I remain near the wall, feeling conspicuously formal in my tailored slacks and button-down shirt despite having left my tie and jacket in the car at Tessa's insistence.
"You're not a CEO tonight," she had texted. "You're a supportive husband at a community event."
People begin to filter in. They are a mixture of children with parents, art students, and older adults with sketchbooks tucked under their arms.
I notice how they respond to Rosanna, their faces lighting up as she welcomes them.
No one approaches me directly, though many cast curious glances in my direction.
I recognize the looks of part intimidation, part speculation that have followed me for years.
The whispers confirm it: "That's him—the billionaire." "O'Malley." "Is it true they got married?"
I maintain my neutral expression, the mask I've perfected through countless uncomfortable situations.
Rosanna glances over at me, seeming to sense my discomfort.
She crosses the room with purposeful steps, taking my hand with a natural ease that must look convincingly affectionate to observers but startles me with its spontaneity.
"Come meet Eliza," she says, leading me toward an elderly woman setting up an elaborate pencil case. "She taught art at the community college for forty years and gives the best feedback."
Her hand is warm in mine, her grip unexpectedly strong for someone so small.
I let her pull me into her world.
***
Rosanna stands at the center of the room, demonstrating basic techniques with an ease born of long practice.
I sit slightly apart, a sketchpad balanced awkwardly on my knee more as a prop than a tool.
My artistic abilities are limited to stick figures which are nothing like the fluid, expressive lines Rosanna creates with seemingly effortless strokes.
I find myself watching her hands as she works. They are small, capable hands with short nails and a smudge of blue ink permanently embedded near her thumb.
Those same hands wave around expressively as she speaks.
She belongs here.
The group disperses to their individual tables to practice the techniques she's demonstrated, and Rosanna circulates among them, offering encouragement and gentle guidance.
She kneels beside a young girl with crayons, guides an older man's hand to show him how to create depth, and laughs with genuine delight at a teenager's cartoon rendition of the library mascot.
I remain in my seat, ostensibly working on my own sketch but actually studying her.
When she approaches my table, I resist the urge to cover the rudimentary landscape I've been attempting. She looks anyway, her head tilted slightly.
"You have an architect's eye," she observes. "You see the structure beneath things."
The assessment surprises me—not for its accuracy, but because it contains no judgment, only perception.
She picks up a pencil, demonstrating a technique for creating texture in the foliage I've drawn.
Her shoulder presses lightly against mine as she leans over the paper, and I detect the faint scent of lavender that I've come to associate with her presence in my home.
A young boy with glasses struggles with his sketch, his frustration evident in the way he repeatedly erases his work. Rosanna notices immediately and moves to his table, her approach gentle but direct.
"What are we working on here?" she asks, crouching beside him to view the drawing at his level.
