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Squeezing my trembling hand, he leans in. “Nervous?”
“Just a little,” I admit, a light flush creeping onto my cheeks.
“We don’t have to go in there.”
“Of course we do.”
“I’m serious. I’m willing to double my donation just to get you home again.”
I blow out a breath, still feeling the throb of having him between my legs just moments ago. “You’re insatiable.”
Nothing but a wink, but it helps to settle my nerves. The scent of his cologne washes over me, grounding me.
As we make our way inside, my heart is pounding with nerves.
Logan never releases my hand, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of it, his touch reassuring, even as he’s stopped every few seconds from someone he knows. His confidence is infectious, and it helps me relax, pushing the nerves to the back of my mind.
My heart is ready to explode out of my chest when we turn a corner and he stops in his tracks, his grip on my hand tightening. I follow his gaze to a large canvas hanging on the wall.
“Beth?”
The room hushes around us—or at least it seems that way.
Wordless, he looks to me. I don’t know what he’s thinking and it’s killing me. He doesn’t speak as he takes the steps toward the canvas, pulling me along with him.
His jaw ticks, the muscles tensing, and even in these shadows I see tears well in his eyes.
I’m making Logan cry.
I’m not sure whether to feel accomplished or guilty.
As we take the final step, I see my name, and emblazoned at the bottom of the canvas is the title of the piece: “Healing Hands.”
The piece is made up of the photos I took during the darkest period of my life, pictures from the secret journal I kept when I was married to Rob. The images don’t reveal my face, but they capture the marks, the bruises that were hidden beneath clothing and makeup.
But overlaying those stark black-and-white images are other photos, ones in color. They’re images that represent my new life, my new love. It's the photos of Logan and me in the studio, although nobody knows but us because our faces aren’t shown. He’s touching me, caring for me, in all the places where I was once hurt. It's past pain and present healing.
After my photography took off, Claire called me and demanded I donate a piece for the auction. I doubted myself but knew I couldn’t refuse. The shelter saved me. And I knew it was time to tell my story… for me. I had the power to do it and do it how I wanted, tell it the way I wanted it to be told. I didn’t tell my story with words. I’ve never been much good with those. But I could tell it in snapshots of time.
Logan's entire body tenses at my side, and his hand on mine becomes a vice. The jovial atmosphere around us seems to fade as he steps towards the canvas. His eyes, always so filled with life and mischief, harden into ice.
For a long moment, he’s silent.
I’m on the precipice, laid bare before him. I had been excited for him to see, but now, I’m petrified at what he might say, how he might react.
Finally, he turns to me.
“I know...I know it's a lot to...” I begin, but he cups my face in his hands, his touch firm but tender, and pulls me into his gaze.
“I look at this,” he says, gesturing towards the canvas, “And I don't see what he did to you. I see your strength, your resilience, your heart. I see the woman I fell in love with.” His voice breaks, but he continues, his grip on my face tightening. “I see a woman who took her pain and turned it into art. A woman who survived.
“I want you to know something.” His thumb gently wipes away a tear that escapes my eye. “I am so damn proud to stand beside you. I am honored to be a part of your life. I am in awe of you, and I am so fucking in love with you.”
And in this moment, I know that he sees me—all of me—and he loves me. In spite of it all, because of it all. He loves me.
He silences my response with a kiss, a kiss that speaks of love and promise, a kiss that says I am his and he is mine.
Surrounded by beautiful art, I realize that we are the masterpiece.
