“This place is great.”
I looked at the high ceilings and exposed ducts, their glints of metal an appealing addition against the deep, matte black ceiling. The walls were high, about twelve or more feet and it was industrial, yet modern.
“Thanks,” Monica said, but she didn’t shift her attention to me. She was counting boxes on her fingers and was lost in thought as though it required all her brainpower to sort this out. “My mom put both a lot of time and money into it.”
“You can tell.”
It was a small studio, so I made my way around as she busily organized the delivery. There were tiny lights hung on the walls, spaced evenly apart in order to showcase paintings, I guessed. Four corrugated metal wrapped podiums stood near the entrance, their stands empty, and reclaimed wooden shelves jutted from the south wall. The gallery was bare, but obviously awaiting something.
“I could use some help with these.”
I jogged over to Monica. She was dressed in a baby pink sweat outfit, her hair slicked into a ponytail that still hung well past her shoulders, even when pulled back. In silver glittered lettering, the word ADORBS was plastered on the backside of her pants. I cringed, wondering what on earth I was doing here, with her, with a girl that had writing on her ass.
“Okay, put me to work.”
Monica pointed to a box leaning against the wall. It was as tall as myself and about four feet across, though thin in depth. “Open that up. Mom wants them to go on that wall over there, but I think they’re going to be too big.” Her eyes moved to the wall I had just been looking at with the canned lighting and display hooks.
I began peeling off packing tape. “What are these all for? Some kind of show?”
“Yeah,” she said as she crouched down to open smaller boxes that were more square than the ones I was tackling. “The theme is Truth. Mom commissioned a bunch of her favorite artists to create their take on the word. We already have a life-size, chicken-wire Jesus in the back that we’re going to have to wheel out here once all the paintings are hung. These ones I’m opening are from her favorite Italian artist, Leonardo Vitalli. Not sure what he created, but it’s bound to be something outrageous. He tends to be that way.”
“What about these?” I still hadn’t gotten my box open. Whoever packed it secured it like it was Fort Knox. “Who are they from?”
“An artist in Kentucky my mom discovered a few years back on a trip she took to the Derby. She happened to stop into a coffee shop where his work was on display and fell in love with his technique. He’s pretty much a nobody when it comes to the art world, but Mom likes his work and it actually sells for a lot out here.”
Kentucky. I didn’t let myself linger on that and focused my efforts on opening the box instead. The paintings were wrapped in copious amounts of bubble wrap, so much that I couldn’t distinguish anything about the pieces unless I peeled each layer back. There was a long strip of masking tape stuck across the front and in Sharpie pen, the words, True: Emotion. I scanned the piece and saw two more similar labels. True: Love and True: Heartache.
“Do the paintings come titled?” I asked. I wasn’t sure how I’d be able to figure out which belonged to which unless the images clearly indicated one way or another.
“Not sure. Open them up and we’ll have a look.”
Monica came to my side and grabbed the corner of bubble wrap from one end and I took the other. Underneath the protective layers, there was a covering of paper that she used her long nails to claw at, pulling it free. Only half of the image was exposed, but it was more than I needed to see.
“Oh my God.”
“He’s good, huh?” She peeled the rest of the parchment off the first painting and discarded it to the concrete floor. “That’s phenomenal. A little morbid and sad, but totally beautiful.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“I love how he can make something so abstract feel so real. I mean, just look at that.”
I needed Monica to stop talking.
“Let’s open the others.”
I threw my hand up and it met her shoulder. “Wait.”
Her eyes went wide and then she stepped back, giving me space. “Okay.” Her response was hesitant, but she allowed me the moment I needed. “I’ll finish up with these. Let me know when you want to look at the others.” There was a wary look in her gaze. “But that’s a good response. Mom’s gonna be happy with that one. Super emotional.”
My mouth was tacky, numb. I couldn’t feel my fingers. The percussive heartbeat in my chest pounded intensely, clanging against my ribcage. My face heat, palms sweat.
