Page 73 of For the Love of Art

CHAPTER

TWELVE

Don’s smiling face took up the whole lock screen of my phone. It was the same picture that used to be my phone's lock screen, but now only haunted it when he called… which this was the first time since the separation.

I hit the green icon and pressed the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Isla.”

“Don.”

The formality of the conversation felt foreign.

“Why are you calling?” I asked.

“I tried calling the gallery today, and you weren’t there,” Don said.

“I’m in California.”

“Yes, with–”

Silence fell over the line.

“My boss,” I offered a response.

Don cleared his throat. “Yes.”

Dori likely told him that Nathan and I were away at the expo. I wondered if this phone call had anything to do with him needing to hear for himself that I’d gone on a trip with a man.

“I need the divorce papers. Have you signed them?” he asked, keeping up the guise that he called for a reason.

“No.”

Don sighed, annoyed. “Well, that’s just great. If I’m going to do right by Marissa and marry her before this baby is born, I need to be divorced.”

I scoffed. “Well, I’m glad you’re doing right by at least one woman in your life.”

“Says the woman faking a business trip with her boss.”

“Oh, fuck you, Don. You invited another woman into our bed. You have no clue what I’m doing or who I’m doing it with,” I said, anger boiling my blood.

“When you get back to New York, sign the damn papers.”

He hung up.

I stared at my phone, jaw dropped.

The sound of footsteps made me turn. I looked to see Nathan gathering clothes off the floor. He handed me my dress.

“Are you leaving?” I asked.

Nathan’s shoulders dropped, and his eyes softened. “We can’t do this tonight.” He pulled on his briefs and shorts.

I suddenly felt vulnerable and exposed. I pulled my dress over my head as I said, “You do this all the time.”

Nathan walked over to me and placed his hand on the back of my head, pulling it closer to him so he could kiss it. “You don’t, though.”

I backed away, trying to suppress the sting of rejection. “What’s that supposed to mean?”