✧･Chapter 40 Youve Always Had Me.
(This is a long chapter. Also, probably my favorite. I had to take a few breaks writing it, it was super emotional for me. I hope you guys enjoy it! I love you all.)
A few months ago, I gave Mae a key to my house.
I thought that was a big step. Turns out, I had no idea just how big.
Eventually, Mae stopped bringing things over one bag at a time and simply moved in.
There wasn't really a grand moment where we officially decided it was happening.
One day her clothes were taking up half of my closet, and then somehow they were taking up most of it.
Her shoes started appearing by the front door.
Her books ended up on my nightstand. Her mugs found their way into my kitchen cabinets, despite the fact that I already had perfectly good mugs.
At some point, we stopped saying she was staying over.
She lived here.
She sold her apartment not long after, and I think that was the moment it finally sank in for both of us. There was no going back to having two separate homes.
Her apartment wasn't the only thing she gave up, either. Mae had been working out of her old art studio for years, and when she decided to sell it, I knew she needed somewhere else to paint. So I did what any completely rational person in love would do.
I spent an absolutely ridiculous amount of money turning my garage into an art studio.
In my defense, the garage was barely being used anyway.
I had proper insulation put in, installed air conditioning because apparently letting the woman I love paint in a hot and humid garage without it would make me a terrible girlfriend,
and had the whole thing rewired so she could have enough outlets for every piece of equipment she somehow manages to accumulate.
We put in better lighting, shelves, storage, a huge worktable, and more wall space than I initially thought one person could possibly need.
Mae insists she doesn't need that much space.
She was lying.
The first time she walked in after everything was finished, she just stood there in the doorway with her mouth slightly open.
"You did all this?"
I shrugged like I hadn't spent weeks coordinating contractors and an amount of money I probably shouldn't admit out loud.
"You needed a studio."
Her eyes got suspiciously shiny.
I immediately pointed at her. "Don't cry."
"I wasn't going to."
"You were absolutely going to."
She laughed, wiped beneath one eye, and then kissed me until I forgot what I was saying.
So, yes. I think the garage was worth it.
The last few months have been... amazing.
Not perfect. We still have disagreements.
Mae still steals the blankets. I still pretend not to notice when she takes my hoodies and then somehow forgets to give them back.
She leaves paintbrushes in places they absolutely do not belong, and I have learned that asking an artist why there is blue paint on the bathroom counter is apparently a very dangerous question.
But it's ours.
And I've discovered that there is something almost addictive about coming home to someone. Most evenings, I walk through the front door after work and hear music before I even make it to the kitchen.
Mae cooks with the music ridiculously loud. I don't know when that became a thing, but it has. Usually, she's standing barefoot at the stove, hair pulled back messily, moving around the kitchen like she owns the place.
Which, technically, she does.
Sometimes she's singing, and sometimes she's dancing. Sometimes she's doing both badly enough that I have to stand in the doorway and watch for a minute.
She always notices me eventually.
"Hi," she'll call over her shoulder.
And every single time, something in my chest settles.
"Hi."
Then she'll hold out a wooden spoon without even looking at me.
"Try this."
I always do.
"You put too much garlic in it."
"I did not."
"You did."
And somehow, ten minutes later, I'm standing beside her with my sleeves pushed up, chopping vegetables while she bumps her hip into mine every time she walks past.
Sometimes we dance in the kitchen. Usually, it's because Mae decides a particular song requires dancing, and apparently my objections mean nothing once she's grabbed my hands.
Sometimes we eat at the table, but sometimes we don't bother. Sometimes dinner ends with us sitting on the kitchen floor because Mae decided she needed to tell me some incredibly important story halfway through cooking and neither of us ever got back up.
There are nights when she paints until midnight and I work beside her on my laptop, occasionally looking up just to watch her.
There are mornings when I wake up before her and find her curled into my side, still asleep, one hand resting against my chest like she somehow needs to make sure I'm still there.
