CHAPTER 20

I thought he would turn red at the words falling from his mouth, like he usually does when he's said something out loud he didn"t mean to.

At first, my conclusion is that he's manic, and, as a result, he is brave and reckless with his words, but his body language tells me differently. Perhaps he's stable, and this is who he really is: soft and sweet and a little brave.

I haven't moved from the doorway. Once again, Levi has captured me within his arresting gaze, and I might be happy to die inside his scrutiny. God knows, it's the first time in two years I've felt the stirrings of life.

I give him a curt nod, afraid to return his greeting in the same soft way.

He drops his gaze, then once again looks at me across the room. "Do you ever go out?" he asks.

My eyes must have conveyed my surprise. He knows I've been not just out of this house but out of the country in recent weeks.

"I – I mean, do you ever leave this house for like, fun? As in, not for . . . not for work."

"No," I answer honestly. I'm not upset about his question. Even if I take a mental step back from this personal line of questioning, I still don't mind answering him.

"So just for work?"

"Yes."

"You work here, or you work in your office?"

"Yes. Sometimes my office is in Africa or Asia," I say, as if my intercontinental travels make it any less work.

"Don't you go to normal places? Like the theater? Or parties? Or movie premieres?"

He's been doing some research. There are hundreds of pictures of me on the internet at precisely such locations. Every single one of them were with Nicholas. A part of me wishes he would just ask me about Nicholas. A very small part. The rest of me is paralyzed over the thought that he would ask me about Nicholas.

"No."

He shifts his bag from one arm to the other. "Oh."

He looks disappointed. I step into the room and, for one terrifying moment, I imagine lifting his chin and bending my head to kiss his chapped lips.

"I've been to the gallery," I tell him, hoping to get him to look at me again.

"Besides ours?" His interested eyes bring a skitter to my chest. I try forcing it away, but it's not easy.

"No. Just yours."

Levi smiles.

I lose myself.

Lifting my hand, I brush a tiny spot of blood from the left side of his bottom lip. Nicholas, thankfully, never had this common anxiety tic.

The move freezes us for one second before we both realize the inappropriateness of it. He steps back. I drop my hand, but I don't step back like he did. I resent the space he's created between us. I resent even more how ridiculous my thoughts are becoming.

Tossing away the need to apologize for touching him, I step around him and take a seat.

He takes a seat across from me and slides the bag across the desk. "Where else do you go?" he asks.

I open the bag. "Nowhere."

"But you visit your gallery, right?" He jerks his thumb toward the door.

"Uh. Well. Not really."

Levi laughs. A soft, ethereal sound. Yes. His laugh is my favorite thing about him. "Not really?" he says. "If it were me, I'd sleep in there." He stops laughing, and I pick my head up to see why. His face is red. "I mean . . ."

There's nothing to be embarrassed about, but I can understand the discomfort when I imagine Levi sleeping in my house. Maybe he had the same thought.

"Do you have a garden? Do you ever go just outside your house?"

"Why are you so interested in my habits?" I ask.

The question brings more redness to his face. He's only asking a variation of what every news reporter and tabloid has asked over the last two years. It couldn't have taken him long to find the articles that call me a recluse. A heartbroken recluse. From him, I don't mind the question but it's too easy to want to share everything with him.

"I – I'm sorry," he says. His hand moves to his lip, his fingernails picking at the dry skin there.

"Yes, I have a garden. No, I don't go out there. I don't have the time."

"Oh. You should at least go to your gallery. It's amazing, and most people would give anything to have something like that in their homes. I mean, an original Van Gogh? Come on."

He's not manic today. He's anxious, yes, but not manic. I don't think he's in a depressive low either. His words are coming from a stable place, I think. I also think he wants to see Nicholas's gallery again.

I'll take him back as soon as we're done here.

The thought arrives in my head fully formed and with undisputed conviction. And along with it, a stutter inside my chest just the same as a few minutes ago when he smiled at me.

His teeth clamp over his lips, looking for skin to pick. He'll make himself bleed again. I focus on opening the carry bag to give him some privacy in case he needs to take care of his lip.

When I pick my head up again, he's staring at me expectantly. His chest rises and falls rapidly.

"Explain this," I say quietly. My chest constricts because I know exactly what this is. And even if his artwork is breathtaking and he couldn't possibly have predicted my reaction, I still cannot accept it.

"It's you," he says.

"I can see that," I snap. The harshness of my response has nothing to do with him or the exquisiteness of his work.

"You don't like it?" he asks. His lip is bleeding. I yank a wad of tissue from the wooden box on my right and shove it across the desk. He picks it up and cleans his fucking wound.

How the fuck should I answer him? What does he want me to fucking tell him? That I think he did a good job painting my face across a fucking canvas with a fucking smile on it? And not just any fucking smile.

This is from the last event Nicholas, and I attended together. Someone asked what the one thing was that I couldn't live without. I told them it was Nicholas. I know this because that day I wore Nicholas's family pin on my suit jacket. Until recently, it had been the first and only time I'd worn it. The next time was to be at our wedding. Levi has painted the pin too.

My face stares up at me from the canvas. He's used such vibrant colors. Delicate brushstrokes. This might have been one of the last times I ever laughed. Levi has painted my smile right into my eyes.

"It's your happiness," he says. His voice trembles.

"My happiness is in a place not found?"

"Y—Yes?" And then, "No?" He reaches for the bag.

"I asked for peace, Levi. Not happiness."

"I'm sorry. I overstepped. I'm really sorry. I'll get rid of this one. I'll try something else."

I yank the bag back, shove my chair back, and rise. "Come with me," I demand, understanding fully that he doesn't deserve my coldness, but unable to maintain my manners.

Levi scrambles to his feet.