To Have and to Hate Page 6

  That’s where I sleep until the sun rises through the windows and wakes me up. I’m not even mad considering the painting is the first thing I see when I blink my eyes open.

  My stomach grumbles with impatience as I stroll through the apartment, trying to decide which room to use to freshen up. Terrell put my suitcases in Walt’s room yesterday, but there’s no way I’m invading his space like that. Instead, I settle on the smallest of the guest rooms, which is still palatial by anyone’s standards. After I rinse off in the steam shower, I grab a pair of black jeans and an oversized butter-soft chambray button-down shirt.

  In need of caffeine and food, I head into the kitchen and make myself a bowl of cereal. Then, I attempt to figure out the built-in espresso machine. I manage to both steam and froth milk before any coffee has even been dispensed. I call the machine a few choice curse words while clutching my fists, and finally, only after pressing a random series of buttons in a fit of rage, does the damn thing spurt espresso down into my mug.

  I thank the lord, grab the mug before the coffee evaporates, and then haul butt back to the library.

  I don’t plan on leaving the room all day. I’m concocting a plan, and the room is helping me think. So far, my postgraduate work has been completely aimless. For a few weeks, I’ve sketched on and off with no real goal in mind and it’s been slightly maddening, but I feel so inspired by De Heem’s masterpiece. I know I want to base my next series off of the painting.

  My loose plan is to deconstruct the classic still life using a combination of cubist and modernist techniques. I want to develop De Heem’s muted colors and saturate the canvas with layers of pastels and acrylic paint.

  I sketch compositions all day, pre-planning a few pieces as I think about which New York City galleries I could pitch the series to. A big player like Hauser & Wirth would be a dream, but last I heard, they weren’t acquiring new artists. There are smaller galleries that would be more willing to take on a fledgling voice in the art world, but even they’re a long shot. In the age of social media, I don’t necessarily need representation. Many young artists don’t even bother with brick and mortar galleries, but I can’t seem to give up the dream of walking into my own show and seeing my art on display. It’s always been my goal.

  I get carried away as I work, forgetting to eat until I feel slightly dizzy. I fix myself a huge sandwich in the kitchen, piling on as much sustenance as I can manage, before carrying my food back to the library and inspecting the sketches I have laid out on the coffee table. It’s easy for me to critique my work at this stage. I’d much rather toss out bad ideas now rather than later, after I’ve made them come to life on canvas.

  I’m halfway through my sandwich, chewing a big bite, when I hear a man speak behind me.

  “We obviously need to establish some house rules.”

  Seven

  I jump out of my skin and my plate slips out of my fingers before crashing to the ground. It shatters, scattering bits of porcelain and food at my feet as I turn to look over my shoulder.

  Walt’s standing at the threshold of the room with his hands tucked into the front pockets of his slacks. His mouth is tugged into a frown. His dark brows are furrowed in obvious disdain. I’ve seen him annoyed on several occasions, but this is different. I’ve crossed a line. It’s obvious from the way his jaw ticks: he’s pissed.

  “Oh god,” I murmur under my breath as I glance down at the damage I’ve caused. My food didn’t just spill, it created a Jackson Pollock masterpiece across his rug, and couch, and coffee table.

  The room was already a mess before. My sketches are scattered everywhere. My morning coffee cup and dulled pencils litter the table. My sweater is tossed haphazardly across the back of one of the leather couches, along with his cashmere throw blanket. I found an art history section in his library yesterday and pulled out half a dozen books, scanning the pages about Picasso and other cubists, trying to draw more inspiration for my series.

  It didn’t even occur to me that Walt would be home so soon. I feel like an absolute idiot. I had plans to pick up after myself before he arrived. I was going to go to the grocery store and replace all the food I’d eaten. I was going to look into replacing or at least repairing his rug. My goal was to make it look like I hadn’t even been here, but now that’s absolutely not possible. I might as well have branded the place with red lipstick letters that spell out ELIZABETH WAS HERE.

