Page 117 of Rush

She closes the door, and Moira tells me to take a seat.

I lower my bag to the floor, leaning it against the chair beside me.

God, I’m so nervous that my insides are shaking, but I’m trying to exude calmness on the outside. I’m not sure if I’m pulling it off though.

“Thank you for seeing me,” I tell her.

“Oh, no problem at all.” She waves me off. “Declan was raving about your paintings, and he had me keen to see them. Only, I said to him, ‘If this girl is so good, then why the hell didn’t you tell me about her before?’” She laughs, and I do, too. “Men, eh?” she adds, and I agree.

“Well, I’m just glad I bumped into him,” I tell Moira.

She smiles and nods. “Come on then, let’s not waste any more time; show me these paintings of yours.”

I swallow hard as I reach for my bag. I move it in front of me, leaning it against her desk, and open the zipper on the bag.

Moira comes from behind the desk to stand next to me.

“I only brought two paintings with me,” I tell her. “I don’t have a car at the moment, and they’re pretty heavy to carry.”

I lift the first painting from the bag, and I hear her take in a sharp breath.

Shit. She hates it.

It’s the one of Ares and me.

I glance up at her and start to tell her that the other painting is much different than this, if this one isn’t to her taste, but the look on her face tells me that she doesn’t actually hate it.

“Can I?” She reaches for the painting.

“Of course.” I hand it to her.

She moves across the room with it, sitting it on an empty easel, and then stands back, looking at it.

I move to stand beside her.

“Jesus, Ari…this is good. Really good.” She glances at me. “I thought Declan was exaggerating about your talent, but…” She reaches out a hand, a finger tracing the painting without touching. “The lines here, the detail…I can feel the absolute passion in this picture.”

I feel a lump rise in my throat. “Thank you,” I tell her.

“I’m guessing this is from memory and not a still life?” She looks at me again, a grin in her eyes.

“It’s from memory.”

“It’s personal to you though, yes?”

“Yes,” I exhale.

“And how would you feel, showing this? I know all art is personal, but this one runs deep; I can tell,” she says, finger moving over the painting again.

“I…it…well, I would show it, but…it belongs to someone else,” I hear myself saying. Like my heart.

I didn’t realize it until this moment. I’d thought I could part with this painting. But I can’t. Not to her. It belongs to Ares.

Whether he still wants it or not, it’s his to do with as he wants.

Because he gave this back to me. It was him who gave me back the ability to paint. The inspiration I needed. And I owe him for that.

Jesus, I miss him.