I dump my cross-body bag and the pack containing my canvas onto the floor by the door.
“Did you paint today?”
My smile is immediate and genuine. “I did.”
“Will you show me? Or must I beg?”
“Maybe tomorrow? I’m pretty tired from my travels.”
Gerard’s eyes fill with sympathy. Although I’ve never confided in him, I think he knows there’s more that bothers me some days than just fatigue or sleepless nights. “You need to rest, I can see. My troubles will wait until tomorrow. Dinner?” he asks, his expression that of an enthusiastic puppy when he hears the word “play.”
“Tomorrow,” I confirm with a nod, grateful that I don’t have to show him my work tonight. I don’t feel like reliving it. I don’t think I have the energy.
With a quick kiss to both cheeks, Gerard bids me a cheerful good night and disappears into the darkness, leaving me to drag myself up the steps to change out of my paint-spattered clothes.
At the top of the stairs, I turn left and I flick on the soft overhead light to my bedroom. I stop in the doorway.
Jasper.
Sometimes I’m rocked by his presence when I walk into this room. The walls are dotted with oil and canvas reminders of him. He’s everywhere I look, in the familiar landscape of the lake, in the familiar scenery of the woods behind his house, in the familiar angles of his face. My time with him has colored every piece I’ve created since I got to Paris.
I told myself I had to do it, that it would be cathartic. These were the only things I was inspired to paint, these were the only comfort I could find for weeks. I like to think it’s helping, but there are still times when the sense of loss is nearly crippling, but it does seem to be getting better.
Maybe.
A little.
I hope.
Some days I think so, but others I fear that it will never get better. Not that it matters. When it comes to Jasper, I’m at his mercy.
Turning from the shrine my bedroom has become, I make my way into the small, attached bathroom. I splash cold water on my face and take deep, calming breaths until I feel a little more stable. As I stare at my reflection in the mirror above the sink, I notice the shelf behind me. My perfume bottle is in the wrong place. I turn to look at it, recalling my routine before I left the house this morning.
Littering the top shelf is the little wooden box that I keep my jewelry in when I take it off at night, a figurine of a painting girl that I picked up in Paris during my first trip into the city and, usually, my favorite bottle of perfume. On the second shelf are a few other odds and ends and a bottle of exotic French perfume that Gerard brought me. He thought it was “divine,” but I prefer mine. The hint of lilac in my perfume reminds me of Jasper, so I wear it every day. It holds a special place in my heart and on my shelf.
Until today.
For some reason, the bottle is resting beside the only other bottle of perfume that I own. But I didn’t put it there.
A niggle of unease slithers down my spine. After I use the bathroom, I walk back out into my bedroom, looking over every familiar detail of the room. It’s the one room that I have poured most of me into, the one where I feel most at home.
Everything looks clean and orderly, just like I left it this morning. The bed is neatly made with a spring flower duvet cover that I found in Paris, the rug in front of the closet still holds my slippers, kicked off as I dressed this morning, and my curtains are still open to let in the warm sunlight while I was gone.
I try to shake off the unsettling feeling and chalk up the perfume bottle to me just depositing it on the wrong shelf by accident. I did leave in a hurry so that I could get back before dark.
Back downstairs, I search for other things amiss and I find none. I don’t beat myself up over my paranoia. I figure I’ve earned it and then some.
As I pass the front door, I pick up my portfolio and bring it back with me. I perch on the edge of the couch and unzip the padded sheath, revealing the dried watercolor that I painted in the grass beside a cafe today. I was determined to capture a little bit of Paris rather than spilling my memories onto the thick paper. I was successful, right up until the moment I looked up and saw the back of a dark head ducking around the corner up ahead. It reminded me so much of Jasper, like most tall, fit men with short, dark hair do (at least from the back) that I couldn’t finish the painting without adding his vague shape to the background. In days ahead, that’s what I’ll remember most about today. The scene was beautiful, the weather perfect, the location exotic, but what will always stand out most was the jolt to my heart when I saw that dark head walking away.
THIRTY-SIX
Muse