The Girl in the Painting

I inhale a shaky breath as visuals of that night flash behind my eyes.

But I can’t stop now. I have to keep going. I have to tell someone.

I have to tell him.

“We had a pretty big fight over it, and that night, he was trying to make it. He was trying to be there, at Lincoln Center, to see me play. But like always, his photo shoot had him running late. And I was mad at him, Ansel,” I say, and a sob wrenches itself from my throat. “I was so mad at him for not being there. It was the biggest night of my career, and he missed it. He missed the entire thing.”

Ansel’s fingers grip me tighter to his chest.

“He was trying to be there. Riding his motorcycle through New York traffic. That stupid bike I hated so much because he would never wear a helmet and rode like a maniac through the busy streets of the city… And he never made it, Ansel. He never made it to my concert.”

Another sob and three more shaky breaths.

“He died trying to get there. All because I gave him such a hard time about it. All because of me, he died.” The last six words are painful, like knives scraping against my tongue as they leave my lips.

All of the guilt I’ve held on to for so long boils to the surface and releases itself through more tears, more sobs. My body shakes with grief, and Ansel grips me tighter.

“God, Indy,” he whispers into my wet hair. “I didn’t know.”

“The last time I saw him, I was mad and pissed and upset, and I never once said I love you. Those are his last memories of me,” I cry. “Not happy. Not loving. Not how they should have been. But angry and mad and just…awful. When I found out what happened, I couldn’t even touch a violin anymore without getting sick.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Indy,” Ansel says quietly, but his words are firm. “There was no way for you to know.”

“I should’ve known,” I reply. “But I should’ve known.”

“Indy,” he says, and his voice turns soft and soothing. “His death wasn’t your fault. There is no doubt in my mind that he was rushing to your concert because he wanted to be there. Not because you guys had a fight the night before, but because you were important to him.”

It wasn’t your fault, Indy.

Somewhere, deep inside of me, I’ve always held deep-rooted guilt that I’d let Adam down. That I’d played a role in his death. But Ansel’s words permeate my bones, and I feel a small part of that weight slowly lift from my heart.

I find the strength to lift my eyes to his, and I search his face for some kind of sign, some kind of answer to all of these crazy circumstances that have brought us together, some kind of explanation for the electric connection that pulled us toward each other.

Still pulls us.

“What are you doing to me?” I ask on a whisper. “What are you doing to me, Ansel? It’s like you’ve reached inside my chest and wrapped your hands around my heart and soul. Today was the first day I’ve picked up the violin in four years,” I whisper in a rush. “Because of the painting. Because of you. You affect me in ways no one ever has, and I know this is insane for you. I know this is terrifying, but my heart has already made her choice. And she wants you, Ansel.”

The words fall from my lips before I can stop them, and still, I can’t stop them.

It’s like the faucet has been opened, and I’m just letting everything I’m thinking and feeling flow out.

“God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I’m saying all of this to you. I’m not trying to make you feel bad for walking away. I just…I just…” I just want you. Only you.

Ansel

I place both of my hands on the wet skin of her cheeks and bring her gaze back to mine. She is tear-stained and rain-stained and so fucking lovely, it makes my chest ache with need for her. In my eyes, no one will ever compare to Indy.

“Three years ago, I picked up my brush again,” I say and stare deep into her eyes. “Because of you. You saved me, Indy. And yeah, this connection of ours and the situation that has brought us together are scary. Insane, even. But I don’t care about the why or the how. I don’t care about anything but you.”

“Ansel,” she whispers my name like a prayer.

“I love you, Indy,” I tell her even though those three little words don’t even come close to how I feel about her. “Not because of my eyes, but because of what’s inside of your heart and how your soul matches mine. I’m so deep in love with you, Indy, there is no going back for me. There is no moving on from this.” I press my lips to hers, softly, tenderly, and I lift her hand to cover my chest. “This is real love. And fuck, I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life for this, for you.”