  A string of curse words scroll like a news ticker through my brain. I mumble them under my breath as I start to gather as much of my dinner as I can as quickly as I can.

  I cringe as I pick up a floppy piece of lettuce and move to put it back on the plate, only to be reminded that the plate is in a million pieces. I start to work on that next, going fast, aware that Walt is still hovering near the door, probably trying to rein in his anger.

  He opened his home to me, and I absolutely took advantage of him. This is embarrassing. He’s going to think I was raised by wolves.

  “You’re going to cut yourself,” he says with a hard tone.

  “Yes, well, who cares?” I say without pausing my cleanup efforts. “I already damaged this rug yesterday, and now look at it. There’s mustard everywhere.”

  “I’ve had it for years.”

  I pinch my eyes closed. “Oh god, don’t tell me that.”

  “I only meant…maybe it’s time for a new one. Would you please stop picking up porcelain shards with your bare hands? Look, you already nicked yourself twice.”

  I glance down at the tiny cuts on my left hand. They’re only barely worse than a paper cut, and I can’t even feel them. I’m too hyper-focused on the blunder as he disappears, then returns a moment later with a few items clutched in his hands. He passes me two bandages, and I take them carefully so that I don’t touch him with my cut fingers.

  “Thank you,” I say, unable to look him in the eye.

  I’ll wash and clean up the cuts later, but for now, I apply the Band-Aids then hold my hand out for the other supplies he brought back with him: a small trash bag, a handheld broom, and a dustpan.

  Instead of handing it all over, he bends down in front of me, fancy suit and all, and starts to help me clean up.

  “Hold the bag open,” he instructs brusquely.

  I do as I’m told so he can easily toss in everything he’s sweeping up off the floor and rug. He’s efficient with it, working in careful quadrants, trying to get every last piece of porcelain.

  “I’d like to apologize…” I start sheepishly.

  He doesn’t make any sound or confirmation that he’s heard me, but I still continue.

  “I got a bit carried away in here while you were gone.”

  Still nothing.

  “And I did intend on cleaning everything up before you got home.”

  “You rearranged my furniture,” he points out, sounding as if he’s in disbelief.

  Ah, yes. I’d forgotten about that fact.

  “Right. Yes. Well, that was so I could have a better view of the painting, and like I said, I was going to put it all back.”

  “How did you manage to move that coffee table? There’s no way you could have done it by yourself. It’s extremely heavy.”

  “Oh, I just pushed really hard.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  I think of poor Terrell, and my voice carries even more conviction when I reply again. “I’m stronger than I look.”

  He hums under his breath as if he still doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t press the issue.

  “I’ll pay for a new rug. I’m not sure it’s salvageable now. Even before, I doubt we could have fixed the rip.”

  “The rip?”

  Oh god. Good going, Elizabeth. He hadn’t noticed that yet.

  “Yes…well…when I moved the coffee table…”

  I point to the damage and he turns to follow my finger, pausing his work.

  Every nerve ending in my body is on high alert. I’m beyond worried for how he’s going to reac
t. In fact, I’m slightly scared. I watch the back of his head, taking in the smooth dark hair, the precise line of contrast between his skin and the back of his shirt. I wish I could see his face as he says, “It was an accident.”

  I’m stunned into silence.

  He’s giving me the benefit of the doubt? I must have heard him wrong.

  “Yes, but I still ruined it. I’d like to repay you for it.”

  “An accident is an accident, and besides, insurance will cover it.”

  “Even still, I’d like you to tell me what it cost and I’ll cut you a check. That’s fair in my opinion.”

  Without pause, he says the number, and I blink, blink, blink, trying to determine how someone could spend that much money on something they put their feet on. Slowly, I look down, my mouth agape.

  Then, I leap off the thing, horrified by what I’ve done.

  “Are you serious?!”

