Page 124 of Love Among Vines

A couple hiding under a tablecloth, sawing away at prime rib, upended bottles of champagne scattered between them. The same couple under a spotlight on a dance floor, staring longingly into each other’s eyes.

The familiarity sent shivers down her spine, and she pivoted. A cocktail table under a starry sky, corner of a pile of blankets just visible in the background. Her tiny cottage on the water. The sun on Margie’s face. A couple sitting on the hood of Rett’s slightly beat-up truck.

Painting after painting escaped her fingertips. Watercolor, acrylic, mixed media. She was the Taylor Swift of art, internalizing her unique experiences and turning them into something beautiful.

She ran out to the lake shore at one point and gathered rocks. She hot glued them to the canvas and painted a dreamy blue lake in the background.

Even Steven the elusive raccoon scored his own portrait. As she considered the next canvas, she closed her eyes and envisioned Rett. His mischievous smile when he was about to deliver a thoughtful gift. Those emerald green eyes looking up at her in disbelief as he looked over her financials.

Shockwaves coursed up and down her arms. Portrait after portrait joined the ones on the floor—Rett in the speakeasy, on the balcony at the chapel, driving with one hand while the other rested on her knee.

Even intimate moments bloomed onto the canvases—the two of them under the stars on a tangle of white blankets. Pressed together in a mirrored lake, a breath apart.

Eventually, a sunbeam startled her out of her trance. She blinked at the sudden light. Holy hell. She had painted all night long. Everything that had been trapped inside her for the last two years had come bursting out. Her brush landed in a clean cup—somehow, they kept appearing all night.

She glanced behind her. Rett was curled up on the floor, fast asleep. Materials spread out around him—paper plates for makeshift palettes, a stack of clean glasses. Her heart almost split in two.

He had given her everything, believed in her even at her most fragile and reprehensible. No matter what she had felt about herself over the past two years, Rett, it seemed, had believed in her implicitly. Why else would he have had a stack of thirty canvases waiting in his gym?

She took a step back and looked at her creations. The walls were lined with imprints of her trip. The people and places who had made such an impact on her in such a short time.

And sprinkled amongst those memories were ones that went farther back. Ones she had been unwilling or unable to confront since Nate had left her. Many were autobiographical, some were just depictions of feelings. There was a woman sitting on the floor with her head in her hands, surrounded by darkness. Red words crackled out of the inky black around her. Failure. Orphan. Bankrupt. Decay.

One was a scene from her childhood that she had all but forgotten. It had come to her as if in a dream. She had snuck out of her bedroom on Christmas Eve when she was supposed to be sleeping to look for Santa. Instead she had found her parents, sitting close together on their outdated plaid couch, glasses of wine in hand while a cozy fire crackled in the hearth in front of them. A Christmas tree strung with multicolored lights sparkled in the corner of the room, and a row of handmade stockings hung above the fire.

There was just one depiction of what was supposed to be her apartment with Nate in New York. A gleaming kitchen with a single dilapidated cardboard box. The word Future was written on it in Sharpie. It was on its side with a pair of ice skates spilling out. A burning dollar was barely visible floating outside the window.

While getting over him was part of her breakthrough, Nate didn’t deserve any of her energy. And maybe he never had.

Jade closed her eyes and reached her fingertips up to the ceiling. She took in a series of deep, almost sensual breaths. Her body still tingled, but it had slowed to an ebb. There was a weariness in her bones like she had just run a marathon.

She looked behind her again at the sleeping form of Rett. There was still some fear in her heart. A hesitancy. She was opening herself up to getting hurt again. But Rett was worth the risk. And something deep inside her told her that no matter what happened, this time the muse was here to stay. No man and no tragedy would ever take it from her again.

The paintings stared back at her. Would they sell? A couple resembled her old work—loud, exciting, sometimes confusing depictions. But most were memories, landscapes, deeply personal and meaningful flickers of time. And some she already knew were going to be gifts. Margie needed the painting of the café. Margie—oh, shit. She needed to get to work.

She crossed the room to Rett and dropped to her knees. She hesitated, one hand outstretched. He had done so much for her. Her unseen assistant, he had freshened her rinse cups all night long. She shouldn’t wake him. It wasn’t that far from his house to town. She could walk it.

But as the thought crossed her mind, his eye cracked open.

“Hey.” He yawned.

“Hey,” she echoed with a smile. She brushed some hair out of his eyes.

“You painted.”

“I did. A lot. I actually ran out of canvas. But don’t worry, I did stop myself before I moved on to your wall.”

He smiled. “You could have painted my wall. It’d give me something to look at while I’m doing my squats.”

“Well, maybe during another visit. Thank you so much, for everything. The supplies, for helping me through my breakthrough. But most of all for believing in me.”

“Of course I did. I believed in you from the moment I met you. Well, maybe the second moment I met you.”

She smiled again. “That’s fair. I am so sorry to ask you this. But I have to get to the café. I think I’m finally ready to do the mural and my bike isn’t here. Do you think you could?—”

“Of course.” He popped off the floor before she could finish her sentence. “Give me ten minutes to shower and make a coffee and I’ll get you there.”

“I’ll make the coffee,” she said.

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