Confess: A Novel (27 page)

I’m so worked up, so dizzy, so grateful that I made the decision to stay, that I can’t even tell when it’s over. I’m still breathing so heavily, and my heart is pounding against my chest. I’m not sure that simply reaching a climax with Owen signifies the end of this experience. Because coming down from being with him feels just as incredible as it felt when it was occurring.

I’m lying against his chest and his arms are wrapped around me, and I never thought I’d be in this position again. A position where I know I’m right where I belong, but there’s nothing I can do that can keep me there.

It reminds me of the day I had to say good-bye to Adam. I knew what we felt was more than what people gave us credit for, and being torn away from him before I was ready took me forever to get over.

And now, the same thing is happening with Owen. I’m not ready to say good-bye. I’m scared to say good-bye.

But I have to say good-bye, and it hurts like hell.

If I knew how to stop the tears, I would. I don’t want him to hear me cry. I don’t want him to know how upset I am that we can’t have this every day of our lives. I don’t want him to ask me what’s wrong.

When he feels my tears falling against his chest, he doesn’t do anything to stop them. Instead, he simply holds me with a much tighter grip and presses his cheek against the top of my head. His hand brushes softly through my hair.

“I know, baby,” he whispers. “I know.”

I
should have known she would be gone when I woke up. I felt her heartbreak last night when she was just thinking about having to say good-bye, so the fact that she left before having to do it doesn’t surprise me.

What does surprise me is the confession lying on the pillow next to me. I pick it up to read it, but not before moving to her side of the bed. I can still smell her from here. I open the folded piece of paper and read her words.

I’ll think about last night forever, Owen. Even when I shouldn’t.

My hand falls against my chest, and I clench my fist.

I already miss her enough for it to hurt, and she’s probably only been gone an hour. I read her confession several more times. It’s easily my favorite confession now, but also the most painful.

I walk to my workroom, drag the canvas with her unfinished portrait to the middle of the floor, and set it up. I gather all the supplies I’ll need, and I stand in front of her painting. I stare down at the confession, imagining exactly what she must have looked like when she wrote it, and I finally have the inspiration I need to finish the portrait.

I pick up my brush, and I paint her.

I’m not sure how much time has passed. One day. Two days. I think I stopped three times to eat, at least. It’s dark outside, I know that much.

But I’m finally finished.

I rarely feel that any of my paintings ever make it to a finishing point. There’s always something else I want to add to them, like a few more brushstrokes or another color. But there comes a point with every painting when I just have to stop and accept it for what it is.

I’m at that point with this painting. It’s probably the most realistic painting I’ve ever laid out on canvas.

Her expression is exactly how I want to remember her. It’s not a happy expression. In fact, she looks kind of sad. I want to think it’s the same look she’ll get on her face every time she thinks about me. A look that reveals how much she misses me. Even when she shouldn’t.

I drag the painting to a spot against the wall. I find the confession she left on my pillow this morning, and I attach it to the wall next to her face. I pull the box of confessions she’s left me over the last few weeks, and I attach those all around her painting.

I take a step back and I stare at the only piece I have left of her.

“What ever happened between you and Auburn?” Harrison asks.

I shrug.

“The usual?”

I shake my head. “Not even close.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Wow,” he says. “That’s a first. Pretty sure I want to hear the rest of this story.” He grabs another beer and slides it across the bar toward me. He leans over and pops the tab. “Give me the condensed version, though. I close in a few hours.”

I laugh. “That’s easy. She’s the reason for it all, Harrison.”

He looks at me with a confused expression.

“You said condensed,” I tell him. “That’s the condensed version.”

Harrison shakes his head. “Well in that case, I change my mind. I want the detailed version.”

I smile and look down at my phone. It’s already after ten. “Maybe next time. I’ve already been here for two hours.” I lay money on the bar and take one last sip of the beer. He waves me off as I turn to head back to my studio. The painting I finished of her earlier should be close to dry now. I think this might be the first painting I ever hang in the bedroom area of my apartment.

I pull my key out of my pocket and slide it into the door, but the door isn’t locked.

I know I locked it. I never leave here without locking it.

I push the door open, and the second I do, my whole world stops. I look to my left. To my right. I walk further into my studio and I spin around, staring at the damage that’s been done to everything I own. Everything I’ve worked for.

Red paint lines the walls, the floors, covers every painting in the entire downstairs area. The first thing I do is rush to one of the paintings closest to me. I touch the paint smeared across the canvas and can tell it’s already drying. It’s probably been drying for about an hour now. Whoever did this was waiting for me to walk out of the studio tonight.