  “That’s why it’s insured,” he says, pushing to stand and reminding me of our differences, not only in size, but in age, and refinement, and personality. “Anyway, the plate and food are cleaned up now. Gather the rest of your things and wash those cuts soon or they could get infected.”

  Then he leaves with the cleaning supplies, and I don’t see him again for the rest of the night. I do my part in straightening up the rest of the room, but I can’t reposition the furniture on my own. Not unless I want to cause even more damage.

  When I wake up the next day and tiptoe out of my guest room, the apartment is empty. Walt is already gone. I poke my head into the library, shocked to see he has already removed the ruined rug and repositioned the furniture so that it’s nice and neat, but not in the exact arrangement from before. In fact, the couches and the coffee table have been moved back from the fireplace to make room for a small unassuming square table and chair. Underneath both, he’s laid down a large clear plastic mat like the ones people slide underneath their desk chairs in offices. Here, it will function to protect his parquet floors from further damage.

  There’s no accompanying note or list of directives, but it’s clear to me that he’s still allowing me the use of his library even after yesterday.

  I stay in there again all day, trying to keep myself carefully relegated to the table he’s provided. At first, I succeed. For all of five minutes. But people work in art studios for a reason. I need room to work, space to spread out my sketches and pencils and pastels. I have to be able to see all of my work at once because I’m trying to narrow down my favorite concepts so I can translate them to small canvases. That’s what I’ll take with me to pitch to art galleries.

  Later that night, just as I’m hitting a stride with one of my sketches—having trudged through the “I’m talentless” valley and come up the other side onto the “This is actually good” peak—I feel Walt’s presence in the doorway.

  The hairs on the back of my neck go up and I continue working, or at least I try to, my fingers faltering slightly, less adept at holding a pastel than they were mere seconds ago.

  This time, I don’t apologize about the state of the room. I’ll pick up after myself just as I did last night. And hey, I haven’t permanently damaged any of his property today, so that’s a win in my book.

  I’m not sure how long he stays there, watching me sketch. At some point, I forget to be self-conscious and return my focus to my art. I lose track of time again so much so that when I finally remember to look back toward the doorway, he’s gone.

  The next morning, I get out of bed even earlier than usual so I can hunt Walt down. It’s early on Saturday and most normal humans are cuddled up in bed, but Walt’s not normal. No, he’s probably planning on heading into work any minute now, and I need to catch him before he does. We have a lot to discuss.

  I need to let him know I finished reading through the legal documents last night. They outlined every little detail of our marriage, from how we’ll file taxes to how I’ll receive health insurance under his coverage, but they didn’t give me any insight into what he expects from me as his wife. Clearly this marriage isn’t going to be kept a total secret if the people in the apartment building already know me as Mrs. Jennings. On top of that, we also need to pick up where we left off concerning me leasing my own apartment versus staying here.

  I hop into the shower, leaning back underneath the warm stream as I work through conversation openers in my head.

  “Walt…Walter…Mr. Jennings…”

  Ugh.

  On second thought, I’ll just speak from the heart and hope it sounds okay.

  After my quick shower, I hustle to get ready for the day with a light layer of makeup and a blowout. After, I head into my closet, glad I took the time to do a load of laundry yesterday. I reach for my favorite cream turtleneck and tuck it into a pair of dark jeans. I slip on my locket and Patek Philippe, and then I reach for the check I wrote out last night before I pad out of my room quietly.

  I listen carefully, trying to determine if Walt’s home. I make it all the way to the kitchen without hearing him, and oddly, my heart sinks.

  I really wanted him to be here, and I don’t think it’s just because of the conversation we need to have.

  After putting the check down on the island, I tug open the fridge and glance at the food inside, slightly uninspired, just before I hear a voice.

  “I’m not at my desk right now so I don’t have the device modifications for the clinical trial in front of me.”

  I spin around in time to see Walt walk out of the pantry with an armful of ingredients he drops on the island closest to him. He glances up and notices me, and I smile tightly, slightly embarrassed. Not only is he on a business call I’ve likely interrupted, he’s also entirely underdressed in nothing but his pajama pants.

