“You should attend her show. She’d probably get a kick out of seeing how much you’ve grown up.”
Outwardly, my face is void of any reaction, but inwardly, I’m grimacing at my mom’s choice of words. Pretty sure Juliet thought I was plenty “grown up” before. “Yeah, maybe.”
My mom waves her hand like I’m an annoying fly. “I know that when you say maybe, it means no.”
I smile. “Where do you think I got that from? You and Dad were famous for your maybe/nos.”
“Before I forget, I made you some brownies to bring home.”
Stepping over to her, I feel her head, checking for a fever. “Are you sick?”
She raises both brows in question. “Why would I be?”
“I don’t know how to tell you this, but you’ve never really been the mom who bakes their kid treats.”
“Can’t I be that now? Do we have to stay in one lane our entire adulthood?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Did it ever occur to you that your father and I might have regrets about our parenting?”
“You having them, I can believe. But Dad?” I shake my head. “No way. He’s the definition of a hardass father. I can’t see him regretting anything he’s done. That would mean admitting to himself that he might’ve been wrong about something. That’ll never happen.”
“Don’t be so hard on him.” My mom’s reply falls on deaf ears.
“How can you say that to me with a straight face?”
“I love you both,” she says by way of explanation. For the sake of not upsetting her, I’m going to drop all discussion of my dad. His parenting skills might need improving, but he loves my mom and is loyal to her.
“I know you do. I love you too, Mom. You don’t need to bake me treats to earn my love. You already have it. But if you want to try, then make me some chocolate chip cookies. Those are my favorite.” I wink.
“Why did I let you talk me into going to her show?” I say to Liz.
“Because you know I’m right. And deep down, you want to see Juliet.”
“I’m not so sure about wanting to see her. It’s more of a need than a want. I’m always going to have fond memories of her, and I’m curious if the attraction is still there.”
“What if it is? Would you want to pick right up where you left off?”
“I can’t say until I see her.”
“What if she’s married?”
“That’ll put an abrupt end to any thoughts I have about her. I’m not wrecking a marriage.”
“What if she doesn’t remember you?” Liz giggles.
“Come on. Like that’s gonna happen. I may have been eighteen, but I rocked her world for four days and nights. I lost track of how many times we had sex.” Just thinking about it gives me a semi. I discreetly adjust myself and focus on the road. I play our relationship off as just sex, but it was more than that for me. We spoke about our hopes and dreams for the future. I’m glad she’s achieving hers, and while I’m unsure attending her show is the right thing to do, I’ll be happy to personally witness her success.
I luck out when a Porsche pulls away from a curbside space and I’m able to back right in. This is no small feat on Newbury Street—maybe it’s a sign that tonight will go well.
“Are you ready?” Liz asks once we’re standing on the sidewalk in front of the large brownstone that houses the famous Metropolis Art Gallery.
“As ready as I’ll be, I guess.” Heart galloping behind my rib cage, we step inside the well lit gallery. Eyes sorting through the crowd of people, I search for a sign of Juliet.
“Any sign of her?” Liz asks.
“Not yet. But this place is five floors of exhibits, so she could be anywhere. Let’s check out the artwork and eventually we’ll find her.”
She nods. “Sounds good to me. Her paintings are beautiful.”
“They are,” I agree.
We wander through the first floor, which consists of cityscapes, and then move to the second floor. Here we find images of a pregnant woman, but her face doesn’t show. It’s a view of her rounded, naked stomach with two hands resting on either side. It’s painted as if the mother is looking down at her own stomach. As my gaze glides over the details, I wonder if she painted this from experience.
The next image is the back view of a little blond boy and a woman staring out at a harbor. The woman’s hair falls to mid-back in slight waves. While the color is similar, Juliet’s hair was shoulder length and pin straight, which makes me think this isn’t a self-portrait.
“Uh… Emmett. You might want to see this,” Liz says urgently.
Moving over to the next image displayed, I gasp. There’s no question this time that Juliet painted herself. She’s there in full color, every part of her face as accurate as if I were looking at a live version. But that’s not what caused my surprised reaction. It’s the little toddler posed next to her that caught my attention. He appears to be around three years old, and his blond hair sweeps across his forehead. But the most astonishing part is that my face smiles back at me from the canvas—make that a miniature version of my face.
What the fuck is going on?
My brain feels sluggish as I try to muddle through what I’m seeing.
“Jesus. Does this mean you have a kid you didn’t know about? Or is she crazy and imagined one?”
I rub a shaking hand over my brow. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now.” I’m shook.
Liz hooks her arm through mine, and I appreciate the strength she’s offering. “Let’s look around some more and see if we can find any clues.” Her clear thinking is welcome. I’m still numb and don’t know if I’m coming or going.
Do I have a son I didn’t know about?
And if I do, why would Juliet keep him from me?
What could be her motivation?
“Breathe, Emmett.” She pats my arm. “You look as white as one of these statues. People might mistake you for part of the show,” she jokes, and her humor is appreciated. If it wasn’t for her, I’d probably have flipped the fuck out by now and demanded to see Juliet.
Moving to the next painting doesn’t offer any clarity. If anything, it makes things more confusing when I see the same boy stretching his arms upward as if he wants to be lifted from his feet.
“This gets weirder and weirder,” Liz mumbles under her breath.
“Emmett?” I hear my name called in a hoarse whisper.
Slowly, I turn and find Juliet standing before me. I feel disconnected. Like I’m broken apart and none of my parts are functioning at full capacity. My brain feels foggy and my limbs won’t work. I’m frozen in place.
Her green eyes that reminded me of a tropical escape are so large in her petite face. Liz pinches the inside of my arm where her hand rests, snapping me out of my daze.
“Juliet,” I husk her name.
“How are you?” she asks.
“Good. And you?”
“I’m well.” She gestures at her paintings on the wall. “I wasn’t sure this day would ever come.”