Page 19 of Broken Vows

“Clean canvas,” she demands, already rummaging through my supplies. “Fresh start.”

I want to protest that I’m too tired, too sad, too everything to paint right now. But then she hands me a brush, and something shifts inside me. The weight in my chest doesn’t disappear, but it changes, becomes something I might work with.

“I’ll stay right here,” she says, settling into the old armchair in the corner. “Paint whatever you need to paint. I brought snacks, remember?”

The canvas stares at me, blank and full of possibility. I dip my brush in paint–deep blue, the color of midnight and secrets and change–and begin.

Hours pass. Lilly dozes in the chair, occasionally waking to make encouraging noises or offer commentary. The sky outside gradually lightens from black to grey to pink. And I paint.

I paint the darkness and the light, the endings and the beginnings. I paint my fear and my hope, my grief and my anger. I paint until my arms ache and my eyes burn, until the canvas is a riot of colors and emotions I didn’t even know I was holding inside.

When I finally step back, the sun is fully up, casting golden light through the windows. Lilly stirs in her chair, stretching.

“Oh,” she breathes, looking at the canvas. “Lex…”

I see my pain laid bare in broad strokes and bold colors. But there’s something else there too, something I didn’t expect to find. In the chaos of dark blues and angry reds, there are spots of light breaking through–small but persistent, like stars in a storm.

“I think,” I say slowly, “I need to paint more.”

She smiles, reaching for my hand. “Then that’s what we’ll do. Whenever you need to, day or night, just call me. I’ll be here with snacks and moral support.”

I squeeze her hand, grateful beyond words for this friend who shows up at midnight with ice cream and doesn’t leave until sunrise. Maybe she’s right–maybe I am more than just Jeremy’s wife. Maybe it’s time to find out who else I can be.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

She bumps her shoulder against mine. “Always. Now, how do you feel about breakfast? I make a mean hangover omelet, and emotional hangovers totally count.”

For the first time in days, I feel something like a smile tugging at my lips. It’s small and fragile, but it’s there. Like thosespots of light in my painting, breaking through the darkness, promising that maybe, just maybe, there’s something waiting on the other side of all this pain.

Chapter Twelve

Two weeks into the separation,and I’ve developed a routine. Wake up, forget he’s gone, remember, cry in the shower, paint until my arms ache, then let Lilly drag me out of the house for something she deems necessary for my “healing.” Today, it’s shopping.

“You need new clothes,” she announces, pulling me through the mall entrance. “Something that makes you feel you again.”

“I have clothes,” I protest, but let her guide me, anyway. The truth is, getting out of the house helps. It’s easier to breathe in public spaces where Jeremy and I never built memories.

“You have sad clothes,” she corrects. “We’re getting you something that makes you feel strong.”

The fluorescent lights of the department store make my head spin a little. Or maybe it’s the lack of breakfast–I couldn’t stomach anything this morning, the mere thought of food making me queasy. I’ve been off lately, probably stress.

“Here,” she throws me a deep green dress at me. “This would look amazing with your eyes.”

I take the dress, running my fingers over the soft fabric. “Where would I even wear this?”

“Anywhere you want. You need to remember who you are outside of…” she trails off, careful not to say his name.

The dressing room is small and warm, mirrors on all sides reflecting my tired face back at me. I slip the dress over my head, surprised by how well it fits. The fabric hugs my curves in a way that feels both comfortable and confident.

“Let me see!”

When I open the door, her face lights up. “Lex, you look incredible.”

I turn to the mirror again, really looking this time. The woman staring back at me looks different somehow–stronger maybe, or at least like someone who could be strong. But as I study my reflection, a wave of dizziness hits me. The room tilts slightly, and I grab the doorframe to steady myself.

“Whoa,” her hand is on my arm instantly. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just got dizzy for a second.”

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