  Seeing Walt sans shirt is on par with the time I accidentally stumbled upon one of my mom’s racy romance novels when I was twelve. My cheeks flush bright red like I’ve never seen a naked torso before. It’s absolutely ridiculous. I’ve participated in live drawing classes in which we studied the nude human form, both of men and women, not to mention the fact that I’ve had boyfriends. Several. And I’ve seen them nude too!

  So why is Walt’s bare chest so damn shocking?

  I can’t say at the moment. I’m too focused on trying to swallow past the lump in my throat.

  He moves first, refocusing his attention down on the ingredients he pulled from the pantry: a banana, an avocado, and a jar of peanut butter, as well as bags of flax and chia seeds.

  “The FDA held up approval for the cerebrospinal fluid shunts last year because of this same issue. You need to contact Michael.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I watch as he starts to peel the banana and toss it into the Vitamix. Next, he cuts open the avocado, scoops out each half, and throws them both into the blender too. Then, he pauses and rounds the island toward the fridge—toward me—and I don’t think fast enough to move before he’s right in front of me.

  I think the person on the other end of the call is rambling on in Walt’s AirPods because he’s not saying a word. He’s staring down at me expectantly.

  “Move,” he finally mouths.

  I squeak out a meek apology and move aside so he can open the fridge and tug out even more ingredients. Almond milk and spinach get added to the pile beside the Vitamix before Walt shakes his head and starts to argue with the person on the other end of the line.

  “That’s why we have device reps in the OR, for this exact reason. No. Hold on—”

  Then he disappears down the hall, leaving his food behind.

  I hear a door open and I think he’s in his office—the room beside the library that I haven’t dared peek into—so I wait for a few minutes, wanting to see if he’s going to come back out anytime soon. A minute passes, and there’s no sight of him. I decide that while I wait, I might as well scramble some eggs for my own breakfast, and when I’m done eating, I tiptoe down the hall and listen outside his door. He’s still on the phone, and no
w I feel bad. He’s probably getting hungry.

  Back in the kitchen, I inspect his smoothie ingredients with narrowed eyes. I can put them all away so they don’t spoil, or I can finish making his smoothie for him. I’m liable to screw up no matter which scenario I choose. He could get angry with me for making him waste time getting everything out again, or he could be annoyed that I botched his smoothie. I suppose it’s better to try to help him than to do nothing at all. I toss in a handful of spinach on top of the banana and avocado, then I carefully measure out two tablespoons of each type of seed and put them in next. I scoop out a dollop of peanut butter and add that as well before pouring in some almond milk. After a bit of ice tossed on top, I turn on the Vitamix, watching as the concoction turns a vibrant green. I sample a bit, pleasantly surprised. I’m confident he at least won’t hate it.

  I clean up after I’m done, listening down the hall to find he’s still on the phone.

  I’m not sure if he eats anything else alongside his morning smoothie, so I decide to scramble him some eggs too, and then I make him a fancy latte with the espresso machine I’m now a pro at using. In the cabinets, among the shelves of platters, I find a silver serving tray, and I layer all the food on top, as well as my check, and carry it all down the hall.

  It’s quiet now as I turn the corner and see that Walt is sitting behind his desk, focused on his computer. His AirPods sit beside his keyboard, so at least I’m not interrupting his call.

  “Knock-knock.”

  Walt glances up and stops typing.

  I hold out the tray with a tentative smile, but Walt doesn’t immediately invite me into his office, which for some ridiculous reason hurts my feelings. I can feel my cheeks turning red again so I sort of half-pivot on my heels so I can scurry back down the hall.

  “I’ll just…I’ll put this back in the kitchen for when you’re hungry.”

  I want to melt into nothingness. Truly, there are no words. What was I thinking making him breakfast?! I’m not his friend! I’m a stranger he’s been forced to house, and if I were him, I’d want to have as little interaction with me as possible.