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Shelly says the words so casually. Not an ounce of concern in her tone. Which is a tremendous relief.
My father may not be barbaric like my mother, but he disregards her words and actions as if they mean nothing. As if they harm no one. Recently, I learned his behavior was unacceptable. I learned his actions were equally as damaging as saying and doing the acts themselves.
Shelly reaches across the table and lays her hand over mine. “He was kind,” she repeats. “I made him no promises. That I’d tell you or that you’d follow through.” Her shimmery blues lock with my greens. “Reaching out is your choice.” She gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “Also…”
My eyes dart between hers as I wait for her to finish. “Also, what?”
“I think he surmised I’m pregnant.”Shit.“I felt this flutter and my hand automatically went to my belly.”
I don’t curse Shelly for inadvertently letting my father know about the baby. I curse that he may say something to my mother. Which may trigger another visit. A visit we do not need.
“Devlyn, I don’t know the first thing about your father, but he seems to genuinely miss you. Or at least the conversations you shared.”
James Templar is a good man that has done countless good deeds for others. He never speaks ill of anyone, ever—including my mother, which is part of the problem. He may be a good man, but he doesn’t know how to be strong—for himself or others.
If he has a good heart, is it possible to fix his broken pieces? Several hours per month, I work to mend my own broken parts. Perhaps he can do the same. I like to think it is possible, but as long as he stands beside my mother, I won’t take unnecessary or foolish risks.
“I’ll reach out to him.” I pick my fork back up and lift the bite to my mouth. “How was the rest of your day?”
Over the rest of dinner, Shelly recants her day at work. Although she dislikes all the physical adjustments she’s had to make, I see the impact. In the rosy blush on her cheeks and endless vibrant smile. In her twilight irises as they twinkle and shimmer. In the radiant light of her aura as she stands in my presence.
It is all I need. Her. Her smile. The peace she provides. The love she gives.
Just Shelly.
* * *
Bristles stroke the canvas as I paint Shelly in various swirls of pink. A splash of fiery rose. A sweep of delicate blush. A swish of addictive taffy.
Painting this piece without her here isn’t the same. This interpretation is new. Poles apart from my usual pieces. An unrealistic portrayal of the woman I have come to love so profoundly.
I see her so clearly when I close my eyes. Her curvaceous breasts and hips. The hollow of her throat and contour of her collarbones. Wisps of hair on her cheek as she lies on the pillows and blankets. The parting of her lips and glimmer in her eyes as I leer around the canvas with the brush between my teeth.
The more pigment I add, the more abstract the painting becomes. As it evolves, I fall harder for my muse.My Andromeda.
More often than not, my art is realistic. I paint and draw objects and people as I see them with the naked eye. Maybe tweak the color or shading or position, but not much else.
This painting is unlike every other I have created. This painting is unrestrained passion.
Every tinge of red coats the canvas. From borderline black to muted pink. Because Shellyisthe whole spectrum. She is red and pink and every tint and shade between. She is passion and love. Soft and pure. The gentlest caress and fiercest protector. She is the light to my dark. My North Star.
In my periphery, my phone lies on the table beside my easel. Taunting me. Provoking me. My hand freezes, the brush an inch from the canvas as I stare at the annoying piece of technology.
Computers and tablets and cell phones have existed in my life as long as I can remember. They were tools in school and distractions at home. Although I appreciate the ways technology has saved lives, I hate how some innovations have robbed people of their lives.
I may have grown up in the internet era, but I wish it didn’t exist.
It sucks the joy from my soul and gifts anxiety in return. The pressure to always be available. Emails and text messages and calling you wherever and whenever. While people become addicted to apps and social media, I work harder to disconnect from it all. If a website wasn’t essential for business, I would let it go.
My eyes shift to the table again and the urge to throw my cell phone in the garbage skyrockets. Only because my father wants to speak, wants me to call or text him.
“Should just get it over with,” I mumble as I set down the paintbrush.
From everything Shelly told me three nights ago, my father was nothing but cordial and kind while he spoke with her in Petal and Vine. She said he’d even looked a bit sad.
Dad always had a forlorn look about him, but I never asked why. Was I the reason for his sadness? We hadn’t spoken in so long, but it’s not as if we had profound conversations. Or is it Mom who has made him unhappy?
As years passed, and I put more distance between myself and my parents, I often wondered if Dad was happy with Mom. On any level. She had always been equally wicked and degrading toward him. Criticizing him harshly and not strictly behind closed doors.
