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The plastic is gone and the hallway is open now with gleaming wood floors that look as though someone just applied a new sheen to them. There’s still a faint smell of cleaner and sawdust and paint in the air, like someone polished the place only hours ago.
"The crew came by at six," he says. "Final cleanup."
"A final clean up for what?" I ask.
"You’ll see. I hope you like it."
My stomach flips at the idea that Everett did something that sounds very permanent that he hopes I will like.
At the end of the hall is a closed door. He stops in front of it and then turns to me.
He’s standing there in nothing but black boxer briefs, looking like the version of him I got for the last half of our honeymoon. The version of him that I think only his siblings have ever seen.
"I started this the day after I saw the painting," he says.
The painting that Gabriel hung in the gallery? The faceless man in a suit standing at the penthouse window. The lonely billionaire. Whatever is behind that door is a decision he made after seeing it. Its the same night we consummated our marriage.
"The gallery employee talked about the artist," he continues. His voice is even, but his jaw is tight. "She said the artist was gifted. That she didn’t seem to know it yet." He pauses. "I already knew you were talented. But standing in front of that painting—seeing myself through your eyes—I understood you’d been burying something extraordinary. Something that comes to you as easy as breathing and you’ve been suppressing it for too long."
"You agreed to live in my world for a year," he says. "But I want you to have something of your own inside it. Something that’s just for you."
Then he opens the door. The room is flooded with light and I almost can’t believe what I’m seeing.
The entire north wall is glass from floor to ceiling, facing the grounds, the trees, the water beyond. Morning pours through it—silver and even and kind. The kind of light painters spend their lives chasing.
An easel stands in the center of the room. A real one. Heavy, beautiful, and meant to be used. There’s a rolling cart nearby already stocked with supplies, shelves along the back wall, with flat files, stacked canvases of different sizes, a drafting table by the window, and a deep sink in the corner.
Everything I would need. Everything I never thought I’d have.
The room soars upward into a second story with a spiral staircase that leads up to a lofted storage area with a seating space and even more light. It feels less like a room and more like an entire art studio.
My hand comes up to cover my mouth.
"The windows face north," he says behind me. "For consistent light. The ventilation is separate from the rest of the house if you work with oils. The floors are sealed under the wood, so if you ruin them, it won’t matter."
He’s giving me logistics, facts and specs, because I know it’s the only way he knows how to say, "I was thinking of you and everything I can give you to make you happy."
Because that’s how Everett says the things that matter when the real words are too exposed to survive his mouth.
I turn slowly, still trying to take it in.
"Everett, I can’t believe you did this for me."
He holds up a finger. "There’s one more thing."
He crosses to a second door on the far side of the studio—one I assumed was storage—and opens it.
It isn’t storage. I see the inside of a living room and open kitchen.
It’s an apartment.
I walk through the door to find a bedroom, a sitting area, a small kitchenette, a bathroom with wide doorways and grab bars, everything accessible and thoughtful and bright. Through the far window, the same silver morning light spills across the floor. There’s another room… a gym but the equipment looks specialized.
He did this for me? So that I could live separate from him.
I stare at it. "I don’t understand. What is this for?"
"I talked to Henry's physical therapist and got the specs on what he would need in a home gym so that they could work on his daily routine here," Everett says from behind me, voice careful now. "But when he’s ready to leave Brookhaven, if you wanted him closer during the transition…" He pauses. "He wouldn’t have to live in an apartment alone. He could be here… where you can keep an eye on him."
