One Week Page 2

  I instantly like her comment, giddy. I reach for my mug and drain the rest of my coffee, which is very cold now… yuck. I go back to browsing my feed, and a new message pops up — it’s her. @eKellyart

  Thank you for all the likes. It’s appreciated. :)

  I reply instantly...

  No problem. You are amazing! I’ve been stalking you for a while! Lol! Thanks for liking my recent painting.

  —

  It’s gorgeous! How long have you been painting?

  —

  A while. Since my twenties… college. I studied Marketing and Business, but took a few art classes. How about you?

  —

  Pretty much all my life. I’ve painted since I was a child. My mother was an artist.

  —

  It shows! You’re amazing! Sorry, I think I’ve already said that! Lol!

  —

  It’s okay. I’m flattered. :) It was nice chatting. Until next time. :)

  —

  Bye :)

  As soon as our conversation is over, I check her profile. I want to know more about her. But my creeping initially leads pretty much nowhere. There are no photos of her, nothing but her paintings. Unlike mine, her account is truly an art-only account. The profile caption reads:

  Artist, dog lover, dreamer, living in Copenhagen, Denmark.

  Interesting… My eye is drawn to her name. Eli Kelly.

  Wait a second…

  Eli. Eli is a man’s name. @eKellyart is a man! I’d just always assumed she was a woman. Maybe ‘Kelly’ threw me off, or maybe it was the softness in her artwork. Uh… I mean, his artwork.

  Well, go figure.

  I’m still shocked when I turn off my phone, slip it into my purse, and grab my jacket.

  Of course, I still don’t know what’s waiting for me around the corner. I walk down the street, carefree, humming my latest favorite song as I climb into my SUV and head off to spend the rest of the day with my perfect family.

  I love watching her. Emma is just like I was at her age. I used to love dancing too. She’s only nine, but already, there’s so much grace in the way she moves. She stands a few inches taller than the other girls in her class, her eyes focused on the teacher’s instructions.

  I keep my eyes on her as I reach into my bag for my iPad. I hand it to Theo who is already getting antsy. He’s usually good to watch his big sister for about five minutes, and then he starts to fidget. I feel bad every time I entertain him with an electronic device, but that’s what all moms do these days. I wonder what mothers did back in the day, before the Internet. I remember my aunt Sophia always kept a bunch of Hot Wheels cars in her purse to entertain my cousin, Anthony.

  As soon as I hand him the tablet, his little fingers are tapping and he’s playing his favorite game. I watch him for a few seconds – he’s the spitting image of his father; golden hair and striking light blue eyes… even the glasses.

  I turn to Emma again. She’s my mini-me; dark thick hair, an olive complexion, and big brown eyes. When I was expecting Theo, we knew he was a boy – we’d asked the doctor. I could already picture him; caramel complexion and a dark head of hair, just like his big sister. I was shocked when he came out with a soft fuzz of white hair on his head, and a few weeks later, when I realized he had his father’s eyes. I’d thought that my Latino genes would stomp all over John’s English and Swedish background. They say that dark always overtakes light, but not in this case.

  I check my watch. Forty minutes left here, and then, we need to head off to Theo’s piano lessons. Then, off to the grocery store because I still haven’t figured out what we’re having for dinner. Saturdays are always crazy like this. It helps when John is around, but lately, he’s been doing a lot of conferences, signings, and media appearances. A lot more than usual.

  I try to be understanding. I know he’s a big shot writer and all, and my friends keep saying how lucky I am to be married to such a perfect man; handsome, successful, and a good husband and father. The perfect man, really. I know all this, but yet… I can’t help feeling a little resentful sometimes, jealous even. He gets the cake, and the icing too. He gets to have the perfect family, and yes, he’s proud of us, always posting photos on Facebook. And he gets the exciting career too. He gets to escape, to take a breather, every time he goes off to one of these conferences or signings.

