I remembered the first time she’d filmed herself in the workshop without asking, telling her followers that she was dating a man who made beautiful things.
I remembered the coffee mug she threw against the wall when I refused to abandon a deadline.
“I want you to leave,” I said.
Her smile disappeared.
“You’re choosing a widow with a grown daughter over me?”
“I’m choosing not to have this conversation.”
“She’s using you.”
“You don’t know her.”
“And you do? You’ve known her for what, a few weeks?”
“Long enough to know you don’t get to decide who I see.”
Her face hardened.
For a moment, I saw the anger beneath the performance.
Then she smiled again.
It was worse than the anger.
“Fine. Enjoy your little fantasy. But don’t come crying to me when she gets tired of playing mother to a man your age.”
I walked to the workshop door and rolled it fully open.
