Page 31 of The Art of Loving You

“Sure you are,” I teased, fluffing her bangs.

As I walked back to my car, I felt a small pang of guilt for not staying longer. But the truth was, I needed the quiet of my home to sort through the storm in my head. The warmth of my parent’s home had steadied me, but I wasn’t ready to face the bigger storm waiting on the horizon.

Back at my house, I let out a sigh of relief as the door closed behind me. The quiet enveloped me, a refreshing contrast to the lively chatter and laughter at my parents’ home. I removed my shoes and changed into my most comfortable yoga pants and an oversized shirt, the soft fabric providing a small comfort against the lingering tension in my chest.

I turned on the TV and scrolled through local channels until I found the ads for the Chagall exhibit. The vibrant colors and elegant graphics danced across the screen, but the satisfaction I usually felt when seeing my work on display was diminished. The experience felt mechanical, as if I were merely going through the motions.

My thoughts inevitably circled back to Lucas. What would he say if he knew? Would he understand why I’d kept this from him, or would he see it as a betrayal? The questions gnawed at me, each one heavier than the last. I wanted his support, but I couldn’t shake the fear of what sharing the truth might do to my friends and to us.

Finally, I grabbed my phone, hesitating for a moment before typing out a text:

Ella: Hey, I’m home now. If you’re free, come over.

I stared at the message, my finger poised over the send button. Part of me wanted to delete it and push the conversation with Lucas further down the line. But another part—a braver, quieter voice—reminded me that delaying the inevitable wouldn’t make it any easier. With a deep breath, I pressed send and set the phone down, my heart thudding widely.

Then the screen lit up moments later with his reply:

Lucas: On my way!

He was coming, and I had no idea if I was ready for what would come next.

I moved to the couch, sinking into the cushions and pulling a blanket over my legs. The TV murmured in the background, and another ad for the Chagall exhibit flashed across the screen. I tried to focus on it, on anything but the turmoil rising inside me.

My heart rate increased as headlights illuminated my window. I held my breath, waiting for the sound of his car pulling up and the abrupt slam of a car door. Finally, I took a deep breath and prepared myself for what was about to happen.

Lucas had arrived.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Lucas

As I stepped out of the car and approached Ella’s front door, nervous energy crackled through me. I had been holding everything back—every thought, every emotion—just to keep myself together. Now, standing here, my hand froze before knocking. What could I even say to make this right?

Before I could decide, the door swung open. Ella stood there, her wide eyes locking onto mine. For a moment, the world stopped. Then we moved toward each other, meeting halfway, as if no force could keep us apart. My arms wrapped around her, holding her tightly. She buried her face in my chest, clutching my shirt like letting go wasn’t an option.

“I missed you,” I murmured into her hair. The words barely scratched the surface of everything I felt.

She tilted her head back, her eyes shimmering. “Me too,” she whispered. That was all it took for the dam inside me to break.

I cupped her face and kissed her—deep and urgent, letting it say what words couldn’t. She kissed me back just as fiercely. It wasn’t neat or controlled. It was messy and raw, driven by everything unspoken between us.

I didn’t know how long we stood there, tangled in the doorway, but it wasn’t long enough. Every part of me wanted to lose myself in her, to let her chase away my worries. But I knew better.

With a shaky breath, I pulled back, resting my forehead against hers. “We need to talk,” I said softly, my thumb brushing her cheek. “Before we let this blur everything else.”

She nodded, her breathing uneven. “You’re right,” she said, though there was reluctance in her voice. “We need to discuss this calmly.”

I stepped back just enough for her to lead me inside, my hand still holding hers like a lifeline. Her warmth grounded me, yet uncertainty loomed. One thing was certain—I couldn’t face the future without her.

We settled onto the couch, but the air between us was heavy. I tried to focus on her, but restless tension gnawed at me. Ella curled her legs under her, fingers loosely laced as though bracing for what came next. I reached for her hand, needing the anchor.

Before I could start, a warning flashed across the TV screen. Ella’s hand twitched in mine as both of our gazes shifted to the breaking news banner. Then the image appeared.

My father.

Alistair Devereux, in a tailored suit, was being escorted out of the gallery by two uniformed men. His expression was calm, but the strain in his jaw was unmistakable.

“This just in,” the anchor announced, “Alistair Devereux, owner of the prestigious Devereux Gallery, has been taken in for questioning regarding a sting operation connected to looted art. Authorities have been investigating the gallery for months, focusing on alleged dealings in stolen works from the mid-20th century.”

---