She sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, her arms wrapped around herself like a shield. When we arrived, I led her to the garage-turned-guest-house. It was nothing fancy, but enough for someone to live in.
“You can stay here,” I said, gesturing toward the small space. “There’s food in the fridge, too.”
“Thanks,” she muttered. Over the next few days, Lexi stayed in the garage but we saw each other for occasional meals.
I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something about her pulled at me. Maybe it was how she seemed to keep going despite everything life had thrown at her, or perhaps the loneliness I saw in her eyes, mirroring my own. Maybe it was just the simple fact that I didn’t feel quite so alone anymore.
One night, as we sat across from each other over dinner, she began to open up. “I used to be an artist,” she said, her voice soft. “Well, I tried to be, anyway.
I had a small gallery, a few shows… but it all fell apart.”
“What happened?” I asked, genuinely curious. She laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “Life happened.
My husband left me for some younger woman he got pregnant and kicked me out. My whole life unraveled after that.”
“I’m sorry,” I muttered. She shrugged.
“It’s in the past.”
But I could tell it wasn’t, not really. The pain was still there, just beneath the surface. I knew that feeling all too well.
As the days passed, I found myself looking forward to our conversations. Lexi had a sharp wit and a biting sense of humor that cut through the gloom of my empty estate. Slowly, the hollow space inside me seemed to shrink.
It all changed one afternoon. I had been rushing around, trying to find the air pump for the tires on one of my cars. I barged into the garage without knocking, expecting to grab it quickly and leave.
But what I saw stopped me cold. There, spread across the floor, were dozens of paintings. Of me.
Or rather, grotesque versions of me. One painting showed me with chains around my neck, another with blood pouring from my eyes. In the corner, there was one of me lying in a casket.
I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. This was how she saw me? After everything I’d done for her?
I backed out of the room before she noticed me, my heart pounding. That night, as we sat down for dinner, I couldn’t shake the images from my mind. Whenever I looked at Lexi, all I saw were those horrific portraits.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Lexi,” I said, my voice tight. “What the hell are those paintings?”
Her fork clattered to the plate.
“What are you talking about?”
“I saw them,” I said, my voice rising despite my efforts to stay calm. “The paintings of me. The chains, the blood, the coffin.
What the hell is that?”
Her face went pale. “I didn’t mean for you to see those,” she stammered. “Well, I did,” I said coldly.
“Is that how you see me? As some monster?”
“No, it’s not that.” She wiped at her eyes, her voice shaky. “I was just… angry.
I’ve lost everything, and you have so much. It wasn’t fair, and I couldn’t help it. I needed to let it out.”
“So you painted me like a villain?” I asked, my voice sharp.
She nodded, shame etched into her features. “I’m sorry.”
I sat back, letting the silence stretch between us. I wanted to forgive her.
I wanted to understand. But I couldn’t. “I think it’s time for you to go,” I said, my voice flat.
Lexi’s eyes widened. “Wait, please—”
“No,” I interrupted. “It’s over.
You need to leave.”
The next morning, I helped her pack her belongings and drove her to a nearby shelter. She didn’t say much, and neither did I. Before she stepped out of the car, I handed her a few hundred dollars.
She hesitated but then took the money with trembling hands. Weeks passed, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of loss. Not just because of the disturbing paintings, but because of what we’d had before.
There had been warmth and connection — something I hadn’t felt in years. Then, one day, a package arrived at my door. Inside was a painting, but this one was different.
It wasn’t grotesque or twisted. It was a serene portrait of me, captured with a peace I hadn’t known I possessed. Tucked inside the package was a note with Lexi’s name and phone number scrawled at the bottom.
My finger hovered over the call button, my heart beating faster than it had in years. Getting worked up over a phone call felt ridiculous, but there was so much more riding on it than I wanted to admit. I swallowed hard and hit “Call” before I could second-guess myself again.
It rang twice before she picked up. “Hello?” Her voice was hesitant like she somehow sensed it could only be me. I cleared my throat.
“Lexi. It’s me. I got your painting… it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.
I didn’t know if you’d like it. I figured I owed you something better than…
well, those other paintings.”
“You didn’t owe me anything, Lexi. I wasn’t exactly fair to you, either.”
“You had every right to be upset.” Her voice was steadier now.
“What I painted — those were things I needed to get out of me, but they weren’t about you, really. You were just… there. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize, Lexi.
I forgave you the moment I saw that painting.”
Her breath hitched. “You did?”
“I did,” I said, and I meant it. It wasn’t just the painting that had changed my mind, it was the gnawing feeling that I had let something meaningful slip through my fingers because I was too afraid to face my pain.
“And… well, I’ve been thinking… maybe we could start over.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, maybe we could talk. Maybe over dinner? If you’d like.”
“I’d like that,” she said.
“I’d really like that.”
We made arrangements to meet in a few days. Lexi told me she’d used the money I gave her to buy new clothes and get a job. She was planning to move into an apartment when she received her first paycheck.
I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of having dinner with Lexi again.
