My eyes go wide with surprise. “Neil had a girlfriend when you two met?”
She nods. “Like I said, horrible, awful timing.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Well, you and Bram were just kids at the time, and I was trying like hell to keep you guys out of all the drama. And trust me, there was some drama. There were a hundred different reasons why Neil and I shouldn’t have been together.
“But I felt it, Ansel. And he felt it. And now, here we are, over twenty years later. Together. Happy. Still feeling it. All I’m saying is, sometimes, it’s not black-and-white. Sometimes, things are very, very gray. And all you can do is lead with the best intentions, and then it’s up to fate to decide.”
“This feels like horrible advice for a mother to give her son about cheating.”
She smacks me. “I said to lead with the best of intentions. I just know…sometimes, you can’t control the rest.”
“Why did you tell me all of this?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just felt like you needed to hear it.”
I let her words soak in, and I stare out through the windows and up at the sky.
I don’t know why Indy is the girl in my paintings, the girl inside my mind.
And I sure as fuck don’t know why I’m so drawn to her, why I can never seem to stop thinking about her. Why being with her feels like my own personal slice of heaven.
But I guess all I can do right now is what my mother said.
Lead with the best intentions.
Fuck, I hope I’m doing this.
If Indy’s in a relationship with Matt, that’s her choice. I can’t rob her of the one she would have to make to be with me.
And with the way her face crumpled at the idea of being together the other night, it doesn’t seem like she’s ready to make it.
That’s why I kept the truth about the kiss to myself.
“Now, if you don’t mind,” my mom says and stands up from the couch. “I’d like for you to come inside with me so we can eat some dessert, okay?”
If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that one never keeps Della from her dessert.
“Okay.” I grin without hesitation and take her outstretched hand. And as we walk into the house, I remind myself of her last piece of advice.
Let fate decide.
Indy
At a little after six, I trudge up the steps inside my building, and even my bones ache with how damn tired I am. The day was a blur of crazy kids excited about Valentine’s Day and crazy adults feeling the exact opposite.
Mary, my newly single coworker, is having a Single Girls party tonight, and at least ten percent of the female faculty is going.
She tried to wrangle me into coming to the thing, but I reminded her—and myself a little bit—that I have a boyfriend.
And the three music lessons I had after school proved to be just as difficult.
From here on out, I’m going to make it a rule that I call out of work on any and all holidays that don’t result in a day off already.
When I reach the front door of my apartment, I find a large bouquet of beautiful flowers sitting on my doorstep. Shades of reds and pinks and whites fill my eyes, and I reach down to run my index finger over the petals of the roses inside the vase. A small white note sticks out from the top, and my heart pounds wildly inside my chest as I pull it into my hand and read the printed text.
Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.
Sorry I couldn’t be there, but just know I’m thinking about you.
And I hope these flowers put a smile on my pretty valentine’s face.
Love, Matt
The rhythm inside my chest skips a beat before returning to a rapid pace—this time, for an entirely different reason.
Sweet, thoughtful, thousands of miles away Matt.
The flowers were a caring gesture, but my heart hurts at the oftentimes long-distance reality of our relationship. We’ve been together for over a year, and I can count on one finger how many holidays we’ve spent together—not this past Christmas, but the previous one.
This overwhelming feeling of disappointment overcomes me, and I hate my mind for turning something like flowers from my boyfriend into something bad.
Why am I disappointed? Why am I feeling this enduring melancholy?
Because your boyfriend is so far away, I force myself to think. Any other reason I could come up with—any other person I could think about—is unwarranted and inappropriate.
I nod, convinced I have myself under control, and grab the bouquet. I carry the flowers into my apartment and set them on the kitchen island. Once my jacket is off and my keys and purse are on the counter, I grab the takeout menu from the pizzeria up the street and call in an order for delivery.