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It’s a trick I learned years ago—if I act like I don’t hear them, I have a better chance of avoiding them. Because even though I’m not here with him, I’ve become such an integral part of his image we can sometimes feel like one and the same.
When I enter the room of the silent auction, items are lined up, beautifully put together along long tables with dark tablecloths and clipboards in front of each item. There are bath goods, a spa trip, jewelry, and home decor. I pass my own basket of baked goods and a gift certificate for Libby’s and another for a tattoo from Coleman Ink. There’s the display for lunch with the mayor, and when I glance at the sheet, it’s boasting some big numbers.
But it’s what’s propped up in the corner that stops me in my tracks.
A set of three paintings, oil paints, I think.
A shoulder blade.
A braid.
Hands with pink fingertips on a wooden piece.
A rolling pin.
There are others surrounding the three, all equally beautiful and breathtaking—ocean landscapes and beautiful tall trees that remind me of Springbrook Hills, but these . . . They stop my breath.
I know the freckles on that shoulder blade.
I’ve seen that braid nearly every day of my life for years.
I’d know those hands anywhere.
They’re all mine.
Strawberry-blonde hair and fair skin and a light wood rolling pin I once held in front of me as a weapon.
They’re me.
I don’t have to look at the signature to know who made them.
I do anyway.
B.C.is written in dark ink, stoic and strong, a contrast to the light, sweet images in front of me.
He painted me.
And when I glance at the sheet with the bids, my breath falls away.
Five figures.
And a bidding war, it seems—three different handwritings and signatures keep one-upping each other for the set of three.
I look around the room, trying to find him.
I need . . . I need to ask him.
Why?
These can’t have been recent—I’ve been with him every night for weeks. When would he have had the time?
My eyes sweep the room and first they catch Hattie in the corner, arms crossed on her chest, her partner Lacey standing next to her, but her eyes are on me, one thick eyebrow raised. It’s the kind of look that says, “your move next,” but I can’t even begin to understand what that move would be.
And then my eyes hit another person.
It’s not the one I want to see.
It’s not Ben standing there, broody and beautiful and everything I’m realizing I didn’t know I needed.
