9. Chapter 9
Chapter 9
Tank
The gallery is set.
The walls are lined with my work, every brushstroke a piece of my soul laid bare. Color, movement, texture—it’s all there, exposed for the world to see. This isn’t just art. It’s me .
And for the first time in years, I’m letting people in.
It’s everything Lucy envisioned when she convinced me to do this. And yet, standing in the center of the space, my chest tightens with a weight I thought I’d buried long ago.
I shouldn’t be doing this .
The memories come fast and unrelenting. The sting of loss. The sharp, raw grief of losing everything—my first wife, the life I thought we’d have. I remember what it felt like to pour my soul into my art, only for it to become a wound too painful to keep open. I walked away from it all. Buried myself in the mountains. In solitude. In silence.
And it was safer that way.
Then came Lucy.
She’s too damn bright, too damn alive. She makes me want things I gave up on long ago. But now that the show is happening, now that people are about to step through those doors and judge the deepest parts of me, the fear grips me hard.
It’d be easier to walk away. To disappear back into the woods where no one expects anything of me. Where I don’t have to risk losing again.
Because I don’t do anything halfway. Not art, and certainly not love.
And if I give Lucy my whole heart, there’s no coming back from it.
The problem is, I already have.
She has it. Forever.
“Tank.”
I look up, and there she is—my light, my wildfire.
Lucy walks toward me, wearing a deep green dress that clings in all the right places, her auburn hair in soft waves around her shoulders. But it’s not just how beautiful she is that stops me in my tracks. It’s the way she looks at me—like she knows exactly what’s going on inside my head.
She reaches for my hand, threading her fingers through mine like she’s done it a thousand times before, like she’ll do it a thousand times more.
“You’re thinking about running,” she says quietly.
I exhale sharply. “Yeah.”
She doesn’t scold me, doesn’t try to convince me that my fears are unfounded. Instead, she squeezes my hand. “I know it’s scary. Putting yourself out there.” She lifts her free hand to my cheek, making sure I meet her gaze. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”
My throat tightens. “Lucy—”
“You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready,” she whispers. “I’m all in with you, Tank. I’ll love you no matter what. But I think you need this.”
I study her, this woman who shattered every defense I ever built. She didn’t just drag me out of the shadows; she stood beside me, hand in hand, never forcing, just believing in me.
I pull her against my chest, wrapping my arms around her and burying my face in her hair. “Let’s do this,” I murmur.
She presses her head to my chest, right over my heart, and I feel something inside me settle.
The doors open, and the first guests filter in.
The turnout is bigger than expected. Some people traveled from hours away after hearing whispers that Walk Tankersley—the reclusive, once-famous painter—was returning with new work. Some are collectors, some are locals who have only known me as the man in the cabin on the mountain. All are curious.
I grip Lucy’s hand, holding her steady beside me as I watch people move through the gallery, pausing before my work, murmuring in hushed voices.
Then I lead her to the largest painting in the room.
It’s her.
Wildflowers are pressed into the paint, delicate stems and petals woven into the brushstrokes. Her hair tumbles around her shoulders, her green eyes bright, full of life. There’s a softness in her expression, something vulnerable and real. Something only I have ever been lucky enough to see.
Now, others get to see it too, through the art.
I clear my throat, turning to address the crowd. A hush falls over them.
“Thank you all for coming tonight to see my new work,” I say, my voice steady, though my grip on Lucy tightens. “All of the pieces are for sale, except for two.”
“That one.” I gesture toward the first—the painting we created together on our first date, the one that still holds our laughter and our hesitant, growing connection.
And then I point to her portrait.
“And this one.”
I pull Lucy closer, my voice rough with emotion. “None of this would be possible without this woman. She has bewitched me, turned my life upside down, and made it brighter than I ever thought possible.”
She blinks up at me, her lips parting slightly, her eyes filled with adoration and love.
I take a breath, reaching into my pocket.
The room fades. The crowd disappears.
There’s only her.
I pull out the small box, opening it to reveal a ring. Simple. Elegant. Perfect. Just like Lucy.
“Tank,” she gasps, her hands flying to her mouth.
I kneel.
I never thought I’d kneel for anyone again.
But for Lucy? I’d kneel a thousand times over.
“Lucy Caldwell,” I say, my voice thick with everything I feel for her. “You brought me back to life. You are my heart, my light, my love. Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”
Tears brim in her eyes. Her hands tremble as she lowers them from her face.
“Yes.”
Her voice is breathless, barely above a whisper. Then stronger, louder, fiercer.
“Yes!”
Cheers erupt around us, but I don’t hear them. All I hear is the pounding of my own heart as I rise, lift her into my arms, and seal her yes with a deep, consuming kiss.
The gallery fades away. The world fades away.
This is all that matters.
Lucy.
My future.
I pull back just enough to whisper against her lips, “Let’s go home.”
She grins. “I thought you’d never ask.”
And without another glance at the crowd, I take my fiancée’s hand and lead her out the door.
That’s enough of society for one night.
Because now, I just want to take my future wife home and make love to her. Again. And again. For as long as we both shall live.