Chapter 47

Vivian

Lizzie messages me again to say she"s off on another of her tours. I'm not sure what to say to her, so I'm using the excuse of the showing to stay quiet and not reply.

When the phone buzzes with an incoming video call from Zoey, I accept it at once. I need to vent to someone, and I know Zoey will understand.

"I know he cares about me, that bastard. I wish he'd stop lying to himself about it." I throw down my paintbrush and begin to pace the floor of my studio. "He's running scared. He knows he's on the verge of telling me how he feels about me, and he"s afraid."

"If there"s one thing that scares most men, including your husband, it's talking about their feelings. I bet he"s worried about being seen as weak. I'm sure he wants to open up to you but doesn't know how to handle all the touchy-feely stuff. It's not unusual," Zoey offers.

"But what if he doesn't come to his senses?" Panic curls in my belly. "He told me I couldn't convince him otherwise. What if he believes that?"

She scoffs, "I've seen the way he looks at you. The man's head-over-heels in love with you."

It's my turn to laugh. "Umm… I'm not sure about that."

"I am."

"He cares for me, I know that, but love? If he loved me, he wouldn't hurt me like this."

"Or maybe, it's because he loves you that he can't stop himself from pushing you away?"

I walk back to stand in front of my canvas and stare at the painting. "A part of me wants to believe you. In fact, it makes sense that he hurt me so much because he's actually in love with me. But another part of me worries I'm losing him."

"And what are you going to do about it?"

"Eh?" I lift my gaze from the colors on the canvas to the phone screen. "What can I do about it?"

"You can finish your painting and go through with your showing, proving to him that your life goes on without him."

"I intend to." I set my jaw.

"On the other hand"—her voice grows cautious— "you could also not wait for him."

"What do you mean?"

"You could march into his office and demand he come clean to you about his feelings." She purses her lips.

"Isn't that risky?" I hunch my shoulders. "What if he insists he doesn"t care about me?"

"What if he doesn"t?" She scrutinizes my features. "What if you were persuasive enough that he doesn't have a choice but to come clean."

"Hmm…" I balance the phone on the table next to my easel, then pick up my paintbrush.

"You"ve never struck me as the type who"s waiting for your future to come to you."

"I'm not." I dip the brush in the paint, then begin to fill in the part I outlined earlier.

"If you were, you'd be stuck trying to make ends meet in the pizza parlor. Not that there's any shame in that, but you took the opportunities that came your way?—"

I continue painting.

"So, are you going to wait for him to get his head out of his arse or?—"

"Or am I going to stand here painting a profile of him, like a lovesick moron?" I complete her sentence for her.

"You're painting him?"

I throw down my paintbrush in disgust, then angle the screen toward the canvas.

There's silence then she whistles. "Wow, that's impressive."

When I don't speak, she clears her throat. "It's him you've been painting."

It's not a question; not when the features taking shape on the canvas show a man with thick hair, blue eyes, a hooked nose, and those high cheekbones—not to mention, that beautiful throat, the wide chest with the tattoo of the bleeding heart and the drops of blood which I've painted to rain over him. The background is filled with explosions. Do they hint at the war scenes he lived through? Or do they represent the anger I feel with him now? Or are they symbolic of the little flares that seem to go off whenever we"re in the same space?

Or perhaps, it's how I see him?

A man at war with himself, trying to come to grips with his past, while yearning for a future where he doesn't have to hide himself and who he is anymore. A man trying to make peace with the part of himself he lost on the battlefields. We know how much being in combat changes the lives of the families of those who die. We know how the survivors struggle to cope with the aftermath. Yet, we send our young onto the frontlines to further the political aspirations of those in power. Will we never learn?

Until I met Quentin and started painting again, I didn't realize I had so much to say through my craft.

"It's stunning," Zoey's soft voice cuts through my thoughts.

"I don't know what it is"—I clear my throat—"but I couldn't stop myself from painting him."

Her forehead furrows. "Your other paintings for the exhibition?—"

Once more, I flip the camera and point the screen in the direction of the paintings lined up against the wall.

She inhales a sharp breath. "Wow."

"Is that a good or bad wow?"

"Can you zoom in?"

I do, then pan across the paintings.

"Well?" I shift my weight from foot to foot. "What do you think?"

"They're good." Her voice rings with sincerity. My muscles relax a little. Not that I'd want to make any changes to my paintings once they're done, but she's the first person I"ve shown a sneak peek of the collection, so I was nervous.

"I'm calling the collection, "The Pitiless Wave.'"

"Poe?" She arches an eyebrow.

"Poe." I half smile.

"Hmm."

"What?" I turn the screen back to face me.

"Is he coming to your showing?"

"I wasn't sure if I should invite him, but having spoken to you now, I think I should." I was worried if he came, he'd see my paintings and discern all my secrets. He'd see that painting I made of him and know how much in love with him I am. He'd see the name of the collection and know I haven't stopped thinking of him all this time. I realize, it's only right he know everything.

I have to be honest with him, if there"s any chance for us to be together. It's going to mean baring my soul to him. Then again, considering how I gave myself up to him in bed, I don't think there's anything about me this man doesn't know. Going into this relationship. I knew I was exposing myself completely.

I had to give myself up and submit to him, then find myself all over again.

I never imagined my husband, while so dominant in our power-play, would shrink from offering me a chance to see his soul, as well. I'm disappointed that he hasn't been half as honest with me. I'm also angry he hasn't come to see me yet. That he'd keep his distance, knowing how much he's already hurt me? I'm so damn angry. And you know what? I'm not going to let him get away with it. I'm going to fight for us. I'm going to make him fight for us.

I tilt up my chin, then set my jaw. "I'm going to confront him."