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I finally tear my gaze away from the painting and look to my right, spotting at least another five pictures hanging off the beam on this side of the warehouse. Turning around, I search further into the space. There’s so many more.
I do a little dance inside, giddy at the thought of seeing all of the beautiful art that he’s created.
I feel Tristan come up behind me and I turn when he says, “I’ll go and get us some drinks,” smiling when he sees the excitement on my face. “Wine?” I nod absentmindedly as I look around us and I hear him chuckling over the music.
My eyes wander over to where Harmony is standing, unable to keep them from her for any longer than a couple of minutes.
When I went to pick her up and I saw what she was wearing, I was speechless. She captivates me like no one else ever has, even when she’s only wearing her paint-splattered coveralls; she’s still just as beautiful as when she’s wearing a gorgeous dress.
She’s as stunning as she was ten years ago—maybe even more so now. Her eyes shine with the same excitement as they did back then, but they also mirror something else: sadness and life experience.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m digging up the past by trying to spend time with her and messaging her. Maybe it’s better if we didn’t do this? Maybe we should go our separate ways like we did all those years ago?
But when her eyes meet
mine from across the room as I wait for our drinks to be poured, I know that I could never walk away from her a second time.
Doing it the first time gutted me; I don’t even want to comprehend what would happen if she wasn’t in my life right now. Not only that, but it isn’t just about me; both of the kids have grown attached to her too.
I take the glass of wine and whiskey from the man dressed all in black behind the makeshift bar—another piece of metal covered in paint splatters—and walk through the middle of the warehouse. I don’t bother to look at the art hanging from the metal beams overhead because the only piece of art that is calling to me in this room is Harmony.
And that’s exactly what she is: a beautiful, stunning, colorful piece of art. I can see her beaming from here as she studies another one of the paintings, her head tilting from side to side as the lights change and in turn, the painting too.
“Here,” I say, clearing my throat and handing her the glass of wine.
She turns to me after a couple of seconds, her lips pulled up into the widest grin I think I’ve ever seen. Her eyes twinkle as the light changes color again and she reaches out, taking her wine glass from me and bringing it to her lips as she turns back to the painting after she thanks me.
I watch as the glass comes to her lips, swallowing as my eyes track her tongue coming out to lick the remainder of the wine from them. I’ve never been so fascinated in my entire life.
“So,” I say, stepping closer and turning to face the painting. “What is it?”
“It’s perspective,” she says simply, as if it explains everything. At the confused look on my face, she starts to explain herself. “When the lights seem far away, she’s staring out at something in the distance with anguish on her face. When they change and seem like they’re closer, her face changes, hiding her emotion and masking it with a happy smile.” She points to the painting as the lights change again. “See.”
I tilt my head to the side and narrow my eyes, trying to see what she sees. Stepping closer, I watch it intently. “I see it,” I tell her, my voice a little too loud. The light changes and the happy woman turns into a sad woman. There’s something about it that hits me in the chest and I swallow before turning to face her.
“Perspective,” she mutters under her breath, staring intently back at the painting.
I watch her, not willing to look back at it. She’s fascinated with it, and I can’t help but wonder if she sees herself inside the painting.
The way that the woman masks her sadness with her happiness has me overthinking everything. Is that the reason that Harmony agreed to come here? Because she wants to mask her sadness?
My thoughts have me studying her closer, trying to see something in her eyes, in the way her lips move, but I can’t. She has a mask on; exactly like the woman in the painting.
“Harmony?” When she doesn’t acknowledge me, I step closer, touching her arm and startling her. “Harm?”
“Sorry,” she gasps. “Lost in the art as usual.” She chuckles to herself.
I open my mouth to say something, but think better of it. We’re not who we used to be; I can’t convince her to tell me what is going on inside of her head. I don’t have that right anymore.
She shakes her head lightly and smiles, walking toward the next painting and studying it in the same way that she did the last one.
I don’t ask her what are in the paintings now though, instead, I watch her intently.
I can see that she feels every single piece of art in a way that I’ve never seen before. She gets so caught up in them that she doesn’t even notice when Oliver Hunt stands on her other side.
“I’m not sure whether it needs more color,” he says absentmindedly.
Harmony doesn’t turn to see who it is, she answers with, “It’s an incredible piece.” She tilts her head. “I don’t know whether adding more would disturb the symmetricity of the shapes. It’d throw it off balance.”
