He concentrated as Gemma’s eyes narrowed on him. He knew that she wanted more from him. Every time he touched her, he felt her whole body open, wanting to give herself to him. Instead of returning the gesture, though, he’d just continued to take. He took her mind, and he took her body. He also knew that, at some point in between, she had also handed him her heart.
Repeatedly, he’d reminded her that there was no way he could be what she wanted. He was still spoken for. He was damaged, and he was stillhers.
“That’s okay,” she says from across the room.
She stands and turns to pick up the sweater that she left on the desk. It’s the same desk that he moved up here for a journalist only weeks ago. Weeks ago, he specifically requested that journalist be Gemma Harris.
After she pulls the blue wool over her head, she steps into her pants. He quietly watches as she gets dressed.If things were only different,Phillipe thinks. If she had been first for him, maybe he wouldn’t be where he was today. Maybe he’d be happy, and maybe he could have made her happy.
She crosses to where he is standing and moves around the easel. That’s when he hears her take a shocked breath. Looking at her, he sees the questions flooding her eyes.
“What? Why…” Licking her lips, she straightens her shoulders. “That’s not me.”
Phillipe turns away from the full force of her accusation and reaches out to run his fingers over the canvas. He doesn’t care that the paint smears and smudges. His fingers move over thedarkhair that is pulled into a loose bun at the nape of a luminescent neck.
“No,” he confesses, “but when I look at you,sheis all I see.”
Trying not to lose hold of the tight grip I have on my emotions, I nod. “All of them?” I need to know if he paintedherin every single one of the images he made me pose for.
He replies softly, “All of them.”
I nod and, without a word, I pivot on my heel, wanting to leave the space. Ineedto get away.
Just as I reach the door, I hear him whisper, “I’m sorry.”
As I turn around, ready to forgive him, I notice his hand is on the canvas, and I realize that it isn’t me he is apologizing to.
Picking up the journal from the table by the door, I quickly flee the scene. I can’t even begin to hold back my emotions while I run down the stairs. I glance swiftly at the woman who hangs silently as the center of attention. I feel the tears welling in my eyes. I know that I’m fighting a losing battle, yet I keep throwing myself on the sword. Constantly, I give myself to him, and continually, he denies me for her.
I push open the back door and am relieved to see that night has settled in, because the darkness is the exact place where I want to be. Picking up my coat and a small flashlight, I head out. Following the little dirt path he led me down a couple of nights before, I make my way through the rows of vines as I reach up to wipe the tears from my face.
When am I going to fucking learn?The pain caused by his confession continues to pummel me in waves.She is all I see.His words repeat in my mind as the memory of his tortured expression tears at my heart.Why can’t I just let him go?It has only been a few weeks. Days before this, I didn’t even know who Phillipe Tibideau really was. In fact, the thought of knowing him intimidated me. But now? Now, the thought ofnotknowing him slays me.
As I make the final turn in the bend, the Fleuve Sauvage de Fleurs comes into view. I slow my pace and notice the moon is casting a beautiful glow across the moving water.
Gradually, I move toward the edge of the bank. I can hear the yellowhammers chirping in the branches above, just like she did. As I get to the edge of the river, I sit down and open her journal. Closing my eyes for a minute, I pause, listening to the sounds around me. There aren’t many. It’s extremely peaceful. I hear only the running water, the birds, and the occasional croak of a full-bellied toad.
Opening my eyes to stare up at the sky, I search for peace or comfort of some kind before I look down at the writing before me.
If I can’t have him, then I am determined to hear from the one woman who did.
Perceptions ~
I spoke to my mother today.
She called me because one of our family friends had let my parents know that they read an article about their daughter and how she had inspired an artist. Naturally, my parents then looked up the artist and the collection online.
It always amazes me that two people can be put in a room with the exact same object or image, and as they study it, they will undoubtedly arrive at two very different conclusions.
Especially when it comes to my relationship with Phillipe.
“Chantel, honey, I think it’s time you came home. Don’t you?”
“No, Mom, I don’t think I need to come home. I’m an adult, and I am happy here.”
In all fairness, she started out calmly. It wasn’t until she mentioned the reason for her call that I got annoyed.
“How can you be happy posing naked for a man all day, Chantel? Is that your definition of a productive life now?”
