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)
“They’ll buy it,” I say.
“I’ll be home later,” she promises.
“Okay,” I reply, trying to sound upbeat, but the disappointment sneaks in. I do love her mac and cheese, but I wanted to see her. It’s been a week and a half on the road—New York, Boston, Toronto, then Vegas on the way back. I miss her.
“And we will do our best impression of the Greers,” she adds.
I brighten. “We will.”
“No repeats of that brunch.”
I adopt the older man’s voice, raspy and with a wink in it as I imagine him. “I remember the honeymoon phase—we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.”
“Hey! I want a honeymoon. You’d better not stiff me on Paris.”
I laugh. She has no idea how much I want to take her anywhere. “When the season ends after The Cup, I’ll take you there,” I say, meaning it, but knowing it won’t really happen.
“I’ll start planning,” she says.
Briefly, I feel a twinge in my chest. It’s late-February; I’m sure this will be over well before the season ends. We’ll get through this piece tomorrow, and then surely, we’ll fade quietly from interest.
Shame.
But what can I do?
I hang up and head inside. The second I turn the corner of the steps onto the main level, the air rushes out of my lungs. The place looks…different.
Maeve doesn’t mess around. She’s never done anything halfway, and this proves it. I look around, taking it all in—the plants, the tarot deck she nicknamed Tatiana on the coffee table, along with the books too. Art books from her favorites: Lichtenstein, Klimt, Cindy Sherman, Barbara Kruger. Even a book on graffiti art.
I pick it up, intrigued, but then my gaze shifts to something else—a photo on the table behind the couch in a simple silver frame. My chest tightens as I step closer.
It’s…our wedding photo.
Holy shit.
I walk over and pick it up. In the picture, I’m holding her hand as Hitch reads the exchange of vows. I’m wearing that ruffled suit, she’s in that Marilyn dress, and I’m looking at her like I can’t look away.
I still can’t. It takes me a long time to put it down.
When I do, I spin around and check out the plant table. She arranged her living ones with my Lego ones. But what’s that? Something shiny rests against the orchid. I head over to a small oval mirror with a sketch on it that looks vaguely familiar. When I reach it, my heart sprints. That’s…holy shit. I pick it up. It’s the sketch of the couple almost kissing she sent me last week. But she’s painted them into the corner of the mirror. Next to them are the words: Keep snacks handy at all times.
The first piece of advice her friends gave me weeks ago. I had no idea the sketch she sent me would find its way into a piece of her art. But of course, it would. It feels like a secret message to me, which is such a ridiculous thing to think. And yet, here I am, thinking it. Like I did last week with the image and the words for you, I run my finger along the advice. A key to Maeve.
But I know another key to Maeve—making her realize her work matters. And it matters greatly to me. I trot down to the garage, grab a hammer and a nail, and return to the living room, grabbing the little mirror.
Then I go to the foyer and hang it up—right by the front door.
Where it belongs.
Once I return the hammer, I wander into the kitchen, where I spot a dish rack full of her mugs. I smile stupidly. Yeah, this is all for show. I’d do well to remember that. But damn, did she ever understand the assignment. She left her imprint everywhere. My favorite is the white mug in the sink with the words I’m a Fucking Ray of Sunshine on the side and her lipstick marks on the rim. Raspberry. She’s already drunk from this mug.
I might stare at the shape of her lips for a good long time. It’s only when I realize I’m jealous of a mug that I tear myself away, letting it clatter in the stainless steel sink before I do something like, I don’t know, drink from it just to touch the spot where her lips have been. I wouldn’t put that past me at this point.
I go upstairs, and once I turn into the bedroom, I’m caught in a tractor beam, drawn to another photo, the one on my nightstand. It’s one more shot of us at our wedding. And I’m kissing her.
I walk over to it, in a goddamn trance.
I sink down on the bed like I’m in another world, picking it up, studying it, and getting a little lost in time.
Maeve’s eyes are closed, and she looks like every one of her kissing paintings. Like she needs to be kissed by me. Badly.