by Nash, Willa
There was no going back.
This had to be all or nothing, and while it was sweet of him to come by and bring the necessities, Hux wasn’t acting out of love.
This was guilt.
My head was getting dizzy from the short breaths. My calves burned from standing on my tiptoes. I took one last look at him, my paint-splattered, handsome and weary husband, then sank to my heels and backed away from the door.
One step. Two. Three. I moved far enough away that I could fill my lungs as my ears stayed trained on the man behind the door.
It wasn’t until his footsteps echoed down the stairwell that I relaxed my spine. I counted to twenty before sneaking to the door, double-checking the peephole twice, then slowly unlocking the deadbolt and twisting the knob.
I snatched up my clothes and the muffin, raced inside and closed the door. Setting the clothes on the bed, I lifted Hux’s sweatshirt and pressed it to my nose. Soap and spice and paint. Hux. I’d missed falling asleep to that scent. I pulled it over my head, letting the thick cotton dwarf my frame, then picked up the muffin and carefully removed the wrapper.
The first bite melted in my mouth, the inside still steaming from the oven. A moan escaped at the buttery, sweet flavor. No matter what I ate today, it would pale in comparison. That had been the case with all breakfasts in the past week.
Because even my foolish taste buds loved Hux.
I walked to the window, sticking close to the curtains I’d drawn so they’d camouflage my silhouette. Morning sunshine streamed through the glass, warming the apartment. My gaze zeroed in on Hux as he walked down the sidewalk.
His hands were stuffed into his pockets, tugging the denim of his jeans around the curve of his perfect behind. The long sleeves of his shirt were shoved up his forearms. His lengthy strides ate up the distance between my building and the gallery. Damn, that man had a sexy walk.
I popped another bite of muffin in my mouth just as he glanced over his shoulder to my window.
Like I’d done the other days this week, I didn’t hide when he spotted me. I ate my breakfast as he paused on the sidewalk and stared.
Hux raised one hand, straight in the air.
I didn’t return the wave.
He held it for a long moment, then dropped it to his side. His chin fell. He looked away. And he continued on to the gallery.
Damn you, Hux.
Why had he made it impossible not to love him? My heart twisted. Was I cruel for punishing him like this?
Sooner rather than later, we’d have to have the difficult conversation. Or, have it again. Divorce had seemed so trivial, so practical, when we’d started this marriage. Now the word terrified me. Because once this was over, we’d be over.
We were over.
I stood and watched the beginnings of a busy day in Calamity. The visitors from the holiday weekend seemed to have lingered in the area.
Yesterday had been Memorial Day and I’d escaped the confines of my apartment to watch the annual parade with Lucy. Duke had been on sheriff duty, ensuring the event went off safely. Afterward, the three of us had gone to their house for an afternoon barbeque.
Lucy had offered to let me sleep in their guest room, but I’d wanted to come back to the apartment. She didn’t know Hux stopped by every morning.
Though she knew we were having troubles, I hadn’t worked up the courage to tell her that the marriage was a sham.
Just like I hadn’t told her I was moving in four days.
That was on today’s not-so-fun to-do list.
I finished my muffin at the window, then put the wrapper in the trash and picked up my phone off the kitchen island.
There was a text from Hux.
Meet me for lunch?
I scoffed, my fingers flying. Can’t. I had a big breakfast.
Come by the gallery later. Let’s talk.
God, it was tempting. So tempting. But if we talked, my resolve would weaken. And damn it, I was still too mad.
He’d chosen everyone else in his life above me. Everyone. And when he’d realized the truth, it had been too late.
Instead of replying to his text, I pulled up my mom’s name and sucked in a deep breath, holding it until my lungs burned. Then I blew it out and pressed call before I lost my nerve.
She answered on the first ring. A change to her normal. “Everly?”
There was no strange tone. No bite on the v. “Hey, Mom.”
“How are you?”
“Fine. You?”
“Fine, thanks. We haven’t heard from you in a while.”
Because I hadn’t wanted to call. We’d traded some emails, but the announcement of my marriage had been our last conversation. Apparently, that was what our relationship had become. Phone calls to highlight major life events.
Like divorce.
“I have news,” I said. “I’ve been offered a job at an art gallery in New Orleans.”
I hadn’t been shy about using Reese Huxley Art on my résumé. Truthfully, it was the only employment—was it called employment if you were unpaid?—that wasn’t tied to singing or my time as a waitress.
Luckily, the curator of the New Orleans gallery had recognized Hux’s name, and I’d been offered the job. The pay was shit, but even shit was greater than zero. Today, after making the painful announcements to my family and friends, I’d be scouring the Big Easy’s classifieds for the most normal Roommate Wanted ad I could find.
“So you and your husband will be moving,” Mom said. “All right. Please send me your new address once you’re settled.”
“Actually,” I drawled, “it’s just me. I’m getting divorced.”
Silence. That dreaded silence.
It spread through my veins like poison. It reminded me that I was inadequate. That I was a failure.
I had enough of my own reminders that I was screwing up my life. I didn’t need hers too.
