“No,” she agreed softly. “But this—” she gestured vaguely around us. “—feels like I am playing a role I didn’t even audition for.”
I leaned back. “You don’t have to impress anyone by being perfect all the time. You can simply act the way you want to.”
“I know,” she nodded. “But you’re trying so hard to help me through this all.”
“And is that a problem?”
She shook her head. “No. It’s… sweet.”
Sweet. The word sat wrong with me. But I couldn’t deny it. Since she had gone quiet, I had been going out of my way to make her feel better. Initially, I had thought it was cabin fever and had even taken her out. From breakfast in bed to dinner in the best places of the city, I had been doing it all, and none of it had helped in reviving her.
I stood up before she could stop me and pulled her chair out. “Come on.”
“Where now?”
“You will like it,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes. “That sounds suspicious.”
“It should.”
The second place was smaller. It had no guards or any identifying features. Just old brick and sun-faded posters, and windows cluttered with paintings, leaning against each other like secrets. She stopped dead on the sidewalk.
“Oh,” she breathed.
I watched her instead of the shop.
“Oh?” I repeated.
“This place—” she pushed the door open before I could respond. Bells chimed softly, and the air smelled of paint, dust, and old wood. She moved slowly, reverently. Like walls might spook if she startled them. I could see her taking it all in, and for the first time in days, color returned to her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled again. That was the only thing I wished to see.
“Look at this one,” she said, pointing. “Do you see the way light fractures the surface? It shows anger accompanied by a silver of hope.”
I stared at the painting. Then at her.
“You see all that?” I asked.
She laughed. “You don’t?”
“No.”
She looked genuinely baffled. “It will always be concerning to me the way you buy art without even trying to understand it.”
I shrugged. “I have told you. It fills space.”
“And I have told you that this is a depressing way to look at art.”
“You most certainly have,” I chuckled.
She moved closer to another piece. “Art makes things quieter for me.”
I leaned against the wall. “You never look quiet.”
“That’s because it’s loud in my head. All the damn time.”
I let that sit in for a moment without commenting on it.
After a beat, I said, “You don’t have to be alone in that. I have told you a thousand times that I am here to listen. Whatever you might like to say.”
