49. Della
DELLA
For the next few days after Tripp was arrested, I’m tense around the clock. Even though Alan tracked him out of town when he was released, and I know he got on a plane, I’m still uneasy. Most of my time is spent at Painted Heart or with Hazel, Molly, and Lanie because I don’t want to be alone.
The landlord installed cameras and a brand-new sliding glass door over the weekend, and I was shocked at how quickly it happened.
But as the days go on, I relax because I don’t think he’ll be back. He has no allies here, and not to mention, he doesn’t want his secrets shared with the world.
After Jaxon’s apology in my apartment, the one I actually listened to, things start shifting.
When I see him at the ranch, I kind of take him in with fresh eyes.
We have a few words, a few laughs, and then continue on with our day.
It is as if he is giving me just enough to leave me wanting more… and I hate to say it, but it’s working.
As time goes on, the lingering anger is being replaced by a sense of loss. When everything exploded that day in his house, I never thought that it would ever let up, but as each day passes, that’s exactly what’s happening.
The Saturday before my art show, I take a break from painting and end up outside the barn with Molly, Hazel, and Lanie. Molly doesn’t have as much time these days because the hay harvest is bearing down on her, so it’s nice stealing her for a bit.
While we’re laughing about something, Jaxon strolls by us on his way into the barn.
He has no business looking extra delicious as he saunters by like he owns the place…
even though he literally does. Tipping his hat to the four of us, he says nothing and just keeps walking to the stall.
I smile at the flirt of the hard-to-get; this is playboy Jaxon.
The one I never saw because our circumstances were so unique.
Checking out of the conversation with the girls, I watch him disappear into Wyza’s stall and then come out leading her back down the aisle.
When he’s outside the barn, he puts his foot in the stirrup and hoists himself onto the horse in a practiced motion.
The others aren’t paying close attention to him, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes away.
Wyza starts to walk, and he turns to us, “Have a great day, ladies,” he says, looking squarely at me with a knowing smile. Disbelief crosses my face.
“Get a life!” Hazel shouts at his back.
And he tips his head to the sky and laughs.
It’s the laugh that I miss so damn much.
The warmth of it wraps around me, and I watch his back flexing under the tight white shirt as he holds the reigns.
I remembering how my fingers dug into those muscles, and for the first time since the shit hit the fan, a familiar arousal flickers to life inside of me.
When I get back to my apartment in the evening, there is a package at the outside door addressed to me.
It’s wrapped in this pristine wrapping paper with a shimmery gold ribbon, and it’s just so pretty.
But as soon as I think that, my heart jumps into my throat, because I wonder if Tripp is back, and this is something from him, but it’s not Tripp’s handwriting.
5:17 a.m.
The time is the only thing on the tag. What the heck?
I take the whole package up to my apartment and set it on the kitchen table, debating whether to call someone in case I’ll need help, but I’m too curious.
Slowly, I pull the string and open the top before reaching my hand in to see what’s inside.
But I don’t need to see it to know what it is; I feel it.
It’s a tube of paint. I pull it out and look at it.
It’s a purple-gray paint that I know I don’t have because it was never in a stock set.
Next comes the card, and I lose my breath when I read it.
5:17. Your first Amberheart sunrise. Your first light. How lucky am I that I’ve watched you rise like the sun since you’ve been here.
Jaxon.
I smile at the memory because I had no idea how much symbolism that sunrise would hold, and how it would become my next chapter moment.
This purple-gray was the first color the sky turned that morning, and it’s the color I look forward to each sunrise I see.
I wonder if his smirk today was because he knew this was sitting on my doorstep.
It was too late to open the paint on Saturday night, but on Sunday, I spend most of the day painting, and the way the purple-gray sky fits in the paintings is beautiful.
The following day, I am lost in my room, and when I go to leave my house to grab dinner, there is another package at my door. Smiling, I shake my head. What was he doing?
I look at the timestamp.
