Page 21 of Dearest Ronan

It’s not that I’m ashamed ofher.On the contrary, I’d be so incredibly lucky to call Anika mine.

What I’m truly afraid of is how others would perceive our relationship. I’m not even technically divorced yet. They’d view her as my rebound and assume I’m going through some early mid-life crisis. I can just see it now: Anika and I date, and then her future clients give her a pointed look that says,oh honey, he divorced his last wife. How can you possibly thinkyourrelationship will be any different?Especially for a young woman.

I’m going to be a thirty-five almost thirty-six-year-old divorcee, living in a tiny two-bedroom apartment with no children. How on earth could I add dating a perfect twenty-year-old into the mix?Here, I ruined my life. Let me ruin yours now?

I’m stuck.

I’m stuck because Ilikeher. Think I could even love her. I’m not a huge romantic or anything, but damn. If only she’d been born a few years earlier and didn’t grow up inside my home. If only Carolyn and I called it quits ten years ago, after our couples’ counseling failed.

If only.

Anika

Did you know that if you mix light pink and lavender, you get a pleasant pastel color? I know because I’m currently holding a paintbrush directly over a small canvas I purchased at the local hobby store.

Not that painting is a hobby of mine. Let’s be real, my art is garbage. Sorry, art. It’s harsh but true.

But I digress.

I’m painting to liven up Ronan’s apartment. It’s quite sad with his ripped blinds, scraggly carpet, and lackluster walls. Maybe he’s afraid to make it a home and plans on moving to a house more suited to his personality. It’s not that he’s better than living in an apartment, but that he’s better thanthisapartment. The hot water lasts exactly six minutes before turning ice cold and the kitchen laminate is peeling with this awful dirty cardboard-like subflooring.

It would be one thing if Ronan owned the place to fix it up, but why pour in his own money for a random landlord?

“Better hurry, butterfly,” Ronan murmurs, his voice barely audible.

Riding the high of our hockey game last week, Ronan is treating me to a romantic Italian restaurant located outside the city. I’m not upset about the drive, because truthfully, I’ve eaten at all the restaurants near us. I’d rather explore a new place in a new town.

Besides, we can listen to music in the car, breathe in the night air with the windows down, and take longing peeks at one another as we ride down the highway.

Whipping my paintbrush to the side, I beam. “Do you love it?” Pastel pinks and purples intertwine together in soft hues until they blur together. The gentle gradients between my focused colors evoke a sense of tranquility. Or at least, that’s my intention for the piece. Knowing my art abilities, I think I’m the next Andrew Wyeth when my work’s no better than stick figures and aardvarks.

He peers at my masterpiece. “It’s beautiful.”

Before I sway my hips to the spare bedroom closet to change for dinner, I tell him that since he loves it so much, I’ll hang it above our bed. He thinks I’m joking, but I’m not.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m sporting a little black dress that hugs my curves and falls four inches above my knee with my red clutch tucked under my armpit. Ronan’s also mouthwatering in a powder blue button down and black pressed pants. It makes me want to skip dinner altogether and just spend the evening sweating in bed. Unable to help the tingles in my core, I squeeze my thighs tightly together.

“Wow,” Ronan whistles. Lust fills his eyes. “You look absolutely breathtaking.”

After giggling like a schoolgirl, I bite my bottom lip. “Says the guy oozing sex.” Loving my answer, he strides toward me and places a hand possessively on my hip. His fingers dig into myflesh, owning every divot. I’d share every strip of skin, every gasping breath with him, if he’d only let me.

Soon, we’re pulling up to the restaurant. There’s an evening glow hanging around streetlamps. Drizzle coats the road and sidewalk. I feel like I’m in a movie.

As I pull a cream shawl over my slender shoulders, Ronan holds his hand out to me. We press our palms together, exchanging warmth against the light sprinkling chill. How can perfection thrive within the dreary? I’d work my whole life to exist within this moment.

Ronan’s charming gaze lands on me, as if he’s bewitched by the sight of me, just as I am by the sight of him.

Warm coziness embraces us when Ronan holds the door open for me. Flameless candles adorn each lace-covered table, serving as elegant centerpieces. Mixtures of garlic bread and subtle floral perfume impart a refined atmosphere despite having all you can eat soup and salad with every meal. The lighting is low, but not dim enough to drag out flashlights or squint against menus.

Ronan places his hand at the small of my back, leading me to the host stand. As our shadows cast upon her, the female hostess, engrossed in studying paperwork at the stand, suddenly lifts her head. With a brief glance, she gestures a moment’s pause with her finger, only to do a double-take. Her grubby little eyes lock onto Ronan’s muscular frame with unabashed scrutiny.

Drool practically slips from the corner of her mouth. Literally. I watch as she wipes her bottom lip with the back of her hand.

“Why, hello there,” she says in a too-upbeat tone. “Welcome to Vino Amore. I’m Gabby. Do you have a reservation?” I resist mimicking her high-pitched voice.Do you have a reservation?

Ronan’s hand remains on my back. Since I don’t know who the reservation is under, I wait for him to answer.

“Ronan and Anika Steele.” The pit of my stomach flutters. I never changed my last name from Grimes. There was a time that Carolyn tried to manipulate me into petitioning my name into Steele, as if I was their kid, but I refused, and Ronan shared my sentiments.

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