Contessa (44 page)

“
I want to go home,
”
I tell him.

“
Come on, Liv. We
’
re having a conversation here.
”

“
I don
’
t want to talk to you about Nate anymore.
”

“
Fine, then we don
’
t have to talk about him.
”

I look down at my hands, ignoring him as he walks over to sit next to me on the couch.

“
You know, now I am starting to wonder if I can be good enough for you. You have the best father a person could ask for, and you want someone else.
”

“
That
’
s not true–
”

“
Yeah, it is.
”

“
You don
’
t know my dad!
”

“
Tell me something horrible about him, then. Tell me why he
’
s such a bad father.
”

“
Because he tells me everything I paint is beautiful.
”
I realize how stupid that sounds as soon as it comes out of my mouth.
“
I mean, even the horrible things–
”

“
You
’
re going to have to think of something else–
”

“
He doesn
’
t think objectively, you know? I can
’
t get a real honest opinion out of him.
”

“
Maybe he doesn
’
t want to hurt your feelings.
”

“
I don
’
t like that! I don
’
t want to be lied to!
”

“
Maybe he
’
s not lying. Maybe he just thinks your creations
are
beautiful things, you know?
”

“
Now
you sound like
him
!
”
I tell him, frustrated, standing up and going to the dining room table to clear some dishes.

Jon follows me, taking dishes of food to the counter. He starts putting the leftovers in small plastic containers.
“
What
’
s another horrible thing about him?
”

“
He never lets me do anything.
”

“
Well we know that
’
s not true anymore. He
’
s lightened up, big time, since you and I started seeing each other. Hello? Midnight curfew?
”

“
Which just might be too late for me tonight,
”
I say spitefully.
“
Where
’
s your dishwasher?
”
I ask him angrily.

“
It
’
s called a sink,
”
he says back at me.
“
Ever used one of them before?
”

“
You don
’
t have to be mean to me.
”

“
Well, then, stop acting like a spoiled brat!
”
I pick up a plate, ready to throw it on the floor, but his hand catches mine and he takes the dish from me.
“
We don
’
t have a disposable supply of ceramic dishes, Liv. And this is my mother
’
s china, which somehow hasn
’
t been pawned over the years. I
’
d appreciate it if you
’
d treat it with some amount of respect.
”

He places the dish carefully in the sink, rinsing it with a steady stream of water. When it
’
s clean, he shuts off the tap and leans against the counter, his arms tense, his head down and eyes closed.

“
I think I should go,
”
I tell him.

“
This was not how this night was supposed to end.
”

“
What, were we supposed to sleep together?
”

“
Stop that,
”
he says, looking up at me.
“
Stop trying to make me into the bad guy here. I
’
m not that. And you know damn good and well I had no intention of sleeping with you tonight.
”

I tap my boots on the floor nervously.

“
Why are you so angry?
”
he asks.

“
He was not a
womanizer
,
”
I state adamantly.
“
My mother wouldn
’
t date a
womanizer
. He was a good man who loved her more than anything in the world, from the day he met her. How could that make him a
womanizer
? A lost soul, maybe. Confused, probably. But don
’
t you dare call him a
womanizer
. It implies he was disrespectful, that he used women for personal gain. I don
’
t think that was him at all.
”

“
Alright, Liv. I
’
m sorry I said anything. I had no idea that it would affect you so much. I just wanted you to know the truth about him–
”

“
Well, that
’
s not the truth. Don
’
t believe everything you read, Jon. You of all people should know better.
”

“
You
’
re right. Maybe the stories were more tabloid than truth. But there were a lot of pictures of him at events–
”

“
It doesn
’
t matter!
”
I tell him.
“
So what? So he made a few bad choices! So have you! Does that make you a womanizer, too?
”

“
Liv, I
’
ve been with two other women–
”

“
In a matter of
months
you were with two other girls! How many years of articles did you scan? Ten? What, were there thirty women? More?
”

“
I didn
’
t count.
”

“
Well, I bet his average is better than yours.
”

“
You
’
re probably right,
”
he says, throwing a dishtowel on the countertop. He walks quickly out of the kitchen and back into the living room.
“
I don
’
t know why you
’
d waste your time on me anymore. I could never be good enough for you.
”

I stay in the kitchen, stunned, calling out to him.
“
Jon, that
’
s–
”

“
No, you
’
re absolutely right.
”
He stands in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room.
“
I messed up, and it doesn
’
t seem like you
’
re going to let me forget it, either. I can
’
t change what I
’
ve done, Liv. Believe me, I would if I could, but I can
’
t. But I don
’
t want you throwing that in my face every time you get angry with me, either.

“
I
’
m not going to feel guilty about that.
”

“
I
’
m not trying to make you feel guilty,
”
I tell him softly.
“
I just want you to see that he was as human as you are. And you
’
re not a bad person. Stop telling me you
’
re not good enough for me. Let me be the one to make that decision.
”

“
Well?
”
he asks. He bows his head to the floor, messing with a scratch on his thumb, as he waits for my answer.

“
I can appreciate that you
’
re trying to help me sort through my issues, but I think you should stay out of my situation with my father.
”

“
Olivia, if your relationship with him isn
’
t good, it
’
s only going to make things more difficult for us. Why can
’
t you see that?
”

“
I can handle it.
”

He walks toward me and takes my hands in his, speaking directly to me.
“
Will you just listen to me for a second? And then I
’
ll drop it–for tonight at least–
”

“
Drop it for good–
”

“
I
’
ll try, but I can
’
t make that promise.
”

“
Alright, go ahead.
”

“
So, this Nate-as-a-father thing. Let
’
s think about that for a second.
”

“
Okay.
”
He drops one of my hands and leads me back over to the sofa.
“
My mom would never have let him be a bad father.
”

“
I think you
’
re right. Just like she doesn
’
t allow Jack to be a bad father.
”

I smile at him weakly before he continues.

“
One of your issues with your dad is that he
’
s not honest with you about your work.
”

“
Yeah, that I don
’
t think he understands it.
”

“
And you
’
re sure Nate would?
”

“
I have no doubt. He was an artist.
”

“
And you think you
’
d respect his opinion?
”
he asks.

“
Definitely.
”

“
Do you respect mine?
”

“
Of course,
”
I assure him with a smile.

“
Alright. You know that painting you have hanging over your bed? Of your lake house?
”

“
This one?
”
I ask him, picking up my phone from the coffee table and showing him the background picture.

“
That
’
s the one. You really like that one, don
’
t you?
”

“
I do.
”

“
I don
’
t,
”
he says evenly.
“
I think it
’
s quite possibly one of the worst things you
’
ve ever painted.
”

I look down at the picture and study it.
“
Really?
”

“
Yeah.
”

“
What don
’
t you like about it?
”

“
I don
’
t really like anything about it. It
’
s completely one-dimensional. It
’
s cliché. The colors are so flat and uninteresting. And I know this house is special to you, and filled with life and love and good memories, but you convey nothing like that with this painting. It
’
s just any other house. There
’
s nothing special about it. No interesting angles. No surprising elements. No vibrant hues.
”