“Albert, I understand, but—” She stops. Listens. Her jaw tightens. “I’m nothiding;I’m working on the commission. I’ve done more sketches in the past week than I did in the last two months in the city.”
Silence. She’s pacing now, with short, angry steps that eat up the length of the porch.
“Albert, it’s a sunset mural. The whole point is the warm tones, the—” She breaks off, listening. “More blue?” Her voice pitches up with disbelief. “To match theirrug?Please tell me you’re joking.”
She’s not laughing. Neither is he, apparently.
“I’m the artist. I decide what colors—” Another pause. Her free hand clenches into a fist at her side. “Fine. I’ll look at it. But I’m not promising anything.”
I watch her swallow whatever she really wants to say. Watch her fold herself smaller to fit someone else’s expectations. It makes me want to put my fist through the window.
“That’s not fair. You can’t just give it to another artist; I’ve already—” She presses her hand against her forehead. “I never said I wasn’t coming; I just—” Another pause. “Therealworld? What does that even—no, you know what, forget it. I’ll send you the sketches by Friday. Yes.Friday.I said I would, and I will.”
She hangs up without saying goodbye.
For a long moment, she stands there, staring out at the mountains. Her shoulders are rigid, her breathing visible in the cold morning air.
I grab her coffee and push through the door.
She doesn’t turn when she hears me, but some of the tension bleeds out of her posture. It’s almost as though my being there is enough to take the edge off.
I stop beside her and hold out the mug. Say nothing.
She takes it and wraps both hands around the warmth but still doesn’t look at me.
“That was my agent. He thinks I’ve lost my mind.”
“Have you?”
That startles a laugh out of her.
“Maybe. Probably.” She turns, and something bruised crosses her expression that makes me want to find this asshole and explain things with my fists. “He says my ‘mental health break’ is over. Time to rejoin the real world.”
I look out at the mountains. The endless sky. The kind of quiet you can’t buy in a city. “This feels pretty real to me.”
“That’s what I told him.” She takes a sip of coffee, and some of the tension eases from her shoulders.
I want to know exactly what this guy said to put that look on her face. But pushing Jessie is like pushing a cat—she’ll come to you when she’s ready, and not a second before.
So instead, I drain my coffee and set the mug on the porch railing.
“Town run,” I say, shifting gears before she can spiral. “We need supplies. You coming?”
She studies me for a long moment.
“Could use the company.” I keep my voice casual. “But if you’d rather stay?—”
“No.” Too fast. She catches herself, tucking red hair behind her ear. “Fresh air sounds good. Give me ten minutes.”
She’s ready in five.
The drive into town takes twenty minutes on a good day. The road’s clear this morning, sun cutting through the pines and glittering off the snowdrifts. Jessie’s got her window cracked, red hair catching the wind. My flannel is folded on the seat between us. She grabbed it on the way out, then set it down like she couldn’t decide whether keeping it would mean something.
Everything means something now.
I’m hyperaware of her in ways I wasn’t before the kiss. Before the marriage. The way her thigh is six inches from mine. The way she keeps tucking her hair behind her ear, exposing the curve of her neck. The way her body angles toward me, even when she’s looking out the window.
She’s doing it again. Leaning in without realizing.
