Man who is rich and emotionally detached decides to give Lexi a safe place to live because he is impressed by how strong she is. Their strange bond grows, but only until that one day when he walks into his garage out of the blue and finds something bad there. After all, Lexi wants to keep something from us. Who is she?
I had a sprawling house, shiny cars, and more money than I knew what to do with. Yet, despite all this, there was a void within me that seemed impossible to fill.
Sadly, at 61, I had never married or started a family. Most of the women I encountered seemed more interested in the wealth I had inherited from my parents than in me as a person. This left me often regretting the choices I’d made.
One day, driving aimlessly around town, I was absorbed in thought, my hands clenching the steering wheel. Just then, I noticed a woman rummaging through a trash can. She seemed lost, like she didn’t quite belong there.
For a split second, I questioned why I felt compelled to slow down. People like her were everywhere, weren’t they? Yet, there was something unique about the determination in her frail movements that struck a chord deep within me.
She seemed both fragile and fervent—as if sheer willpower was her only lifeline.
Before I realized what I was doing, I had stopped the car and rolled down the window, feeling simultaneously safe and awkward.
Startled, she glanced up. For a moment, her widened eyes seemed ready to flee, yet she didn’t. She simply repositioned, wiping her hands on her worn-out jeans.
“Need some help?” I asked, finding my own voice somewhat foreign. It wasn’t often I struck up conversations, particularly not with strangers.
“Are you offering?” Her voice carried a sharp skepticism, as if she had heard empty promises before.
“I think so.” Somehow, words found their way out before I could fully consider them. I exited the car. “I saw you and… it seemed right.”
She crossed her arms, her gaze steady, not looking away. “Life isn’t right.” She chuckled bitterly. “And it sure isn’t fair.” Her words had the ring of undiscussed truths.
Despite her cynicism hitting home, I found myself raising an eyebrow in acknowledgment.
“Perhaps not.” I sighed, unsure. “Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?”
She hesitated, briefly breaking our eye contact before quietly affirming, “No.”
The simplicity of that word told me everything I needed to know.
“Listen, I’ve got a garage—more like a spare room. You can crash there until you’re back on your feet if you want.”
I anticipated mockery, a dressing-down. But, after scrutinizing me, her harsh exterior softened ever so slightly.
“I don’t take charity,” she maintained, her tough stance slightly mellowed.
“This isn’t charity,” I reassured, unsure myself what constituted charity. “Consider it a temporary stay.” “No strings attached.”
“Okay then. Just for tonight,” she amended. “And it’s Lexi.”
Our drive home was quiet. From the passenger seat, her eyes gazed out, arms crossed securely as if warding off the world.
Once home, I showed her the converted garage. It wasn’t luxurious but perfectly livable for one.
“You’re welcome to this space,” I offered, gesturing towards the cozy quarters. “And there’s food in the fridge.”
“I thank you for it,” she replied quietly, her eyes reflecting a cautious gratitude.
Over the next days, Lexi mostly kept to herself, though we occasionally shared meals. Something about her piqued my interest in a way I couldn’t quite explain.
Perhaps it was her tenacity in adversity, or the solitude in her eyes mirrored my own. Or maybe, I simply enjoyed not feeling entirely isolated.
In time, our dinners became a space for deeper exchanges.
“I used to be a painter,” she confessed softly one evening. “Or tried to be, at least. Created a few shows—small venues. But everything unravelled.”
“What happened?” Genuine curiosity colored my inquiry.
Through an ironic laugh, she continued, “Life happened. My husband left me for someone younger, got her pregnant, and then left me without a home.” Her words painted a portrait of sorrow.
“That sounds difficult,” I mumbled, aware of my inadequacy.
“It’s the past,” she deflected, striving for a nonchalance that rang hollow.
I knew her pain lingered beneath the surface, all too familiar with such silent echoes.
