Line Change, page 27
I slip inside a tourist store where I can buy a fake Hollywood star and use the attached stickers to make my name. That would’ve been easier than paying the ridiculous fee that my band, Reverend Sister, paid in order to get a legit star on the Walk of Fame. I keep my head down and pick up a T-shirt that reads “I Almost Got Famous in Hollywood” which is something I would never be caught dead in and snag a hat off the rack. Anything I can do to hide my platinum blonde and purple hair from the people on the street. I’m not expecting it to help much, but a little would be nice.
Thankfully I have enough cash to pay for my items, and luckily the clerk doesn’t recognize me, or if he does, he’s not a fan and couldn’t care less that Zara Phillips is in his store buying ridiculous Hollywood propaganda. Either way, I’m grateful that he’s not asking for a selfie because there’s no doubt in my mind that I look like utter shit. The last thing I need is my face on Instagram with comments leading to speculation that I’m stoned and on my way to rehab.
On my way to divorce court is more like it. I can’t imagine what those headlines will be like. Of course, no one will believe that Van Phillips would do such a horrible thing to his precious Zara, his high school sweetheart, the love of his life and soul mate. Yet he did and did so without giving me a second thought.
Thinking about Van and whatever the hell her name is, sends my heart and stomach in opposite directions. I thank the clerk and don my newly purchased disguise before stepping back out and into the foot traffic. My name is called less, and it’s more of people questioning whether or not they’re getting lucky and seeing me walking down the street. Any other day I’d be happy to stop and chat with them, but not today. Today I want to get home and figure out what I’m supposed to do, and where I’m supposed to go from here because any decision that I make, is not going to be an easy one.
Our lives, Van’s and mine, are intertwined in so many ways. From the time he joined my silly little garage band to the day we took our friendship to the next level. Everything we did, we did as a team with people around us and now those people depend on us. Reverend Sister isn’t Van’s or mine, it’s ours and only works together if we’re in it together and right now I don’t want to be anywhere near him.
By the time the tears start to fall, and I mean really fall, I’m halfway home, and my phone is ringing with Van calling. The alerts are going off like crazy because the paparazzi are relentless and insist on snapping pictures of people. And when they put them online they add the most ridiculous headlines, except these are spot on, and tell people about my impending breakdown. It’s coming. I can feel the gut-wrenching ache, my heart being ripped out of my chest, and every muscle and bone in my body in pain. The takeover is slow and almost alien-like. I can feel it in my toes, moving its way up my legs. It’ll take some time for my brain to really figure it out. For the light bulb to go off that my marriage is over.
And it is over. I can’t forget what I saw and if I can’t do that there is no way I could forgive him. There is no way that I’d let him touch me after what I witnessed. The thought has me doubled over, and someone is yelling from a passing car, asking if I’m okay. Mentally I flip them off because do I look okay? No, I don’t. Nothing about my appearance screams that I am okay.
Van’s car is in the driveway when I reach the gate to our house. I stand there, like a celebrity stalker, looking at the property. The half-circle driveway with its pristine concrete leads to two amazing French doors that I chose. Beyond those doors, the marble flooring that I had to have extends up the sweeping staircase and fills the hallway that leads to my bedroom with its balcony that overlooks my swimming pool. Everything about this house is what I wanted, complete with an empty room for a nursery because damn it, Van promised me we’d start trying for a baby.
What a liar he is. What a snake and a cheat. Why would he do this to me? The question is, do I even want to know? Do I want him to tell me that I nag him too much or that he doesn’t love me anymore? Could I take those words from the man that I have given everything to? The one that I have been in love with since he walked into my garage and pulled a set of drumsticks out of his back pocket and went to town on the set of drums that were set up. Watching the muscles in his arms flex and the magic he created was an epic turn on.
No, I don’t think I could because knowing that my husband thought it was okay to stick his dick into another woman while still married to me. . . really there’s no excuse. I punch the code for the gate and step through, and when I enter the house, it’s quiet except for the sound of my heavy footsteps.
There are two choices in front of me: One—go find him and confront him. Two—start packing his shit so he can get the fuck out. Option two is what I choose because it’s the most raging action I can think of right now. Kicking him out will give me the satisfaction of knowing I had the last word after what he did today.
Upstairs, I find him sitting on our bed, looking at our wedding photo. Does he feel guilty? I hope so. Without a word, I step into the closet and pull out one of the two suitcases I leave in there for quick travel.
“What are you doing?” he asks because apparently, it’s not fucking obvious.
“Packing.”
“Where are you going?”
I come out of the room with an arm full of his clothes and throw them at him. Most land on the floor, but there are a few hangers that hit him in the head. “I’m not going anywhere, you are. Get the fuck out, Van.”
“Zara,” he says, reaching for me but I step away, keeping myself an arm's length from him.
“Don’t fucking Zara me you piece of shit. You fucking cheated on me,” I say. “ME! The one you took vows with. You don’t get to say my name or tell me how sorry you are because you’re not sorry, Van. If you were, you would’ve figured shit out before you stuck your dick in her.”
