Page 100 of Come Back to Bed
24
Bernadette
I’ve been working on a painting in the paint barn for forty-eight hours, with only a few hours of sleep each night. It’s not even all that big, just 18x24, but it has been years since I’ve done figures on a canvas. I’m working off of a photo of Matt and Daisy on my phone, one that I took of them when they were running around out in the field, backlit by golden rays of sunlight. There’s movement and stillness at the same time. It’s so beautiful, it takes my breath away, breaks my heart and fills me with joy all at once. That’s a lot to try to capture in a painting, but I’m determined to do it. There are darker colors seeping through lighter colors to the surface, and a lot of blending in with gold to smooth the edges of different colors together so that they quietly come alive in the place where they meet.
Of all the things my parents have said to me that drove me nuts, the one thing I will never hear them say is: “You need to stop working on that painting.” My dad comes out to offer advice or praise, and my mom brings me fresh berry lemonade and meals. They know exactly why I’m here and why I have to do this now and I’m so grateful. The days are long here in July, and as I stand here holding a brush and palette, wearing my T-shirt and overall shorts, with my hair up in a crazy bun and paint all over me—I feel really bad about criticizing my parents for letting the day-to-day things slide. It’s really hard to step away from a project when you’re in the zone. I had forgotten how it feels.
This barn is completely set up for painting, with easels and drop cloths and every size and type of canvas, all the paints and brushes, lots of different kinds of lamps and great natural light during the day when the door is wide open. I’m about to step away to get some fresh air and check my phone, when I see a shadowy backlit figure approaching. I’d know that shadowy figure and sexy gait anywhere, I just can’t tell if I’m hallucinating from all the paint fumes or not.
“Matt?”
“I am so fucking glad I found you.”
When he steps inside, he comes into focus and literally everything else fades away. I drop my paintbrush and palette and run to him, jump up and wrap my legs around his waist. He kisses my lips so sweetly, like he’s kissing a delicate wound that needs to heal.
“Is Daisy here?!”
He laughs. “She’s with my aunt. I’m happy to see you too, you nut.” He finally looks at me in that way he looked at my painting the first time he was in my apartment. Like he recognizes me as something that he absolutely must have in his life. And for the first time, I feel like even though we’re so different that I was made for him.
“Matt. I’ve missed you so much. I’m so sorry for not telling you how I feel.”
“I’m sorry I held back too. I told you I wasn’t going to hold back anymore, but then I thought you might not want me.”
“Oh, I want you.” I kiss him all over his stupidly handsome face. “I love you,” I say. “I love you. I love you!”
“Dammit, I wanted to be the one who said it first. I had a whole speech planned and I forgot it as soon as I saw you. I love you. I love you.” He gives me one firm kiss on the mouth to punctuate my new favorite sentence. “I love you. I hated being in a different borough from you. I don’t even want one wall between us. I want to go to sleep in the same bed as you every night. You and Daisy. Move in with us. There’s plenty of room and you can use the second bedroom as a studio until you can afford another space.”
I don’t know, maybe it is the paint fumes, but I almost pass out when I hear him say this. Oh who am I kidding. It’s Matt McGovern that makes me lightheaded. He lets me down, arms still wrapped around me, holding me tight.
“I want to. I want that more than anything. Thank you for asking. But are you sure you want to live with me?”
“Are you sure we haven’t already lived together up there on the fourth floor?”
“Yeah, but I’m painting now. It’s different. It’s good, but I might be crazy.”
“I’ve always thought so.”
“No, but I mean really bananas, like staying up all night and being a total asshole when I’m in the middle of a project and an even bigger asshole when Ican’tpaint.”
“Okay. Well, great news—if we decide we hate living together, you can just move out.”
I laugh. “I guess it really is that simple, isn’t it?”
He finally notices my painting on the easel. “Wait, what is this? This is beautiful.”
“It’s not finished yet.”
“Is it for me?”
I can’t help but smile at that question. I may never stop smiling, in fact. “It’s for us.”
“Does it have a title?”
“It’s a secret. I’ll tell you after…”
“After what?”
“After we fuck in my bedroom,” I whisper, pulling him out of the barn.