“Goodbye, Mom.”
“I’m coming to Montana.”
I’d barely caught her statement since I’d pulled the phone from my ear. “Say that again?”
“I’m coming to Montana. I’d like to see you and help as you get your affairs in order.”
This time when I pulled the phone from my ear, I made sure I’d dialed the right person. Because Cynthia Christian hadn’t expressed any desire to see me for years. And though her declaration was blunt, close to hinting that I couldn’t manage the divorce myself, there was some tenderness and concern buried beneath.
“We’ll kill each other,” I said.
She let out a dry laugh. “Probably.”
“Why now, Mom?”
“You got married, Everly. You joined your life with a man we don’t know. Your father didn’t get to walk you down the aisle. I don’t even have a picture. You did your taxes on TurboTax for goodness sake! There’s not a lot I can do for you but darn it, I can at least save you the time and do your taxes better than a computer program. You’re so set on cutting us out of your life, but would you please let me help with something? I can be there to support you in this divorce.”
My jaw dropped. My head spun. I shuffled to the couch, sitting on the edge before I toppled over.
“I-I didn’t realize you’d want to be included.” Or that she did my taxes herself.
“You’re my daughter.”
And she was my mother. Maybe I’d been too harsh on her these past few years. Maybe I had cut them out. “Why don’t we get along?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “You’re so much like my mother. You wouldn’t remember her, but we didn’t get on well. Though she would have called you a kindred spirit. She was bold, daring and vibrant. And I’m . . . I’m an accountant.”
Mom had reduced her personality to an occupation of numbers, rules and regulations.
“I’ve been doing some accounting,” I said. “It’s interesting.”
“No need to pander to me.”
I giggled. “It’s not pandering. It’s been almost fun.”
/> “You can tell me about it when I arrive.” There was a smile in her voice. “Your father will want to come too.”
“Okay.” My voice cracked as tears filled my eyes. “Why didn’t we have this conversation years ago?”
“Oh, that’s my fault. When you dropped out of college, I thought I’d failed you. The truth is, it was hard for me to know that you preferred Lucy’s parents to your own. Then the accident and I just . . . I know you loved and grieved for them. I’m not proud to admit that I was jealous.”
I had grieved the Rosses’ deaths. I had loved them. And maybe I’d pushed my own parents away because if I lost them too, I really would be alone.
“I’m glad you’re coming,” I said, swiping my eyes dry.
“Me too. Are you still singing?”
“Only in the shower.” I’d miss the acoustics of Hux’s shower.
“Just like you used to do when you were a teenager.”
“Yeah.” There was an awkward pause. It would take time but hopefully we’d find a way to work those out of our conversations.
“I’ll email you my itinerary when I book flights.”
“Okay. Bye.” A weight lifted from my shoulders as I hung up the phone and let the allure of the windows pull me across the room.
My parents were coming to Calamity.
I was glad they would see it from this vantage point. Just once.
However bittersweet, I’d always remember this charming town. This wouldn’t be my last time here. Lucy had a baby coming who’d need to be spoiled. But first, I needed some time away from Montana. And by the time I returned for a visit, Hux would be a memory.
A crowd was gathering in front of the gallery. Not the usual cluster of window shoppers stopping to admire whatever paintings were displayed in the center window. This was a blockade on the sidewalk, the space filled shoulder to shoulder with spectators.
I even recognized a few faces in that crowd. Marcy, the waitress from the White Oak stood there. And was that Nelson?
What was going on? Hux must have put up a new painting. Or maybe Katie was inside and he was publicly firing her. An evil grin spread across my face. He wouldn’t do that, but a girl could hope.
The crowd milled around the gallery for a few minutes, and I watched as newcomers drifted in. Maybe he’d put up that dark forest painting. He’d finished it and the piece was truly something special. Unique, like him. Haunting and beautiful.
Before curiosity got the better of me and I did something stupid, like go to the gallery, I tore myself from the glass and disappeared to the bathroom for a shower. When I was dressed and my hair was dried, I texted Lucy and asked if she could pick me up from the apartment. I had an announcement.
My best friend came rushing over and dashed me away to her house.
Lucy didn’t take the news of my moving well. Or of the divorce. Or that I’d lied to her about my reasons for marrying Hux.
She cried. I cried. We hugged.
We spent the day together, reminiscing about the past and talking about the future, until she dropped me off at the apartment after a homemade dinner. It was past seven when I waved goodbye from the sidewalk and most of the shops were closed. The only open businesses were restaurants and the movie theater four blocks down. Its marquee’s magnetic letters were being changed by a teenager in a white shirt and a black vest.
Travis.
I lingered on the sidewalk, watching as he worked. It would be a shame not to see that boy grow into a man. A twinge of longing hit that I wouldn’t know Savannah as she became a woman.
The gallery was dark, like the other stores, and without people clustered around the display window, I was able to see . . . something.
I leaned forward, squinting. What was that?
Earlier, I’d managed to dodge the curiosity. Or maybe postpone. But the overwhelming need to know what Hux had put in the window drove me across the street. My steps quickened the closer the gallery came into view.
