CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
Melody
I still myself and take in another breath. I push open the door and enter the house.
I close my eyes for a second as memories of our time together assail me.
I shouldn’t have come here today, but Brenda had practically begged me.
According to her, the cleaner that was assigned to this place suddenly had a family emergency and had to leave before getting around to actually cleaning the house.
But with each staggering step I take further into the house, my heart feels like it’s going to burst from unbearable pressure.
Everything from the couch to the dining table reminds me of Abram. I remember the way he’d smile at me from across the room. And the way he’d hold me protectively in his arms.
My legs give out from beneath me, and I grab onto the couch for support.
I close my eyes and take in a deep, steadying breath.
I’m here to work, and I should get on with it. I square my shoulders and raise my chin.
I would just get through this like I’ve been doing every other day since he left.
I’ll endure the pain.
I set to work, intentionally keeping my mind blank. I open the door to the make-shift studio and am about to set to work when I notice the canvases piled in a corner.
My curiosity gets the best of me, and I slowly walk over to the pile. I pick one up and gasp in surprise.
It’s me, but I seem like an entirely different person...happy and so free.
My eyes shine like they could rival the stars, and I seem like I have no worries whatsoever. I find it hard to reconcile this image of myself with the one I see in the mirror every day, but it touches something deep inside me.
The painting makes me feel hopeful but at the same time, nostalgic.
I place the painting back in its place and pick another one.
This time, my cheeks color up as I gape at the painting of myself.
I look caught up in the throes of passion, my gaze heavy-lidded and my cheeks rosy with a sinful passion.
I quickly drop the canvas like it’s burned my hands, my heart slamming hard against my chest.
I can’t believe I ever posed like that.
Slowly, I go through all the paintings, surprised to see that they are all of me in different forms and positions, even ones I hadn’t posed for. Going through the paintings brings back memories that I’ve tried so hard to push to the back of my mind.
Why would he give up on painting when he’s so good?
He’s managed to portray me as exotic, seductive, happy, and so many other things when I’m just a plain woman with one too many curves.
I sigh softly and get to work.
I mindlessly sweep the ground and clean the room. I leave the room and am just about to head into the kitchen when the doorbell rings.
I head toward the door, wondering who it could be at this time. I pull the door open and freeze in shock.
Is this another dream where I fall out of my bed?
Or this time, am I falling off the edge of a cliff, losing any sense of reality I know?