Chapter 14
Juliette
“Juliette, door!”
I almost dropped the knife at the sound of Gordon’s voice traveling all the way from the living room to the kitchen.
My eyes closed, gripping the counter to steady myself.
Gordon had been crying out for me all day.
All week. He was antsy and frustrated and part of me just wanted to stay upstairs for the remainder of Gordon’s recovery.
“Juliette!” he snapped again. “Someone is at the door!”
“I’m coming!” I called out, giving my hands a quick wipe on a nearby towel before letting out an uneven breath. I left the kitchen and moved past the living room, finally getting to the front door. I swung it open, greeted with the smiling face of the delivery man, Edward.
“Hello, Mrs. Cavendish,” Edward said. He was an older man, always sweet, always gentle, with kind brown eyes that I never got tired of seeing. “It’s been a while.”
I nodded at him, noting the large, rectangular package in his hands. Gordon had probably bought something to keep him busy. “It has,” I said. “How have you been?”
“Same old, same old. Will you be okay carrying this box? I’m not quite sure what you ordered, but it’s heavy!”
“Oh, I didn’t…” My eyes narrowed at the package, because there sat my name looking back at me, and I knew for a fact that I hadn’t ordered anything. I didn’t even have a credit card to order things to begin with. I took the package from him with cautious hands. “Thank you so much, Edward.”
“You have a good afternoon, ma’am.”
“Thank you. You too.” I kicked the door shut, feeling the weight of the package as if that would help solve the mystery of what it was.
“Was that Edward?” I heard Gordon yell out as I moved to the living room entrance. “What was he bringing? I wasn’t expecting anything.”
All I saw was the back of his gray head as I stood there in the doorway, and for some reason, the lie left my lips in a second flat.
“He was delivering some books I ordered,” I said.
“You used my card?” he snapped, turning his head to the side. That was all he could manage with his injury, so I couldn’t see all of that fury that I was certain was in his eyes. “Who told you that you could use my card? Who told you that you could buy anything?”
My fingers tightened around the heavy box. “Tasmin got them for me,” I said. “We were talking about getting new cookbooks the other day she was over. It’s just easier to have books instead of finding recipes online. They’re all for healthy meals.”
He paused for a little while, and I wondered if he had bought the lie, if my acting skills were enough for me to pass his test. “It’s about time you made yourself useful,” he grumbled.
Ignoring his words, I moved upstairs quickly. The box was sort of big and awkward to carry to the bedroom, but I eventually got it on the bed with a little huff.
Scissors in hand, I made a careful slice across the tape at the top.
I was moving a little too eagerly, and that was because it had been years since I had been given a gift.
A proper one. My parents didn’t like buying me things growing up.
All the garbage from Gordon didn’t even count.
Stupid dresses and handbags and shoes that he threw at me so I could play the role of the perfect wife he so desperately wanted. No one in my life was sentimental.
Bridger had been, though.
My breath caught in my throat at the thought of him. Then at the memories. The things he’d given me when we were dating had been ripped away from me, my parents tearing apart the little box I kept safe under my bed that was stacked with countless treasures.
I used to think of those items as priceless at some point.
The plastic ring he had got from one of those gumball machines after one of our dates.
The sailboat figurine he spent hours making in shop class.
A snow globe that featured a little beach house with a slither of blue water in the background, and when you shook it, a little bit of yellow glitter flew all around like bright grains of sand.
If we squeeze in, we can live in there one day, he had said when he gave it to me.
Or maybe it’ll fit just you, but I’ll carry you around in my pocket and keep you safe.
My lips twitched before I could stop the smile from growing. He was such an idiot.
I finally pushed the cardboard flaps to the side and my eyes widened at what looked back at me.
A blank canvas. A big one too.
My hand ran across it slowly, carefully, that roughness meeting the palm of my hand like I had the most fragile piece of glass laid before me.
It had been years since I had felt one. Half a decade.
It shouldn’t have had my heart racing, but it kept thumping in my chest as my fingers traced careful patterns across the canvas like I could already see the colors in my mind.
Blue. White. Yellow. Ocean, sun, beach, me so far away from the cold home I was caged inside of.
My hand was shaking as I moved it to the side of the box where a sleek white painting set was stored, a few brushes of different sizes wedged next to it.
There was a black bag over to the left, tied up with drawstrings, and I assumed an easel sat in there.
I lifted up the painting set for just a second before I saw a piece of paper tucked under it.
A note decorated with messy handwriting that could only belong to Bridger Underwood stared back at me.
I liked you better when you did what you wanted.
He hadn’t signed it, but he didn’t need to. I’d recognize that handwriting anywhere. His awful penmanship hadn’t improved at all over the years, and I couldn’t help but feel another smile tugging at my lips at the fact.
But then I felt shame hit me fast and hard.
Coldness too. It washed all across my body as I let his words settle in my mind.
He could see through the mask I kept pinned to my face, but that shouldn’t have been a surprise.
He had always been good at that, at knowing when I was keeping something to myself.
And there it was, right there in black and white: Bridger knew things weren’t good.
My life wasn’t normal or picture perfect like Gordon wanted everyone to think.
It was Gordon’s face flashing in my mind that made me do it. He was the reason I snatched at the box, hauling it out of the pristine bedroom and down the hallway, all the way to the empty room right at the end of the house.
I gently laid the box down on the carpeted floor and set up the easel before laying the canvas down across it. There had been a fresh palette under the canvas, and after looking over my shoulder to the empty doorway, I did something I hadn’t done in five years.
I flipped open a paint set, grabbed a few tubes, and coated the untouched palette with colors I felt like had been kept away from me since that ring was forced on my finger. That sharp scent of paint hit me and I closed my eyes, letting the smell settle over me.
With a trembling hand, I grabbed one of the brushes, letting it hover over the thick pool of blue.
It had been so long since I saw paint, smelled paint, felt paint, and I quite literally let out a sigh after I dipped the brush into that soft, wet pool of blue liquid and swirled it around.
I swiped the brush this way and that way; just feeling it all for a moment.
Just letting my senses get something they hadn’t had in so long.
I let myself enjoy it. The moment, the feeling, the freedom.
It was a tiny taste of it, just a slither, but it felt so, so good.
Then I did it. I let the brush hit the canvas, my hand still trembling.
I was smiling. Actually smiling. Bridger kept making me smile and I hated him for it.
I moved the brush slowly, inching it down, not entirely sure what I was making but just so damn relieved to feel in my element for the first time in literally years.
It shouldn’t have felt so freeing. That was the worst part.
Painting should have felt normal, it should have been a daily occurrence: instead, I felt like a kid sneaking in a cigarette at the back of the house.
But I kept going, kept collecting different colors on the brush to create a vibrant, borderline mess.
Thick, curved stripes covered the canvas, the top all dark before it turned into a blend of brighter colors at the bottom.
It wasn’t anything special or artistic or truly eye-catching, but to me, it was the best thing I had ever made.
Setting the brush down, I let a long sigh of relief escape my lips.
My fingers were a little messy, a few streaks of red and yellow contrasting against my skin.
That’d have to come right out. Gordon couldn’t know.
Even if he was stuck on that couch, he’d still find a way to do what he did best and punish me.
I felt butterflies in my stomach. A million of them. Ones that existed out of excitement and not nerves or fear. And through it all, I couldn’t work out if it was a good thing or a bad thing that Bridger still knew me so well.