“Please just drive,” I said to Harper as I closed the door. Somehow I’d found the strength to leave Sam’s building and met Harper waiting outside.
Harper pulled out and turned north on Madison. “Can we go through the Upper West Side? I just can’t . . .” There were too many memories on the other side of the park—the Frick, the apartment. I wasn’t up to a look-what-your-life-could-have-been tour.
“No problem,” Harper replied, grabbing my hand with hers and squeezing. “I’m so sorry.”
Her sympathy unleashed the floodgates and I began to sob, deep bellowing sounds I’d never made before.
Harper didn’t pull over, didn’t comfort me. She understood the only thing that would make me feel at all better was to get as far away from Manhattan, from Sam, as I could. She’d agreed to drive me into the city, but from her reaction, she’d known my turning up at his office wouldn’t go well.
How could I have been so wrong? Oh, I knew he loved me. I wasn’t wrong about that. But I’d thought that would be enough. I thought that now that we’d found each other, both of us were committed to doing whatever it took to be together.
We had no strength at all if we’d been blown off course so quickly and so badly.
“Maybe he just needs more time,” I said.
Harper glanced at me. “Did he say he needed more time?” she asked, knowing damn well he hadn’t.
Tears began to roll down my cheeks again. “No, he told me he didn’t love me, but I know that’s not true.”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters. If he loves me then—”
“It takes more than love,” she said. “If he’s telling you he doesn’t love you, you have to take him at his word.”
“But don’t you see? He’s doing it to protect himself. He doesn’t want to love me—he doesn’t want to love anyone in case he loses them and has to go through what he did when his parents died.” I hadn’t told Harper about Sam’s lack of furniture or social circle, but I understood so clearly now that those things were borne out of a fear of losing something he’d grown attached to. It made perfect sense. Sam had nearly lost me in the accident, and now he was pushing me away to protect himself. I understood.
“Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter.”
“What do you mean? Of course it matters.” He loved me. It was too late to erase that—pretend it wasn’t true. Surely.
“The outcome’s the same. Whatever his reasons, he’s ended it.”
“Don’t say that,” I whined as I tried to catch my breath between sobs. “He’ll come around. I just need to give him time.”
“You need to give you time. And then you should get on with your life.” Harper’s voice was soothing and sympathetic but her words were sharp and jagged. How could she think I had a life to get on with without Sam?
“Now’s not the time for your tough love. I have to believe Sam will come back to me.” Even though we’d been together so little time, I’d waited my whole life for him to come along. “I can’t just give up on him.”
“Look, I believe in the fairytale. I really do. Look at my husband, for crying out loud. But, you’re my best friend and I can’t bear to see you hurting like this. Whether or not he loves you, he’s not with you, showing his love. And if you can’t see it, can’t feel it, then I’m not sure it matters what he feels deep down.”
I didn’t like the fact that her words made sense. I didn’t want to believe what she was saying was exactly what I’d say to her if she were sitting in the passenger seat.
“You don’t know him like I do.” The words sounded weak even as I said them. Had I become one of those women who excused the behavior of their boyfriends and husbands by explaining other people just didn’t know the real him? How pathetic.
“Of course I don’t, but I know what I see—a man who abandoned you when you needed him most. That rejected you when you gave him the benefit of the doubt and went to his office to tell him you loved him.” She sighed. “And that’s the only side of him I need to see.”
I sat, silent and defeated.
“We should make a plan,” she said, forcing some cheer into her voice. “Let’s have a fire in the pit tonight and make s’mores. We’ll put the patio heaters on and wrap up in blankets. What do you say?”
“Does this plan involve wine?”
Harper turned and smiled. “Wouldn’t be a party without the wine.”
I nodded. “Sounds good.”
“Have you spoken to Natalie?” Harper asked, blatantly trying to shift my focus from my past to my future, to the gallery and my temporary assistant.
My gut churned. “I messaged her this morning. Everything’s fine. I think she likes being left to her own devices. I’ll probably go back and she won’t let me in.”
Harper laughed but it was a little forced. “Maybe while you’re in Connecticut you should think some more about your plan for the place. I know some of the work you love most you don’t really sell. You know, the more traditional stuff. Have you thought about splitting the gallery in two and doing both?”
I didn’t have head space for this conversation. Seeing Sam but not being able to touch him, the thought of never seeing him again—it was all so exhausting. “It won’t work. I don’t have the right contacts to get the traditional art in the gallery. Or the money.”
“Remember you said you could never have a gallery of your own without your father’s money and look how that turned out.”
“But I had to sell my Renoir.” I started to cry again at the thought of losing that painting to some unknown buyer in the Middle East.
“You sold that painting to get Grace Astor Fine Art. Don’t take your foot off the gas now. If you let it, the gallery could be a great focus.”
She was talking as if what I was experiencing was a normal breakup, as if I just needed to take my mind off things, channel my energy, and I’d bounce back in no time. Didn’t she understand that I’d always love Sam?
“Don’t you think?” she asked.
I nodded. “Sure.”
“Maybe Max can introduce you to some of his rich clients. In fact, why don’t you start running parties in your gallery? Maybe Max can host something there?”
I shrugged. I understood Harper had my best interests at heart, but I couldn’t focus on anything other than what I’d lost.
I wasn’t ready to move on and I didn’t think I ever would be.
“Yes, bring it in this side,” I said to the two men who were delivering new pieces I’d bought from a couple of Max’s clients. He was happy for me to sell them on his behalf, taking a commission. Being as determined and stubborn as she was, Harper’s idea about Max throwing a client party at Grace Astor Fine Art had come to fruition three weeks after she’d first mentioned it. She’d been right to push me to focus on work. I’d made a ton of contacts and booked three more parties since.