“So what do I do now? How am I supposed to listen to my heart when it’s been broken to bits by the one and only man who holds the power to fix it.”
“That depends. He hurt you, and I understand it, baby, I do, but in order for you to follow your heart, you have to forgive him. You just said it yourself; he’s the only man who holds the power to fix the hurt.”
“And what if this is just a game to him? What if I am just some conquest?”
She reaches out and takes one of my fidgeting hands in her own, rubbing my knuckle with her soft thumb.
“Make him prove to you that isn’t the case. Open your heart, cracks and all, and give him a chance to validate what you feel. Don’t give up on him, even when it hurts, because you could be throwing away something truly beautiful.”
“God, that’s terrifying.”
“That’s because love is never easy, sweetheart. But it’s worth every single bump, scratch, and crack in the end. Now, sit back here and tell your mama all about this lollipop dance.”
I toss my head back and laugh.
By the end of our chat, my heart feels a little less heavy, and I know that I need to give Nate a chance. If anything, we need to sit down and talk.
But first things first—I need to break things off officially with Levi. There is no way, even if I hadn’t been thinking and working toward this moment for weeks, that I would feel good about waiting another day when it is clear we have no future.
After the heavy conversation in my bed, I pulled my mom to the kitchen and settled in to catch up with her over the lunch she had brought.
Chicken salad sandwiches, my favorite.
The rest of our early afternoon time is spent with her curled up on the couch in my studio, watching me get lost in the heartbreaking canvas I had started the day before. I was so tuned in to what I was doing that I had completely forgotten she was still there until her soft voice broke through my tunnel vision.
“Okay, sweetie, give me a hug. It makes me feel good to see that dark cloud hanging over your head starting to clear away. Promise me that the next time you need me, you’ll pick up the phone?”
I don’t hesitate to wrap my arms around her and agree.
“I love you, Mama.”
“I love you, my sweet Ember.”
MY PHONE HAS BEEN GOING off for the last few hours, annoying, but easily something I can tune out when I’ve hit that sweet spot in my painting. I hit that magic spot while my mom was still here, and I haven’t stopped since, even with the lingering hangover that still haunts my body.
More often than not, when I’ve hit that spot, not a single thing can tear my focus away. Everything is falling together like magic and the once blank canvas is now beginning to look exactly how I envisioned.
I was right yesterday when I thought this might be my best piece yet.
So much haunting beauty in this large glory.
Heartbreakingly sad, but alight with a hopefulness for something ‘more’ swirling between the brushstrokes.
Today, I had concentrated on the two outstretched arms meeting in the center of the canvas as the focus. Each finger on the opposing hand extended, trying desperately to reach the other, but never getting close enough. Being as close as I am to the piece now, I can see the outline of the man and woman starting to take shape beyond those two hands.
When I’m finished, the abstract piece will be more blur and fade around the edges, the two bodies becoming clearer the closer you get to those two perfectly painted and in focus hands.
This is me.
This is Nate.
It’s us.
So much beauty and pain in one huge piece that I can’t help but think it is eventually my soul stripped bare and splattered against the canvas.
“A Beautiful War,” I declare to myself with a smile, knowing instantly that the title for my piece has been born.
Bam bumps my leg, and I look down, smile still in place. “What’s wrong, handsome man?”
He whines before moving to the door of my house. With a laugh, I clean off my brush and close the tops of my paint before moving around my easel.
“Come on, beast.” I snicker when he starts to wag his tail in excitement.
When I push open the door that leads into my kitchen from my studio, he rushes through the house and I hear him barking at the front.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I complain, almost tripping over the chew toys that he had strewn all over the kitchen floor. “You’re worse than a child, Bam,” I chide with a chuckle, picking up the few toys on my way to the living room.
I can hear him whining as I turn the corner into the living room from the small hallway and come to an abrupt halt when I see the imposing figure sitting in the middle of my couch. His arms are over the back in a relaxed manner, but his face betrays him. I can tell by the tick in his jaw that the calm he is portraying is a mask, but why he’s looking at me with eyes cold and calculating is beyond me.
“Ember,” he drawls, his deep voice thick, the way it always is when he’s angry.