  And me… I don’t get to escape. I don’t get the icing. I only get the cake. And I keep telling myself that it’s okay. I love the cake, and I’ve never been one for icing. John keeps telling me to hire help, but that’s not my style. I didn’t leave my career to spend my days at the spa while a stranger looks after my kids.

  Theo pauses from his game for a second and shoots me one of his adorable grins. I smile back.

  Yes, we’ll be all right.

  John is away again this weekend, and I miss him. But these two little munchkins are keeping me company. I’m a bit lonely, but I’m used to it.

  I’m going to buy a cooked chicken, and make their favorite pasta, and then we’ll watch a movie together. I’m simultaneously mentally jotting down my grocery list, and checking Instagram on my phone.

  My heart skips a beat when I see another message from @eKellyart.

  Hello again… I hope you’re well. I love your latest painting. It’s the kind of art I would hang over my sofa. : )

  I smile, wondering what his sofa looks like, what he looks like. Does he live in an apartment? Or a house? Does he have a family? How old is he? All I know is that he’s from Denmark, and that he loves dogs. And he’s a very talented artist, of course.

  Thank you. You like cows, do you?! Lol! I reply.

  I’d ventured to a dairy farm this past summer, and taken photos I could use as inspiration for my paintings. I love painting animals. I love to bring them to life using vibrant colors and whimsical strokes. Abstract-realism, some would call it. I paint mostly still-life, animals, and landscape, and occasionally, people.

  Well, I don’t get to see too many cows around my neighborhood.

  I smile again.

  Where do you live? Copenhagen, right?

  —

  Yes, in Vesterbro. Have you ever been to Copenhagen?

  My heart beats a little faster as I tap away. I glance at Theo who is engrossed in his game, and Emma who is still focused on her teacher.

  No… I’ve been many places, but not there. I hear it’s lovely.

  I wait for a response but it doesn’t come. I’m as antsy as Theo is when he needs to sit and wait. Torture… Obviously, Eli Kelly is already bored with me and has moved on to his next Instagram stranger/friend. He’s probably checked out my feed, and maybe my curves have turned him off, or maybe the kids. So I’m not a young little blonde pixie. Screw you, Eli Kelly.

  An image pops up — one of his paintings — a myriad of boats docked in front of colorful buildings. I remember seeing it before.

  This is Nyhavn, a famous spot in Copenhagen. I mostly paint scenery from Copenhagen because it’s such a beautiful city.

  —

  It is… I reply. Your paintings are gorgeous. I’d love one over my sofa. : )

  —

  Maybe you will have it one day. Make me an offer.

  Oh, so that’s how it is. He’s just trying to sell art. Well, I must admit, flirting is not a bad strategy. Although I could afford it, I think I’ll pass.

  Yeah… maybe, one day.

  —

  Your kids are adorable. You have a beautiful family.

  I’m taken aback by this last message. And flattered.

  Thank you. Do you have a family?

  What do you look like? How old are you? I want to ask.

  Nope. I’m a bachelor. Divorced, actually.

  —

  Oh… sorry to hear that.

  I glance up at Emma. She’s looking straight at me, frowning. “Sorry, sorry,” I mouth. I’m a bad mom – chatting with some stranger on social media instead of paying attention to my daughter.

&n
bsp; It’s okay. Clara and I were just never meant to be. Not everyone can have what you have.

  Wow… this conversation has moved fast. We are complete strangers and he’s about to tell me his whole life story. This is not right.

  Yes, I’m very lucky. Speaking of which, I need to head off to bring my boy to his piano lesson. Bye. Nice chatting!

  My pulse is racing. I don’t know why. We’re just having a normal conversation. I obviously lied… I don’t need to head to Theo’s lesson for another twenty minutes, but I just had the urge to run. If truth be told, he makes me feel a little too good, too excited, and that scares me a little.

  Chapter Three

  I’VE GOT MY BEST BOOTS ON, and I’m dangling one foot over the other as I wait. My latte is steaming on the table. I’m the first one here, as I often am. Maeve will be next, followed by Kayla, and Corrie will grace us with her presence in about half an hour or so.

