Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
It feels bizarre to walk around this place without him. What’s even more bizarre is that sometimes I feel like I belong. Maybe it’s from all the photos he’s hung up. Maybe it’s from the way my plant collection mingled with his Lego plant collection. Maybe it’s from the way we’ve been sharing the bathroom, the kitchen, and the bed—of course, the bed.
I lead Gillian through the house, showing her some of the art on the walls. She pauses at a series of wildflowers and peaches. “These are beautiful,” she says, her eyes scanning the pieces. “Are they yours?”
I blink, surprised. “No, they’re not. But I helped him choose them before we were married.”
“Oh, really? Is that part of how you fell in love?”
The question stops me in my tracks. Am I in love with him? The thought is sudden, overwhelming. I know I’m falling for him—harder than I want to admit. Back when we picked those pieces, I thought we were just best friends, gallivanting around town, going to art festivals, choosing things for his walls. But now? Now, it feels like it’s becoming more. But can it? We promised to stay friends. We promised these benefits wouldn’t hurt the friendship. But the way we are together, in and out of bed, feels like a lot more than just beneficial.
“You know, maybe it is,” I say, the words feeling heavier than I’d expected. How do I even trust this storm of emotions inside me? The desire I feel for him, the way I count the hours when he’s away, the excitement when his texts pop up on my phone, the way my heart flutters when he comes home.
Gillian walks to the foyer, turning her attention to one of the mirrors I’ve been working on. “Tell me about these,” she says, her face lighting up.
I smile and laugh as I show her one with an inscription about dragons and underwear. “We’ve been getting a lot of advice since we got married—maybe it’s a newlywed thing. So I started a series inspired by it. I just finished a new one. Want to see it?”
I grab the latest mirror I worked on in the studio when I got a free hour, and the woman I shared the space with wasn’t using it. I painted it in seashell blue. “We all need a hot friend in our bed, don’t we?” I say, quoting one of the inscriptions.
“Words to live by,” Gillian laughs.
“The woman who married us said that,” I explain.
“Is that what started the ‘love lessons’ theme?”
“Actually, it was a lesson about dragon underwear. And I’m going to add Eleanor’s latest—‘a little spritz of perfume.’” I smirk, thinking of her words from yesterday. “It’s the little things we do to make our partners happy—if they’re worthy of us.”
Gillian smiles warmly. “You’re right about that—we need to make sure our partners are worthy. And I guess I just gave you some advice too.”
I laugh. “You did.”
“Are you planning to sell these at the night market?” she asks.
I pause, considering. Then I smile. “Yes, I’m doing a series. And you know what? I think I’ll turn this into a full line.”
Impulsive as always, but this feels right. I’ve always thought there should be a line of pieces inspired by all this love advice. People keep giving it to us—why not use it?
That evening, Asher calls me from his hotel room. “How’d the shoot go?” he asks.
“It was great,” I say, reflecting on the day. “I’m going to turn the mirrors into a line.”
“I love that. You should,” he says. “They’re fun and clever and romantic.”
“I think so too. And for the first time, I feel like people are hiring me for me, not because of you. Is that weird?”
“No,” he says. “It’s amazing.”
And it does feel amazing. When I go to bed, I feel this quiet strength burrowing inside me. This knowledge that I have real talent—a belief that I’m not simply getting jobs because I’m Mrs. Callahan. Sure, I’m having a blast playing that role. But people are hiring Maeve Hartley, the woman who can paint. The woman who has great ideas. The woman who’s following her dreams. I pick up my mother’s book, flipping through it, looking for a message. But maybe the message is in the thing itself—the dream she followed.
And I’ll keep chasing mine because it feels so good to know…that I am worthy.
Me. Just me.
A few days later, Gillian comes back to the studio space I rent with other artists for the final shot of the California Style photo spread. I never fully moved my art supplies, my canvases and paints and brushes, into the guest room at Asher’s home. That felt like taking over. But more so, I suppose I also simply prefer working in a studio rather than a bedroom, even a cramped one like this, even one I need to share.