I wanted to scream at him.
“I don’t want to be anywhere but with you. You know that, right?”
I never got an answer. He’d already left the room.
Several days later, I pull out my laptop and place the journal beside me in bed. I haven’t been sleeping very well. Too many questions and too many thoughts keep swirling through my mind, and I can’t seem to block them out, not even by shutting my eyes.
I still can’t quite wrap my mind around what exactly happened a few nights before.
Things have changed. Phillipe has changed, and for the first time in his presence, I feel frightened. Up until now, I have been wary, suspicious, and careful around him, but I have never felt the overwhelming need to protect myself from him as I had that night. Right on the cusp of that fear is also the sharp jagged edge of persistent desire.
It’s been days, and I know he’s avoiding me. Still, I can feel my body starting to throb at the thought of him.
Annoyed at myself and my traitorous body that seems to be continually betraying me, I turn on my laptop and lean back against the headboard, settling in to do something I told myself I would not do while I was here. I search the name Phillipe Tibideau.
He came and got me several minutes later, just like he had said he would. Once again though, he was silent. I hated the silence because, like anyone else, I couldn’t see his face to gauge his mood.
He took my hand as we were about to head downstairs.
“Phillipe, talk to me,” I insisted.
He stopped, and I could feel him turn to face me.
“What do you want me to say, Chantel?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but not talking to me isn’t going to fix things,” I explained, trying to get through to him.
“I can’t explain how I feel,” he softly told me.
I stepped closer to where I knew he was standing, and I raised my hand. He took my palm and placed it on his cheek.
“Tell me?” I whispered.
“No, Chantel. I’m okay,” he assured me, his voice strained.
“You’re not. You’re hurting. Tell me why. Is it because of my parents? I already told you—”
“No,” he replied, placing a finger to my lips. “No, it’s not your parents. It’s me.”
“I don’t understand,” I responded, moving my hand slowly.
That was when I felt both of his hands on my face, cupping my cheeks. As he leaned down and placed his mouth by my ear, I could feel his breath on my face.
He exhaled a soft gust of air. “I don’t want to scare you.”
“You are scaring me. You’re not talking to me. You aren’t painting. You’ve pulled away.”
“No,” he sighed, his lips still against my ear. “No, Chantel, it’s the other way around.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t understand what it is I feel for you, and I’m scared to tell you. I’m scared it will make you run far away and never come back,” he confessed, placing one of his hands on my chest.
“Nothing could make me leave,” I stressed, turning my head to where his mouth had been by my ear.
“Nothing?” he asked.
Somehow, I knew his eyes were on me.
“Nothing,” I reaffirmed.
“I can’t stop the ache in my chest, Chantel.” He paused for a moment.
I made a move to speak, but he continued before I could utter a single sound.
“When your parents said they want you to think about moving back to America, I felt like someone had pulled my heart out of my chest.”
“But—”
“Literally, it felt like someone reached in and ripped my heart out of my chest. I shouldn’t feel this possessive of someone. I know that in here,” he explains, tapping my head. “But, here in my heart and in my soul…Chantel, I don’t know what’s happened to me. I’m all twisted and consumed in my need with these fucked-up thoughts. If you leave, I wouldn’t know what to do.”
“I’m not leaving you.” I tried to get through to him, but he wasn’t in the frame of mind to listen.
“Hearing them talk about you returning in several months made me crazy. I can’t let you go. You know that, right? I need you here.”
“I want and need to be here, Phillipe. Please,” I pleaded, “listen to what I’m telling you. Come back to me. Be strong with me. Trust me.”
“My heart aches for you,” he confessed, his voice dropping down, quiet and low. “I would die for you, and that terrifies me.”
I felt a shiver slide over my spine as I cradled his face in my palms. I had no words.
I was his.
Opening one of the articles my search revealed, I try not to flinch as the headline glares at me in accusation.
Tragic Accident or Tragic Betrayal?
By Michael London
I skim through the story and find myself cringing at certain questions from the journalist.
As my eyes continue down through the article, I see that it only gets worse. Words such as tragic, horrifying, and deceptive are littered throughout the whole piece.
Disgusted and annoyed at myself, I snap the laptop shut and push it away from my lap.
What am I doing? I have been here long enough to know that if he wanted to hurt me, he would have. Right?
Even though Phillipe is warning me to leave and my brain is agreeing, for some reason, I know that I won’t. On the tail end of that realization is a startling one—I can’t.
Not only am I determined to stay here to get this story and get it right, but I am also held here because of Phillipe and Chantel themselves.
Separately, they are fascinating individuals, both artistic in nature and both passionate about the other. Together, however, they are an irresistible force.
If it isn’t her written words, pulling me deeper into their relationship, it is his melodic retelling of their times together, hypnotizing me and inviting me into their lives.
Her music haunts me whenever I allow myself to play it. Before I came here, I made sure I was familiar with Chantel Rosenberg but not like this. Now, it feels as though she is a part of me.
It’s his paintings that move me more than everything else. They evoke a sensual side in me that I don’t yet fully understand. All I know is that when I look at them I feel things that I’ve never felt before. He makes me feel things I’ve never felt before. What is it about Chateau Tibideau? It’s like I arrived one way, and I know deep down in my soul that I will leave another.
As I get up from the bed, determined to go and find Phillipe, I am left wondering if that is how Chantel felt as well.
When he arrives at the studio, Phillipe is more than a little shocked to see that Gemma is already there. She is standing where she was at their last meeting several days before, but this time, she is holding a towel around her body.