Page 97 of To Have and to Hate

In his left hand, he’s clutching a bouquet of flowers wrapped up in brown paper. His expression is inscrutable. His dark brows are tugged together, his mouth slightly curved down in a frown. For a second, I think he might be upset. Then I realize, as he tightens his fist around the flowers…he’s nervous.

He looks so much like he did that first day outside the courthouse. He’s wearing a navy suit with no tie. His watch peeps out past the cuff of his jacket. His hair is perfectly coifed, not a strand out of place. He lifts his right hand and waves, and it’s the most earnest expression of hope I’ve ever seen.

What he’s done hits me all at once.

Flying to Paris, coming to my show, being here for me despite everything we’ve been through. Tears well up in the corners of my eyes at the precise moment the woman taps me on the arm.

“Found one!” she says, waving the pen in front of me once I turn back to face her.

She catches my expression and frowns, likely misreading my mood.

I sign her program quickly, pose for a photo, and then attempt to extricate myself from the interaction, but then she asks a question about my art. I don’t even catch it. My ears are filled with the sound of my heart pounding heavy and fast.

Nadiya notices Walt, smiles, and then jumps into action.

“I would love to walk you through a few of her pieces,” she says to the woman. “I’m Nadiya, Elizabeth’s representative at Stein. Did you already tell me your name?”

She ushers the woman away with smooth grace, and I turn back to watch Walt cut through the room to get to me. I start toward him too, meeting him halfway. He overwhelms my senses all at once. I catch his telltale scent and my chest constricts with longing. We don’t touch. We stay a foot apart as I pin my gaze on his chest, specifically on a button of his crisp white shirt, and wait for him to speak.

A second passes, and I glance up at him.

His brown eyes take me in with such unabashed longing it makes my cheeks burn.

“Congratulations,” he says, holding up the flowers for me to take.

I accept them, cradling them in my arms carefully. They’re beautiful, a spray of vibrant colors, but they eclipse his scent, so I let them fall down by my side, out of my way.

“You came to Paris,” I say, sounding dumbfounded as I look back up at him.

He nods. “I arrived a few hours ago.”

“Oh. I bet you’re tired.”

He doesn’t break eye contact with me as he shakes his head. “No.”

“You came to Paris,” I repeat.

The corner of his mouth lifts in a tentative smile. “For your show.”

I nod, suddenly so overwhelmed that I can’t form words. I look back down at the flowers and a tear spills down my cheek. He reaches out to cradle my face so he can wipe it away. He looks absolutely crushed when our eyes meet again.

“Please don’t cry.”

“I can’t help it,” I whisper.

I’ve never had someone do something so selfless for me. For him to drop everything and fly here…to surprise me like this…

I step forward on a burst of courage and wrap my arms around his middle, squeezing him as I let my head fall against his chest. I bury myself in his scent, and it’s as comforting as falling into bed after a hard day.

“Congratulations on your collection,” he says, dropping a kiss to my hair. “I’m so proud of you. Look at this. There’s not a single piece left for sale.”

I smile and step back, waving my hand across the wall. “Come, come. Look at everything.”

I slip my hand into his, and he squeezes it tight as I lead him through the show from start to finish, confirming what he’s just told me. There’s a “sold” sign alongside every piece of my work. He takes in my art with thoughtful attention, as if he’s standing in front of works as impactful as the Mona Lisa. He tells me which piece is his favorite, one with heavy blue and gray pigments, layered thick and textured off the canvas.

“I would have bought it if someone hadn’t beat me to it.”

I hide my smile and lead him along. Once we reach the end, I can’t squash the sense of pride filling me from top to bottom. To walk alongside him, to show him my work in this way is a dream accomplished. Every artist wants to be where I’m standing, and I try to let that really sink in, to imprint this moment on my memory forever.

“You’re a sensation,” he says once we’ve reached the end.

I don’t even refute it. I don’t want to downplay this accomplishment.

“Do you need to head back to Nadiya? Get back to photos and all that?”

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