah?”

“Honey? May I come in?” Mom’s voice didn’t offer my comfort, just dolloped on another helping of guilt.

I’d stayed for New Year, simply because going back to my dorm room meant admitting defeat. That was clearly what she’d expected. My ‘relationship’ was over, so I’d run back to Harvard like a good little girl and do what she wanted me to do.

“Blair?”

“Yeah, come on in,” I said and brushed my hair out of my eyes.

The knob turned, and Regina appeared, her blond hair pulled back from her face and exposing the high cheekbones I’d inherited, and the crystal blue irises I hadn’t. She held an envelope out to me. “This came for you.”

“Oh,” I said. “Thanks.”

“A man delivered it. He rang the buzzer.”

“That’s a little weird,” I said and slipped it from her fingertips. The envelope was thick, cream-colored, and made from parchment, of all things. It bore my name in cursive and nothing else.

A tingle started in my chest and spread. I inhaled and turned it over, slipped my finger under the lip, lifted the thick paper. I drew a sheet from within and opened it.

“What does it say?” Mom asked.

I scanned the words on the page and forgot to breathe.

Blair Scott,

You are cordially invited to the opening evening exhibition of the works of Blair Scott at the Benjamin Hewitt Art Gallery. Your attendance is highly anticipated. Please arrive at 6 p.m. Drinks and refreshments will be served.

Regards,

Samson Barnes

How was this possible? He’d just invited me to my own opening? My emotions blanked out and thoughts streamed through my mind, one after the other, questions and wordless images.

Samson had my art book but that surely wasn’t enough to set up an exhibition in my name.

Oh, god, and that wasn’t even my best work. That wasn’t even close to it. And he’s going to display that?!

“Blair, honey, you’re shaking,” Mom said and touched my arm.

I flinched away and folded the paper again, slipped it into the envelope, then got up and walked it over to my desk. I opened the drawer, put it in, shut it and leaned against it as if it were a monster set on scratching its way out of there.

“Are you all right? What is it?”

“Nothing,” I replied. “Just an invitation to an art gallery. A showing.”

“Oh.” The mention of art had instantly bored my mother. She let the topic go and pranced over to my window, wafting her perfume through my personal space. “Have I mentioned how happy I am that you’ve decided to stay for New Year’s Eve, darling? We’ll have a wonderful party. I’m going to invite Carl. Did you hear? He broke up with Lillian. Naturally, Joseph isn’t too impressed, but the path is open for you.”

“For me?” I laughed. “No way. No thanks.” It was a kneejerk reaction. In truth, the thought of another man inside me was repulsive. “I mean, Carl’s nice, but he’s in the past.”

“And so is Samson,” mom replied.

Except he wasn’t. He had my artwork, and he’d done something crazy. Something I wouldn’t have put past him, since he’d been pretty much balls to the wall since we’d met.

Goddamn, he was the same guy who’d faked being an escort to get closer to me.

And you pushed him away. You pushed the one good thing you had away because you were scared of disappointing this woman. The same one who hid your father from you.

“I’ve been thinking, sweetheart,” Mom said and walked to my bed. She paused, rolled her eyes at the egg cartoon sheets, then settled onto them, gingerly. “Now that things are over between you and that – that man, you’re free to continue with your life.”

Was I?

“You can return to Harvard after the New Year and continue with your studies.”

I stared at her. I snapped my jaw up and clicked my teeth together. She couldn’t possibly be this obtuse. “Mom, I told you I’m leaving to become an artist. I told you that, remember?”

“Yes, but that was when you had a fiancé to speak for you,” Regina said and fluffed her blond ponytail. “You can’t possibly make money for yourself as an artist, so you’ll study law instead. That way you’ll be able to fend for yourself out there.”

“I can fend for myself just fine as an artist,” I replied.

“No, honey, you can’t. It’s just not plausible.” A muscle twitched beneath the frail skin under Mom’s right eye. “You have to do what’s best for you.”

“You mean what’s best for you. You couldn’t become a lawyer, and now you’re forcing me to do it,” I said. “When you know damn well I hate it.” Samson was right. I was an idiot not to tell her the truth from the start.

“Sometimes we have to do things we don’t like,” Mom replied, stiffly.

“I don’t,” I replied.

And there it was. The last boost of confidence I needed. The last shove over the edge.

I didn’t need this. I’d lost Samson. I’d lost some of my artwork. I’d never had a truly functional relationship with my mother. So, what was I afraid of? Losing something I’d never had in the first place?

“Blair, don’t be stubborn.”

“I lied,” I said. “I did hire Samson.”

Regina’s eyes went round as the precious dinner plates she’d picked out for our New Year’s feast. If she hadn’t been sitting, her legs probably would’ve given out. “What did you just say?”

“I hired him. And no, he wasn’t an escort. Apparently, I got the wrong address,” I said and laughed bitterly at the irony. “But I did think he was an escort. I hired him to lie to you so you’d let me follow my dreams. So you’d let me go once and for all.”

“You brought an escort into this house?”

“Christ, would you not fixate on that for one second? He wasn’t a damn escort, but what does it matter? Don’t you get it? I was so desperate to be rid of the pressure you put on me, I literally hired someone to make it go away. That’s pathetic.”

Regina shook her head on repeat. No words from her, but it would come tumbling out soon. The yells or the condemnation.

“It was pathetic on my part. I should’ve told you what I wanted from the start.” I squared my shoulder. “I want to be an artist.”

“No,” Mom said and shook her index finger at me, the long red claw swishing out the warning. “You’re not going to give up what you’ve achieved at Harvard.”

“I’m the worst in my class,” I said. “And that doesn’t matter. I’m not going back.”

“I’ll make you.” She hopped off the bed and planted her feet. “If you don’t go back, I’ll disown you. No more money. No daughter of mine is going to be some loser artist. I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

“That’s because you never knew who I was,” I replied. I gripped the handle of my desk drawer behind me. The car keys and that envelope burned a hole in my fear.

Samson had known me for a weekend, seen my art probably once, and believed in me. Full on believed in me.

My mother had known me for twenty-one years and refused to acknowledge my wishes.

“No daughter of mine will –”

“I’m doing it,” I said. “I’m dropping out, and that’s final. And if you won’t believe in me, thankfully, I know someone who will.”

“Blair!”

I whipped open the desk drawer, brought out the keys and the envelope, weighed one in either hand. My mind was made up. I’d been too stupid for too damn long, and hopefully, Samson could forgive me for my shitty behavior.

“Blair, I don’t know how far you think you’ll get without money but it won’t be far. You’ll come running back to me within a year, I guarantee it.” Her certainty of my failure should’ve bit me in half but I was too far gone.

“That’s it,” I said. “That’s me. I’m done. Mom, thanks for everything you’ve given me over the years but I can’t continue like this. I have to do what I want to do.” I walked for the door, my confidence growing with every step, and a small smile, too, along with butterflies, which tickled the lining of my stomach.

This was new. It was huge.

“Blair, if you walk out that door, you won’t get to come back.”

I looked over my shoulder at her, at my mother, who’d let me down too many times to count. “I hope one day we can have some type of relationship again. For now, I don’t want to hear from you again. Bye, Mom.”

“Blair!”

I jogged down the hall and toward the staircase, and for the first time in my life, I felt free.