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“You could have warned me.”
“That would have rendered the entire thing pointless.”
“I suppose.”
“Look, I didn’t have to tell you the truth.”
“Why did you?” She sounded genuinely curious.
“Because I want at least one person to know who he really is, and unfortunately, that person is you, whether you like it or not.”
“Lucky me.” The beginnings of a smile tugged at her lips, though. She watched the restaurant door for a while. “He really enjoyed hearing about my pottery class.”
“He genuinely likes you. He wouldn’t have wasted his time watching anyone he didn’t like.”
“And you love him?”
“Yes.”
“And he loves you?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
She finally looked back at me. Her expression was still wary, but she didn’t get up to leave.
“Well,” she said, reaching for her Pepsi. “I suppose that explains why the poor man looked so pleased with himself every time he remembered to breathe.”
Epilogue
Rowan
One year later
I’d started painting because I needed something to fill the space drugs and alcohol had occupied, something I could lose myself in that wouldn’t leave me unconscious on a bathroom floor—or dead on one.
Tonight, those paintings hung on pristine white walls beneath carefully positioned lights, and people wanted to pay actual money for them.
It was difficult to take in.
“You’re doing it again,” I murmured.
Pascal looked away from the man studying my largest painting and turned to me. “Doing what?”
“Watching people look at my work instead of looking at the work itself.”
“I’ve already seen all of it. I was there when you painted most of them. I enjoy watching people’s expressions change.” He frowned, leaning in so no one else would hear him. “Is there anything else I’m supposed to be doing?”
“You’re supposed to pretend to find new meaning in every brushstroke while drinking champagne.”
He considered the notion for a few seconds. “Watching people is more interesting.”
I laughed. “Some things never change.”
Neither of us was drinking the champagne, but walking around empty-handed would have looked strange.
Pascal smiled. He looked unfairly good in a black suit and a dark blue shirt, one hand resting at the base of my spine. We probably resembled one of those insufferable couples who coordinated their outfits and claimed it was an accident.
Another group wandered past, one woman offering congratulations. I thanked her despite having no idea who she was. The gallery was full of friends, potential buyers, and people who’d probably come for the free alcohol, but it didn’t matter why they were here. Not when four paintings already had red dots beside them.
