Rush (Gods #2)(38)

       
           



       

"Well, I'm just glad I bumped into him," I tell Moira.

She smiles and nods. "Come on then, let's not waste any more time; show me these paintings of yours."

I swallow hard as I reach for my bag. I move it in front of me, leaning it against her desk, and open the zipper on the bag.

Moira comes from behind the desk to stand next to me.

"I only brought two paintings with me," I tell her. "I don't have a car at the moment, and they're pretty heavy to carry."

I lift the first painting from the bag, and I hear her take in a sharp breath.

Shit. She hates it.

It's the one of Ares and me.

I glance up at her and start to tell her that the other painting is much  different than this, if this one isn't to her taste, but the look on  her face tells me that she doesn't actually hate it.

"Can I?" She reaches for the painting.

"Of course." I hand it to her.

She moves across the room with it, sitting it on an empty easel, and then stands back, looking at it.

I move to stand beside her.

"Jesus, Ari … this is good. Really good." She glances at me. "I thought  Declan was exaggerating about your talent, but … " She reaches out a hand,  a finger tracing the painting without touching. "The lines here, the  detail … I can feel the absolute passion in this picture."

I feel a lump rise in my throat. "Thank you," I tell her.

"I'm guessing this is from memory and not a still life?" She looks at me again, a grin in her eyes.

"It's from memory."

"It's personal to you though, yes?"

"Yes," I exhale.

"And how would you feel, showing this? I know all art is personal, but  this one runs deep; I can tell," she says, finger moving over the  painting again.

"I … it … well, I would show it, but … it belongs to someone else," I hear myself saying. Like my heart.

I didn't realize it until this moment. I'd thought I could part with this painting. But I can't. Not to her. It belongs to Ares.

Whether he still wants it or not, it's his to do with as he wants.

Because he gave this back to me. It was him who gave me back the ability  to paint. The inspiration I needed. And I owe him for that.

Jesus, I miss him.

I feel my throat thicken with tears. Christ, not here. Pull it together, Ari.

Moira turns to face me and stares at me. "If I told you that I wanted this painting in my gallery, what would you say?"

I swallow past the thickness. "I'd say that I would want to have my  paintings in your gallery more than anything. But I can't give you this  painting."

"Why did you bring it today then?"

"Because … I thought I could."

She's thoughtfully staring at me. "You love the man in this painting."

It's not a question. But, still, I answer, "Yes."

"I loved a man once, too. Total asshole. I hope your man isn't an asshole."

Laughter slips past my lips. "He can be." Not that he's mine anymore.

She laughs, too. "Aren't they all at times? But it's whether they  recognize they've been an ass and stop being one or they don't care and  carry on regardless. Mine was the latter."

Mine is the former.

She smiles brightly at me. "Okay then. Show me this other painting  you've brought with you, and let's see if it's equally as good as this  one."





Moira loved the other painting I'd brought to show her. It was a  slightly abstract portrait of a beautiful woman. Totally different than  the painting of Ares and me.

The woman in the picture wasn't inspired from anyone I'd seen. It was  just straight from the heart. A recent painting from only days ago.

The woman is alive with color, but her eyes are closed. The expression  on her face is wistful, achingly sad, and the abstract portrays her  feeling of utter loneliness.

Yes, I'm fully aware of the fact that the woman in the painting represents my feelings right now.

But that's art. It's a reflection of our innermost desires, wants,  needs, and feelings. It's emotional and messy. Just like life.

And Moira loved it.

She said she loved the contrast in my ability to paint, and she offered  me a showing on the spot. And get this: she had an opening for someone  to work sales on the gallery floor, and she asked if I would be  interested in the job.

I was like, "Hell yes!"

When I walked out of the gallery, the first person I wanted to tell was Ares.

Then, I remembered.

I stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do.

But I wanted to tell someone, so I called my dad and told him the good news.                       
       
           



       

He was really happy for me. He asked me if I wanted to come home to celebrate, and I accepted.

It's not like I have anyone else to celebrate with.

So, I'm in a cab on my way to my dad's.

But, first, I've got a stop to make.

There's something I need to do.

I get out of the cab outside of The New York Giants headquarters and  training facility after paying the driver the fare. I decide not to ask  him to wait while I go inside, instead deciding I'll call for another  cab to take me to my dad's.

I hold the painting under my arm. It's wrapped in bubble wrap to protect  it and covered in brown paper. I went home first, after leaving the  gallery, before heading here, so I could wrap it. I didn't want it on  display for everyone to see.

It's late in the day but still light out. I wave at Josh, the night  guard, and make my way inside. Because it's after hours, the main door  is locked, so I have to input the key code to get in.

The building is eerily silent, as it usually is at this time of night.  I'd be surprised if anyone was actually here. Thank God all the lights  are still on; otherwise, I'd turn around and walk straight back out.

I'm not exactly brave.

Case in point: the fact that I'm here to leave the painting in the locker room for Ares and not take it to his apartment.

I walk to the locker room, my heels echoing loudly against the floor.  When I reach the locker room, I push through the door. The light is  still on in here, too. I step inside, letting the door close behind me.

I walk over to Ares's station and stand the painting on the floor, leaning it against the bench, where his cleats sit.

I just stand here for a time, staring at his team shirts hanging there,  emotion overwhelming me, remembering the exact moment I met him.

In here. Me, half-naked, soaking wet, and bent over in this very spot.

So much has changed since then.

He hated me. He loved me. He didn't trust me.

I step forward, closer to his hanging clothes, and his scent washes over  me, like the breeze on a warm summer day, making me ache for him.  Eliciting memories so wonderful that, in this moment, it's hard to  remember why we aren't together anymore.

I hear a door bang behind me. I turn, and he's there.

Ares.

Standing in front of the door to the showers. Hair wet, beads of water  running down his chest. He's still sporting stubble, which is well on  its way to a beard. Eyes dark, like sleeping hasn't been easy for him. A  towel tied around his waist.

He looks so beautiful that it hurts.

It's been just under a week since I last saw him, and yet, right now, it feels like it's been years.

Longing so fierce jolts through me, making me want to go to him.

But I can't.

So, I dig my toes into my shoes, staying where I am.

"Hi," he says softly, looking sad and unsure, all at the same time.

"Hi." I smile, but it feels sad on my lips. "I didn't know anyone was here," I tell him.

"I stayed to do a workout. I just finished up and had a shower.  Obviously," he says with a nod down at his towel, mocking himself.

There's a beat of silence between us. Silence that once upon a time ago would never have been there.

"How … have you been?" he asks quietly.

"I'm … okay. You?"

He lifts a shoulder. "I … " His eyes close, and he lets out a breath, so  achingly somber, it makes me want to cry. His gaze comes to mine. "Full  disclosure?"

I bite my lip and nod.

"Not good. I … miss you."

How I don't cry in this moment, I'll never know. I wrap my arms around myself. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's my fault. I'm the one who messed up and lost the best  person I've ever met and the best thing that has ever happened to me."

My lips tremble, and a tear falls from the corner of my eye. I brush it away with my hand.

This is killing me. Just like I knew it would if I saw him again.

I don't want to see him in pain. I love him. I hate not being with him.

And seeing him hurting is hurting me.

But I don't know how to get past what happened. Him not trusting me.

I see his eyes go behind me.

"Is that … " He steps forward. "Is that for me?"

I nod, biting my lip.

He walks over, close to me, and his nearness overwhelms me. He smells like everything I've missed.

"Can I … " He looks at me, gesturing to the painting.