Fresh Canvas (Fresh #1)

Chapter 1

one

AMANTHA

Icouldn’t decide what felt more embarrassing—my unusual name or the fact I was trying to squeeze my ample bottom into two sets of women’s shapewear.

“Come on, Amantha,” I wheezed in my locked bedroom.

Why two sets? Because during my last forty-five minutes of blissful alone time—aka sitting my bare nether regions on crinkly paper at my gynecologist appointment—I made the mistake of picking up a magazine with an advertisement for high-waisted shaping shorts.

The already-toned, ultra-beautiful model had zero lumps or bumps, thanks to the shorts’ special tummy-tightening panel.

And if you used two sets? Well, you’d end up twice as sexy.

In retrospect, I realized the ad clearly targeted soft, thirty-four-year-old suburban housewives with crusty minivans and disinterested husbands.

It felt like a personal attack.

My yearly exam went as smoothly as could be expected. And by smooth, I mean that only one of the nurses mistook my name as Amanda and that my underwear stayed perfectly concealed in the strategic folds of my jeans this time.

After the doctor deemed everything normal, then dropped her latex gloves into the trash and closed the door behind her, I had unstuck my bottom from the crinkly paper and frowned at the indent it left. It seemed a lot larger than the last time I’d been here.

I bought two tummy-tightening sets later that day.

A bead of perspiration rolled down my lower back and into the first set I was fighting over my curvy hips.

While I wasn’t overweight, per se, my pale, jiggly “mom-pooch” from my now nine-year-old son felt like the gift that kept on giving.

I had never intended for Anthony to be an only child after being one myself, but, like the doctors kept telling us over the years, some aspects of fertility were out of our control.

I cursed as the shapewear band welted my stomach for the third time. Half-waddling to the floor-length mirror to inspect the damage, I gasped. My middle looked like a busted can of biscuits, sans Pillsbury wrapper.

“Tummy tightening? Yeah, right,” I muttered. The tourniquet had spliced my one stomach roll into two. I gazed longingly at the tempting pile of ratty sweatpants and t-shirts on the floor.

No. I set my jaw in the mirror, fire burning in my gray eyes. This had to happen. Hate-fire for the elastic nightmare fueled me with strength, and I yanked it up with all my might. In a miraculous feat, the band smacked into place below my push-up bra, making me yelp.

Rolling my eyes to the ceiling, I unleashed every whispered curse word I could think of. This all seemed like a clear reason for a lawsuit. Good thing my husband was a lawyer.

After fighting the second pair over my already vacuum-sealed gut, I tucked a sweaty, dishwater-blonde wave behind my ear and frowned at the last text I had sent Ryan.

AMANTHA: I miss you! It sucks you have to stay in the city for the entire weekend. I can’t wait until this case is finally over and Anthony and I will get to see you more. Call me when you can. I love you!

Ryan still hadn’t responded. Come to think of it, he hadn’t responded to a lot lately. I took a deep breath. He’s busy. Ryan’s most recent explanation echoed in my mind. “The mountain of legal paperwork in my office isn’t going to sort itself.”

Wasn’t that what his paralegal assistant, Vanessa, was for? His law firm, Harrison & Coates, was one of the most prestigious in Chicago. Of course they were busy, but couldn’t a guy get a night off every once in a while?

I regretted agreeing to buy the stupid city apartment last year. Ryan had complained that the suburbs were too far from his occasional late-night meetings and he needed somewhere to crash. But now, the amount of time Anthony got to see his dad was even sparser.

Anthony’s downcast expression flashed through my mind after Ryan missed Anthony’s soccer game. Again. That had been the last straw—a disconcerting wake up call. While my heart had broken for my son, no other emotion had accompanied it.

No twinge of sadness over missing my husband.

Nothing.

When had I become so indifferent? When was the last time I missed Ryan? Not my kid’s dad, but my husband? Our relationship had become business-like without me noticing.

The realization sickened me. If Ryan and I had truly loved each other once, I was sure we could get there again. A surprise romantic weekend would be just the ticket. Even though he was too busy to come home to me, I had more than enough time in my boring schedule to go to him.

A loud knock on my bedroom door jolted me from my thoughts. I jumped and crossed my arms over my exposed bra, forgetting that the door was still locked.

“Mom? Are you in there? I’m starving. Can we order pizza?”

Shaking my head with a grin, I tied a bathrobe over the nude-colored straightjacket and opened the door.