I head back into the closet and grab another armful of clothes. When I come back, he’s still in the same spot, and when he looks at me, he’s crying.
“Why are you crying, Van? Because you got caught?”
“Zara, if you would just listen.” He’s able to grab my wrist and pull me toward him before my brain registers what’s going on. The stench of her sugary sweet perfume hits me hard and smells, dare I say fresher than it did earlier. The only thing I can think is that he’s been with her since I caught him hours ago.
I step away from him and shake my head. This time I won’t be able to stop the tears from coming. “Get out,” I say, pointing to the door. “Get out of my house right now.”
Van doesn’t say anything as he grabs his clothes and throws them into a suitcase. Everything goes quiet until the front door slams, and I jump. It’s not until I hear his car start up and the gate screech shut do I fall onto my bed and let the ache take over.
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Eloise stood at the bow and spread her arms out wide. This was her Titanic moment, and something she had always dreamed about doing since she watched the movie as a little girl with her aunt, Margaux. Growing up, they spent Friday nights with a bucket of fried chicken and a movie. Saturdays were for painting, along with every other day of the week.
The ferry jostled and Eloise caught herself laughing as she gripped the railing.
“Are you okay?” a woman behind her asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
Eloise picked up her backpack and moved aside as the questioning woman took her spot at the bow and posed for a photo. Eloise sighed and wished she had handed someone her cell phone for a photo. But then again, that would mean she would've had to charge it before she left London. Her last text, with one percent battery to her aunt, was that she was on her way. Her phone died before she even boarded the plane and the charger she needed wasn't in her bag.
Eloise considered going into the seating area but stayed where she was and took in the sights as the ferry sailed toward town. She hadn't been back to the picturesque town of Seaport in three years, not since her parents divorced and her mom moved to London and her father went to Iowa for work. They had given Eloise the choice to move with either parent. London it was because it seemed like a better fit for her. At least there, she had a plethora of landscapes to paint.
Only she hated it. She missed Seaport, her friends, and her aunt. They were exceptionally close and shared a love of art, especially in the painted form.
She had flown into Logan International Airport, hopped the train to Providence, and then grabbed the ferry to Seaport. Eloise figured the crisp fresh air would help with her jetlag. In a couple of hours, she knew she would be dead on her feet from exhaustion.
The thirty-mile trek on the ferry was more beautiful than she had remembered, and she wished she could set her easel up on the deck and capture the majestic beauty before her. The sunset sat at the perfect angle, right above the tree line, but not too high in the sky that you couldn’t escape it. Boats of all kinds cruised past, with some sailors waving at the massive ferry. Eloise waved back because why not? She used to do the same thing as a kid and loved getting the attention in return.
When the ferry entered the bay, Eloise smiled, tipped her head back, and sighed. She was finally home and had no intentions of leaving, even though she told her aunt she would be there for the summer. Shortly, the famous Seaport bridge came into view and the ferry captain’s voice came over the public address system, notifying passengers they were almost at their destination. While most people rushed to stand at the entrance, Eloise waited. She had a mountain of luggage and had no desire to maneuver it around people. Finally, the bustling harbor came into view, with fishing and touring boats coming and going. The closer they came to port, Eloise saw just how busy her former town was. People walked the streets or rode scooters. Horns honked and traffic backed up for blocks from what Eloise could see.
Another jostle, this time with a bit more impact, had Eloise reaching for the railing. While everyone rushed around her, she gathered her things and slogged her way to the exit, grateful for the help provided by one of the crew members. He was kind of enough to carry her luggage to the cobblestone road for her before running back to the ship. She sighed at the uneven pavement. The lack of taxis. And her dead phone.
“Crap.”
Eloise looked at her watch, which thankfully ran on batteries, and then the blue paint under her index finger. It was always some color, the aforementioned blue or red. Last week it was purple and the week before that yellow. If paint wasn’t underneath her nails, it was in her hair. On her elbows. Or in the lines of her skin. After a couple of all-nighters, she’d find paint behind her ears or a smear on her stomach, even though she wouldn’t remember how it got there.
“Eloise Harris, is that you?”
She turned at the sound of her name. Her eyes widen as she took in her former classmate and onetime boyfriend, Fraser Horne. Eloise took him in and mentally compared what she remembered of him from years ago to the way he looked down. Fraser was still tall and lanky but had filled out a bit in some places. His facial features were more defined, but nothing else had changed. Fraser’s brown eyes were still soft and caring, and he still had a sweet smile. She would’ve known him anywhere had they run into each other any other time.
Eloise hadn’t kept in contact with too many people from school when she left, mostly immersing herself in the art scene in London. Plus, the time difference made things difficult to keep in touch unless it was through social media, which she used mostly to show off her artwork.
“Fraser, hi.” They moved toward each other in the awkward should we hug or shake hands way, ultimately giving each other a half hug. “Wow, how are you?”
