“To what?”
“Tara’s first show.”
I opened the unsealed envelope and pulled out the card inside. “It’s tomorrow night.”
Doc nodded. “We’ll all be there. Expect you to be too.”
I put the card back inside. “Does Tara know I received an invite?”
When Doc shook his head, I tried to hand the envelope back to him.
“Then, I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t ask a whole hell of a lot outside work, but I am now. As a personal favor, please reconsider.
I set the card on the table. “What if my being there ruins it for her?”
“Can you trust me?”
With my life, but we weren’t talking about me. This was about Tara. I pulled the invitation back out of the envelope and read it over a second time. “You think a lot of people will be there?”
“I’m sure of it.”
Maybe, then, she’d be so busy she wouldn’t even notice I was there. “I’ll do my best.”
When we said goodnight, I walked the crowded streets of Boston’s North End. Even this late at night, it was vibrant and bustling. I’d taken a car service, knowing how hard it would be to park in this area, and would take one back to my apartment in Back Bay, later, when I walked off the angst I felt, wishing I knew what to do about Tara.
Countless times I thought about getting in touch with her, talking myself out of it an equal number. Whenever I was alone, I’d get lost in my head, replaying every moment I’d spent with her, wishing I had done it better.
I missed everything about Tara. I dreamed of her so often—her smile, her laugh, her soft skin, the heat of her body. Mine yearned to be near hers.
When I left Italy, she’d said goodbye, cutting me off, telling me not to embarrass myself before I could say…what? I couldn’t even remember. That I was sorry. That I’d do anything if she’d forgive me for not protecting her, not believing her, not trusting she was exactly who my heart kept telling me she was, even though my brain fought so hard against it.
If I could go back and do it again, I wouldn’t let her silence me. I’d tell her all those things. I’d also tell her the most important thing of all. That no matter how crazy it sounded, I loved her.
It wouldn’t matter how much time passed or how long it was before I saw her again. We might meet one day, maybe as strangers, yet I’d still love her the same.
30
Tara
“Don’t be mad,” said Pen, who was practically tiptoeing into my studio.
“What did you do?”
She handed me an envelope. “Open it.”
I pulled out the enclosed card and read the first line.
Please join us in celebrating the first US showing of artist Catarina Benedetto’s Tuscan Collection.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Pen? This is in three days!”
“Is that all you’re mad about?”
“You’re kidding, right?” I sat down on the stool by the window and read the invitation for the second time, at least until the tears that filled my eyes made it impossible to continue. “Pen, how could you do this?”
“It wasn’t just her.” Quinn walked in the studio door.