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My grin turns devilish. “Today it’s ours and ours alone. We’ll have a private tour followed by a catered lunch in front of any piece of art that you wish.”
Finally, she gets over her shock and squeals with excitement—music to my ears. “You, husband, are the most wonderful man in the world.”
Her praise makes my chest feel like it’s about to explode. I live for these moments.
“Come, let’s meet our tour guide.” I steer her through the entrance.
“Hello and welcome, Mr. and Mrs. De Luca. My name is Elise and I’ll be your guide today.” The woman approaching us speaks with French-accented English, and she’s around my own age, tall, slender, and professional. “Come right this way.”
We spend the next three hours touring the quiet, peaceful museum. Once Elise realizes Sophia’s level of interest and her self-studies so far in Art History, she becomes much more animated. The two of them speak in depth about all kinds of things from the art itself, to history to politics in those times.
I tag along. For once, not the center of attention as the women are swept away by their conversation and the tour. Elise was the perfect choice of tour guide.
I mostly glance at the paintings, sometimes tuning into what our tour guide has to say, and other times reading the plaques. Until I find myself in front of… I check the title.La Mélancolie.The lone woman in the painting looks miserable, but also completely unreachable. She’s off in her own world of sorrow, depression has sunk its claws so deeply into her heart that the world around her simply no longer exists, it can no longer touch her soul.
When Sophia notices me lingering, she doubles back. She stares at the painting for a long moment, her arm snaking around my waist. At first, I don’t let her in. It’s not that I don’t want her silent comfort, it’s that I know I don’t deserve it.
But soon enough, my willpower falters and I wrap her in my embrace. I can only imagine what she must think of me, that out of the entire museum, this is the painting that captures and holds my attention.
It shouldn’t be. I owe my past nothing.
Simply gazing at this piece of art and letting it conjure up hidden emotions of sorrow and guilt is a betrayal to Sophia.
“We should keep going,” I murmur.
“No. Let’s stay for as long as you want.”
I glance down at her. “Even if this painting makes me think of another woman?”
A long, strained pause floats in the space between us.
“Yes. Especially because it does. Roman, you’ll never break free of the past until you confront it.Shewill always have power over you until you face your feelings and choose to let them go. I’m right here by your side and I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
Her insight and understanding has me reeling.
It’s my turn to be consumed by wonder. Sophia is simply amazing. I know deep down in the darkest corner of my soul that she’s too good for me. She’s too good to be true, yet here she is by my side allowing me to face the demons of my past without judgment. Without being jealous and making this moment about her instead.
I fucking love this woman.
If only the words didn’t stick in the back of my throat every time I thought to utter them.
CHAPTER23
Sophia
Honeymooning with Roman in France was incredible. I don’t even have the words to describe the full experience. Memorable. Mind-blowing. The experience of a lifetime. I mean, we ate a lavish, private lunch in front of theMona Lisa. Who else can say they’ve done that?
Since we’ve been back, I’ve been more motivated than ever before in my life. I’ve been reading all the Art and Art History books I can get my hands on. I officially moved into Roman’s bedroom. The entire mood in the house has shifted, it feels lighter, happier since our return.
We’re just beginning to settle into a new routine. Life is good.
I’m lounging by the pool in the June sunshine, eating fresh mini pizzas that Luis made and sipping lemonade, when Diana comes out with today’s mail.
The poorly suppressed excitement in her expression has me immediately sitting up. I reach out for the envelope, my fingers trembling. Is this the news I’ve been waiting for? Only one way to find out.
The return address in the corner indicates it’s from Columbia University
Like ripping off a band-aid, I tear into the envelope and pull out the single sheet of premium paper. My eyes skim the top couple of lines, once, twice, and my pulse races enough to make me light-headed. I let the words sink in.
