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“You don’t seem the relationship type.” I’ve always viewed him as a party guy, a fun-time guy. I’d seen him bring woman back to his apartment—notthatoften, but enough. Never the same one. He’s rich, hot. His job has him out all nights of the week.
None of that sounds like a guy who’s looking to settle down, and I’m not interested in getting dumped again.
“Are you the relationship type?” he asks. There’s no judgement in the question, just curiosity.
“I thought I was.” These days, I’m not so sure. It’s like falling over when you’re learning to ride a bike. Once or twice is fine, if you have someone to pick you up. Too many spills and the chance of you riding again is slim.
Now that it’s daytime and I can actually see more of Rowan’s apartment, I take in more details. Like the funky glass coffee table and the easel tucked away in the corner of the room. He catches me looking.
“You still paint?” I ask, and he nods. “Can I see?”
“Sure.”
To my surprise, he pulls open a cupboard. I guess it’s supposed to be a linen closet but the shelves are packed with blank canvases and brushes and tubes of paint. Down the bottom, there are more canvases, though these are painted. He pulls one out.
It’s a woman standing on a balcony, wearing a long white dress. Her hair is a soft brown and the sun is either rising or setting behind her. The light is...beautiful. I can almost feel the breeze that ruffles her hair and dress, and the touch of sadness in her expression grips my heart in a way I didn’t know was possible.
“It’s your mum, isn’t it?” I don’t know how I know... I just do.
“She’s kind of the main subject of my art.” He pulls out another canvas, and then another. Each one is even more beautiful than the last. “I mean, I paint other things, too, obviously, but I tend to gift those ones to people. And I always come back to her.”
“My god, you’reseriouslytalented.” I gawk at him.
“I told you I went to art school,” he says as if shrugging off the compliment. “I’m not drawing stick figures.”
“I know, but I wasn’t expectingthis.” I drop down to my knees to get a closer look at one of the paintings. It’s big, almost as tall as me while I’m kneeling. “Holy shit.”
Rowan laughs and he sounds almost shy. “It’s something to do on weekends.”
How can he degrade what is clearly a massive talent to something he does on weekends? I’m in awe. The thing I feel most strongly from these paintings is grief. “Has she been gone a long time?”
“Five years.” There’s a catch in his voice that makes me want to wrap him up in my arms. “Still hurts like a bitch.”
I stand and find myself surprised at tears pricking the backs of my eyes. I blink them away. It’s stupid. I didn’t know the woman. I can’t mourn her. But something about his pain is so real, it almost feels like a gift. He’s letting me into a part of his life that’s intensely private. More private than anything we shared in his bed.
This is therealRowan.
“How did she die?” I want to snatch the question back the second I ask it, and I start to. But he holds up his hand, telling me it’s okay.
“There was an accident. She was helping to do an installation of my father’s artwork in the gallery, and it was a huge metalwork piece. The biggest he’d ever done.” Rowan swallowed. “She should have let the installation guys do their job, but she had to control every little detail. She was up on a ladder and...”
My mind skips ahead and I gasp.
“She fell. The injuries were too extensive. They couldn’t save her.” His voice is barely a whisper.
“Oh, my God.” It’s so tragic for a second I can’t breathe. I stare at the paintings, at the feeling pouring out of them.
“It’s why I run the gallery and do the show every year. It’s how I keep her memory alive.”
“What about the paintings?” I gesture to them. There are more in this cupboard, all crammed in the darkness together. It seems like a metaphor. “Why don’t you show them?”
It’s then I notice how devoid of art Rowan’s apartment is. Everything is stylish and sleek—from the glass coffee table to the deep eggplant leather couch to the sculptural design of the light fixtures overhead. But the walls are empty.
There are no photos. No paintings. No prints. Nothing.
It’s like everything he loves is tucked away into this one cupboard.
“It’s just a hobby,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh. Suddenly the paintings are being shoved back into the linen cupboard and the air has chilled faster than a springtime storm. “I’m not a painter anymore.”
