More than once, I’ve wondered. Three years is a lifetime when your memories only span a handful of days. But the more I come to understand the depth of AJ’s love for me, the more certain I am that I would have held onto some shred of hope.
I think the woman I was would have done anything to find her way back to him. The woman I am now? She will too.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a deep breath, curl my fingers around the knob, and open the door.
The setting sun streams through the big window, casting a pool of golden light across the tile floor. The air smells faintly of paper, dust, and a sharp tang I think might be paint thinner.
Bold colors cover every wall. Purple, green, yellow, and blue.
Canvases are stacked in the corner, blank and ready to be filled. To the left, a large expanse of corkboard displays drawings in various stages of completion pinned in a haphazard line.
I should remember this. All of it. Any of it.
One of the drawings pulls at my chest. At something deep inside. A weeping willow tree done in charcoal is almost…alive. I do recognize it, but only because I can see that same tree from the deck. Yesterday afternoon, Karen brought me outside, and I sat in a chair and threw a tennis ball for Belle. The dog was so happy, I started to cry when I was too tired to continue.
Making my way to the drafting table, I set the walker aside and drop into the chair. Pencils, blending sticks, erasers, charcoals…they’re all laid out neatly—though covered in a fine layer of dust. Just…waiting for me.
With a sharp puff of breath, I send the dust scattering from the sketch pad. The charcoal pencil feels right in my hand, my thumb finding a tiny groove in the wood like it knew it was there.
The first line is jagged. Slow. Shaky. The second is easier. My hand knows what to do, even if my mind has no idea what the picture will eventually be.
A curved horizon. Tall posts with lanterns strung between them. Above it all, a full moon, bright and heavy, shines over a vast empty space the pencil can’t—won’t—touch.
My hand trembles as the charcoal tumbles from my grasp. An ache builds in my chest. My heart stutters, skipping a beat, then racing to catch up.
The tears come so fast, I can’t stop them from dripping onto the page, distorting the lines and sending dark streaks into that terrifying empty space in the center.
AJ
The studio door creaks, and I have to stop myself from racing down the hall. The line between sticking close and hovering is razor sharp, and I’ve crossed it a time or two the past few days.
Grace white-knuckles the walker as she makes her way into the living room where I’ve got the popcorn waiting. Even in the dim light, I can see the tiny tremors in her arms. And there ain’t nothin’ that can hide the red rimming her eyes.
“Fuck, Grace. What’s wrong?” I throw off the blanket, and in two steps, have my arm around her waist. She melts, practically boneless, and rests her cheek against my chest.
“I’m…okay. I just… I thought I’d remember it, and I didn’t.” She tries for a smile, but it doesn’t quite come before she gives up. “I drew something, at least. Nothing familiar. But…that’s a win, right?”
I tip her chin up, searching for a way to soothe her, and find nothing but fear in her eyes. “Grace, every minute you’re here is a win. But I’m worried about you, darlin’. You’re not telling me somethin’.”
Her lower lip wobbles for a beat. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
The admission hangs between us, and I lower my forehead to hers with a sigh. “I’m sorry if I’m pushing you too hard. I don’t mean to. It’s just…somethin’s tryin’ to break through. I can feel it.”
“What if I don’t want it to?” Her voice cracks, and a tear tumbles down her cheek. “What if whatever it is…breaks me?”
“It won’t. You’re the strongest person I know, Grace. Always have been, always will be.”
She settles a little closer on a sigh. “Can we watch a movie now? It was hard being in there, AJ. I need to relax. With you.”
Those two words mean everything right now. Wanting me close, hell, trusting me at all is a fucking miracle. “Yeah. Of course. The popcorn’s salted within an inch of its life. Just how you like it.”
Outside our bedroom window, the wind whips through the trees. Even in sleep, Grace’s body holds onto a hint of tension. I check my phone. Midnight has come and gone, and I can’t stop my thoughts from racing.
Something happened in her studio. Why wouldn’t she tell me what it was?
Carefully, I ease myself out of bed, grab my phone, and make my way to the far end of the house. The door is still open, and the screen casts just enough light for me to find the switch for the lamp over the drafting table.
At first, I don’t understand what I’m looking at. Dark sweeping strokes form a horizon, hills in the distance. Lights—no, lanterns—hang from tall wooden poles. Above it all, a full moon, perfectly round, against a black sky. The center of the paper is smudged, almost warped, and it takes me a full minute to realize why. Tears. She’d been crying. Over this.
