Page 103 of Will to Run

Even though I’ve only been away for a few days, being back on the property gives me a quiet kind of peace. Driving through those wrought iron gates feels like coming home, and I acknowledge what a big deal that is.

From Wednesday to Thursday, I sleep fourteen hours, which is fantastic because I don’t want to be at my first-ever art show looking like a ghoul. There’s been such a fun buzz around it. Besides the stuff that Rose has been doing, Heart of Will and Lanie have pushed it on social media and connected with other organizations to get the word out. She’s also been running a socials page for me for the last three weeks to drum up even more interest. I can’t believe how many people are interested in my art.

Thursday, I decide to go shopping for a new dress. I have one I love, but a lady has to have options. When I leave my apartment, the box is there. I know Jaxon is somewhere camping, so this confirms someone else is doing this with him.

6:16 a.m.

The color is a vibrant scarlet red that seems like it would brighten any painting, and I know the reference immediately.

This is the moment I showed you the blooming Indian Paintbrush flowers that had popped up where we watched our sunrise. There are so many places you could have landed, but no other state has a paint-related flower name. So I’m not going to call fate here, but I’m also not going to call not fate. Were you made to be in Wyoming? All signs point to yes.

Maybe it’s because I’m semi-strung out from the week, or maybe I have reached my breaking point, but the note is so silly that it brings tears to my eyes. I miss this banter, this playfulness, this fun. I text him again, knowing he’s somewhere in the wilderness, but don’t get a response.

But Thursday night, the girls come over with a bottle of wine and snacks to celebrate the completion of the painting marathon. I still haven’t committed to the resident painter role because I want to see how tomorrow goes, but after this week, I’m a hell of a lot closer.

Friday morning, I sleep in and lazily roll out of bed. I’m super nervous about today, so I’m trying to find things to fill my time. When I leave for lunch, I fully expect a package to be waiting, but there isn't. My heart skips in a bad way, because I look forward to the memories he’s bringing up. But after I meet Lanie, I head home, and there it is. Just like the other six. Perfectly wrapped, shimmering bow.

The tag says

3:03 p.m. & always.

Pulling out the tube, it’s an ultramarine blue. By all accounts, this is the most precious color in painting, often valued higher than gold during the Renaissance because the process to grind and turn the lapis lazuli to this color was so labor-intensive. It’s synthetic now and accessible to everyone, but I understand the meaning without reading the note.

This is the part where I tell you what memory is tied to this color. But there is no single memory here. This color that haunts my dreams because it’s the color of your eyes. On day one, when you accidentally ended up in my parking lot at 3:03 on a stupidly hot April afternoon, I lost myself in them. I know it’s not your exact color, the meaning supersedes it all. I learned this color was coveted and rare. As you go into your art show tonight, I want you to think about how rare this thing between us is.

Della, I hope you love tonight. Think about how hard you worked, and at some point, step back, look around, and think about the fact that you did this. Your pieces will be coveted for decades to come. And how lucky am I that I got to watch you come to life? You earned this, and I want to shout your name from the top of the mountains. So incredibly proud of you.

The tears spring to my eyes as I put the note down, and I pick up the phone to call him. He doesn’t answer, even though I’m war-dialing him now. When he still doesn’t pick up, I don’t have time to perseverate on it because I have to get ready for the art show. I know he’s not ignoring me, but I’m not exactly sure what his goal is. I don’t want to have a huge emotional moment at the show.

But I shower and get ready all the same. At 4:50 p.m., I check my watch with butterflies in my stomach. My online gallery opens in ten minutes. Not that I think there’s going to be a rush for Della Tatroe originals, but I hope I sell some paintings.

But even if I sell none, I’m thinking about all the love I’ve found in people here, and the confidence and forgiveness I’ve found in myself. And that can’t be quantified by a number of paintings sold.

But tonight isn’t for overthinking. It’s for celebrating how far I’ve come.

This moment feels like proof that I found my way back.

50

JAXON

It was easy to come up with the gifts. I’d run out of paint colors before I ran out of memories to match them to. I loved doing it, but it made me miss her even more.

The plan was to give her space this week so she could focus on the exhibit. Hazel and Molly told me that she was deep into working, so I didn’t want to interrupt that with discussions about us

I put so much thought into how I wanted this to go, but on Friday, when she calls me several times, I feel like I played my cards wrong. Seeing her for the first time at the art show is probably not the best idea, but it’s too late in the game to change that. I don’t want to throw her off, and what I have in store is bigger than a phone conversation.

The show starts at six, so I make a loose plan with my family to meet me at 6:15 p.m. I’m not sure what I’m expecting, but it isn’t for the place to be hopping fifteen minutes in. How wonderfully incorrect I am, because The Painted Heart is already packed.

When I make my way up the stairs, she stands out among the crowd and steals my breath. Wearing a blue dress that looks like it’s been painted with blue brushstrokes, it fits her like a glove and makes her look every bit the artist she is. But my favorite part of all is her hair. I assumed it’d be in the same kind of fancy style she had it in when I met her, but no; it’s down and cascading across her shoulders, and I can’t help but think that’s symbolic too. She’s finally able to let her hair down.

Looking around, there is a mix of people: lots of our ranch family, but many others I don’t know, which is impressive. Rose did a great job promoting on short notice, but once again, Lanie Locklin for the win. She was all over this.

My heart is bursting for the woman of the hour, and I watch her as she’s holding her champagne glass, laughing with a group of people, gesturing to the painting in front of them. Her face lights up as she talks about her work, and I don’t have to hear her words to feel her joy. She flits from person to person and group to group, and when she looks around, I hope that maybe she’s looking for me.

About forty minutes in, I have an opportunity because she’s standing in front of Love’s First Light studying it, so I approach her from behind and talk into her ear.

“Ah, yes, this painting does a phenomenal job of capturing the alpenglow, would you not agree? And the edge work around the blending is superb, as is the color harmony of the piece. Also, underpainting, balance, and atmospheric depth.” I just start throwing art vocabulary out as a joke.