“See for yourself.”
She tiptoes over to it, as if what’s under there can reach out and grab her.
From where I’m standing, I can’t see her face when she pulls the tarp off the canvas, but I hear her full-body gasp.
“When … when did you?” Her voice can’t be any louder than a whisper, yet I hear it loud and clear.
It’s an incomplete portrait of her.
“A long time ago.”
Eleven years ago. I started it after waking up to find her missing. I wanted to memorialize the woman who stamped my heart in a single night, but I could never finish it. I’ve added flourishes to it over the years, added most of the facial details six years ago after leaving New York, even more three years ago after seeing her at the gallery. But still it isn’t finished.
She turns to me with glossy eyes.
Every bone in my body wants to go to her, so I do. I take the stairs two at a time until I’m close enough to lend her my strength if she needs it but far enough to give her the space she needs to absorb what she’s seeing.
“Why didn’t you finish it?”
“It didn’t feel right to when our story was incomplete.”
She swallows a big gulp of air.
“Maybe one day I’ll get to finish it.”
She scans the canvas one more time, as if committing it to memory, and then she does the one thing I expect her to do: she changes the subject.
“Are you ready to go? I want to go back to Tanya’s.”
I gently take the tarp from her hands and then turn and motion for her to walk in front of me. “I’m ready, Storm.”
She charges down the steps, but when she turns the corner, I catch her glancing up at the painting again.
I follow, grabbing my keys from the kitchen counter, when she swirls around to face me.
“Keys.”
“Huh?”
“You’re working off of no sleep, so I’ll drive. Keys.”
“Okay.” I toss them her way, amused when her jaw drops.
“Really? I thought you’d put up more of a fight.”
Her assumptions about me are always entertaining. “Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know. I just thought you’d be more possessive over your car.”
I guess she forgot I literally left my car at a gas station for her. I eliminate the space between us, pushing her hair off her shoulder as I cup the back of her neck. “Believe me, Storm. There’s a lot of things I’d be possessive over. A car isn’t one of them.”
Is it still considered stalking if you have good intentions?
I’m pretty sure it is, but that doesn’t stop me from clicking the next post.
Dani is physically so close to me and yet she still feels as far away as she did when this journey began. Ever since seeing Tanya’s note on her photo, I’ve been desperate to get closer to her. To just get a peek behind the curtain and make sure she’s okay. Hell, we could go back further than that. I’ve had this deep-seated desire to know and understand every facet of Dani since the day I met her in Tanya’s den. That hasn’t stopped, even when hurt, time, and distance stood between us. Watching her during the photoshoot in California, she seemed genuinely happy, but she’s so good at masking her feelings that I truly don’t know.
So now, while she’s only inches away from me, I’m scrolling through every picture she’s ever posted trying to see if I can see the signs. The signs of her unhappiness.
