38. Gianna

I couldn't decode his thoughts or emotions, but I could see the desperation in his eyes. For some ridiculous reason, he didn't believe in us. Or maybe he wouldn't fight for us. Regardless of how obvious it was that a whole jumble of emotions was warring inside him, he wasn't giving in to them. He was still holding that wall up, keeping me from getting past.

"We should go clean up." He helped me to my feet.

The paint was sticky on my skin. Smears of blues and yellows mingled, creating swirls of green.

He didn't let go of my hand as he pulled me down the hall to the bathroom, or even as he turned on the shower. An eerie silence descended on us while we waited for the water to heat.

With capable hands, he squeezed the body wash onto my loofa. Then he worked painstakingly to gently scrub every inch of my skin. The paint colored the water green as it circled down the drain under my feet. When it ran mostly clear, he moved on to my hair, tenderly massaging my scalp. And in almost no time, we were in his bed, his arms locked around me, pulling me tight against him.

Every night, he held me like he'd never let me go. Even as his breathing evened out, he never loosened his grip. Normally, I fell asleep enveloped in the peace of being with him. But tonight, I didn't feel peaceful.

Emerson was used to being alone. Was that the issue? That the idea of hoping for a life with someone was scary to him? Or was it something he didn't want? Maybe he didn't want the pressure of having another person to worry about.

Or maybe he just needed to be chosen for once.

According to the clock on the nightstand, it was after one. On Monday. My meeting with Mr. Whittemore was in a few hours. Did I want to go back to New York? I'd always been scared to go after the things I really wanted in life. I'd always taken the safest path. Nothing about leaving Doucette Design was safe. My paintings had done well last night, but there was no guarantee that would happen again. And although I had a meeting next week with the Revs to talk about designing a city jersey, they very easily could go with another artist. After that? Who knew when another opportunity would pop up.

I'd have to depend on selling my art for income, but who was to say there would be any interest? Creativity was weird. It came in bursts and sometimes it didn't come at all. Some days, I struggled to find the inspiration to paint or the motivation to force the brush to move. And yet if I took the plunge, then I'd have to do it, even when it was hard. I didn't feel brave enough to make that decision.

I squirmed, and Emerson's arms loosened in response. Holding my breath, I slowly eased my way over so I was facing him. Then I ran my fingers along the scruff of his jaw. His long eyelashes fluttered, and warm breaths slipped through his full lips.

I sighed. Of course making decisions that would alter the whole trajectory of my life would be scary. But he'd tell me to be brave and to believe in myself. Right now, though, I wasn't sure what that meant.

By the time I slipped out of bed, though, long before the sun was up, I knew what I was going to do. But I couldn't wake him. If I did, I was afraid he'd try to talk me out of my decision.