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I don’t think, I push forward, opening the door and walking into the darkened space. It’s silent, except for the small sniffle coming from up the stairs. I take a deep breath, calming myself and trying to get my erratic heartbeat under control.
For some reason, it feels like a major choice; like if I walk up these stairs, everything will change and my life won’t ever be the same again.
Anger takes ahold of me and my fists clench, my knuckles turning white at the thoughts that are racing through my head. She’s playing one big game, trying to destroy me in the same way that I did with her.
My foot lifts onto the first step, slowly moving to the next one and by the time I’m halfway up, I know I’ve made the right choice.
When I make it to the top, my gaze flits around the space, searching for her. When I spot her on her stool, looking at a painting, I frown. Her shoulders are slumped over, her arms wrapped around her body, holding herself together. Then I hear her small sniffles again and my heart cracks. I could never bear to see her upset, it would rip right through me every single time. Just like it is now. I want to go to her, hold her and comfort her, but I can’t. It’s not my place, no matter how much I want to.
“Harmony?”
She spins around, her gaze catching mine as she wipes at her face furiously, trying to get rid of the evidence of her tears. “You’re not supposed to be up here, I told you that last week.”
I widen my stance, my face stone cold as I stare at her. “You called me, so I came,” I say before taking a couple of steps toward her.
She frowns as she looks down at her lap for a beat then stands up, wringing her hands in front of her as she clears her throat. “I did… for you to see Izzie and Clayton’s painting that is.”
I watch her intently, waiting for her to say something else but when she doesn’t, I move my gaze toward the painting that she was sitting in front of.
My jaw clenches as I see the willow tree painted to perfection. If I was to reach out and touch it, I’m sure I’d feel the roughness of the bark that adorns the real thing against my fingers. She’s painted every little detail and I can’t help but tilt my head as I remember her standing there, waiting for some kind of explanation. I should have said more, I should have done more.
“The painting,” I croak, my voice coming out hoarse. Don’t think about it, Tris, she’s playing you.
“Is none of your business,” she says, covering up the easel. “Shall we go downstairs and I’ll show you Izzie and Clayton’s painting?”
My frown deepens as I stare at her, knowing that she’s trying to put a Band-Aid over a wound that needs stitches. If I’ve learned anything over the last few years, it’s being able to see when someone is trying to cover something up, and I have to say, she’s not doing a very good job of it. I should know because I’ve become an expert.
There’s a reason she was crying, and there’s a reason that she still has tears in her eyes now.
Why the hell am I so bothered by it? Where has the anger that was flowing through me mere moments ago gone?
“I’m sorry,” I say, taking one last step toward her, an irrational want consuming me to know what’s happened for her to be upset. Now I’m within touching distance, and I know if I was to reach my hand out, I could feel her soft, silky skin against mine. “About back—”
“Don’t.”
Her voice is at a complete contrast with the look on her face and the tears that still shine in her eyes. Had she done this back then, back when we were a couple, I would have called her out on it. Told her that I know she’s lying, that I know her better than anyone else. But that’s not true anymore, she probably has someone who knows her better than anyone else.
It’s not me anymore.
I let my hands drop back to my side, taking a step back and waving my arm toward the stairs, signaling for her to go first.
Why am I letting her show me this painting? I should tell her that the kids won’t be coming back, that I know exactly what she’s trying to do. But I do none of those things, instead, I wait as she hesitates a second before blowing out an audible breath. She crosses the space to the stairs, walking down them as I follow close behind, not able to stop the invisible thread that pulls me to her.
She carries on walking to the right, into another room and toward where paintings line the wall.
“This is theirs.” She points to a painting of four people. “They worked really hard on it and Izzie wouldn’t stop talking about ‘Eddie.’” She chuckles but it holds no humor. “They were so excited for you to see it, they’ll be happy when you get home and tell them.”
I blanch as anger rolls through me at the fact that they’re not at home, they’re still with my mom. I tilt my head to the side, looking at the four people. There’s me, my mom, Amelia, and Edward; the plaque underneath it says, “my family” and my heart beats faster. Their mom should be on this painting and my heart breaks that she isn’t.
I stumble slightly at the thought, my eyes widening at Harmony. She’d have been the perfect mom. Showering them with all the attention they needed, reading stories to them before tucking them into bed and kissing them on their heads, telling them that she loved them—just like Natalia used to do.
My mind swirls with images of how our life would have been had I not made the mistake of being dictated to.
She spins around after I’ve been silent for a while, her brow furrowing. “Tristan? Are you okay?”
“I… I…” I swallow against the lump forming in my throat as I back away a step, my hand coming up between us. “I can’t do this.” I spin around, taking giant leaps for steps toward the door.
“Don’t do this again, Tris, this isn’t about us anymore,” I hear her mutter under her breath.
