Page 171 of The Single Dad

Riley

When we arrive back at Cole’s house, it’s quiet. There’s no laughing, no hollering, no patter of tiny footsteps charging through the house, which mean’s Archie definitely isn’t here.

Cole heads into the kitchen, then returns to the foyer, brandishing a note written on a small legal pad.

“Kerry took him to the zoo.” He smiles fondly. “We’ll be hearing about that for ages.”

“Oh, for sure.” I grin. “He’s going to imprint on at least two animals.”

“Maybe he’ll grow up to be a veterinarian,” Cole says, setting the legal pad on the hall table. He turns back to me, and I’m half expecting him to take me into his arms again, to rush me straight upstairs and throw me onto the bed.

I’m fully expecting it, if I’m honest. Eagerly.

But what he says next surprises me.

“I want to show you something.”

“Okay,” I say, hesitant.

He starts up the stairs, and I follow him. He doesn’t stop on the second floor, where his bedroom, Archie’s room, and my old room are located. He continues to the third, which I tended not to venture onto during my time here.

On the third floor, to the left, is an exercise room where Cole would work out in the evenings. There’s a small library across the hall, and one door down from that, an extra, unused office space.

Cole approaches this room, which I’ve only seen once, during my initial tour of the house. He holds the door open for me with a sweeping gesture.

I step inside, and immediately, I’m taken aback.

The old desk and filing cabinets have been moved out of the room, leaving it open and airy. The hardwood floors have been cleaned and polished, and the high ceiling repainted.

Tucked into the bay window opposite the door, bathed in sunlight, is a brand-new easel, a fresh, blank canvas sitting in its tray.

There are a few more folded easels leaning against the wall, and a caddy full of paints beside them, more colors than I’ve ever seen in my life—cadmium red, ultramarine blue, at least fifty different shades that I never would’ve been able to afford on my own.

And most heartstopping of all, spread across the walls are a hundred little sketches, most of them basic doodles in pen or pencil, drawn on scraps of paper or restaurant napkins. I recognize them—they’re my drawings.

All of the little pictures I scribbled onto any available piece of paper. My absent-minded artwork, of little birds and Archie’s smile and Cole’s profile and the sheep from the petting zoo. He kept all of them, every single one.

My mouth falls open, and I turn in a small circle, taking it all in. It makes my heart ache, but in a good way.

“I had this room converted into a studio for you,” he says. “A place where you can do your art. A place where you can do what you love.”

I shake my head, overwhelmed. “I can’t believe this,” I say hoarsely. “This is… this is…”

He only just got me back. This is something that must’ve taken time. Weeks, even, to renovate the entire room like this. Up close, some of the handiwork on the floor, the paint on the ceiling, even looks like it was done by an amateur, rather than professional hands.

He did some of this work himself.

This entire time, he’s been actively opening up his life to include me in it more fully. Doing all of this work, in the hopes that I would be back someday.

I turn to him. My voice, when I speak, is a mere whisper. “What would you have done with this studio if I didn’t say yes?”

He shrugs and says, “I would’ve kept it just like this. A monument to the only woman I’ve ever wanted to spend my life with.”

I take a few steps toward him, like a sleepwalker moving through a dream.

“The woman I love,” he says softly.

I pull him as close to me as I can physically manage, reaching up to kiss him. He kisses me back, then rests his forehead against mine, closing his eyes.

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