EPILOGUE
ANIKA
But here I am.
And the seven-year-old is winning.
“No, Aarav Uncle,” Rhea says with an eye roll so dramatic I’m tempted to applaud. “The horn goes in the center . Not the side. That’s not a unicorn. That’s a rhinoceros with a costume problem.”
I snort as I lean over her little table and gently correct the brush in her hand. “She’s not wrong, you know.”
Aarav throws his hands up. “Excuse me, I’m doing my best! You said, ‘Paint what you feel,’ and I felt like my unicorn needed… range.”
Rhea huffs. “Adults are so weird.”
He looks over at me and mouths, I like her .
I bite back a grin and roll my eyes. Seeing Aarav with kids is not healthy for my ovaries.
I still can’t believe he comes here every Saturday—not because he has to, but because he wants to .
He claims it’s for stress relief, but I think he just enjoys messing up my palettes and flirting while pretending to mix colors.
“Boys and girls,” I say, clapping my hands softly, “we’re washing up in five minutes, okay? Let your paintings dry, and don’t touch anything till I say so.”
There’s a chorus of groans and “Miss Anika, five more minutes pleaaaase,” but they start winding down.
I love how everyone here is in love with art and not because their parents want their children to excel in every field, so they enroll the kids in every class possible. I do not take such admissions.
Aarav walks over to my easel, smirking as he holds up his canvas. It’s… a mess. A chaotic, glitter-smeared, violently purple mess. “What,” I ask slowly, “is this supposed to be?”
“A portrait of you,” he says proudly.
I narrow my eyes. “With three eyes and a green chin?”
“Your beauty transcends realism,” he says, full of dramatic flair.
I shake my head, trying not to laugh. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” he says, stepping closer, dropping his voice low so only I can hear, “you married me. Twice.”
Heat rises to my cheeks, and not because of the faint summer breeze coming through the window.
“Should I be concerned,” I murmur, tilting my head, “that you’re so confident in the middle of a room full of children?”
He leans even closer. “I’m confident everywhere. Except when I have to clean glitter from my hair. That’s terrifying.”
I let out a quiet laugh, brushing an imaginary speck off his cheek, even though I know it's paint. He doesn’t flinch. He never does with me.
“You know,” I say softly, “you don’t have to keep showing up every Saturday.”
“I know,” he says just as softly, “but I want to. This matters to you. So it matters to me.”
And just like that, my chest feels full again.
Since childhood I had a list of dreams I’d folded up and hidden in a drawer. Being a painter? One of them, but as I grew up that felt too impractical. Too whimsical. Not something people like me did. But Aarav—this idiot, stubborn man—wouldn’t let me forget it.
He was the one who found the diploma course online.
He was the one who said, “Do it. I’ll handle the bills, the house, the world, whatever you need. Just paint.”
And he was the one who signed me up for an empty space that became this studio. Now here I am. Teaching art. Covered in paint. And in love.
“You’re staring,” he whispers.
“I’m allowed,” I whisper back. “You’re my husband.” I smile smugly, and he chuckles.
He winks. “Want to go make out in the storage closet?”
“Aarav!”
“I’m just saying,” he replies with a shrug. “Art makes me emotional.”
“You’re such a menace.”
“And you,” he says, kissing my temple quickly before darting away to avoid the glare I give him, “love me anyway.”
Damn it. I do. I really do. And that’s the best thing that ever happened to me.