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Epilogue Two
Rissa
It’s been eight years since the day Dean went to jail for protecting me. My parents held up their end of the deal and got him out. I like to think that was a starting point to having any semblance of a relationship with my parents. They try to stay in contact and even come to see us now and then, but I know it’s to connect with our three kids more than it is to me. Shockingly, I’m honestly okay with that. I know I still have issues getting to know people and dealing with major issues, but having Dean at my side and having our kids has helped tremendously.
“Hey Baby, oh wow! This piece is absolutely amazing! I bet your agent is going to fucking love this one for the exhibit coming up,” Dean says, walking into the garage he converted into my art studio, wrapping his arms around me. He is the only person in the world who could interrupt me and not feel the wrath of my meltdown. Even my kids steer clear when I’m in the zone.
“Actually, this one, I think I want to keep all to myself,” I tell him, looking at all the different angles.
Every direction you look at the painting, it is either Dean or one of his brothers working in the custom bike shop they dreamed up all those years ago. They don't know it yet, but this piece is a present for their seventh anniversary of opening the business. Dean wasn’t supposed to see it either, but of course, he can’t stay away when he knows I’m painting. He still sits in the corner and watches me for hours sometimes. To some, it might seem creepy, but to me, it feels relaxing knowing he’s in my proximity and keeping me safe. I rub up and down his arms wrapped around me, tracing over the tattoos that cover him from chest to back and down both his arms. They are pieces I’ve drawn over the years whenever I get frustrated and overwhelmed, and Dean would hand me a permanent marker. I always wondered why he was taking pictures of them. Then he came home with tattoos of all the silly little drawings, and I loved it.
To say it’s hard for me to connect would be an understatement, but over the years, Dean has shown me he completely understands me. He’s shown me unconditional love, no matter the circumstances, and I can honestly say I’m a better, braver, and more open person because of this man. I may not express myself opening, but luckily my art does that for me, and my anarchist is the perfect interpreter.