There are lazy Sundays when neither of us gets dressed until noon. There are grocery store trips that somehow turn into arguments over which cereal we need. There are quiet evenings where we're both doing completely different things in the same room and barely speaking at all.
And those are some of my favorite ones, because I used to think love was supposed to feel like something enormous.
Something dramatic, something that changed everything all at once. Maybe sometimes it does. But with Mae, I've learned that love can also be much quieter than that. It can be a second toothbrush sitting beside mine.
Her paint-stained shirts hanging in my closet.
Her laugh coming from the kitchen while I'm still taking off my shoes.
A grocery list stuck to the refrigerator in her handwriting.
Her falling asleep beside me while I read.
The sound of music playing through the house when I get home.
It can be looking across a room and knowing, without saying anything, that you're exactly where you're supposed to be, and somewhere during these last few months, without either of us really noticing it happen, my house stopped feeling like my house.
It became ours. Our kitchen. Our bedroom. Our studio.
Our life.
And now here I am, stepping out of my car and closing the door behind me.
For a moment, I just stand there, looking up at the building in front of me as the sun hangs low in the sky, casting everything in warm shades. The evening air is cool against my skin, and I smooth a hand over my dress before taking a breath.
Tonight is a big night for Mae.
She's been working tirelessly for weeks to get everything ready for this gallery. She would disappear into the garage the second she woke up and stay there for hours, completely losing track of time. More than once, I'd come home from work to find that she hadn't eaten anything since breakfast.
"Mae, did you eat?"
"I had coffee."
"That's not food."
She would just smile at me and turn back toward whatever painting had her completely consumed.
She wouldn't even let me stay in the garage while she worked, either.
Something about "utmost privacy," which I teased her relentlessly about, but I never pushed.
If she wanted to keep her work private until tonight, I was happy to respect that.
I didn't need to see the paintings before everyone else did.
I just wanted to support her however she needed me to.
And tonight, she finally gets to show off all of it.
All the long nights. The paint-covered clothes. The missed meals. The countless hours she spent staring at a canvas until she decided it was finally right.
I couldn't be more proud of her.
I turn toward the entrance, where a man in a dark suit is standing beside a velvet rope. I hand over my keys with a polite smile before making my way inside.
For tonight, I decided on something simple: a navy-blue dress, light makeup, and my hair straightened down around my shoulders, nothing too dramatic. I didn't want to take attention away from Mae.
The moment I step inside, though, something feels... different.
Not bad.
Just different.
I slow down slightly, glancing around the room.
The gallery is beautiful, exactly what I'd expect from a place Mae would choose for one of her shows, but there's an odd quietness hanging over everything. I can hear the faint hum of the building, the soft click of my heels against the floor, and little else.
I keep walking, and then I realize why.
There's nobody here.
I stop and I look around again, this time more carefully, wondering if I've somehow walked into the wrong building or arrived far too early.
Nothing. No guests, no staff rushing around, no familiar faces. Not even Mae.
The only other person I can see is a janitor finishing up near one of the rooms at the far end of the gallery. He grabs something from his cart and starts walking away, and I quickly call after him.
"Hi, excuse me."
He stops and turns, looking at me with the same slight confusion I imagine is written all over my face.
"Yes, ma'am?"
I offer him an awkward smile. "There's a gallery show tonight, right?"
He glances around the empty room before looking back at me. "Yes, there is. It's supposed to be opening right now, actually."
"Oh."
I look around again. The man points toward the far end of the gallery, where a set of doors leads into another section of the building.
"It's supposed to be held in that room back there."
I follow the direction of his finger, my eyebrows pulling together.
"That's..." I trail off.
I've been to dozens of galleries, and I've never known Mae to have a showing contained to one small room. Usually, the entire space is filled with her work, people wandering from one piece to the next, drinks in their hands and conversations filling the air.
I turn back toward the man and give him a small, embarrassed smile. "Alright. Thank you."
"No problem."
He gives me a polite nod before continuing on his way and I just stand there for another second, staring toward the room he pointed me toward.
Something about this feels strange. Not necessarily wrong, just... very unexpected.