16. Damian
CHAPTER 16
DAMIAN
W e don’t call it a reconciliation.
We don’t label it anything.
It starts with a walk through the sculpture garden on a Tuesday afternoon. It’s quiet, casual, and safe.
We sit on a bench, takeaway coffee warming our hands. The late afternoon light filters through the canopy above us, throwing gold over everything and making the cracks in the stone pathway look intentional.
“That one always reminds me of grief,” she says, nodding to a rusted abstract figure wrapped in twisting iron bands. “The way it curls in on itself.”
I glance over. “I thought it looked like someone being pulled in every direction.”
“Same thing, maybe.”
I offer her a smile. “Your interpretation’s better.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t disagree.
We fall into silence. It’s not quite comfortable, but it’s not tense either. More cautious, I would say.
I take a sip of coffee. “You mentioned you’re prepping a new exhibit?”
She nods, curls brushing her cheek. “Yeah. I’m curating a mixed-medium show. Tactile art. Things meant to be touched. It’s a nightmare for most collectors, but I love the idea of making people interact with art instead of just observing it from a distance.” She pauses before adding almost too quietly, “I think I used to be like that. Easier to admire from a distance.”
My chest tightens. “I never wanted distance.”
She doesn’t respond, but her fingers tighten around her cup.
I let it go. Not because I don’t want to say more but because I’ve learned that silence, when chosen, can be a gift.
“What about the weather?” I ask after a beat, lightening my tone. “Still your favorite thing to paint when you’re blocked?”
She laughs under her breath. “You remember that?”
“Rainstorms and dusk skies. You said clouds were the one thing that never judged you back.”
Warmth shines in her eyes. “Still true,” she says, “though now I like thunderstorms better. There’s something honest about the chaos.”
I nod slowly. “There is.”
She sips her coffee. “You’ve changed.”
I glance at her. “I’m trying.”
She nudges her shoulder lightly against mine, and I don’t breathe too deeply, afraid to scare the moment away.
I don’t want to push too hard, too fast, but I am dying to do anything and everything with her. I could drag her to all of the nicest restaurants. She deserves to be wined and dined. Yes, business isn’t the best right now, but I still have money.
But I think this is more what she prefers, and we’re taking things slow, and yes, that’s painful, but we need to get to know one another. We’re almost starting over, and that she’s giving me this chance… I keep saying it’s a second chance, but really, it’s my third chance. Three strikes, and I’ll be out.
We talk until the sun begins to dip behind the trees. Our coffees are forgotten, cold and bitter. Her voice is relaxed and my own feels like something human again.
I don’t push, and I don’t ask for more than she’s willing to give. I just show up day after day. Message after message. Moment after moment.
It’s humbling. It’s exhausting, but it’s worth every second.
Love doesn’t live in declarations. Not this time. It lives in showing up for what doesn’t hurt so maybe, one day, we can talk about what does.
* * *
That weekend, I take her to Mabel’s Garden, a quiet little bistro tucked into the side of a cobbled alley in Old Town. No velvet ropes. No valet. No curated rooftop skyline. Just a narrow green door beneath a tangle of fairy lights and ivy, with the name hand-painted in curling script above it.
It smells like thyme and butter even from the outside.
She hesitates when we arrive, blinking up at the warm yellow glow spilling from the windows. “Have you been here before?”
“No,” I say, “but I thought of you when I passed it.”
The hostess greets us with a smile and leads us to a corner table beside a foggy old windowpane. There are no linen tablecloths. The chairs don’t match. One leg of our table is propped up with a folded book of poetry.
The walls are a sun-washed sage green, adorned with antique copper frames and wildflower sketches. Tiny potted herbs sit on each table—basil, rosemary, even lavender—and everything smells faintly like earth after rain. Jazz hums softly from a record player in the corner. It’s not piped in, and it’s not perfect, but I’m enjoying it anyhow.
Isabelle wears a soft blue sundress that drapes along her frame like it was made for movement, for art. Her hair’s loosely pinned, little curls slipping down her neck. She sits across from me, one ankle hooked behind the other, her arms resting lightly on the table like she’s not sure she wants to be fully settled. It breaks me a little that it feels like she’s still bracing to bolt if I say something that makes this feel like a trap.
“What have you been up to with your paintings?” I ask after we place our order.
“I’ve actually started to mentor a student.”
“Since when?”
“Only a few days,” she says.
I grin. There’s that quiet fire I’ve always loved.
The waitress brings over our drinks.
“The student…” Isabelle continues, “she’s bold. She’s braver than I ever was at her age, and she paints grief like it’s a language.”
“Grief?”
“She lost her grandfather recently, so now it’s only her and her grandmother.”
“Oh no.”
“She’s strong, though, and her artwork is helping. She doesn’t always even see everything that she’s painting into her art. Breaking it down for her…”
“You’re like a therapist to her.”
“In a way, maybe. I don’t know if I would quite go that far, though.” She shakes her head. “This new piece I’ve been trying to finish… it refuses to come together no matter what I do! The composition is there, but it’s fighting me. It’s like the canvas is holding a secret I haven’t earned yet.”
I smile at that. I don’t pretend to understand. I just listen and hope that’s enough.
“I don’t know if you’ve been to the gallery enough, but the floors creak in one particular place right at the entrance, and no one’s ever fixed it.”
“I hadn’t notice.”
“I used to hate it,” she says, swirling the last of her rosé, “but now… I don’t know. It’s part of the rhythm. A kind of welcome. Nothing has to be perfect to have value, right?”
I just stare at her. I want to tell her she just described me or who I want to become, but I can’t bring myself to.
The waitress brings our food—stuffed squash blossoms for her, herb-crusted lamb for me. It’s simple. Nothing plated for Instagram. Just nourishment made by someone who gives a damn.
Like this place.
Like her.
We eat. We laugh. We fall quiet again. Even in the silence, I feel something shifting. I’m not trying to impress her. I’m just with her, and maybe, just maybe, that’s the thing she needed most.
And slowly, I realize I don’t want to fix anything anymore. I want to witness, to ear, to be present.
Even when we touch now—if we touch—it’s fleeting and hesitant. A brush of fingers. A shared laugh that leans us closer than we meant to be. And sometimes, when the silence settles just right, I see it in her eyes that she’s starting to think that maybe this time will be different. Maybe I won’t break her again. Maybe love and power don’t have to compete.
But even as we walk toward something new, the cracks remain. She still flinches when I hesitate. I still overthink every word before I say it.
There are no guarantees, only effort and the quiet promise I make to myself every morning not to win her but to love her without conditions and without control. She’s not another deal. She’s the reason I stopped chasing them.
And if I can keep showing her that, if I can keep choosing us even when it’s messy, uncertain, and unsteady, then maybe we won’t need to name what this is.
Maybe we’ll just become it together.
So despite the ups and downs with my business, I’m doing my damndest to do right by her.