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Not once, not ever, have I had family at a showing.
Not once has anyone outside the art world come to see my paintings.
Not once has anyone from my personal life bought one of my paintings.
“Why would I tell people about your show?”
I nod.
“Honey,” he cups my chin, keeping my eyes on his. “I’ll tell everyone about your art because I’m fucking proud of you.”
It’s like a lantern drops inside my chest.
The casing cracking open, and the light scattering into all the dark corners I hadn’t even known were there.
I’m fucking proud of you.
A tear drips down my cheek, and King wipes it away.
His chest lifts and falls with a deep breath, as he reads me like an open book. “You’re breaking my damn heart, Savannah Baby.”
His free hand closes over both of mine, as they twist together in front of my heart, and he pulls them to his chest. Trapping them there.
The look in his eyes.
The way he’s holding me.
It’s more comfort than anyone has ever offered me.
It’s more comfort than I’ve allowed myself to hope for.
This man. This husband of mine.
The one who stole me. The one who took away my choice.
He’s the one…
“I’m so proud of you,” he repeats. And I feel his words in the center of my heart. “Look around us. Look at all this beauty you add to the world. All of the goodness you share.” He gently squeezes my hands. “I wasn’t lying when I told you that the world needed your art. But that wasn’t all of it. I need it too. I need your joy. I need you to even out the bad things I do. Because with this,” he turns his head, taking in my paintings. “The world doesn’t feel quite so awful. So, yeah, Baby, I’m proud of you. And if no one has ever said that to you before, it’s not because you weren’t good enough. It’s because they weren’t.”
King swipes his thumb across my cheek, catching another tear.
I don’t want to cry here.
I don’t want to cry at all.
But I don’t know what to do with this overwhelming feeling of acceptance. With the heat building inside of me. Because it feels…
My heart aches as it swells.
It feels a lot like love.
But I don’t know if I’m supposed to love my husband.
Holding my chin in place, King leans down and presses a chaste kiss to my lips. “Now,” he gives me a soft smile, “do you want me to stay out here and schmooze with the mouth breathers while you take a moment? Or do you want me to ignore Orlando’s demand that I not buy anything, andbuy everything, so we can kick everyone out?”
I wet my lips and whisper. “Option one please.”
“Alright,” King lowers my still clasped hand as he lets go of my chin.