I couldn’t look away; I was drawn into the image. Catapulted back. Back in time. Back in heartache. Back in emotion.
Back in love.
This painting in front of me was all three titles in one. I didn’t even need to see the rest.
From behind me again, Monica took cautious, slow steps. Her head peeked over my shoulder. “I don’t really get it,” she said, her minty breath hot on my neck. “I mean, I get that they’re in a boat of some kind. But the machines and the tubes, it’s like a hospital bed, too.”
I forced a swallow.
“And she kinda looks dead.”
The boat. Our boat. Her safe place.
“I love how their bodies are all tangled, though, like you can’t tell where he begins and she ends. Like they’re one person.”
Because they were.
“They look so young. It’s sad.”
I stepped toward the painting. It was just an object, I told myself. But it wasn’t, there was no truth in that thought. I ran my hand over the paint that bubbled up and hardened on the canvas. I had to feel it under my fingers. It was the closest I’d been to Mallory in the last twelve years and my body needed to feel that. I needed to feel that.
“Umm.” Monica’s tone was scolding. “We don’t really want your dirty prints all over these. You shouldn’t be touching that.”
I ignored Monica’s demand and stooped down to study the scene, the way the colors wove and blended to create a story in sweeping, heartbreaking strokes.
“If you like it that much you can bid on it at the auction.” Monica left me where I was and I could tell she was pissed that I wasn’t paying her any attention. I didn’t care. I couldn’t deal with that right now. “Or take a picture or something …” Her voice trailed off with her footsteps.
I remembered the two remaining paintings and tore their covers from them. There was relief in the fact that they weren’t of Mallory and me, but it didn’t make them any easier to look at.
The second was drawn from the same bird’s eye view as the first, but rather than a hospital bed underneath her, thick green grass grew around Mallory’s prone body. There wasn’t anyone at her side here, only a headstone at her crown. She curled in on herself, her body full, her stomach round.
My breath caught.
Mallory, pregnant. And grieving.
True emotion, love and heartache all over again.
I could hardly bring myself to view the third.
The front door to the studio chimed just as I slid out the last painting and I heard Monica’s voice when she greeted the visitor. I was glad for her distraction and that I could take my time here without Monica peering in on me. The shock still clung to me, so fresh and raw.
And I felt it even deeper when I looked at the third image. It was Mallory as a little girl, sitting on her father’s lap. Two wings enveloped them, layers of white and gray feathers that looked so real I imagined they would be soft to touch, like velvet. Hair that appeared almost spun as gold wrapped around them. It took me immediately back to the image Tommy painted in the room on that day long ago when I watched him work—the painting of his wife. It was essentially the same one, only with Mallory and Tommy added into the frame, their family of three.
I was lost in the paintings when the murmur of voices crept up behind me, and it wasn’t until I sensed the two bodies right there that I turned around to break from my trance.
“I’ll just put them on the back table and your mother can decide what she wants to do with them. The hydrangeas will only keep for a few days, but I know they’re her favorite.”
The blood ran from my face, the feeling from my limbs.
She was absolutely, impossibly stunning.
The woman I’d imagined her becoming during the time apart was nothing compared to the one who faced me right now. I couldn’t fathom any man on earth laying eyes on her and not giving up everything to make her his. She radiated and captivated. My God, she was even more perfect than I remembered her being, and she’d always been perfection in my eyes and in my memories.
Out of every piece in this studio, she was the truest form of art. Scrap the rest, all of it.
Mallory was my truth.
Her gaze met mine, softly and unexpectedly.
The vase faltered in her grip and I saw the recognition on her face, in her features that pulled tight.
“Heath.” She breathed my name.
My body vibrated. I’d wanted this day to happen for longer than I should have. Even when I was with Kayla. And it was here. She was here. I reacted the only way I knew how. With two long strides, I was inches from her.
She searched me with a look that no one had given me, ever.
“I’ll just be taking those.” Monica jutted her hand angrily in between us and tugged the vase from Mallory. I saw her shaking her head in a way that should’ve frustrated me, but I didn’t think about it. I couldn’t think about anyone or anything but the woman right in front of me. Everything else faded away.
