If he doesn’t return my love, I have two choices. I can either accept it and go forward, hoping that one day in the future he’ll give me what I need, or I can take my shit and go.
Both choices seem abysmal and soul-destroying, but I’ve survived before, and I have no doubt I can again. With this running through my head I concentrate of fixing whatever the hell is wrong with this damned painting, figuring out three hours later that my problem has nothing to do with color or brush stroke: it’s simply that I hate how gloomy the scene appears.
It reminds me of the one painting I’d done back in Texas when I was feeling so crappy, all dark, angry, and colorless. It had reflected my mood at the time, just as this painting reflects the turmoil I’m feeling.
Shit. I don’t want this to be what I do. I’ve always been about color and joy, and the fact that this is what’s coming out of me shows me that something’s really not right, even if I don’t know what it is.
Or maybe I do and I just don’t want to face it.
“Dove! Where are you?”
“Up here!” I yell, scrambling to cover the piece before he comes in.
When he comes bounding in, a wide smile on his face, I gird my loins and wait for whatever he’s going to come up with next. This week, thanks to his wedding plans, has turned into a nightmare, but I kinda don’t have the heart to say anything, not when I’m considering pulling a runaway bride.
“You look lovely,” he drawls, coming closer to pull me from my perch and into his arms.
I look down and laugh, taking in my paint-spattered tee and jeans against his immaculate suit.
“Okay, what’s up?”
“Nothing, besides the usual,” he grins, grinding his semi-hard cock against my belly. “I missed you and wanted to see you.”
Okay, that’s crap. I love his impromptu visits in the middle of the day, but this is plain strange. He usually stops in for a quick hello before running out again; his schedule is way too busy to allow for free afternoons.
“Thanks, but that’s nonsense. Spill it, Blake.”
I see his eyes light up, and then he’s swinging me around and kissing me all at once.
“They have a lead on Brennan! If this pans out we should be in the clear by this time next week. Just think, dove, if they catch him we can start looking at those houses we spoke about.”
“Correction, Vinny baby, we have not been speaking about houses. You decided we need one of those monstrosity-type mansions for the one kid we’re having. I have no problem with where we currently reside.”
Plus, I really don’t want to be stuck in the ‘burbs while he swans back to the city every day. I hate the suburbs and the lack of public transport and all-night takeout.
“But dove, we’ll need the room.”
I huff and curl my lip, doing my best not to laugh at his forlorn look. Vincent, I have recently discovered, knows that I have a weak spot for his puppy dog faces and has started using this against me.
“Let’s agree to disagree on that for the moment. I wanna get back to the Eric part. Do you really think they’ll get him?”
I ask, rather dubiously, only because I’ve been getting crank calls the past two days, nothing serious, just some heavy breathing that could be anyone from the kid next door to an asthmatic who’d dialed the wrong number.
I haven’t said anything yet because, as smart as I am, I know my guy will just get all paranoid and start locking me away more tightly.
It’s creepy though, and if it continues I’m gonna have to say something. If they catch Eric, maybe I won’t have to, and can thereby avoid an hour-long lecture about sharing.
As if Vincent has any room to talk.
“We can hope. If they do, we can move forward. Oh, by the way, the doctor had a cancellation this afternoon. We can go in at four. That’s what I actually came home for.”
“Awesome!” I yell, already halfway out the door and on the way to the bathroom. “It’s almost three. I should get ready.”
***
You know how when you go to the fair and play one of those ball games? The one where you try to hit the pins down in the hopes of winning that ultimate prize of a giant teddy bear or equally hideous shocking pink flamingo?
Finding out I was pregnant had been like playing one of those games: thrilling and hopeful and every good excited feeling wrapped into one. I’d felt that way, reveling in the idea that when the baby comes I’ll be winning something that is against the odds, like an honest to God accomplishment or something.
Now as I lie on the examination table with the cool gel slipping the ultrasound wand over my belly, I just feel like the carny manning the game station has been using superglue on all my pins.