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“What’s this?” Emma asked teasingly as she stopped to examine his easel.
“I just can’t get behind all this impressionism,” Dwight admitted. “I like things I can see.”
The comment made Emma think of Patrick yet again, but she did her best not to dwell.
“Fair enough.”
“My wife loves impressionist stuff, though. I think that’s why we’re such a good team. We both see things a different way.”
Great. Now the thoughts of Patrick were never going away. Emma didn’t know if the two of them would have been a good team, not really. Most of their conversations had centered around art, except on the last few nights. But Emma liked to think that they would have complemented each other, too. Maybe she would have been able to draw Patrick out of his single-minded focus on work. Maybe he would have been able to make her feel safe, like he already had.
And Patrick would have been a wonderful father. Emma imagined that he’d be something like Dwight, who always spoke of his wife and children with the utmost love and respect. It might have been hard for Patrick to step away from being a breadwinner and into the role of a playful father, but Emma was sure he could have done it.
If only she could tell him about the baby.
Once again, the unfairness of the situation hit Emma hard. She wished she could tell Patrick about his child. She wished the two of them could give things a real chance.
She managed to compliment a few more paintings and offer some constructive feedback before the bell rang, but she was distracted by her thoughts. It had been a while since she’d missed Patrick this much. Something about what Dwight had said, and about the anatomy scan that made the baby so much more real, made her deeply sad. These milestones in parenthood were quickly becoming highlights of Emma’s life — just as they should be for Patrick.
If she could just see him one more time… Maybe it was worth the risk. Maybe she should tell him about the baby after all.
“Emma?”
The voice was so familiar that Emma thought she might have imagined it. Perhaps her wish to see Patrick had conjured a hallucination. But when she looked up, she saw a very familiar face.
Standing in the doorway, watching her students stream out into the bright spring morning, was Patrick. He was wearing a pair of slacks and a button-up, formal yet more relaxed than he usually wore to work. His blond hair was a little messier than usual, and his blue eyes were practically glowing. He was every bit as handsome and magnetic as Emma remembered, and she couldn’t bear to take her eyes off him.
“Patrick?” Her voice was quiet. She still couldn’t believe what she was seeing and didn’t want to shatter the illusion by speaking too loudly.
“Emma,” he repeated.
For a long moment they stood there, Patrick in the doorway and Emma at the front of the classroom. Students poured out past Patrick, some of them calling goodbyes to Emma, but she couldn’t pay them any mind. Everything seemed to have solidified into this one moment, this one second, as she and Patrick looked at each other.
Emma had no idea why he was there or how he’d found her. Perhaps he was here to let her know that the police would be picking her up shortly. Maybe he was here to demand that she return his painting, which she would gladly do. Or maybe, just maybe, he was here for her. Maybe he couldn’t stop thinking about her, just like she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
It seemed like too much to hope for. After all, Emma had stolen from him and lied to him. And even if he could forgive that, she was pregnant with his child and hadn’t told him. That would be hard to forgive. Yet Emma could still feel the tiny wings of hope beating in her chest.
The last student left, but still Patrick stood there. Finally, Emma pulled herself together enough to speak.
“Come in. If you’d like.”
Patrick stepped into the classroom and shut the door behind him with a soft click.
“So, you’re a teacher,” he said, his voice low and smooth.
Emma felt faint. After all this time, he wanted to make small talk? Had he not noticed her bump, or was he ignoring it?
Then Emma glanced down and noticed that her smock almost completely obscured her growing bump. It made her look shapeless and not entirely attractive, but not pregnant. Patrick didn’t know she was carrying a child. Relief mixed with worry — she was going to have to tell him.
“Yes.” Emma nodded.
“Are you painting?”
“Yes.” Emma couldn’t seem to say more than that one word. It was too much to stand here and catch up like they were just old friends who hadn’t seen each other in a long time. As though what had happened between them didn’t mean anything. If Patrick wanted to tell her off, she could handle that better than this strange distance. “Patrick?—”
But before she could launch into apologies or explanations or even tell him about the baby, Patrick held up his hand.
“I know you stole the painting.”