2:18 a.m.
This time, I don’t hesitate to open the bag. What is he remembering at three in the morning? The color I pull out is a tawny tan. Dropping the paint, I can’t wait to read the note.
Remember that time I protected you from cougar murder sounds? I’d do it again in a heartbeat, but I promise you’ll get used to the sound if you stay.
I hold it to my heart remembering how safe I felt in his arms. How wildly inappropriate it was to be next to another man like that so soon, but safe just the same. And when Tripp was at my back door, I wanted Jaxon here for the same reason.
I remember when he kissed me the first time, and how that night opened my eyes to the version of myself that had been missing, something I could never repay him for. I think about picking up my phone to say thank you, but I don’t.
The third day, I expect something, but not at eight in the morning. When I go to treat myself to a coffee, the package is already sitting here. Grabbing it, I decide to forgo the coffee and race back upstairs to see the color.
4:38 p.m.
My mind races with what could have happened at 4:38, but we spent so much time together from midday to evening that it could literally be anything. The color is a deep pinky-purple, and it is stunning, but it is the note that gets me.
This is a favorite memory I have with you, Del. I took you to a place sacred to me. Beautiful flowers surrounded us, but none of them compared to you. There are so many more spots I want to take you, Tatroe. So many more colors for you to see.
I think about how each of the things he introduced me to created such special memories, but I can’t perseverate on them for too long.
I’m furiously painting with only a few days until my Friday show, but I’m stopping on Wednesday to let everything dry.
It feels like I have slipped into a bit of a mad genius state.
Or, let’s be honest, I’m more like an unhinged raccoon.
I’m not eating properly, just raiding my kitchen once or twice a day.
Nor am I keeping a stable sleep schedule, just going on cycles of sleep and wake.
I’m laser-focused and have pretty much cut off the outside world… except for my daily package delivery.
When I go down on Tuesday afternoon, it’s there, and I don’t even get it back to my apartment before I’m looking.
7:15 p.m.
Without even hypothesizing what it could be, I grab the paint. It’s gold. A deep, shimmery gold, one that I don’t have, even with my iridescents. What color is this memory?
Sunrise with you is my favorite, but sunset is just as stunning.
The golden hour sun would always give your face the most beautiful warmth.
The sun looks great on you anywhere, Del, but when you have the Tetons in the background, you don’t get much better than that.
You would miss that view almost as much as I would miss you.
I texted him yesterday, and he just hearted the message; today, he does the same.
Is this his ploy to get me to call him? It doesn’t matter; I can’t right now. With a beaming face, I return to my paint cave and keep going.
Wednesday is my final painting day, and I only have the morning to do it. The canvases need a full forty-eight hours to dry, so I have to be done by then. Not to mention, Rose has to photograph the stragglers for the online store. Right around noon, I put down my brush and collapse on the bed.
I’m done.
To celebrate, I’m going to touch some grass, so I'll take a shower, change my clothes, and get ready to stroll the strip. Before I do that, I have to get my package. Sitting there, making my stomach flutter, is my surprise.
6:49 p.m.
I look in the box and pull out a deep chocolate brown with a note wrapped around it.
It’s the color of Sir Magnum Biggs as you know him.
Well, you know him both ways, but this is so you remember the migration.
How awe-inspiring it was to witness. I know I told you that you could come out for migration week and the sunrise, but I don’t want that.
Della. Sir Magnum Biggs doesn’t want that either.
There are so many things out here that will take your breath away if you give them a chance to.
Closing my eyes, I laugh out loud at the note. It’s the perfect double entendre because I loved both the migration and Sir Magnum Biggs himself.
I head to the ranch hoping to see him, but apparently, he took an overnight camp group out when one of the leads couldn’t.
So that means that someone else is in on this, dropping things off at my apartment.
I know more people than just him want me to stay, but this is a physical representation of it, and that hits deep.