  I slip out my phone and check my notifications. I’ve been secretly hoping to receive another message from Eli, but there’s been nothing. I must have checked my phone fifty times this past week. I know I’m acting like a silly junior high school girl — I’m not too proud of myself. I suppose I just want that feeling again — the brief rush of excitement I got when I was chatting with him.

  I’ve even used one of his paintings for my phone’s wallpaper — the one with the boats. No one needs to know what that’s about… it’s my little secret. I smile when I think about him. Maybe he’s seventy years old. Maybe he’s five foot one. Maybe he’s five hundred pounds. I picture him with blond hair, like John. Danish people are light, right? I Google “are people in Denmark blonde?” I can’t quite get a definitive answer, but apparently some common stereotypes about Danish people are: they eat very healthy, wear black, like to drink, and are a bit serious and standoffish.

  I really need to get a life. Seriously. Maybe a part-time job, or volunteering. Why am I obsessing over this stranger?

  Maeve is all smiles when she swoops in. Every time I see her, I’m struck by her beauty. Corrie always goes on about how jealous of us she is. She calls us her two exotic beauties. I’m Latina, and Maeve is half Irish, and half Jamaican, absolutely stunning, and a little curvy like me. The both of us envy Corrie’s beach blonde waves, blue eyes and tiny frame. It’s funny how that works. We women are never happy.

  “So, what’s new?” Maeve asks.

  “Not much,” I say. “John is away again this weekend. Anna is looking after the kids.” Anna is a neighbor, and only thirteen. She looks after the kids for us, but never for long periods of time.

  Maeve pouts. “Well, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Peter is always around, and I have to put up with sports on the TV all day, and his snoring at night.”

  I know she’s just trying to make me feel better. At least, she has someone to cuddle and watch TV with at night. Maeve and Peter are big movie buffs. “How are the wedding plans going?”

  A smile stretches across her face. “Good… I’m shopping for a dress next weekend… I just can’t wait. You wanna come?”

  I wince. “It depends on if John is around, and if not, whether Anna is available.”

  Maeve smirks. “Well, hopefully, you can make it.”

  I hate this. I love my kids, but sometimes, I feel trapped. Like I’m in a prison. A beautiful prison with designer furniture, gleaming floors, crown molding, a luxury bathroom with a soaker tub, and a sixty-five inch wide screen television, but a prison all the same.

  Kayla sneaks up on us. She’s flushed, straight from the gym, and full of energy as always. She and Maeve always seem so full of energy, but then again, they’re a lot younger than me, and haven’t had kids yet. Maeve is twenty-seven, and Kayla is twenty-eight. Kayla hugs us both, and heads off to the counter to order her tea. “Can I get yours, Maeve?” she offers. Maeve shakes her head, and joins her.

  Out of habit, and possibly boredom, I check my phone again. My heart practically leaps out of my ribcage. There’s a new message from him. I’m eager as I check it. The rest of the world has disappeared — there is only me, and my phone.

  What do you think?! it reads.

  There’s a photo of his living room, just below the message. It looks like a photo out of an Ikea catalogue, all light colors and clean lines. A modern sky blue sofa centers the space, and a yellow cushion and lamp adds a dash of color. The geometric area rug and wicker ottoman adds interest to the space. It’s gorgeous. And right there over the sofa, tying everything together, is my painting, the one of the cow. He’s digitally inserted it in. It looks fabulous — the yellow accents tie in with his cushion and lamp. Now, I’m starting to understand why he said the painting would look great over his sofa.

  I’m smiling so hard, my face hurts.

  “What’s so funny?” Maeve asks, latte in hand. She and Kayla take a seat at the round table. A chair sits empty, waiting for Corrie.

  I smile. “Oh, it’s nothing… a friend of mine digitally inserted one of my paintings into… their living room.” I don’t say his living room. I don’t know why. A small part of me already feels guilty, and I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong.

  “Let me see,” Kayla grabs my phone. “Oh wow, it looks amazing. Your friend has nice taste.” She hands the phone to Maeve.

