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The second is an email from the interview panel telling me that they loved meeting me yesterday and that the teaching position I applied for is mine.
So far, so good.
The third is from Judith and it simply reads, “I think this could work. We’ll figure out the details over the next few months, and you’re going to have to take the lead on this.”
“Fuck yes,” I whisper.
I’ve spent the last few days locked in my room, putting the finishing touches on my dissertation, prepping for the interview I had on Monday, and trading emails back and forth with Judith. Angela has been resting at her house, and I can tell from her texts to me that she’s slightly withdrawn, and I have a pretty good idea of why. Because even though I told her I wouldn’t take the Iceland job, I’m not sure she really believed me. She’s deeply afraid of being abandoned—and for good reason. It’s on me to reassure her that that isn’t happening again.
And I have a solution in place now that will work out, I’m sure of it. I pick up my phone to call her, but my phone rings before I can, and her name flashes across the screen.
“Hey,” I say. “I was just going to call you. Can I?—”
“Come over?” she asks, laughing. “Yeah. I was going to ask you if you wanted to. I have something to show you.”
“Is the something you spread out naked on your bed?”
“No.It’s nothing like that, you perv.”
“Can’t blame a man for dreaming.”
“Just get over here,” she says, sounding genuinely excited, and piquing my interest.
I quickly shower, shave, and change out of the sweatpants I’ve been living in for the last few days. I put on a flannel and beaten-up jeans, because I’ve gathered that this is the look Angela likes me in best—mountain man as she says.
The anticipation of seeing her has my hands shaking against the wheel as I drive, and when I ring her doorbell, I have to remind myself to breathe. When she opens the door, my heart nearly stops in my chest because she looks so damn beautiful. Her hair is piled on top of her head, a few curls loose around her face, and she’s wearing an oversized white shirt that sets off her glowing skin. Here and there her shirt is dotted with dried paint, which makes me smile.
I pull her towards me and kiss her on the forehead. We stand there in the foyer for a moment, the sunlight streaming into the windows and a gentle breeze coming in through the open door. It’s a perfect, quiet moment, and I hope to have a million more like it with this woman.
“Come on, I can’t wait any longer,” Angela says.
She pulls me towards the back of the house, and into a room I’ve never been in before. It’s small, but has two big windows, and enough room for the wooden easel in the corner and a fewshelves that are stacked with paper and art supplies. On one of the walls, she’s hung up a few charcoal sketches of the ocean.
“You set up a studio,” I say. “This is great. You’ll be able to get so much done in here.”
“I’m really excited about having this space,” she says. “But this isn’t the only thing I wanted to show you.” She bends down and picks up a square canvas that is propped up by the cabinet. She turns it around and places it on the easel.
It’s a picture of me, from when we were on the boat with Archie. My smiling face takes up exactly half the painting, and the other half is filled with blue ocean and sky. Angela’s style isn’t photo-realistic, and is closer to impressionism. She’s used shorter, broken up brush strokes to capture the ocean, and when I move closer, I see that the paint is thick and textured.
“I love it,” I tell her. “Especially how you did the water.”
“Thanks,” she says. “That technique is called impasto. It’s actually still drying because the paint is so thick. But you can take it home as soon as it’s cured.”
“How long did it take?”
“A few days,” she says. “Which is why I’ve been so bad at answering texts. I’ve been painting nonstop, and thinking a lot the entire time.”
“About what?” I ask, my heart hammering. I know it can’t be that bad, because I don’t think that she’d paint my portrait and give it to me as a present if she was breaking up with me.
She looks away from me and at the painting for a moment, studying it like it holds the answer to whatever she’s wondering about.
“I think you should take the job in Iceland,” she says quietly. “Actually, you absolutely have to take it.”
“Angel, but I?—
“No, please, just let me get this out. I need to say this to you.”
“Okay.”
