I haven’t shown him any of them.
We sit in unexpectedly comfortable silence, looking at the painting before us.
"What do you see in it?" I ask, curious about how his logical mind processes abstract art.
He considers the question seriously, his head tilting slightly as he examines the canvas.
"Structure within chaos," he answers finally. "The artist created what appears random but is actually precisely balanced."
I smile.
"I see joy," I offer. "Sunrise colors breaking through storm clouds."
He turns to me, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Sunny side up?" he asks, and I turn to look at him.
I smile.
"Exactly."
***
Seamus guides me toward the exit, his hand resting lightly on my lower back in what has become a familiar gesture.
The main entrance is crowded with departing guests and a few photographers capturing the event for social media and local publications.
As we walk through the lobby, a reporter steps forward, digital recorder in hand.
"Mr. O'Malley, care to comment on the rumors about your playboy past resurfacing?" he asks, his tone deliberately provocative. "Sources say the marriage is just damage control after those photos with the senator's daughter leaked."
I feel Seamus tense beside me, his posture shifting imperceptibly into what I've come to recognize as his defensive stance. He has his shoulders squared and his expression controlled to the point of blankness.
Before he can speak, I find myself stepping forward, my hand firmly clasped in his.
"My husband's past is exactly that—the past," I say, my voice steady despite the anger flaring in my chest. "The man I know is thoughtful, dedicated, and has shown me nothing but respect."
The words flow with surprising ease, not because they're part of our script but because, I realize with a jolt, they're true.
He’s not the callous playboy the tabloids portrayed.
The reporter looks taken aback by my intervention but recovers quickly.
"And the timing of your relationship is rather convenient, Ms. Lopez?" His emphasis on my maiden name is deliberate, a subtle undermining of our marriage.
I squeeze Seamus's hand before he can speak.
"Life rarely arranges itself according to optimal timing," I reply with a smile that feels both genuine and slightly challenging. "Sometimes you meet the right person at exactlythe moment you weren't looking for them. I'd call that fortunate rather than convenient, wouldn't you?"
As we step outside into the late afternoon air, Seamus's hand remains firmly in mine.
***
That night, back in my room, I open the sketchbook again.
The earlier pages are all monochrome. Graphite studies of Seamus at different ages. Lines layered and controlled, shadows carefully crosshatched into place.
Precise.
