Mason acted like she’d never spoken; his facial expression blank. “What’s this room?” he asked, walking toward the room she’d used as her art studio.
“Don’t go in there,” she said, panic making her voice harsh. Sara thumped her coffee cup to the counter, hot dark brown liquid sloshing over the rim as she hurried for the door. Mason was already opening it when she reached him. “Mason! Don’t!” she gasped, her heart thundering and her breaths leaving her in short, panicky bursts.
Cool air swept over her in an icy hug of sorrow as the door swung open and she closed her eyes against it. It cocooned her in longing and unforgettable loss. Whispers of the past tingled through her scalp and under her skin, chilling her. He was in there, waiting for her, waiting to crash her world around her with images, scents, and sounds of everything she missed, wanted, and would never have again. Sara couldn’t open her eyes. If she did, she’d see him.
“Sara. Open your eyes. Face it. You have to face what hurts you. That’s the only way you’re going to cope. Open your eyes and see. It’s just a room.”
Mason knew nothing. It wasn’t just a room. It was where they’d spent hours and hours together in quiet harmony. It was where she’d created with her hands what she wouldn’t have been able to had he not been there with her. It was where they’d laughed and smiled and simply were, existing, together.
Hands on her shoulders, strong and firm, Mason said, “Look at me, Sara. Tell me what you see.”
“What do you see when you see me?” he asked, eyes intent on her.
Sara set her paintbrush down, turning her attention to him. “What do you mean?”
He motioned to her half-finished project. “I see you glancing at me, and then you paint something. What you’re painting looks nothing like me.” He leaned closer in his chair to get a better look. “In fact, it doesn’t even look human. Or like anything else, for that matter. What is it?”
Sara stared at the blues and greens she’d swirled together. They’d meshed, pulled apart, and gone off in their own elegant tendrils. She cocked her head. She didn’t know what it was. But it signified how she felt about him.
“It’s the blue of your eyes. See here?” She pointed. “That’s the same shade as your eye color. It’s…serenity and peace and wholeness. It’s you and how you make me feel.” Sara shrugged. “I don’t know how else to explain it.”
“You know what color a painting of you would be?”
She caught the teasing glint in his eyes and smiled. “What?”
“Red hot. Fiery,” he murmured, his eyes darkening.
He reached for her and the artwork was forgotten. He was able to wipe her mind clean of all thoughts other than ones of him. His arms wrapped around her, his scent enveloping her, as he pulled her to him and kissed her like it was their last kiss.
It had been one of their last kisses.
“Sara?” Her eyelids flew open and wine-colored eyes met hers instead of blue. “Where were you just now?”
Sara shrugged out of Mason’s grasp, her stomach churning. She tried not to look at anything in the room, every single part of the room reminding her of him, but it was no use. Her eyes were drawn to all that had a piece of him to them. He lingered in the room. Sara thought she could smell him even. Coffee and cherry Carmex.
There was the rocking chair he would sit in and read as she painted. Pressure formed on her chest, pushing down, making it hard to breathe. There was the easel that still held her last painting, the one with the greens and blues. The pressure built. The walls they’d painted a cheery yellow, getting almost as much paint on each other as they did the walls. Her throat tightened painfully. Vision blurred with wetness, she stumbled from the room.
“I don’t want to do this,” she said in a shaking voice. “I want you to leave and I don’t want you to come back. This isn’t helping. It won’t help. You can’t just make me get over him. I can’t get over him. I’ll never get over him.”
Mason stood near the door and she had to look away. He was out of place. He didn’t belong here, in her house, standing where her husband used to stand.
“What makes you think I’m trying to make you get over anyone? I’m just trying to get you to stop hiding from everything, from yourself, from the world, from your emotions. There’s a difference. It’s been over a year, Sara. What are you waiting for?”
Her face crumpled and she hung her head. Staring at her purple-socked feet, she said quietly, “Do you know what happened?”
“Yes. Spencer told me.”
“Then you know why I am the way I am.”