47. Just Right
JUST RIGHT
Maeve
The California Style photographer, Gillian Rivera, swings by the arena on Thursday while I’m painting a section of the Golden Gate Bridge.
The magazine wanted the most iconic representation of the city, and the bridge felt like the perfect choice.
Eleanor joins us, praising me as usual. It still feels surreal how much she looks out for me, almost like she’s adopted me as one of her own.
When the shoot wraps up, I climb down from the ladder, stretching my neck and wrists while Eleanor chats with Gillian. Their conversation drifts toward tomorrow’s shoot at the house—without Asher since he’s on a road trip. It feels strange to do the shoot solo.
“Don’t you want my—my husband there?” I ask, hesitating over the word “husband,” only because it’s still so new to me.
“No, we want you,” Gillian says, her tone firm, no nonsense. “We don’t need him.”
The comment feels foreign to me, but I do my best to roll with it. We set a time, and after Gillian leaves, Eleanor turns to me with a triumphant smile. “Told you so.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Well, thank you.”
Eleanor is insistent, making sure I hear her as she says, “No, really. I recognized your talent right away. I knew I wanted to work with you. And look at you now, getting all this attention. Just remember, darling, you’re the one he wants to come home to.”
My pulse skips. Lately, that feels more and more true, but I don’t dare say that out loud. Besides, who am I even comparing Asher to? Gideon? All the men before him who called me high-maintenance? Screw those exes.
“Do you have any other marital advice?” I ask, because she always seems so keen to offer it.
Eleanor taps her chin with one finger. “A little spritz of perfume never hurt anyone.”
I grin. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Sometimes, we have to make them feel special. Men fall deeply, and when they do, they become so focused on us. They’ll treat us like queens if we let them.”
I think about that. It’s something I’ve never really considered before, but it’s how my dad treated my mom. “And a queen has to look out for him now and then, right?”
Eleanor nods knowingly. “Exactly. Hence, the perfume. Something to make him feel special, because the right man will lay gifts, love, and adoration at your feet.”
That’s the complete opposite of the men I’ve dated before, and it’s new to me too. I mentally add her words to my growing notebook of advice. It’s getting longer every day.
The next day, Gillian arrives at Asher’s house as planned.
I let her in, feeling like I’m the lady of the manor.
Sure, I’ve been staying here for nearly a month, but today feels different.
I’m giving someone a tour of his house as if it’s my own—when it’s not.
Not really. I’m still just playing pretend.
It feels bizarre to walk around this place without him.
What’s even more bizarre is that sometimes I feel like I belong.
Maybe it’s from all the photos he’s hung up.
Maybe it’s from the way my plant collection mingled with his Lego plant collection.
Maybe it’s from the way we’ve been sharing the bathroom, the kitchen, and the bed—of course, the bed.
I lead Gillian through the house, showing her some of the art on the walls. She pauses at a series of wildflowers and peaches. “These are beautiful,” she says, her eyes scanning the pieces. “Are they yours?”
I blink, surprised. “No, they’re not. But I helped him choose them before we were married.”
“Oh, really? Is that part of how you fell in love?”
The question stops me in my tracks. Am I in love with him?
The thought is sudden, overwhelming. I know I’m falling for him—harder than I want to admit.
Back when we picked those pieces, I thought we were just best friends, gallivanting around town, going to art festivals, choosing things for his walls.
But now? Now, it feels like it’s becoming more.
But can it? We promised to stay friends.
We promised these benefits wouldn’t hurt the friendship.
But the way we are together, in and out of bed, feels like a lot more than just beneficial.
“You know, maybe it is,” I say, the words feeling heavier than I’d expected. How do I even trust this storm of emotions inside me? The desire I feel for him, the way I count the hours when he’s away, the excitement when his texts pop up on my phone, the way my heart flutters when he comes home.
Gillian walks to the foyer, turning her attention to one of the mirrors I’ve been working on. “Tell me about these,” she says, her face lighting up.
I smile and laugh as I show her one with an inscription about dragons and underwear. “We’ve been getting a lot of advice since we got married—maybe it’s a newlywed thing. So I started a series inspired by it. I just finished a new one. Want to see it?”
I grab the latest mirror I worked on in the studio when I got a free hour, and the woman I shared the space with wasn’t using it. I painted it in seashell blue. “We all need a hot friend in our bed, don’t we?” I say, quoting one of the inscriptions.
