Hell, I bet the entire hotel witnessed every single second of it.
It wasn't as if anyone who saw us knew everything, just that for some reason the wedding had been cancelled, and maybe they’d heard the part where I’d been accused of stunted emotional growth, that he’d never loved me, and yeah, the icing on the cake, that I was shit in bed. I had to admit the last one stung. It wasn't as if Lennox was someone who rocked my world, and after the initial semi-lust-filled early days, the sex wasn’t much better than using my right hand, but no one would ever hear me shouting about it in front of strangers.
Heat washed through my entire body, and I swear my cheeks were scarlet, so, head down, I concentrated on my coffee, as I sat with my back to everything and everyone and admired the view. The table I’d chosen was right in front of the large floor-to-ceiling windows with views only up until the soft external lighting ended and the darkness was all pervasive. The Retreat was a quiet place in the mountains to relax and get in touch with inner peace, or at least that was what I’d read on their website when Lennox had told me the wedding was here. I’d agreed and hoped, somehow, this beautiful place would mend something in me that was broken. I wasn’t sure I loved Lennox—I’d only ever loved one man, and it wasn’t Lennox. But I liked Lennox enough that, when he’d sprung the wedding on me, I’d gone along with it in a haze of possibilities that I could find what I wanted in the marriage one day. Spoiler alert, not even the hotel mended a damn thing in my messed-up head.
I stared out the window and imagined the shapes of the far mountains that I knew would have icy white peaks and swathes of trees cloaked in snow. My fingers itched with the need to draw the convoluted shadows cast by the exterior lighting, and I still had time until the car arrived, so I pulled out my sketchbook and my pencils, and tapped my page thoughtfully. I didn't have long, but I outlined what I could see and filed away the emerging colors I might use to capture the soft gently lit snowy patio.
"Excuse me, Mr. Grady?"
I stood, thinking that maybe my car was here. "Yes, that's me."
According to his badge, the member of staff talking to me was Chet, and I recalled he was the night manager. Was it night already?
“Your driver extends his apologies, but your pickup time will have to be delayed, there's a problem with his car, but he assures me he’ll be here within the hour.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Another hour? I just wanted to leave. Of course, I was too polite to tell him that.
“That's fine,” I lied.
He offered me a quick smile and gestured at my sketchbook. "You're an artist?"
I suppose it was better to be known as an artist, than the man whose wedding never happened.
"Yeah, mostly portrait work.”
“What are you drawing?”
“Uhmm… the movement of the snow and shadows outside the window.”
He nodded as if he totally understood.
"My niece wants to be an artist,” he began. “Although my sister wants her to focus on something that will make money—her words, not mine.”
Ahh, the old unsupportive parent thing. Something I was very experienced with, as my parents never supported my art. They’d given up on me when I turned sixteen, then capped the story of my life with total rejection the day of my eighteenth birthday just for being gay. But that was a sad story for another day, and one I wasn't dwelling on now.
Rejection from my family had nothing to do with me sliding into a marriage with a man I didn’t even really love. I wasn’t looking for a replacement family. Right?
“Can I see what you drew?" Chet asked.
I yanked myself out of the torturous cycle of my thoughts and focused on talking about drawing—at least that put me in my happy place.
"Sure." I opened the sketchbook at my latest drawing and, then, thumbed back to a sketch for a project I was working on back in my studio—a study of ballet dancers—which would form the centerpiece of a new gallery showing inspired by form and movement. It was my first solo show, less than six months away, and this was a sketch of the final piece.
Chet took the sketchbook from me. "You're very talented; I don't know where my niece got her artistic skill. Neither of us can draw a stick person. But this is so good.”
My chest tightened at the mention of stick people—Patrick used to draw the worst stick people on earth; so bad, they were good.
Stop thinking about Patrick
"Thank you." I never dismissed praise for my talent, it was about the only area in which I knew my worth, and I was at my most confident when drawing and painting.
Chet and I exchanged pleasantries about snow, the dark, and his niece; something about two events taking up his time, but that he was there if I wanted him, and then he left.
When he'd gone, I fetched myself another coffee and settled into the chair, opening my sketchbook and adding more details. To my right and following a winding pathway, I knew there was the pavilion that jutted over the river running through the inn's grounds. More of a gazebo, it was the most beautiful structure, and had things gone to plan, we would’ve been going down there in early evening for wedding photos. It was too dark to make out details, but I wondered if the staff had taken down the lights Lennox had insisted should decorate it. Our wedding photographer had suggested them as the perfect frame for wedding photos, Lennox had agreed, and I’d gone with the flow. If Lennox wanted fancy photos, then it was no skin off my nose to agree. The photographer had actually been the first person to leave as soon as the news spread that the wedding had been canceled, citing a reserve booking he could still make. I didn’t blame him for running—maybe I should’ve gone with him.
Lennox had announced he didn’t want to marry me, was loud and angry and hurtful, but inside my battered heart, relief had begun to settle. Now, I waited for the pain and confusion to hit me, but something about sitting and drawing had reset the worst of it. Right now, I was numb—time to move onwards and upwards, and start the process of getting over all the bad decisions I’d made.
I finished my rough sketch and the coffee, surprised when I found, at some point, someone had left a small basket of cookies on the table, along with a napkin. I glanced around to the barista who gave me a nod and mouthed: “on the house.” Was that a pity thing? Should I decline? They did look nice, and I guess I should fill up for the journey home—it was going to be a long cab journey and god knows when I’d get the chance to eat.
“Thank you,” I murmured, and he nodded with a smile.
I nibbled on a chewy caramel pecan cookie, then I turned the page in my sketchbook and doodled some circles, which soon morphed into my go-to art when I was thinking big things. Before I knew it, I had a complete sketch of Ironman, with all his sharp angles, and then a rough illustration of Batman next to him. I rummaged in my pen case for a black pen and outlined each of the images, and with every line I drew, my thoughts turned to Patrick and why, in God’s name, he’d turned up.
We'd met in college, him studying criminal law on a football scholarship, me in fine art and not at all sporty. But we were both geeks when it came to superheroes, bonding over a love of sushi and the movies, becoming best friends in the space of a few days without even realizing it. I'd never had a best friend before—I didn’t have family anymore, and my friends had all been in the church community my parents had been so enamored with. Outside of church, I was the quiet, and sometimes moody, artist no one understood, until Patrick.