“I’m good. Good,” he said, repeating himself. When things ended between them, they did so because Eloise had no desire to maintain a long-distance relationship with him. When she would travel back to the US, it would be to visit her father in Iowa, and she didn’t want the pressure of being in a relationship. At seventeen, breaking up with your boyfriend was one the hardest things she thought she would ever do.
Eloise had been wrong.
Painting was.
It didn’t matter that she lived in Europe and could travel all over some of the most beautiful countryside known to man or take the train to Paris, the city of love and romance or lights or sit on the cliffs of Moher in Ireland. Finding inspiration during one of the most traumatic events in her life was hard. She missed the life she had in Seaport, her aunt, friends, and the way her parents used to be prior to their divorce. Eloise thought she’d return to the states when she turned eighteen, but then had been accepted into two of the finest art schools in Europe, one being the Royal College of Art and Beaux-Arts de Paris. She accepted Paris because why not paint in the city of love, romance, and lights, only to hate everything about school. She didn’t like the structure or being told how her art should be or what it should represent. Eloise wanted to paint. It wasn’t like she wanted to be the next Monet or da Vinci. She wanted to be the first and only Eloise Harris.
“That’s great.” An awkward pause followed. They stood there on the street corner, with people walking around them and cars driving by, staring at each other.
“Are you visiting?” he asked as he looked from her luggage to her.
“At least for the summer. I’m here to help my aunt with her Endless Summer Showcase.”
“We’ve had so many people come into town for it. I swear the harbor out by the mansions is some city scape walkway now. Artists set up and paint until the sun goes down.”
The Endless Summer Showcase was one of the most popular events in the world of painters. They’d flock to Seaport in hopes Margaux would choose their painting to put on display. The showcase was mostly for Margaux, but every year she selected one painting to showcase. Any other time during the year, artists could sell their art in her gallery. Getting chosen was a game changer for a lot of painters.
“And they’ll return next year if they don’t get in this year,” Eloise said. She knew painters who came back year after year, or at least they had until she moved away, in hopes her aunt would put them in her gallery.
“Something I don’t understand,” Fraser sighed and smiled. Eloise got it. No one really understood what artists went through, and each one had their own process. There were times when Eloise wouldn’t sleep for days. And then there were times when she’d stare at her canvas for days and paint nothing.
“It’s okay,” Eloise told him. “I don’t always understand why people chose the careers they do.”
Fraser laughed and stepped closer to her, which made her want to take a step back. She didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. While she was happy to see a familiar face, Eloise wasn’t interested in anything more than friendship. Especially with her obligations to her aunt taking up most of her time this summer.
“Are you staying with your aunt?”
“I am.”
“My car’s parked down the street. Do you want a ride?”
“Oh, thank you, but I’m meeting her at the gallery.”
“Do you mind if I walk with you?” he asked. And because he asked so nicely, Eloise agreed.
After nodding, Fraser took her backpack and suitcase and left her to carry her portfolio case, which she appreciated. The black ratty case had belonged to her grandfather George, and she rarely let it out of her sight. He had given it to her when she was ten, right before he passed away. It was her most prized possession.
They walked in comfortable silence down the cobblestone road, slowing or stopping when they came upon a group of tourists. Growing up in Seaport and then moving to one of the busiest cities in the world, Eloise was used to dodging the crowds, except when her arms were full, and luggage was involved.
Fraser sighed, glanced her way, and rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. Eloise chuckled. Their exchange definitely had to do with how some people had very little spatial awareness more than irritation.
When her aunt’s studio came into view, Eloise breathed in a sigh of relief. The studio had been her haven growing up. Her escape from reality. When she was barely three, her grandfather had put a paintbrush in her hand. He didn’t care what she painted, including the walls of his house. Everything was a masterpiece. George Harris taught Eloise how to use her hands and mind to create the world around her with painting, sketching, or pottery. George was a master of the arts, and Eloise was his student.
Margaux’s, the two-story white brick building with black accents, sat on the rounded bend on the most prominent street in Seaport. Fresh flowers in wooden flower boxes decorated the front and the black and white awning, with lights added to the ambiance. Upstairs, artists could rent rooms for whatever they needed. From the outside, no one could tell this was one of the most sought-after locations in the city. The real estate value alone had investors knocking on the door daily.
“You know,” Fraser said, interrupting her thoughts. “The studio is on the tourism pamphlet now.”
“Really?” Eloise wasn’t surprised, but then again, she was wholly biased.
“Last year, the new Chamber of Commerce director revamped the website, the brochures, and had a couple different commercials produced to build up tourism.”
Eloise thought that was odd. Seaport never had any trouble enticing visitors before. “How come?”
“Target new people. Younger crowds,” he told her. “It worked.”
They crossed the street, and Fraser held the door open for Eloise. She stepped in and inhaled the scent of vanilla—her aunt’s favorite aroma for the gallery. It was warm and inviting. As much as Eloise wanted to look around, the excitement of seeing her aunt had her dropping her bag and rushing toward the back.
Margaux came around the corner and grinned from ear-to-ear, holding her arms out for her niece. The two embraced, hugging each other tightly. “Oh, I have missed you my sweet girl.”
