And now, as I listened to Sarah’s gentle breathing, I knew there was one last thing to say before we ended the night.
“Sarah,” I said gently. A million other thoughts entered my mind. Should I made a vow to protect her forever, against Morrils and Reapers alike? Should I promise to promote her art until my money ran out? Should I, would I, could I? Every thought I had could be captured in three words.Less is more. The less I say, the better.
So say only that.
“I love you.”
I heard her gulp. Anxiety hit my chest for a split second. I both craved and feared reading her mind.
And then she said the best possible thing.
“I love you too, Cassius.”
28
SARAH
ONE WEEK LATER
An old mentor of mine had once told me that a typical artist’s career entailed being an overnight success twenty years in the making.
In a lot of respects, that’s exactly what my love for Cassius Vale felt like.
Twenty or so years in the making, small moments of intensity here and there, but a gradual buildup that went nowhere… until literally in the course of one night, everything and anything came out.
By sunrise, we were committed to each other, maybe not yet legally but practically in every sense of the word. We knew we were never going to leave each other then and there; for all the times we’d left the other, gone through heartache, and emerged stronger for it, what could possibly knock us down? Cassius promised me he would use his weight to promote my art career—anonymously, he said, so others wouldn’t so quickly write me off—but even if that never happened, even if I never sold another art piece and only did art for creative’s sake, I’d found a profound joy in knowing I’d never have to find love again.
Because with Cassius, I very much had it.
With that Saturday night and Sunday morning having come and gone, it was amazing how what transpired in the week after had almost—no, had no—impact on me.
Sure enough, the hit piece about me came out the following Tuesday. Even a week ago, it would have gotten under my skin. Why would someone want to attack me? But then I looked more closely at it with Cassius, and we both had a good laugh.
First, the “hit piece” was published on an artist’s blog that I assured Cassius no one in the painting community had ever heard of. Some artists I knew might have questions for me, but this was not like getting exposed by theLos Angeles Timesor being covered by a major cable network. The odds that more than a couple thousand people would see this were nil; any respectable journalist, Delilah said after reading it, would treat it as something a bitter ex might have written, not something a genuine source would provide.
Which brought me to the second point—all the sources were anonymous. No one had gone on record to say that I was a spoiled artist or lucky because of my association with Cassius. That was a sign, Cassius said, that the Morrils had almost certainly made everything up and used “sources” as a cover for that. Maybe Cassius’ brother hadn’t known better and overreacted, but now it was apparent from the start there had been nothing to worry about.
But Cassius, even though he was a much calmer man than before, wouldn’t let the article slide without a response.
“Don’t worry,” he had said, “this isn’t about vengeance or getting back at the Morrils. We’re just going to show an unassailable truth that you are the artist you are because of you, not because of me.”
Which brought me to this very moment insideAllure.
It was a “First Friday” celebration for the month of December, and I stood at the front of the gallery, my bestartwork just behind me. Cassius stood to the side, occasionally coming up to me, occasionally kissing me on the forehead or putting his arm around me, but by and large letting me face the crowd. It was a request of mine that if I were to continue having my art displayed, I needed to stand alone.
Fortunately, he’d already said he’d do so without putting his name on it, so it was less an argument and more an immediate consensus.
Other artists came up to me, all of them congratulatory, all of them not so much jealous as they were cheerful for me. Some of them did ask about Cassius, yes, to which I just quietly said that he and I went way back and we were exploring what might be possible, but for now nothing was formal.
That was all true.
It was also true that while Cassius and I would make things formal sooner rather than later, even if we didn’t, it didn’t matter. I didn’t need a letter from the state of Nevada to know how much I loved him and how much he loved me. We didn’t have priorities; we were each other’s priority, singular. He always made sure to be present with me for dinner in his penthouse every night, and I always made sure that I separated my creative time from my romantic time. He’d even invited my father up for dinner this upcoming weekend, an invitation I didn’t think he’d ever sent before.
My family was becoming his, and gradually, ever so slowly, his three living brothers would approach me with a smile and make small talk. Dante, Lucas, and Adrian weren’t quite as chummy with me as Cassius was, but why would they be? I was dating Cassius, not the Vale family. The Vales didn’t get to where they were by being trusting of every single person who walked through the door. I knew it would take time before I earned their trust, and I was OK with that.
But as the night wound down, all of that began to fade. The patrons and my peers slowly left, seeking other entertainment or early bedtimes. Cassius’ brothers left for business ventures or just to enjoy a night on the town.
Soon, that left just Cassius and me.
