Page 83 of The Truth of Our Past

Alec

Happiest Year by Jaymes Young

Von’s howl is inhumane. It’s playing on repeat in my head, sounding as if someone was ripping his soul from his body.

Not someone—me.

It’s my fault my valiant Viking is devastated.

I’m having an out-of-body experience where none of this feels real.

But Lars’s murderous stare is definitely aimed at me. He’s a huge guy, and there’s an actual possibility that he’s plotting to fuck me up. The sculpture in his arms is the only thing saving me.

I hide in the bathroom, needing to escape. She didn’t intend to add theEvighetpiece to the show. I insisted, determined the world should see Von’s a brilliant artist.

There are multiple six-figure bids on it. A monumental success.

But he’d rather never sell another piece of art than sell my gift. I’ve epically fucked this up.

Using the back hallway, I exit the gallery. People with camera phones are still recording, and I can’t risk being filmed. Hurting Von more than I already have isn’t an option.

The video feed showcased Von’s beautiful face as gaunt, without any light in his eyes. He’s not comfortable in the public eye, but today he sounded automated. His forehead vein popped out as large as an appendage.

My head is swimming, and I ignore my phone. It’s not Von.

He messaged me early this morning saying he won’t force himself on me, but he’ll wait for me to contact him.

I just killed that chance.

I’m angry he left. That’s the worst lie of all.

Anger is so much easier than pain. My heart is being ripped out of my chest.

The broken part of me thought it was an easy way for him to breakup with me. But he didn’t resemble a man who got what he wanted. He…my brain can’t supply the right word, but hopeless pops into my head. Von and hopeless do not belong in the same sentence.

I assumed seeing Von would help me feel better breaking it off because of the distance. He’d be gorgeous and triumphant from his art show and I’d know I’d done the right thing by setting him free.

The biggest mistake of my life. I try to scrub the image of his brokenhearted face from my mind. It won’t leave and, in fact, gets bigger and sharper and clearer, seeing it close-up in high-def.

He’d rather never sell another piece of art than sell my gift.

It’s hard to breathe in the chilly air as the wind sweeps the air out of my lungs. I’ll be fine when I get home.

Tomorrow will be better.

Tomorrow is not better.

It’s worse, and each day gets worse than the one before. I can’t stand being in my apartment. I’ve been sleeping on the couchin the loft above Unframed Art. Em hasn’t been there in days, but I’m afraid the first night I sleep in the spare room will be the night he comes back. Picking up after myself requires an extreme amount of brain power and effort, but it’s necessary, so they don’t know where I’ve been sleeping.

I’m closing the shop tonight. Ordering dinner and eating here is less work than carrying it upstairs. I ask the guys if they want to put in a dinner order. It’s Saturday, so they all have plans. I’ve lost track of the days.

Finally, the last customer leaves, and the shop is empty. My dinner is cold and tastes cardboardy. It could be a me problem or the dinner. I’m sprawled out on the couch in the consultation area. It’s pretty comfortable and I might sleep here.

The double doors rattle and I lift my head to see Cole and Shane enter. I don’t have the strength to pretend to be okay.

Cole crouches by my head and sweeps my hair off my forehead like I’m his kid. Someday, he’ll be an amazing dad. “How you doing, buddy?”

Shane sits by my feet and rubs my leg. He’s biting his lip, but he’s not radiating stress.

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