“Mallory.” I wanted to shout her name, to shout everything I’d felt for the last twelve years, but it slipped from me, protected in a whisper. “I can’t believe it’s you.”
She laughed quietly and there was some relief in it. “It’s me.”
I brought my hand to her cheek, no second-guessing.
She could have shrugged away. She could have jolted at my touch. She could have slapped it down, asked me what I was doing or why, but she didn’t.
She didn’t.
She closed her eyes and leaned into my palm.
Oh my God, I still love you. The promise from all those years ago was fresh in my mind and heart. It took more power than I had to keep it in those places instead of letting it fly out into the open, into the space between us.
Like she knew, she smiled sweetly. She was beautiful. As a girl, she was adorable. As a woman, she was incredible. Her strawberry blonde hair curled around her shoulders and her green eyes were alight with the kindness that always defined Mallory in my memories. She’d grown into herself in a way I didn’t think possible.
She glanced at the floor and swiveled her head back and forth, and broke our connection along with it. “I have to go,” she stammered, her breathing labored and unsteady. I tried not to notice the way her chest rose and fell under her silk blouse. “It’s late and Corbin and the floral shop tomorrow and …” She wasn’t making sense, but it was okay. I let her have the moment to take it all in. “I have to go.”
“All right.” I smiled and she flashed me a grin that made my knees completely unbuckle. “But I need to see you again.”
Mallory expelled a huge breath through her mouth. “Heath.”
“Please.” I took her slender hands into mine. “Please, Mallory.”
Whatever wall she was trying to build crumbled and she let me in, a little at least. That was all was asking for. “Okay.”
“Give me your phone.”
Without hesitation, Mallory reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone, handing it to me. She looked up at me with trusting and expectant eyes.
I dialed my number and when I felt it vibrate in my pocket, I pulled mine out so I could save her number there.
But it was already there. Mallory Alcott. After all these years, she’d had the same phone number. A different name, but the same number.
If only I’d had the courage to call it. If only we had connected years before. If only.
Fate didn’t care about my if only’s. And I only cared about my what now’s. I was tired of waiting on fate, on destiny, so I took things into my own hands when I asked, “What do we do now?”
“You call me.”
“When?”
Another smile from her full lips. “When you want to talk to me.”
I clicked the button on my phone and the room filled with the trill of her ringtone.
She laughed, deep and heartily, so much that she bent at the waist.
“You’re not going to pick up?” I nudged my chin toward the phone in her hand.
Humoring me, she answered. “Hello?”
“Hi Mallory, it’s me, Heath.” I saw her nerves surface as she bit her bottom lip between her teeth. I couldn’t look at anything but her mouth, remembering what it felt like against mine back when we were kids. “I know it’s been a while, but I hear you’re in California now and funny thing, but so am I.”
There was a touch of sadness in her look and I wanted to take it from her immediately, so I kept talking. “Anyway, I was wondering if you’d like to hang out sometime. No pressure. Just two old friends catching up.”
“I’d love that.” She grinned. “Truly.”
“Me, too,” I said as I lowered the phone from my ear but kept my eyes pinned on hers.
Monica came back from wherever she had disappeared to and Mallory left like she said she needed to, but I remained standing still, unable to move for so long I had to shake myself out of my daze. I gave Monica the huge apology she was due, but she waved me off, saying she got it.
“First loves will do that to you,” she’d said with a laugh and added, “I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same if I was reunited with mine. But we were able to have a little fun while it lasted, huh? That’s all I think either of us were looking for.”
I hugged her and thanked her for her candor and we set back to work getting the studio ready.
I wanted to tell Monica that her mother’s Truth showcase would never come close to the exchange that just took place right in the middle of this studio between Mallory and me, but I didn’t because not everyone had the same truth.
I knew mine though, and it was Mallory. It was us.
I just hoped with all my being that I could become her truth again, too.
