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I smile. “That’s where you kissed me. Of course, I remember. We were practicing, just in case.”
“Yes.” He laughs. “Just in case.”
“That was such a long time ago.”
“Five years. Do you remember our pact?”
“Yes.” My gut flips, sour with anticipation of what he’s leading toward. “We made it the same time in that very same spot, agreeing to wed when I turned thirty.”
“Yes.”
“We still have a lot of years left before then.”
“Come,” he requests, taking my hand and leading back to where the bottle of wine rests.
I take a seat and allow him to fill my glass to the brim, and then I take a long drink, nervous as to why he could possibly be bringing this up so soon. He sips his wine, calm and practiced. My palms become clammy as the seconds and then minutes perpetually tick by.
Finally, he rests his glass on the table between us, staring at the plum-colored liquid trapped by the fine crystal.
“Do you know why I agreed to such an arrangement with you?” he asks, his question firm and steady.
I take a moment, sorting the words in my head before replying, “Because…we were being stupid? Because…some things are inevitable? I don’t know. It was all so silly at the time. I almost thought it was a—”
“A joke?” He raises his brows.
“No,” I say, backpedaling, realizing that I might have insinuated something hurtful. “No, of course not. But I wasn’t really sure it was serious. I mean, we were tipsy on champagne, and I was only seventeen.”
“Yes, you were, but you were fearless. You still are.”
“I don’t feel fearless.”
He covers my hand with his own. “You are though. The fact that you even dreamed of and still constantly fight for something more than living underneath your parents’ thumb is one of the most admirable acts I’ve ever witnessed.” His eyes shift to his glass. “And because of that determination, I fell in love with you.” He returns his gaze to me, focused and sincere. “That’s why I agreed to the pact that day.”
My muscles tense. “Gerard…I never knew.”
He grins. “I know. It’s my fault. I never told you.” He rises from his seat, pacing toward the large print ofThe Red Vineyard, pondering over the brush strokes.
Staring at his back, I ask, “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“Because I could see that the way you looked at me never mirrored the way I felt inside. I was afraid it would put a divide in our friendship.”
I set my glass of wine on the table and join him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Gerard…I do love you but not—”
“Not like that.” He smiles to himself and then pats my hand. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
I remove my hand, feeling the wall of emotional separation being erected between us, as we stand side by side, gazing aimlessly at the artwork before us.
“Do you think they’re happy?” Gerard asks into the silence.
“Who?” I question, confused.
“The workers in the painting.”
I’ve been looking at paintings all my life for my own enjoyment and, in the later years, as study. His question is a simple one, and part of me wants to reply with a formulated answer, one that would make a scholar proud.
