Speaking of New York, why didn’t I just spend the rest of the summer at my studio there when the gallery show imploded? I refuse to believe that it was some unknown force that promoted me to come back to Kauai instead of riding out the summer in New York. It was probably just pride, and not wanting to face the press after the Gallery closed the day before my opening, even though it’s worse for the Kubler twins than it is for me. They’ll be run out of town forever. Even if they do get their financial shit together, Mark and Chrissy will never have a successful gallery again, because no one will ever trust them again. They stepped on far more toes than they realize by cancelling a show of mine.
As for Margot and Stirling being my renters—and Amanda having joined them here—that’s just poor dumb luck, and I’ll be arguing with the cosmos for years about why that bad luck landed on my head. In a liquor-induced brain fog of anger at this ridiculous situation, and the pain of my ragged heart being torn open all over again, I finally drift into a state of half-consciousness which is far from anything resembling a restful sleep.
4
Damon
There’sno fucking coffee in my studio.
Not one single, solitary bean. Shit. I can’t catch a break. I know it’s my own fault for not making sure I could truly sequester myself up here for days. But it’s not like I was going to do a grocery run at almost midnight. Not to mention, I just needed to get up here as quickly as possible so I wouldn’t have to make any more small talk. So I wouldn’t have to look at Amanda again.
I’d rather stab myself in the eye with one of my paint brushes than face the day on two hours of sleep and no coffee. So I pad downstairs as quietly as I can, and hope to hell that I’m the first one up.
No such fucking luck.
Not only is Amanda in the kitchen at this ungodly hour, but she’s digging into a bag of my favorite black gold—a deep, bold blend of fresh coffee beans from Brazil—and pouring them into the coffee grinder in quarter-cups like cheap dime store candy. I mean for fuck’s sake, doesn’t she know that they have to breathe for a few minutes after you open the bag each morning before you put them in the grinder? Does she remember anything about good coffee from our time together?
I ignore the shape of her sweet ass cupped by the clinging purple bell-bottom pajama pants, and the spot on her neck laid bare with her long hair pulled up in a messy bun.
“You’re doing it wrong,” I snap at her, as I reach behind her to snatch the measuring cup out of her hand before she can fill it again. She shrieks and backhands me with the measuring cup still in her hand. “Christ, Amanda, if no one else is awake, they are now!”
“Oh, god, Damon! I’m sorry!”
She’s whipped around to face me now, and just stare at her as I rub my throbbing nose. I don’t know whether I’m more angry at the fact that she popped me in the face, that she was about to ruin my best coffee, or that her nipples are standing at attention under her lavender silk tank top. And it’s hanging so low on her chest that most of the tops of her perfect breasts are on display. Christ. At least my nose isn’t bleeding.
“I see you’ve forgotten everything you knew about making a decent pot of coffee,” I say. “Excuse me.” I push past her and grab the rest of the bag of beans.
“What? I—”
“You’re supposed to let them breathe before you load up the grinder. Never mind. I’ve got another grinder in the studio. I’ll just take the rest of this bag. It should be perfect by the time I get back upstairs.”
I can feel her staring at me as I grab the half-and-half from the fridge, and a banana from the fruit bowl on the island. I’m tempted to filch some of the leftovers from Margot’s dinner last night for lunch later, because I know it’s amazing food. But that would mean spending another five minutes in the kitchen possibly having to make small talk with Amanda while I make a plate for myself. The banana and a properly-made cup of coffee will tide me over until I can shower and go to the store myself.
“I’m sorry I screamed… and knocked you in the face.” Her apology is sincere, it’s just not enough. “I just couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d make coffee for everyone. Margot is an early riser and she’ll be doing a lot to prepare for the cookout today, so I wanted to have coffee ready for her. Apparently, I’ve ruined that too.”
“I’m sure no one else will notice,” I say with a shrug, as I start to leave the kitchen.
“Wait!” she says, and glances back up at the open cupboard. “I think that was the last bag of coffee. And Stirling likes cream, I think.”
I turn around and glare at her, unable to hide my anger.
“Ever heard of a grocery store?” I ask and walk out.
As I climb the steps back up to my studio, I realize more than my nose hurts. Fucking everything hurts. My pride is shredded all over again at having been dumped by the woman I thought was the love of my life. I close the door behind me and lock it, wondering what to do next. After coffee, that is.
The sound of the beans pulverizing gives me momentary satisfaction, even in the mini grinder I have here in the studio. I imagine the beans as Amanda’s feelings—I want to shred them the way she did mine when she broke up with me.
I can make coffee the way I like it blindfolded, so my steaming mug of morning medicine is ready in no time. But it’s bitter going down and the caffeine just makes me more anxious as it starts to zip through my veins.
I rummage through my suitcase and pull out a pair of shorts and polo shirt. Thank God I made this studio self-contained with a kitchenette and a bathroom. I never expected to have to hide from my ex-girlfriend in my own house.
After I towel-dry my hair and dress, I catch of glimpse of myself in the mirror. But I don’t really recognize the man looking back at me. When did I become someone who wears designer clothes and puts product in his hair? Trappings of success, I guess. I look hard into my own eyes to see if there’s a trace of the hungry, passionate artist who was happy in a tiny studio eating cheap Thai food. That man, I see now, is long gone. I turn the bathroom light out and head downstairs. I’m going to need a lot more provisions—including more liquor—if I’m going to survive the next however many days I decide to torture myself by staying here. I refuse to sneak around in my own house; if I do run into Amanda or any of the rest of them, I’ll be as cordial as I can manage, but I won’t engage in small talk. I can hear them in the kitchen, or at least Margot and Amanda, but no one bothers me as I slip out the door.
5
Amanda
My head poundsfrom dreaming of Damon for the whole three hours or so that I slept, and my eyes still sting from having cried for the two hours that followed that.
