I know we do. My father’s studio, under Auntie Jolinda’s room in the guest cottage, has been largely untouched since his death. I go in there from time to time when I’m back home, just to feel a piece of him, something tangible and real that he’s left behind. But other than that, no one moves his stuff around. It’s still his room and we like to pay respects.
But I know that my father would have loved Josh, would have loved his talent, and wherever he is, I know he wouldn’t mind a little tour, even if it’s to see if there are any leftover pencils or canvas or whatever Josh has his eye on.
Together we stroll down the gravel path, the morning sun high and strong. He grabs my hand and squeezes it hard just as I take out the keys. There are valuables in there, paintings that we could never bear to lose.
“Is this difficult for you?” he asks, eyes searching mine.
I manage a smile. “It’s not easy but it’s good. It’s a good kind of pain.”
He nods and waits as I unlock the door and push it open.
Dust rushes to meet our faces and floats in the air like mist, caught in the sun streaming through the back windows.
Most things in the studio, particularly easels with paintings my dad was still completing at the time of the accident, are covered with white linen, giving the room a ghostly look. I flick on the light but the bulb seems to have burned out. It doesn’t matter; the natural light that floods in from the south-facing windows is more than enough.
Josh is silent as he takes it all in, and there’s a wash of reverence in his expression. He’s being respectful and I love him for it.
Finally, he looks at me. “This is a good space.”
I nod. “He was in here all the time. Could hardly get him out. I used to sit right over there,” I point to a stool in the corner, “and spin around and watch him paint.”
“Where did you paint?” he asks.
He’s getting closer to a question I don’t want to answer. I clear my throat, feeling like the dust is getting lodged in there. I point at a spot in the corner, behind a shelving unit. “Over there.”
He eyes it, frowning. “Where are your paintings?”
I feel the hot cloak of shame come over me. “I destroyed them all.”
He stares at me blankly for a few long beats. “You what?” he whispers.
I look away, unable to handle this. I’ve never brought it up with anyone. After it happened and my mother found out, we had a horrible fight, but that was the end of it and it was never mentioned again. Now I can feel Josh’s eyes on me, trying to understand.
He thinks I’m crazy. I think he’s right.
I close my eyes and take in a deep breath. “I destroyed the paintings. All that were in my possession, anyway. I burned them in the fire pit outside. There’s nothing left.”
“Why would you do that?” His voice is shocked, saddened, heartbreaking to hear.
I put my head in my heads, blocking him out. He wraps his fingers around my forearm and pries my hands away. “What happened?” he asks.
My face crumples. Why doesn’t he understand?
“What happened?” I repeat, shame and fear and anger competing in my heart. “He died. I was ruined. I lost the two things I loved most in the world, that’s what happened!” I pull away from him and stumble to the middle of the room, gesturing wildly around me. “How could I look at what I used to be, what I used to have? I couldn’t! The paintings would hang on the walls in here and they would mock me, they would make fun of me for not becoming what I could have been. Haven’t you ever lost something, Josh?”
He stares at me, not saying a word.
“Well, I did,” I go on, my heart racing, “I lost them in the worst way.”
“So you shut down,” he says, almost to himself.
I frown at him, my hackles rising. “It’s called self-preservation.”
He smiles sadly. “It’s not a way to live, Gemma. Everyone is going to lose something, someone, at some point in their lives.”
“You don’t understand,” I snap, glaring. He thinks he has me all figured out. He doesn’t know me, he wasn’t there, he didn’t have to go through it. “You have everything.”
He raises his brows and gives his head a little shake. “I don’t have everything,” he says quietly. “I barely have you.”
We stare at each other, the dust still hanging in the air. I try and compose myself, breathing in and out, but my breath keeps escaping me.
I need to escape.
I walk past him but he grabs me and hauls me to him. “Don’t run,” he says, holding me by the shoulders in place. “Not from this, not from me.”