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I close my eyes again and picture the room as I entered. “Everything. The books, his desk, my…my painting. It was all there, exactly as it was when we left.” He’s quiet for a few moments, and I start to wonder if he’s still there. Instead of asking, I keep talking. “When I saw it, it was like a splash of cold water on my face. Everything came back so vividly, so painfully. The shock, the sadness, the anger. The entire room was as if we’d only left for a few days. Well, except for the substantial amount of dust and grime all over everything.”
“There’s a lot there, Kate, that I won’t pretend to understand. Maybe, someday, you can explain it to me, but I don’t think that’s a conversation for tonight,” he says, and I have to admit, I’m appreciative I don’t have to rip off that particular Band-Aid tonight as well. “Is there something you can do to relax? Maybe you can finish that painting,” he offers easily, making my heart clench in pain.
Before I even realize it, a tear slips down my cheek. “I can’t.” The voice sounds so raw, it barely sounds like my own.
“Why not?” His own words are guarded, as if he wants to know, yet is preparing himself to receive the blow.
I glance over at the dirty canvas, sitting on the easel, the hurt so close to bubbling to the surface once more. “I haven’t painted since the night we left.”
Jensen’s startled inhale comes through loud and clear. “Seriously? Kate…how…why?”
I shrug, even though he can’t see me. Getting into this deep conversation isn’t something I’m interested in doing right now. All I can think about is climbing into a hot bath and soaking in as much lavender bath salts as I can safely use. “I guess, I guess I just never had anything worth painting.”
That was the truth. When we left, I left my muse behind. The one who brought me joy and laughter. The one who held me close and kissed me as if I were the only woman in the world. The one who loved me with his entire heart, and then some.
“I’m sorry to hear that. You were a brilliant artist, even at such a young age. I guess after you left I pictured some big-time gallery person stumbling upon you and insisting you sell your work in sold-out shows across the state of New York.”
I can’t help it, I snort a laugh. My mother would have been so mortified. “There was no gallery or shows. Everything was just…different after I left.”
Again, I’m met with silence. “Maybe someday you can tell me about it.”
A small smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. “Yeah, someday.”
“Are you feeling better?” he asks after a few more moments of quiet.
“I think so. I can’t believe I had that attack. I’m sorry to call you on a Sunday evening. You were probably getting Max ready for bed or something.”
I can hear him get up from the table and turn on the faucet. “You’re fine. He fell asleep during the third inning of the Rangers game. I had just got him settled into bed when you called.”
“Well, I’m thankful I didn’t wake him.”
“Kate?”
“Yeah.”
“You can call me any time you need help, okay? When you have an attack or just need someone to talk to, I’ll answer.”
My heart pounds in my chest. “Are you sure that’s wise, you know, considering everything?”
Jensen sighs. “Probably not, but I don’t give a shit. We weren’t exactly a conventional couple back in the day, so there’s no reason to start that shit now. I’ll always be your friend, Kate. If you need something, I’m here.”
“Thank you,” I whisper hoarsely, his words pulling so much emotion from my body. “I appreciate that. I haven’t exactly had a lot of friends.”
“Well, you’ve got me, okay?”
“Okay,” I reply, not really knowing if that’s a good idea or not, but I won’t turn away the chance at rebuilding the broken friendship we used to share. Even if all we’ll ever be is a fraction of that bond.
“All right, Butterfly, up off the floor and close the door behind you. You can try to go in that room another day. What’s on the agenda for the rest of the evening?” he asks casually. You know, like friends do.
“Actually, I’m going to have a bath. I brought some of my favorite products with me from New York. Ever since I knew I was moving back home, I could picture that big claw-foot tub I used to love to soak in. I think tonight, of all nights, it’s calling my name.” Jensen makes a strangled sound on the other end of the line and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he insists, clearing his throat.
“Obviously, it’s something. You just sounded like you were choking. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Kate. Just fine,” he repeats, the words tight and full of tension.
“I don’t believe you. Just say it,” I insist.
