Every Way (Brush of Love 4)

Work had been good, though I had heard from Hailey very little. She was supposed to be conducting her first round of interviews today, and I figured I’d hear from her. I thought about going to her gallery to see how she was, but if she was in the middle of interviews, I didn’t want to interrupt her. But there was something churning in my gut. There was something that just felt off.

I was driving home from the foundation and decided to pick up dinner. With having all those interviews today, I knew Hailey wouldn’t feel like cooking. I drove through our favorite takeout place and got her all her favorites. I was planning on massaging her feet while she talked to me about her interviews. I wanted to hear all about them and who she was leaning toward. I wanted her opinions and her thoughts. I wanted to hear about all the paintings she had sold now that her European tour had come to a close.

Really, I was simply eager to see her.

Going on that tour with her had been wonderful, but now that we were both back at work, I missed her. I missed having her around and making memories with her. I missed walking the streets with her hand settled in mine. One of the great things about that tour was that we got to spend so much time with one another. I got to watch her shine and do what she loved to do. I got to support her and visit so many exotic places with her at my side.

And now that we were back in the real world, I missed having her in my sights during the day.

“Hailey? I’m home.”

I walked through the door and saw her sitting on the couch.

“I brought your favorite,” I said.

But still, she didn’t greet me.

“Hailey?” I asked.

“Bryan?”

“Of course, it’s me. Who else would it be?” I asked.

She was sitting on the couch, and her eyes looked distant, glossed over and withdrawn like maybe she was upset. I walked over to her and put the food on the coffee table before I cradled her close to me. Had something gone wrong with the interviews? Was she not feeling well?

“Hailey? Are you all right?” I asked.

She turned her head toward me, and I could tell something was wrong. And with Hailey’s history of trying to keep things from me so she could protect me, I knew I had to tread lightly. I slipped my arm around her waist and pulled her close, and her body didn’t even fight my movements. If this was her pregnancy making her feel this way, she would’ve fought me. She hated being touched if her body was feeling achy or sick.

“What happened today at work?” I asked. “Did something happen with the interviews?”

“Just such a long day,” she said.

She wasn’t lying, but she certainly wasn’t indulging. I knew she was dealing with pregnancy hormones, but something else was wrong. Something had taken place at work, but I had to respect that maybe she wasn’t ready to talk about it. It wasn’t like her cancer. It wasn’t like she was denying there was a problem. She openly admitted that it had been a hard day for her, so she was probably processing everything now.

I didn’t want to upset her, so I stuck with the topical comforts to try and ease her mind a bit.

“You know whatever it is, I want to hear about it, right?” I asked.

“I know,” she said.

“No matter how bad your day was, I want to be here to help you through it. Even if it means helping you unwind from it.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I’m just so tired. The interviews and the questions. Just watching them be so perky was draining.”

“How many did you have today?” I asked.

“Four. All in my last two hours of work.”

“Yikes,” I said. “Wonderful timing.”

“It was my fault. I figured the gallery wouldn’t be too busy today. Thursdays are usually my empty days now. But not today,” she said with a sigh.

That was what was bothering her. It wasn’t a busy day, but there was something that happened in her gallery before those interviews. I studied Hailey closely as her eyes locked onto the wall. She was slipping back into herself. Into her mind. It was like she was reliving something, like her memories were pulling her back somehow.

Her glazed expression looked somewhat reminiscent of the gaze my mother had at dinner the other night.

“Did someone come in asking about John’s paintings again?” I asked.