And then I was standing there, staring at a face.
My face.
I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth.
Those were my caramel eyes. That was my chocolate hair.
That was my straight nose. My rosy mouth. My tapered chin.
He’d captured all of my flaws. All of my perfections.
The painting blurred as tears filled my eyes.
When had he painted me? Why?
There was love in this painting. There was affection and detail that only came from hours and hours of staring at another person.
What did this mean? Why would he place this portrait in the front window? It wasn’t even for sale. The placard below my face was the same as the one that sat beneath Savannah’s portrait.
Display Only. Not For Sale.
Cars rolled down the street. People passed behind me. The light faded from the sky, and I stood transfixed, unable to tear myself away.
I was too scared to leave this spot. Because here, with my portrait, was hope.
Hope that Hux might love me.
The sound of a horn blared in the distance, jolting me out of my stupor. I shivered, the night air still cold in late spring. Music filtered from Jane’s jukebox. Lucy would be singing with the live band later this week. She’d asked me to come watch before I left for New Orleans.
But before I moved, there was something else I had to do.
Hux had used this painting to summon me for a conversation.
I gave myself one more moment with the portrait, committing it to memory, then I fled down the darkened streets of Calamity, racing for the house I’d called home for a short time.
Old fears came clawing back to life as I navigated the sidewalks alone. When I was with Hux, I had no reason to fear being watched or chased or hunted. He kept me safe.
But tonight, the fears threatened with every stride. I shoved them away, step after step. I’m safe here. I was safe in Calamity. And as soon as I got to Hux, I’d be safe there too.
Only when I rounded the corner to his street, the lights were off at his house. The driveway was empty. I hurried toward the alley, expecting to find the bright lights of his studio piercing the night, but it was as black as the velvet sky above.
Where was he? The gallery? Sweat beaded at my temples and the nape of my neck. My chest heaved from the ten-block run. Damn it. I hadn’t even considered he wouldn’t be home. Without me to drag him out in public, there weren’t many places he went.
The gallery. Jane’s. Maybe his property. Without a vehicle, searching for him wasn’t an option, so I turned and raced along the same path I’d taken, retreating toward my apartment downtown.
My fingers fumbled with the code at the door to the building. When the lock clicked, I hurried inside, finally breathing as it locked behind me. Fear had nipped at my heels on the run back and I’d practically sprinted those last few blocks. With shaking legs, I trudged up the stairs, my spirits sinking with every step.
Was Hux with another woman? My stomach pitched. No. He wouldn’t do that to me. Not after the painting. Not after the breakfasts. He had to be somewhere, and tomorrow, I’d seek him out. Tomorrow, I could ask him about the portrait and say a goodbye.
I rounded the corner of the staircase, ready to disappear into the apartment, pull on his sweatshirt and curl up on the couch, when a dark figure seated on the top step stood up.
My heart leapt into my throat. My gasp bounced off the walls. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.”
The man I’d been searching for had been here all along.
I slapped a hand over my thundering heart and continued the climb. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.” Hux waited for me to dig out my keys and unlock the door. But he didn’t follow me past the threshold. He stood in the hall, hovering in the same space he had every morning for a week. “I’m sorry, Ev.”
“Was that why you did the painting? Because you were sorry?”
“No.”
I
tossed my purse on the floor inside and spun to face him. “What do you want, Hux?”
“Tell me why.”
“Why, what?”
Had he heard about my move to New Orleans? Impossible. The only person I’d told was Lucy.
Hux scowled, stalking closer. The intensity of his eyes stole my breath. Gone was the sullen man from this morning. This version of Hux was the one who made my heart skip. The man who knew every dip and rise of my body. The man who wanted something and was determined to get it.
“Tell me why you married me.” He stepped past the threshold, crowding me deeper into the apartment.
“Because I was bored.”
He shook his head, advancing another step. Then another. And the farther he came, the farther I retreated, until he had me just where he wanted me, pinned against the brick wall beside my bed. His hands came to my arms, his grip firm as he lifted them above my head.
A jolt of lust ripped through me as his scent filled my nose.
God, he was hard to resist.
“Everly.” My name in his rumbled voice was low. Harsh. Demanding. Erotic. “Tell me.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I shook my head, looking past him.
“Tell me.” He shifted his grip, holding my hands with one of his so his other could come to my chin. He hooked a finger under it, forcing my attention to his.
“I wanted to help Savannah,” I answered. Hadn’t we gone through this before? Didn’t he believe I’d been sincere in helping his daughter?
Hux shook his head and his face softened. His hands fell away from my skin. For a moment, I thought he’d leave me here, panting against this wall. But then his fingertips lifted to my face.
He traced my nose, bridge to tip, in one featherlight touch.
A brushstroke.
My heart dropped.
All this time, the gentle touches on my face. The lines he’d drawn for months, the countless nights he’d traced my features. He’d been painting my face. And now the final result was on a canvas, framed in his gallery’s studio window, for all the world to see.
That canvas had gotten the final, colored strokes. But I’d had them first.