As time meandered on, our conversations became a beacon in my solitary life. Lexi’s humor and sharp wit eased the somber melancholy looming over my estate. The void, once insurmountable, seemed to wane slowly.
That was until one afternoon demanded urgency—an air pump for my car needed finding. I entered the garage, bypassing protocol, assuming a swift grab-and-go. But the sight within froze me.
The floor was adorned with various sketches of me.
Strange, almost macabre renderings—chains adorning my neck in one, blood seeping from my eyes in another. A chilling likeness of myself encased in a coffin sat amid these creations.
For a moment, a dizzy spell claimed me. Is this her perception of me? Despite my efforts to help?
Panic-stricken, I left the room, heartbeat thunderous in my ears.
Those images haunted me throughout dinner. Each glance at Lexi brought them to mind anew.
Until my restraint broke, it consumed me.
“Lexi,” I murmured, voice trembling lightly. “Those drawings—what are they?”
The clatter of cutlery briefly interrupted the silence. “What are you talking about?” she replied, a flicker of apprehension crossing her face.
A faint attempt to remain calm faltered, “I saw them,” I admitted. “The portraits. Coffin, chains, blood—all there. How you view me?”
Paling visibly, she stammered, “You weren’t supposed to see those.”
“But I did,” I retorted, irritation edging my voice. “A monster—that’s what you see?”
“No, not really,” she corrected, the distress palpable. “It was anger, pure and simple. Watching you own all that stuff… while everything of mine was swept away. It felt like a release I needed.”
“So you sketched me as a villain?” My question was blunt.
Her remorse-laden nod met my gaze. “I’m sorry.”
Silence dominated as I remained seated, bridging a gap growing by the second. I longed to forgive, to comprehend. Yet, I couldn’t bring myself to do so.
“You should go,” I decided, voice wavering slightly.
Lexi’s plea was earnest, “Please, don’t.”
“No,” I interjected sharply. “It’s over. You must leave.”
By morning, I’d assisted her packing, driving her to a nearby shelter. Neither spoke much. At her exit, I handed her two hundred dollars.
Though hesitant, she accepted with trembling hands.
Over the ensuing weeks, grief settled in stubbornly. Not due to haunting images alone, but also from losing a rare connection. Loneliness now reigned absolute without her presence.
Then came a surprise arrival at my door—a carefully packaged painting, distinct from its sinister predecessors. It captured a serene version of me, unexpectedly peaceful.
Inside, a note from Lexi bore her phone number, a tentative gesture toward reconciliation.
My heart raced as I pressed the call button, confidence teetering at the edge of foolishness. Significant things seemed to hang in the balance as though a phone call could regain what was lost.
I braced myself, swallowing nerves and dialing before hesitation stole resolve. The line rung three times before her voice answered.
“Hello?” Her words held cautious expectancy.
A slow release of breath preceded my own words, “Lexi, it’s me. I got your painting, and it’s wonderful.”
“I’m glad.” Relief tinged her reply. “I wasn’t certain if you’d like it. It feels more meaningful than the others.”
Guilt edged my reply, “Lexi, there was no need. My actions towards you were unfair.”
“You had every right to be angry,” she reasoned, voice steady. “Those paintings were reflections of emotions, not truly about you. But being the outlet, I’m sorry you saw them.”
“You owe no apology,” I cut in, “Seeing this portrait has drawn me toward forgiving you.”
A restrained joy surfaced audibly in her response, “Did you?”
“I did,” I affirmed. Fear of facing the pain had skewed my clarity, yet there lay an impulse now to understand better.
“And—well, maybe we could try again.”
“What do you mean?”
“Perhaps meet for coffee, or dinner—a proper start?” I proposed.
Warmth echoed in her acquiescence, “I would like that.”
We set a plan in motion for the upcoming days. Lexi mentioned how the money helped her find employment and purchase clothes, activities laying foundations for her new apartment.
A genuine smile spread across my face at the idea of sharing a meal with Lexi again, hopeful for a fresh beginning.