As soon as Trey comes to mind, that’s when the real panic sets in. I immediately scale the stairs and head straight to my workroom. As soon as I swing open the door, I bend over and press my hands to my thighs. I exhale a huge sigh of relief.

They didn’t touch it.

Whoever was here didn’t touch the painting I made of her. After I allow myself a few minutes to recover, I stand and walk to her painting. Even though the painting hasn’t been touched, something is different.

Something is off.

And that’s when I notice the confession she left on my pillow.

It’s missing.

A
re you expecting company?” I ask Emory. Someone is knocking on our door, so I look down at my phone. It’s after ten.

She shakes her head. “It’s not for me. Humans don’t like me.”

I laugh and make my way to the door. When I look through the peephole and see Trey, I sigh heavily.

“Whoever it is, you seem disappointed,” Emory says flatly. “Must be your boyfriend.” She stands and makes her way toward her bedroom, and I’m thankful she’s at least learned the meaning of privacy.

I open the door to let him in. I’m a little confused as to why he’s here in the first place. It’s after ten at night, and he said he was out of town until tomorrow.

As soon as the door is open, he rushes inside. He kisses me briefly on the cheek and says, “I need to use your restroom.”

His hurried appearance throws me off for a second as I watch him remove his things from his belt. Gun, handcuffs, car keys. He sets it all on the bar, and I can’t help but notice the sweat dripping down his temple. He looks nervous. “Go ahead,” I say, gesturing toward the restroom. “Make yourself at home.”

He heads straight for the restroom and as soon as he opens the door, I experience a small moment of panic.

“Wait!” I say, rushing behind him. He steps away from the door, and I brush past him. I walk to the sink and pick up all the seashell soaps. I walk out of the restroom and he’s eyeing my hands curiously.

“What am I supposed to wash my hands with now?” he asks.

I nod my head toward the cabinet. “There’s liquid soap in there,” I tell him. I look down at the soaps in my hands. “These aren’t for guests.”

He closes the door in my face, and I walk the soaps to my room, feeling a little ridiculous.

I have serious issues.

I set the soap down on my nightstand and pick up my phone. I have several missed text messages, and only one of them is from my mother. I scroll through them and they’re all from Owen. I start at the bottom and work my way up.

Call me.

Are you okay?

It’s important.

Meat dress.

Please call me.

If you don’t respond to my text in five minutes, I’m coming over.

I immediately text him back.

Don’t come over, Trey is here. I’m fine.

I hit send and then type him another message.

Are you okay?

He pings me back immediately.

Someone broke into my studio tonight. They destroyed everything.

My hand flies up to my mouth, and I gasp.

He took your confession, Auburn.

My heart is in my throat, and I quickly glance up to make sure Trey isn’t standing at my door. I don’t want him to see my reaction right now, or he’ll want to know who I’m texting. I quickly send Owen another message.

Did you call the police?

His response comes through just as I hear the door to the bathroom open.

And tell them what, Auburn? To come clean up their mess?

I read the text twice.

Their mess?

I immediately hit delete on all the messages. I set the phone down and try to appear casual, but Owen’s last message is playing over and over in my head. He thinks Trey did this?

I want to say that Owen is wrong. I want to say that Trey wouldn’t be capable of doing something like what was done to Owen, but I don’t know what or who to believe anymore.

Trey appears in the doorway and I study his eyes, trying to get a clue from them, but he gives me nothing but a wall.

I smile at him. “You’re back early.”

He doesn’t smile back. My heart is trying to climb through the walls of my chest, and not in a good way.

He walks into my room and sits down on my bed. He kicks his shoes off and knocks them onto the floor. “What ever happened to that cat?” he asks. “What’d you say his name was? Sparkles?”

I swallow. Why is he asking about Owen’s cat?

“Ran away,” I say calmly. “Emory was devastated for a week.”

He nods, working his jaw back and forth. He reaches a hand up and grabs my arm. I look down at it just as he pulls me to him. I fall against his chest, stiff as a board. He wraps his arm around me and kisses the top of my head. “I missed you, so I came back early.”

He’s being nice.
Too
nice. My guard stays up.

“Guess what?” he says.

“What?”

His hand moves to my hair and he runs his fingers through it. “I found a house today.”

I pull away from his chest and look up at him, just as he tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “I didn’t realize you were looking for another house.”

He smiles. “I thought I might get something a little bigger. Now that mom has moved back, I figured I could let her have that house, since it was hers to begin with. It’s probably better if we had more privacy, anyway. The house I’m looking at has a fenced-in backyard. It’s on Bishop, near the park. It’s a really good neighborhood.”