Page 104 of My Sweetest Agony
The vast hall surrounds us.
Towering ceiling.
Highly polished floors traversed by thousands over the years to see the art lining the walls.
Masterpieces going back hundreds of years.
Some so stunning, they make me stop in my tracks—which I suppose is the intent the artist had in the first place.
A group of kids here on a school field trip dashes past, giggling as the teacher chases them and whispers at them to slow down and be quiet, and Cam tightens his grip on my hand, tugging me forward and leading me confidently around the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
Just like he was with his brushes in hand, Cam seems to know exactly where he wants to go, weaving through the maze of hallways and galleries as if he’s memorized them.
I scan the works on the walls as we pass, trying not to get too distracted by them when Cam clearly has something specific he wants to show me. But that’s hard, given my newfound respect for the art world that suddenly developed in the last twenty-four hours. “I haven’t been here in probably twenty years.”
Cam grins, giving my hand a light squeeze. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
Raising a brow, I allow him to move me through another gallery, past several groups on tours who stand intently listening as the guide talks about various pieces of priceless art. “Why is that?”
He shrugs. “It’s kind of one of those ‘you go once, you see it, and you’re done with it’ kind of thing for most people.”
Sadness laces his words, and he doesn’t have to explain why that thought is so depressing for him.
This man’s life revolves around expressing himself through his art.
Paint and canvas—or a bare wall in a city somewhere around the world—are his entire focus.
To think people don’t appreciate it—despite the notoriety he’s gained with his works—has to hit squarely in the gut.
“But not you?”
Cam shakes his head, the corner of his lips twitching slightly. “I still vividly remember the first time I came here. I was six and on a first-grade class field trip.” He stops walking and pulls me to the side, out of the way of the flow of patrons, and points across from us to a Monet. “I saw that, and my heart just stopped.”
“Really?”
But looking at it, I can see why.
The loose brushwork, fleeting moments of light and color, all combine to create a stunning landscape that somehow screams to be looked at, even with the muted palette and soft touch.
He gives me a moment to examine every detail of the painting, and the longer I stare at it, the more my eyes start to burn with unshed tears.
When was the last time I stopped and looked at something just because it was beautiful?
Day in, day out, I’m surrounded by life—flowers, plants, endless greenery—and I spend my entire career putting together bouquets and arrangements to celebrate the love people have for each other, but at some point, I stopped seeing it.
And I know exactly when that happened.
It was the moment I got that call from Nancy.
The second I knew Drew was gone, so was my ability to appreciate anything beautiful anymore.
Cam wraps his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder, his lips feathering over my ear. “I knew that’s what I wanted to do—create things that were that beautiful. I didn’t know what a soul was at that point, but I understood what looking at it did to me”—he presses his hand over my heart, which picks up its beat under the warm press of his palm—“here.”
A single tear falls from my eye, and he leans in and kisses it away so gently that I practically collapse back into his hold.
I don’t know how long we stand, looking at this single painting.
Minutes…