Even though I’ve only been away for a few days, being back on the property gives me a quiet kind of peace. Driving through those wrought iron gates feels like coming home, and I acknowledge what a big deal that is.
From Wednesday to Thursday, I sleep fourteen hours, which is fantastic because I don’t want to be at my first-ever art show looking like a ghoul.
There’s been such a fun buzz around it. Besides the stuff that Rose has been doing, Heart of Will and Lanie have pushed it on social media and connected with other organizations to get the word out.
She’s also been running a socials page for me for the last three weeks to drum up even more interest. I can’t believe how many people are interested in my art.
Thursday, I decide to go shopping for a new dress. I have one I love, but a lady has to have options. When I leave my apartment, the box is there. I know Jaxon is somewhere camping, so this confirms someone else is doing this with him.
6:16 a.m.
The color is a vibrant scarlet red that seems like it would brighten any painting, and I know the reference immediately.
This is the moment I showed you the blooming Indian Paintbrush flowers that had popped up where we watched our sunrise.
There are so many places you could have landed, but no other state has a paint-related flower name.
So I’m not going to call fate here, but I’m also not going to call not fate.
Were you made to be in Wyoming? All signs point to yes.
Maybe it’s because I’m semi-strung out from the week, or maybe I have reached my breaking point, but the note is so silly that it brings tears to my eyes. I miss this banter, this playfulness, this fun. I text him again, knowing he’s somewhere in the wilderness, but don’t get a response.
But Thursday night, the girls come over with a bottle of wine and snacks to celebrate the completion of the painting marathon. I still haven’t committed to the resident painter role because I want to see how tomorrow goes, but after this week, I’m a hell of a lot closer.
Friday morning, I sleep in and lazily roll out of bed.
I’m super nervous about today, so I’m trying to find things to fill my time.
When I leave for lunch, I fully expect a package to be waiting, but there isn't. My heart skips in a bad way, because I look forward to the memories he’s bringing up.
But after I meet Lanie, I head home, and there it is.
Just like the other six. Perfectly wrapped, shimmering bow.
The tag says
3:03 p.m. & always.
Pulling out the tube, it’s an ultramarine blue.
By all accounts, this is the most precious color in painting, often valued higher than gold during the Renaissance because the process to grind and turn the lapis lazuli to this color was so labor-intensive.
It’s synthetic now and accessible to everyone, but I understand the meaning without reading the note.
This is the part where I tell you what memory is tied to this color.
But there is no single memory here. This color that haunts my dreams because it’s the color of your eyes.
On day one, when you accidentally ended up in my parking lot at 3:03 on a stupidly hot April afternoon, I lost myself in them.
I know it’s not your exact color, the meaning supersedes it all.
I learned this color was coveted and rare.
As you go into your art show tonight, I want you to think about how rare this thing between us is.
Della, I hope you love tonight. Think about how hard you worked, and at some point, step back, look around, and think about the fact that you did this.
Your pieces will be coveted for decades to come.
And how lucky am I that I got to watch you come to life?
You earned this, and I want to shout your name from the top of the mountains. So incredibly proud of you.
The tears spring to my eyes as I put the note down, and I pick up the phone to call him.
He doesn’t answer, even though I’m war-dialing him now.
When he still doesn’t pick up, I don’t have time to perseverate on it because I have to get ready for the art show.
I know he’s not ignoring me, but I’m not exactly sure what his goal is.
I don’t want to have a huge emotional moment at the show.
But I shower and get ready all the same. At 4:50 p.m., I check my watch with butterflies in my stomach. My online gallery opens in ten minutes. Not that I think there’s going to be a rush for Della Tatroe originals, but I hope I sell some paintings.
But even if I sell none, I’m thinking about all the love I’ve found in people here, and the confidence and forgiveness I’ve found in myself. And that can’t be quantified by a number of paintings sold.
But tonight isn’t for overthinking. It’s for celebrating how far I’ve come.
This moment feels like proof that I found my way back.