“Words to live by,” Gillian laughs.
“The woman who married us said that,” I explain.
“Is that what started the ‘love lessons’ theme?”
“Actually, it was a lesson about dragon underwear. And I’m going to add Eleanor’s latest—‘a little spritz of perfume.’” I smirk, thinking of her words from yesterday. “It’s the little things we do to make our partners happy—if they’re worthy of us.”
Gillian smiles warmly. “You’re right about that—we need to make sure our partners are worthy. And I guess I just gave you some advice too.”
I laugh. “You did.”
“Are you planning to sell these at the night market?” she asks.
I pause, considering. Then I smile. “Yes, I’m doing a series. And you know what? I think I’ll turn this into a full line.”
Impulsive as always, but this feels right. I’ve always thought there should be a line of pieces inspired by all this love advice. People keep giving it to us—why not use it?
That evening, Asher calls me from his hotel room. “How’d the shoot go?” he asks.
“It was great,” I say, reflecting on the day. “I’m going to turn the mirrors into a line.”
“I love that. You should,” he says. “They’re fun and clever and romantic.”
“I think so too. And for the first time, I feel like people are hiring me for me, not because of you. Is that weird?”
“No,” he says. “It’s amazing.”
And it does feel amazing. When I go to bed, I feel this quiet strength burrowing inside me.
This knowledge that I have real talent—a belief that I’m not simply getting jobs because I’m Mrs. Callahan.
Sure, I’m having a blast playing that role.
But people are hiring Maeve Hartley, the woman who can paint.
The woman who has great ideas. The woman who’s following her dreams. I pick up my mother’s book, flipping through it, looking for a message.
But maybe the message is in the thing itself—the dream she followed.
And I’ll keep chasing mine because it feels so good to know…that I am worthy.
Me. Just me.
A few days later, Gillian comes back to the studio space I rent with other artists for the final shot of the California Style photo spread.
I never fully moved my art supplies, my canvases and paints and brushes, into the guest room at Asher’s home.
That felt like taking over. But more so, I suppose I also simply prefer working in a studio rather than a bedroom, even a cramped one like this, even one I need to share.
In the studio, I work on painting a tiny image of a couple on a mirror while Gillian captures photos of me painting a pop art kiss. “You inspired me,” I tell her. “But really, I suppose my husband did since I started making them for him.”
“I bet he loves them,” she says, framing another shot.
With complete certainty I answer her. “Yes. He does.” I pause, thinking once more on the art, but also the meaning behind these mirrors. “I guess my lesson is that when you find someone worthy, you give a little piece of yourself each time—and hope they do the same.”
The words hang in the air along with a wish—that I’ll know that when I feel it. Someone loving me the way I love them.
* * *
I keep wondering if I will recognize it that weekend when he returns to town.
I wonder if that’s what I feel on Friday night when I spritz on some perfume and rush downstairs after his text that he’ll be home in five minutes.
After Max drops him off, I fling open the door to find him striding up the steps two at a time.
Like he’s rushing to me too.
His smile is crooked and his eyes are bright. My heart goes a little wild and this feels like more than friendship.
Still, I don’t trust my own compass. I don’t want to assume the way I feel is normal when it’s always been extra.
When I’ve been extra. I want my own love lessons; I need them too.
I want to know what all this means, and how it feels to be accepted for who I am.
I don’t want to assume, even as he scoops me up into his arms and says, “I’ve fucking missed my wife. ”
“Missed you too.”
After he kicks the door closed, we waste no time as he carries me to the living room and sets me on the couch.
There, we grab each other, hands and fingers rushing to tear off clothes.
He strips off my T-shirt and I hastily unbutton his shirt.
“I hope the NHL never changes its travel suit rule but right now I wish it didn’t have one,” I say.
“Me too,” he mutters as I slide off my skirt.
Quickly, I unzip his slacks and free his cock. It’s hard and ready and hot. A quick slide of my palm down his shaft and he’s shuddering. He grabs my hand, squeezing me, squeezing him. “Do you have any idea how much I missed you?”
I shake my head. “No. How much?”
“So fucking much.”
I stroke; he breathes hard.
“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”
I shake my head again because I like this game too much. “How beautiful?”