Page 75 of False Confidence

She smiled up at him, certain she was already looking at the most impressive work of art in the place. “I want to see your favorite piece.”

Liam scrunched his brow like he was thinking hard. “There’s probably a mirror around her somewhere so you can see yourself—hey!” Jazz whacked him with her purse, but she could see him fighting a laugh. “Too praise-y?”

“I suppose not,” she admitted with an exaggerated sigh.

Liam cupped her chin and dropped a quick kiss on the tip of her nose. “Come on. My favorite painting’s on the fourth floor.”

He led her up the stairs and through several corridors, pointing out various sculptures and paintings as they passed and telling her all about them and how they came to be in Seattle. Jazz had never been an art person, but she could spend days listening to Liam talk about it. She clung to every word, interested in the facts behind the art, but mostly in his feelings. She filed away his likes and dislikes, and the whys behind them, adding building blocks to the picture of the man that was quickly becoming a permanent fixture in her brain.

“My favorite’s just over there,” Liam said as they entered a hushed gallery room. He hadn’t been kidding when he said the rest of the museum would be quiet—without the families, it was perfectly peaceful.

Jazz spun around to face him before they reached the painting, and he raised a questioning brow. “I want to see it like you do—experience it like an art person. How do I do that?”

Surprise lit Liam’s eyes, like he was happy she was interested. “Close your eyes.” She did so, and he grasped her shoulders, spinning her around and walking her slowly forward. “When you open your eyes,” he said, holding her still, “just say the first thing that comes to mind when you see the painting.”

“I can do that.”

Liam squeezed her shoulders, and she opened her eyes, stepping back into his chest as she realized how close to the wall they were. She took in the painting with a small gasp. It wasn’t what she’d expected. Dreamy pink and blue clouds surrounded the bones of a house consumed by blue flames, a couple embracing on an ash-covered bed at the centre while it burned down around them. The gleaming brass plaque below read:

Nothing Lasts Forever, 1889

Oil on canvas

She didn’t recognize the artist’s name.

“It’s sad.” She didn’t mean to whisper, but there was something about the painting that demanded the hush. “No—beautiful. Tragic? All of the above.” This was Liam’s favorite; she wanted to get it right.

“This isn’t school, darling. There’s no right answer,” Liam said, reaching for her hand and threading their fingers together. “But that’s how I see it too. Beautiful but tragic.”

“Is there a story behind it?”

“It’s a weird one. The artist isn’t well known—he only painted a half dozen paintings before he died, and there’s no record of the stories behind them. But art people love to speculate, so we have theories. All six paintings feature the woman on the bed. The first two were painted in the shades of blue and pink you see in the sky, and they gradually got darker. Until this one. This was the last painting. They found it in his studio in Toulouse after he died. The theory is that he loved the woman, but she was promised to another, and this painting shows he would rather he and his lover burn together than be apart. They say he died of a broken heart.”

“Wow. That’s so…”

“Romantic?” Liam suggested and Jazz snorted, turning to look at him.

“I was going to say dramatic. But yeah, it’s pretty romantic too. I understand why you love it so much. It’s the perfect balance of light and dark, peace, and chaos.”

His face lit up with excitement, as if she’d interpreted the painting like he did. “Exactly. I knew you’d?—”

“Liam? Is that you?”

Liam’s whole body tensed, and Jazz knew who the voice belonged to even before she looked up over his shoulder and into the icy blue eyes of his ex-girlfriend.

Liam turned to face India, threading his arm around Jazz’s waist, and she pasted a wide smile on her face. “Hi. It’s good to see you again. How are you?”

India dragged her gaze over Jazz. It didn’t feel like a judgmental glare, like the kind Jazz’s mom had perfected, but more of an appraisal. When her eyes returned to Jazz’s face, they were hesitant. “I’m good. How are you guys?”

“We’re great,” Jazz said, looking up at Liam. He wasn’t even looking at India; his perfect dimply smile was trained on Jazz. And, when Jazz turned back to look at India, she knew it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“That’s nice. Liam, I called a couple of times. I left some messages. Did you get them?”

“I did,” Liam confirmed, finally looking at India.

She waited expectantly, but Liam didn’t elaborate. India swallowed, standing a little straighter. “I was hoping to talk to you.”

“Alright.”

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