Chapter 17
Juliette
Arms crossed over my chest, I stared back at the paint drenched canvas.
It was officially done. Every bit of the blank white had been covered up, and looking back at me was my attempt at recreating a beach I had found on some old post card Tasmin sent me from her vacation to Australia.
It felt painful not being able to get the inspiration from being out there in the real world.
I wanted to breathe that air in. The salty air, the fresh air, the crisp air.
I wanted to feel it when it was cold and warm and blistering hot.
I wanted to hear the sound of the trees rustling and feel that same wind on my skin.
I didn’t want to be the locked up wife who only got to leave the house when she was plastering a fake smile on her face at some dumb boring event. Freedom felt so far away.
“Juliette! Get started on dinner!”
Gordon’s voice came through, loud and sharp, all the way from the living room he was still stuck in. Before freedom, I’d have to go downstairs and make sure dinner was ready.
Something healthy. I had quickly become tired of hearing those words. Gordon would have preferred that I eat nothing but unseasoned chicken and broccoli for the rest of my life if it meant never acknowledging that maybe, just maybe, he was the problem.
He still wasn’t touching me, but he wanted me prepared—his words, and they always made me gag internally—for when his injuries no longer got in the way. Part of me wished Bridger had hit him a little harder or had done what he said he would the other day and hurt him some more.
The thought of Bridger made me frown. It had been two weeks since I had seen him. I had become so accustomed to his presence, to me entering a room and just seeing him lazily sitting on the couch.
I sighed and moved downstairs into the kitchen, doing what I had done a thousand times before, but it had never felt so damn boring.
I cut the chicken. Then the vegetables. Made sure to avoid any and all seasonings.
Then I got started on Gordon’s meal. He had free reign to eat anything he wanted, of course.
With his roast lamb in the oven, I finally had a chance to pause for a moment, but that was a mistake, because my mind immediately went back to Bridger and my incessant need to know where he was.
For the last few days, I had been obsessively watching the news, hoping and praying that I wouldn’t see any segments about a break and enter gone wrong.
Gone wrong for him. I watched it all. New library opening.
Congressman on stage talking about the safety of the city—or lack thereof.
Some fluff piece about rabbits. Through it all, there was nothing about the trio of home invaders that wouldn’t leave the richest of the rich alone.
It felt weird going back to Bridger’s place. The last time that happened his co-worker—or friend or partner in crime, whatever the hell Bridger called him—hadn’t been too happy to see me, and I didn’t want to get in the way of their business.
Bridger hadn’t given me his number. He got to pop in and out of my house every time he felt like it, but I was stuck waiting and wondering what the hell had happened to him.
Was he dead or alive? Had he broken into the wrong person’s home?
Did he ditch Chicago—and me—and take off to a different city to sneak into another woman’s bedroom?
Why did that last thought make my heart ache a little too much?
* * *
On Monday, I set up a new blank canvas. Bigger than the other one.
Longer and wider. The empty white space of it felt never ending, and as I took a step back, I even felt a tiny bit intimidated.
That made my fingers fidget a little at my side.
I never used to feel like that when painting, and that made me think of no one else but Bridger.
My eyes flew to a few canvases stacked against the wall at the other side of the room.
Just three, including the first one Bridger had seen, but three was a lot when you hadn’t even done one in years.
Bridger said he’d come see it, but his presence had yet to be seen or felt and I was the idiot for ever thinking I could trust him in the first place.
I wanted to focus. To get lost in colors and textures and brightness you could only get from a painting you made yourself.
I dipped my brush into some blue, the color rich and vibrant, but it was a little too intense for what I saw in my head.
Carefully, I mixed the blue with some white, swirling the two colors together until I got a pretty gentle tone that made even the longest of days feel soft and calm.
I moved forward, reaching an arm up until the tip of the brush hit the edge of the canvas so I could get started on the sky.
Dabbing away, I absolutely hated how good and freeing it felt.
What I hated even more was how Bridger was the reason that I was even painting in the first place.
I carried that blue down, just about to clean my brush and dip it into a darker shade to create the ocean when I heard his harsh voice.
“Juliette!” Gordon snapped. “Answer the phone!”
I almost dropped the damn brush. I moved fast, my eyes scanning the skin of my hands and arms for even a single hint of paint.
Luckily, I was all clean, so I made my way down the big flight of stairs and entered the living room.
The sound of the shrill phone ringing hit my ears as Gordon huffed from the couch.
“What took you so long?” he asked. “What were you doing up there?”
“Cleaning,” I said, forcing a blissful tone to my voice as I picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Oh, Juliette, it’s you,” my father said from the other line. He sounded so, so excited to speak to his daughter.
“Would you like to speak to Gordon?” I asked.
“Please.”
I handed the phone over to Gordon and took off back upstairs, letting Gordon rattle off whatever insults about me I was sure he was hyper focused on since being stuck in the house with me.
I was certain my father would back him up.
* * *
On Tuesday, I finished up the ocean.
Last night, Bridger didn’t show up. Again. It worried me more than I wanted to admit.
I focused back on the canvas. The painted ocean was a deep blue and through the thick waves I imagined pretty little fish swimming around, free to wander that vast sea all they wanted.
I painted a couple of sailboats and the distant edge of a soft green cliff, and then created a border of rocks just where the ocean met the sand.
By the time I was done, I had to make dinner. Something healthy for me. What else?
When Gordon fell asleep later that night, I painted a little more until my eyes started to feel tired and strained, and then I moved back into the bedroom fully expecting to see Bridger. Once again, he wasn’t there.
* * *
When Wednesday came, I painted the sand, the little specks soft and golden.
They carried out until it hit some grass, the blades tilted just a little to the right as an imaginary wind swept them to the side.
I painted a small white fence and some vibrant yellow flowers that I imagined smelled sweet and like jasmine.
I made dinner for Gordon. He fell asleep. Bridger didn’t come and see me.
* * *
On Thursday, I added a few people to the painting.
A little family. A mother and her two daughters.
The father was on the sand, keeping a watchful eye on them as they lingered by the edge of the water.
I added a little house to the corner. I felt like it would be filled with warmth and light and a gentle smell that called to you whenever you walked inside.
I made dinner. I didn’t see Bridger.
I missed him.
Why did he make me miss him so much?
* * *
On Friday, I wasn’t given the opportunity to paint. Josh and Tasmin came over and Josh was awfully worried about the state my husband was in. He kept shaking his head and clicking his tongue. “There’s too many criminals in this city,” he had grumbled.
Me and Tasmin talked about a movie she had watched on TV yesterday.
I hadn’t seen it, but I wished I had, because there were a lot of times when talking to Tasmin was the highlight of my week.
I contributed as much as I could and me and Tasmin made dinner for our husbands and then they went home and then I waited for Bridger.
He didn’t show up.
* * *
On Saturday, I coated my brush with dark, deep, blue paint.
I dragged it across the canvas, all thick and heavy, creating harsh textures that turned this way and that way and up and down.
The gentle waves had turned into a crashing beast, eating up that little house, consuming it until it was nothing, until a grain in the darkened golden sand was bigger than that stupid home.
Where the hell was Bridger Underwood and why did I care so much?