CHAPTER 6

The peace lily will surely outlive me.

It sits on my desk, as it has for the last two years, accepting the scraps I give it every few weeks – sometimes, every few months – and hanging on for dear life. No matter how badly I treat it, it refuses to die.

It's not that I want it to die. It's that I want to watch it come back to life. And in order for it to do that, I need to let it die a little.

Evaline loses her mind on the rare occasion I allow her into my office, tut-tutting about the condition of the plant. She complains that the plant would be so beautiful if I took better care of it.

Evaline packed up her life in London and came with me to the States without any questions. She loved Nicholas more than me; I'm sure of it, but she didn't lose Nicholas the way I did.

I disagree with my faithful housekeeper. Nicholas's peace lily is most fascinating when the leaves begin to droop, and the tips become a crispy brown. Evaline loves the peace lily when it's at its best. I love it when it's at its worst.

My phone vibrates, snapping me out of my ridiculous melancholy.

"Hayden, Security has Levi Anderson from Gallery 180 at the main gate." Evaline's voice comes through the speaker from her apartment across the property. It's her day off but she still runs things almost on a twenty-four-hour basis.

"Let him in, Evaline. Thank you."

An unusual tightness settles in my chest. I ball my hands into fists, trying to keep the sudden tingles away.

It's Nicholas's painting. It's for Nicholas. Everything is for Nicholas.

I let Levi Anderson into my house and lead him to my office, where Nicholas's painting will hang. Other than a brief greeting, I avoid looking at his face. If I do, I might admire his lovely cheekbones. Or I might stare too long at his pretty eyes.

I almost offer to carry the painting, but he seems to be managing. He lays the painting on my desk and then leaves again to get his equipment.

He moves slower than someone who appears to be used to manual labor.

"Where do you want it?" he asks when he returns.

Well, then. Straight to business. I haven't introduced myself, but it appears such manners aren't necessary.

I point to the left wall. He marks the place. The veins on his hands bunch up as he works. His tattoos are partially on display again because he has the sleeves of his hoodie pulled up to his elbows. Unwillingly, my eyes are once more drawn to the semicolon on the back of his hand.

He's lean, like Nicky used to be. Not much muscle on him, making the veins pop attractively. He's almost as tall as me, but his hesitant gait and slightly hunched shoulders make him seem smaller. His hair is pulled up into a bun again, although not as neatly as it had been yesterday. His profile is accentuated by the sharp curve of his jaw. His Adam's apple is prominent, and I don't like how these observations make me wonder about his sexuality. I avert my eyes after that.

"Do you need some help?" I ask, to distract myself from my unnecessary inspection.

"Not really. I'll manage."

I wish Evaline would come around to offer him something to drink. It's an appropriate thing to do in this situation. Finally, after choosing my manners over discomfort, I ask with extreme awkwardness, "Would you like something to drink?"

He looks up at me, giving me a full frontal of his face. My breath whooshes out of my body. I rush to catch it back, but it's too late. Other than Nicholas, no one has ever looked so handsome. I'd noticed before but now, I study the freckles covering his face. I wonder if he's self-conscious about them. I find them. . . endearing.

I like his eyes, even the little smudges underneath them. Maybe he has trouble sleeping too. His eyes offer nothing. It's the nothingness in them that feeds my curiosity about what kind of man he is. He's young; I can tell. Younger than me. His disinterest in everything around him, including me, intrigues me.

I come from a world where every line on my face is scrutinized by the press trying to build a story around my facial expression. When I stood next to Nicholas, my shoulders had to be angled in just the right way so body language analysts would have nothing sensational to add to tabloid reports about the state of my and Nicholas's relationship.

I wish I could go through my life not caring about what the world thought of me.

"Yeah, sure. Water, if you have it," Levi says.

His face blooms, and he looks like he'd like to have the ground open up and swallow him whole.

"Yes, I have water," I tell him, because I want to prolong this redness on his face. He's very good looking when he blushes.

"I'm sorry. I – I'm sure you have water. That was – that was stupid." He scratches at the corner of his bottom lip with his thumb.

A smile tries to force its way through on my face. I deny it, along with the skip in my chest at the softness in his voice.

After checking the mini fridge for a bottle of water and finding none, I head to the kitchen. When I return with a bottle of water, he's done. A curious disappointment settles in my chest. Because he's finished and will now be leaving? It's a discomforting thought.

"Who's the painter?" I ask, handing him the bottle. "I couldn"t read the name."

He unscrews the cap and takes a sip of water, then answers with a question. "Why did you want this painting?"

"What does it matter?"

"It doesn't." He takes another sip of water. My eyes drop involuntarily to the slide of his Adam's apple against his throat. I avert my eyes for the second time since he arrived.

"I'd like to know if the artist has more artwork he'd be willing to offer for purchase," I say.

"I don't think that would be possible."

"Why not?"

He shrugs like he can't be bothered with elaborating. He's doing an awful job trying to procure clients for the gallery he works for, and I tell him as much.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles. He sticks his hand into the pocket of his hoodie and pulls out his wallet. Handing me a business card, he says, "Here's Daniel's number. He's the gallery manager."

I take the card from him. "Thank you."

He nods, his gaze avoiding mine, sets the bottle of water on my desk and gathers his tools. "Is this okay?" he asks, pointing to the painting.

"Yes. It's fine. Thank you."

He heads for the door, stops, and turns. "Why did you buy the painting?" he asks again.

For a moment, I consider returning to our game of answering questions with questions, but he's a stranger and maybe I can tell a stranger the truth. "It's a reminder."

His eyebrows furrow. Almost as beautiful as Nicholas.

"Of what?" Some of the nothingness in his eyes lifts, giving way to a light curiosity. Yes, almost as beautiful as Nicholas.

"Of all the things that can never be had."

He turns all the way back, facing me. "What does that mean?"

I wave my hand toward the painting. "The man in the painting. He's looking for something in the stars. But he can never have it. Perhaps he can see it, or feel it, but he can never have it. Whatever he's looking for, it's in a place not found."

"Terri, the girl who helped you at the gallery? She said it's about never giving up on your search for peace."

I give him a tight smile. "Yes. Well, perhaps she hasn't found enough reasons to hate life."

Levi tilts his head, contemplating. "You're right," he says softly, as if to himself.

His stare feels . . . penetrative. Like he'll lay me bare if I move just one inch in any direction. I don't like the invasiveness of this feeling. And yet, I can't tear my eyes away from him. A longing, just out of reach, calls to me, for this place not found. Maybe I miss Nicholas just a bit too much these days.

Still, I keep my eyes on Levi Anderson, Gallery Assistant.

He has more courage than me. He drops his eyes first, turns around, and steps into the hallway. The loss of his presence is unsettling.