The Girl in the Painting

I’m just…numb. And my body is so fucking tired. My bones ache and my muscles throb and I should probably sleep, but I know it’s an impossibility. Not with the way my mind races. Like a sprinter jumping out of the blocks at the sound of the gun—only, there is no finish line. There is no destination. Only this never-ending path of uncertainty and disbelief and utter confusion.

I slide the letter into the pocket of my robe and head back into the living room.

To the box I pulled from the very top shelf of my closet. Its contents spill across the coffee table like liquid from an overturned glass.

Wedding invitations.

My engagement ring—the one Adam gave to me while we were on a weekend trip to Los Angeles for his shoot with a popular architecture magazine. The night before we flew back home, he drove us to Santa Monica and proposed to me on the beach.

It was magical. One of the happiest days of my life.

I slide the ring onto my finger and watch the way the glow from the recessed lights in my living room bounces off the center diamond. When Adam put this ring on my finger, I thought it would stay there forever.

But our forever was short-lived.

I slide it off again and place it back inside the box before picking up the stack of photographs.

Adam’s photographs.

With shaky hands, I rifle through them all before settling back on the one that set the last couple of days into motion. My hair is down, and I’m grinning a small, over-the-shoulder smile, the tiny red heart etched into the skin of my lower back.

It is identical to Ansel’s painting, and now…now, I have some understanding of why.

When this photo was taken, I thought Adam and I would grow old together. I thought we’d get married and have kids and, years later, grandkids. When he died, I lost all hope. I lost hope for the future. Hope for love. A robot girl just bee-booping through the motions.

Until hope came crashing back in again.

Until Ansel.

God, it feels so good to be near him. So good to come alive again.

I fear once I tell him the truth, once I show him the letter, his letter, he’ll walk out of my life and take all of that hope with him.

Will he ever be able to stop wondering how I really feel about him? Will he know how he really feels about me?

Four years ago, Adam died. And four years ago, Ansel regained his sight.

Ansel’s eyes are Adam’s eyes.

Ansel

I walk up the stairs of her apartment building and rap my knuckles against Indy’s front door.

Once. Twice. Three times. And I wait.

She hasn’t answered my texts or calls and rather than waiting—rather than denying the almost instinctual feeling that all is not well—I decided to take things into my own hands. To come to her. To see if she’s okay. To just…see her.

This feeling of impending doom sits on my chest, and my heart twists and turns beneath my ribs as I wait for her to answer the door. When footsteps filter out from inside her apartment, a large breath of air escapes my lungs on a whoosh.

And then, she’s there, opening the door in nothing but a robe.

She’s beautiful. God, she’s beautiful. But, in my eyes, Indy is always beautiful.

But something doesn’t feel right. Not in the way she discreetly averts her eyes from mine. Not in the way her teeth bite into her bottom lip. Not in the way she’s yet to say a single word.

“Hey,” I say through a smile, but her responding smile feels foreign and forced. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” Indy nods. “What are you doing here?”

She shivers from the coolness of the hallway and gestures me inside before closing her door with a squeak and a click.

Why am I here? Because I feel like something is terribly wrong.

Because I have this nagging anxiety that’s crept inside my veins, and it’s making me feel like, any second, the world is going to end.

I’m here because the night I made love to you, the night we made love, my heart was forever changed. And now, it feels like you’ve just taken it all away and left me floundering for no fucking reason.

“I haven’t heard from you in a while…” I pause and run a hand through my hair. “And I just wanted to check on you, make sure you’re okay.”

“Sorry about that,” she says and moves her gaze to the floor. “Things have been a little busy.”

It’s like she can’t even look at me. Like it’s causing her physical pain.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” I ask and reach down to slip my fingers under her chin so she has to meet my gaze.

It’s then I realize I’ve shown up unannounced.

What if her boyfriend is here?

Internally, I cringe.