  “Gorgeous,” Maeve says. “Who’s this friend? Anyone we know?”

  “Oh, nobody you’d know,” I say casually, grab my phone back, and slip it into my oversized purse. I pull out my journal. I have something to share today.

  Corrie eventually shows up, flustered as always. We chat for a bit. We talk about Maeve’s wedding plans, and Corrie’s most recent disastrous date. The guy wore clogs and socks, in October! The date was over before it began.

  “So, who has anything to share today?” Kayla asks. “I’m empty handed, I’m afraid. I’ve been swamped with classes and shifts at the spa.”

  Maeve perks up. “Well, I’ve got a little something.”

  We all smile as she starts reading. It’s an upbeat piece, all about the current transition in her life. Going from ‘single’ to ‘married’, starting a new chapter. You can tell how happy she is, and I envy her. She keeps reading, and her words fade as I’m brought back to twelve years ago.

  Twelve years ago, when John asked me to marry him. It seems like such a long time ago. I was still working at the time, and his first novel had recently hit the New York Times Bestseller list. We were both on a high, the world at our feet. I didn’t think it was possible to be this happy. He’d taken me on a romantic getaway, and following a walk by the water, he got on his knee, and presented me with the biggest diamond I’d ever seen.

  “Gabriella, you are the love of my life,” he’d said. “Will you marry me?”

  Not too wordy, but then again, John has always been efficient with his words. He’s a fast paced writer, a modern day Ernest Hemingway.

  I was so happy, I was crying.

  I’m brought back to Maeve’s words. I missed a few, but I get the gist. She’s getting married, she’s happy. I’m thrilled for her, I really am. If anyone deserves to be happy, it’s Maeve — she’s such a sweetheart. And I hope Peter treats her well, today and always.

  Everyone claps when she’s done. “That was great,” Corrie says. “Anyone else?” Again, she doesn’t contribute herself. Corrie rarely contributes journal entries, but when she does, they’re “entertaining as fuck” as Kayla would say. They’re usually snarky rants about life, and we love that shit. Every gal group needs a snarky bitch, and Corrie is ours, and we adore her to bits.

  I admit, my journal entries tend to be a little sappy. What can I say? I’m an emotional woman. And sometimes my entries are sweet, sometimes they’re a little dark, and occasionally, just plain sad. “I’ve got something…” I tell them, not quite sure I want to share. But it always feels good when I do. These are my best friends, and I feel like I can share anything with them.

  I swallow as I turn the pages of my notebook. My throat is
dry and my heart is pounding. They sit silently, awaiting my words.

  “I call this Just Us,” I tell them, and draw a deep breath. My voice trembles a bit when I start, like it always does. I read slowly, softly.

  The hands on my kitchen clock tick slowly.

  Tick, tock, tick, tock.

  His smile is infectious, it draws me in.

  I ask him about his day.

  He tells me it’s good. He loves bananas. Can he have another?

  He doesn’t ask me about my day. Children never do.

  He doesn’t know about my migraine, or the pile of laundry sitting on the floor of my closet.

  He doesn’t know about the rejection I received from the City Arts Council.

  ‘Vase of Tulips’ didn’t make it in the show.

  I ask him if he likes my art.

  Yes, it’s pretty, he says.

  He blows me a kiss.

  And I smile.

  Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock.

  I check my phone. No messages.

  Did Daddy say hi? she asks.

  Nope, Daddy’s very busy.

  She beams proudly. He’s famous, she says.

  One day, I’ll be famous too, she adds.

  Tick, Tock. Tick, Tock.

  It’s lunchtime. I don’t know what I’ll make for dinner.

  Can we have macaroni and cheese? she asks.

  Chicken nuggets, he says.

  I wonder what he’s having tonight. Filet mignon?

  I picture him.

  He’s dashing.

  Pressed suit, hair slicked back.

  Swooning colleagues and fans.

  Daddy’s busy. Of course he has no time to message me.