“You’re always starving,” I said, smoothing Anthony’s light brown hair. His cowlick in the back refused to be settled, exactly like my father’s.

His freckled nose wrinkled up, matching his wrinkled, striped t-shirt.

“You must be growing,” I said.

“C’mon, Mom. Pleeeeease?”

A mischievous grin hitched the corner of my mouth.

“If you beat me in Speed Racer 3000, we can order pizza when Grandma and Grandpa Adams get here.” I huffed a breath on my chipped fingernails, polishing them on the lapel of my bathrobe.

“Unless you’re scared of losing a video game to your mom, that is. ”

I was crap at Speed Racer 3000, and we both knew it.

Anthony’s dimples responded to the challenge. “Uh, deal!”

So I followed my nine-year-old to our living room, where he booted up his gaming equipment. I tried to ignore the piles of felt, ribbons, and cotton balls still cluttering my dining room table as I passed.

Anthony’s school play was coming up, and that meant so was the deadline for twenty-seven headbands that looked like fluffy sheep’s ears.

I should have told the PTA president “no” with everything else I had going on, but I didn’t want to be rude.

I was also convinced that my new shiny burn scars from my glue gun would never go away.

A bouquet of red roses wilted in a vase amidst the mess. Ryan had them delivered a few weeks ago to celebrate our ten-year wedding anniversary—since a last-minute deposition replaced our dinner reservation. While my heart warmed at the sentiment, my nose wrinkled at the disgusting scent.

He always forgets how much I hate roses.

Ironically, the hour-long drive into the city didn’t give me enough time to calm my nerves. In fact, the endless expanse of highway and darkening sky only increased my anxiety. Cars weaved in and out of the lanes around me, occasionally illuminating the cab with soft glows of red.

I took a deep breath of lavender fabric softener, the smell of my mother’s embrace still clinging to my skin. It was so kind of my parents to drive all the way from our hometown in Pesterfield, Minnesota, to stay with Anthony for the weekend.

I leaned back in my seat, letting the headrest cradle my spiraling thoughts. When had Ryan stopped trying? When had I stopped caring? He had been so fun, so charming in the beginning. A chicken-noodle-soup-when-I-was-sick type of man. A make-me-laugh-till-I-peed-a-little type of man.

Everyone loved Ryan Willis, and on the slim chance you didn’t, it was only a matter of time until his charisma got you.

I’d first been hit with that charisma twelve years ago while I worked as an art curator’s assistant.

Ryan had been fresh out of law school, and in true Ryan fashion, had been immediately hired by a highly-sought after law firm—which, coincidentally, was the same firm that kept meeting with my boss.

After a few short weeks of dating, I had fallen head-over-heels. Ryan proposed a year later, and I got swept away in our white-picket fantasy.

The approaching city skyline glittered like diamonds, darkened silhouettes of sparkling buildings rising into the night. Maybe it was because I grew up in a small town, but the skyscrapers still took my breath away.

Although it was in the opposite direction from the apartment, I drove my usual detour down Montfoot Road.

Stopped at the intersection’s red light, I took in the familiar, shadowed building of shimmering limestone not twenty feet away.

I was suddenly filled with so much nostalgia and longing, I could almost taste it.

The museum beckoned to me, trying to convince me to walk back inside and pretend I had never left.

But that wasn’t my life anymore. So I paid homage to the woman I once was and the sacrifices I chose to make while ignoring the ache in my gut. Then, I pulled an abrupt u-turn and headed to surprise Ryan at our apartment.

I abandoned my silver minivan in the parking garage. Did a minivan make sense to drive with only one child? Not really. But parting with it felt like admitting defeat somehow.

My pulse quickened as the elevator rose to the fifth floor of the apartment building. It was absurd to feel this nervous to seduce a man I’d been married to for an entire decade. But, this felt different. Risky. I wanted to reconnect and be done with this apathetic marriage.

I tugged at my paunchy red dress, trying to camouflage the slight curve of my belly in the mirrored elevator. Did those shaping shorts do nothing? My appearance ranged somewhere between a retired Vegas showgirl and a washed-up game show hostess. Neither felt great.

The key clicked in the lock before I stepped into the shadowy foyer. My weak call of “Surprise” received no response. Flipping on the lights, I plopped my keys on the entry table and closed the door.

“Ryan?” I called. “Babe?” Trying not to twist an ankle in my stupid high heels, I wobbled to the master bedroom. It felt strange being here. In the past year that we had owned the apartment, I’d only slept here a handful of times, Anthony even less.