Hazel is watching me, then she leans into Sam and smiles. “We should get going.”
Like she knows something is wrong, and she’s protecting Sam from it. I can’t say I blame her. I nod, and remind her that I do want to have coffee soon.
When we’re alone, Luke steps back a little, giving me a bit more space. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he mutters under his breath. “I was working on something and time got away from me.”
Old Grace would let him off the hook. That’s not me anymore. “I was worried you weren’t going to make it.”
“I felt like shit when I realized how late it had gotten. And then I had to shave and shower and…” He glances around. “I haven’t missed the press, have I? They said they’d be here toward the end of the night. I wanted it to be really busy when—”
“They haven’t come back yet. That part is fine.”
He exhales sharply. “Good.”
“Do you want a drink?”
“No, I’m good.” He glances around. “I want to see the show. Do you have time to take me through it? Is there a booklet? How does this work?”
“We’ll be interrupted as we go, but as long as that’s okay…”
He wraps his hand around my elbow, turning me so we’re looking right at each other. “This is all about you. I just want to watch and celebrate.”
My arms are bare tonight, I’m wearing a silky, sleeveless black turtleneck over my favourite skinny black trousers, and I thought it was a perfect artsy outfit, the right mix of conservative and unexpected. I hadn’t thought about what it would feel like to have my husband pressed against me, his hands on my bare skin.
I can’t breathe.
I want to arch into him, have him tighten that grip to the point it leaves marks.
That’s not what we have. That’s not what I am to him.
Another thought, one even more dangerous, whispers so quietly I can’t really hear it. I twist away from Luke, grabbing his hand because that’s better than him holding my arm, and I drag him to the front of the gallery.
Booklet. Check. “Here you go.”
I shove it into his hands, and he nods. “Right. Alex gave me one of these. Sorry, I forgot.” He gives me a sad smile.
Nope, we’re not doing sad right now. I squeeze his fingers. “It’s all good. So this is my first piece…” I slide into my shtick, the narrative that is mostly true and safe for public consumption. It falls apart when we get to the back of the gallery, but it takes us almost an hour to get there, and by then, I’m used to having him stand next to me and look at my creations, my heart’s deepest desires come to life in three dimensions outside my body.
And then it’s time for the final piece.
I’ve caught him looking at it already.
Death of a Marriage.
It’s poured plaster, with metal and fabric embedded in it. It’s the same pose Luke struck for me eighteen years ago. His body is bigger now, and in the sculpture, it’s even bigger than he is now. This is Luke at the worst of the firm’s crisis, when he was thick around the middle, not taking care of himself. Some of that weight had fallen off in the last year, and even more dropped since I found out about the affair.
The arms wrapped around him are mine. I cast them from a rubber mold that I made by actually embracing the plaster body.
I love it, and I hate it. I had felt such liberation when I made it six months ago, but then I didn’t leave him.
I’m not as brave as this creation. Fly, my lovely. Fly far away.
But I don’t.
Luke stands in front of it silently for ages. Then he clears his throat gruffly. “That’s…”
“It was…” I can’t.
He wraps his arm around me, his fingers caressing my shoulder. “It’s brave.”
“I don’t know about that.” I twist away again. “I’m going to get a drink.”
He follows me to the bar, and Alex joins us. He has a friend with him, and they’re heading out. On their way out, they pass the photographer from The Star, who asks if he can take a picture of Alex.
Our friend refuses. It wouldn’t do for a middle grade fiction author to be photographed at a kinky art show.
Echoes of Luke, not wanting the Preston name attached to the show.
And yet now he waves the photographer over, introduces himself, and is happy to pose for a whole set of pictures with me.
By the time the show winds down, my cheeks hurt, my heart aches, and my feet are ready to fall off.
Luke drives me home, and I don’t complain. Then he walks me to my door, which I also don’t hate. When I unlock the door, he leans against the wall instead of heading for the elevator as he has the last couple of days. I give me a narrowed-eye what are you doing look.
He grins. “I’m going. I just want to make sure you get inside safely first.”
I laugh and push the door open, but then the chuckle dies.
The loft is full of balloons, and there’s a bottle of champagne sitting in an ice bucket just inside the door. Beside it is a newspaper, but when I step inside and pick it up, I realize it’s today’s paper with stuff glued to the front.
He’s made a headline from other words and pasted over the real headline. The cobbled together one reads, Local Artist Stuns City With Incredible Show.
The photo below it is a picture of me in my studio, which he must have printed from my website.
It’s very thoughtful.
“One day you will be front page news. Canada’s own dirty Banksy, and I’ll remember tonight as that turning point. I’m not the artist that you are, but I did my best to capture—”
I spin around and throw my arms around him, cutting him off. “It’s great,” I mumble into his chest. “Thank you.”
“Step by step,” he whispers.
I twirl forward, grabbing some of the balloons, letting myself just be happy for a minute. When I stop, he’s picked up the bottle of wine. “Do you want me to open this for you?”
“Do you want to share it?”
“Yes.” Another grin. I’ve missed his smile. “But if you want me to leave you alone with it, that’s fine too. Pour yourself a glass and go have a bubble bath.”
That sounds nice, but company sounds better. “No. I want you to stay.” I glance around the loft. He let himself in here earlier, which is…a problem. But a sweet one, and I’ll worry about that tomorrow. “Stay here. I’ll get glasses.”
“We could move to the couch,” he calls after me.
“Don’t be so familiar,” I holler back.
I grab two flutes and return, plopping myself down on the floor.
He joins me.
“Can we just sit together? Be still together?”
He nods.
“I’m kind of scared of sitting in stillness. I always have been. It sounds like a fate worse than death. Like if I stop moving, stop worrying…” I shudder.
“What will happen?”
“Self-doubt. Panic? Self-recrimination.”
“I’m familiar with all three. I call them the shame monster.”
I look at him in surprise. “Really?”
“Therapy.”