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Rachel smiles. “They’re going to be at this for a while.”
“Definitely.”
“I used to think Locke needed someone who understood everything he was trying to do.”
“And now?”
“Turns out, he needed someone willing to argue with him about it.”
I laugh because I know the feeling. There was a time Kell went to Locke hoping another Wicker Man could tell him how to live. Locke could teach him plenty, but not how to become Kell.
Kell figured that part out for himself. Now they’re simply two artists disagreeing over a giant wicker heron, and both of them look perfectly happy about it.
By the time we leave, the sun is slipping behind the trees. Kell slides an arm around my waist as we say our goodbyes, and I lean into him while Rachel makes us promise we won’t wait until spring for the next get-together.
The car is quieter as Kell drives us home. It’s comfortable after an afternoon of too many voices. I lay my hand over his where it rests near the gearshift, and he turns his palm up to thread our fingers together.
I ask what he thought of the heron, and that’s all the invitation he needs. He spends the next several minutes explaining why Locke is wrong about one section of the wing and why, eventually, Locke will realize this.
I laugh and squeeze his hand. “You two are impossible.”
“We’re artists.”
“That explains a great deal.”
His thumb moves slowly over mine for the rest of the drive. When we arrive home, Kell lets us into the condo with the key I returned to him immediately after we chose each other. He drops it into the little ceramic bowl by the door, right where it used to live.
The living room is dim except for the last of the evening light coming through the windows, enough to catch the two paintings on the far wall.
Dave’s waterfowl scene hangs where it always has, quiet marsh, pale sky, two birds cutting through still water. Beside it hangs one of Kell’s abstracts, all blues and greens with deep gold between them.
By every reasonable rule, the two paintings should look ridiculous side by side. They don’t.
For a long time, I thought loving Dave meant protecting the life we’d built exactly as it was. Then Kell came into my life, and for a while I thought choosing something new meant leaving the old life behind.
It didn’t. Loving Kell doesn’t ask me to rewrite what Dave and I had or pretend it mattered less than it did.
Kell returns from the kitchen and stops beside me. “What?”
“Nothing.”
He studies my face, then looks toward the paintings and seems to understand anyway. His hand comes to rest at the small of my back.
“Come upstairs.”
The warmth in his voice turns the invitation into something that has very little to do with stairs. I look at him. “Is that a request?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
His amber eyes darken, and I’m suddenly much less interested in standing in the living room contemplating art. He takes my hand. By the time we reach the bedroom, he’s close enough behind me that I can feel the warmth of him along my back. I turn, expecting a kiss, but my attention catches on the portrait hanging opposite our bed.
Even now, it can stop me. I saw it unfinished the day we found our way back to each other. Kell stayed at the studio that first night to finish it, then brought it home.
Once, being seen that clearly would have terrified me. Now I love that he used his talent to show me how completely he sees me, and that he wants me exactly as I am.
His arms come around me from behind and circle my waist.
