Part 2Seven Years of Secrets

I looked up and met Nathan’s furious gaze.

But the moment the words left his mouth, he froze.

It was the same thing he used to shout at me whenever he got angry, back before we broke up.

When I’d cut my finger trying to slice fruit for him.

When I’d worked at a fast-food joint and hot oil had spattered the back of my hand.

He would always say, in that harsh, worried tone, Jess, what are you doing to your hands?

He said my hands were for painting, not for menial tasks.

He treasured my hands, my art, as much as he treasured me.

We had met at an art exhibition, after all.

We were in different departments at the same university, a year apart. Our paths had never crossed.

But that day, amidst the bustling crowd of the gallery, he was the only one who stood in the corner, in front of my painting, and studied it for a full hour.

I was ecstatic. I chattered at him for ages, telling him about my work, asking for his thoughts and advice. But he was a man of few words and offered little in return.

I found out later that he was a severe depressive. That day had been the first day he was out after recovering from his last suicide attempt.

None of that mattered to me. We quickly became friends.

And then, lovers.

He came to my studio every day to watch me paint.

He listened intently to every word I said, no matter how much I rambled.

And those eyes, usually so clouded with a deep-seated gloom, slowly began to find a glimmer of a smile in my endless chatter.

I was with him as he slowly, painstakingly, returned to a normal life. Then came graduation, and his family demanded we break up, citing our difference in status.

He didn't hesitate. He took me and we eloped, leaving the country behind.

He told me that no matter how hard it got, he would make me the most famous painter in the world.

He said my art had saved him, so I should never feel guilty for anything he did for me.

He saw me as the sun that had pulled him from the abyss.

And I betrayed him without a second thought.

Because it was all taking too long. I couldn't wait for a future built on the coins he earned washing one dish at a time.

“Why are you doing this?”

The memory faded. I saw Nathan pull himself back from the brink of his outburst, releasing my arm.

“Waitstaff have to wash dishes in addition to serving?”

His voice was flat, emotionless, just like when we first met. He was a puppet again, all strings and no feeling.

“Just trying to earn a little extra, you know?”

I awkwardly hid my hands behind my back, glancing around. A wave of relief washed over me. My coworkers were all gone. No one had seen us.

“I was a bit reckless these past few years, made some bad investments. Now I’m working odd jobs to pay off my debts.”

I crouched down to pick up the shards, not daring to meet his eyes. “It’s a good thing I ran into you today. You were so generous…”

His hand gently brushed mine away.

In silence, he picked up the sharp fragments and threw them in a nearby trash can.

Then he stood up, looming over me.

“Are you still painting?”

I remained crouched on the floor, my hands empty. For a split second, my mind went blank. Then I composed myself and looked up at him.

“Of course. That’s my main profession.”

He just looked at me, saying nothing.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I was terrified he would see through my lie and take back his offer to be his wedding artist.

Thankfully, the tense silence was broken by a phone call.

“Nathan, are you almost home? I made you some soup to help with the hangover.”

The woman's voice on the other end was melodious and gentle. I took a step back, the name echoing in my mind.

Susan.

The fiancée his friends had mentioned, the one who was his perfect match.

“Almost there,” Nathan said, then paused. “You have a cold. You should be resting. Don’t wait up for me, get some sleep.”

I didn't look up, but I could feel his eyes on me as he spoke.

I suppressed the bitter sting in my throat and tried to slip away while he was still on the phone.

“Jess.”

The moment I turned, he ended the call.

“You’ve been hiding for seven years. Is there any point in running now?”

“See you tomorrow.”