For Five Years, My Husband Loved Me Like a Replacement Chapter 07
Southport was more humid than Northwood.
I moved into the residency dorm. A tall sycamore grew outside my window.
Eliot helped me set up my easel.
“The light’s good here.”
I said, “Thanks.”
He smiled. “Thank me by painting.”
I started the white rose piece over.
Not a restoration. A complete redo.
Only this time, I didn’t paint it white.
I used pink. Orange. Blue. Even a streak of bright yellow.
Tara came to visit. She stared at the canvas for a long time.
“You finally don’t look like you’re turning in homework.”
I laughed. “Did I used to?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Like you were always scared of getting the answer wrong.”
Julian showed up two weeks later.
He didn’t come into the studio. Just stood outside.
I went out to get water and saw him there. He was holding a bouquet
—
of pink ranunculus. The wrapping was careful. The card was handwritten.
“Vivian. The flowers from your birthday. I’m making it up to you.”
I looked at the bouquet.
Beautiful. But it wasn’t that day anymore.
I said, “Thanks. I’m not taking them.”
Julian’s grip tightened.
“I called the florist. All those gifts before — the assistant ordered them. I didn’t know there was a difference.”
I looked at him evenly. “And the cards?”
He didn’t answer.
I said, “Did the assistant forget to write those for me too?”
Julian’s face went pale.
After a long pause, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Three words. Too late. Light as dust settling.
I said, “Take them back.”
He didn’t move.
Eliot came out of the studio, holding my palette.
“Ms. Moore, the paint’s drying.”
Julian’s eyes cut toward him, something dark underneath.
—
“You two have been together this whole time?”
Eliot’s tone stayed mild. “We’re working.”
Julian let out a cold laugh. “Working? Since when does that give you the right to interfere with someone giving her flowers?”
I frowned. “Julian.”
He looked at me, eyes red around the edges.
“You never used to defend anyone like that.”
I said, “You never used to care who I defended.”
That shut him up completely.
That evening, my mom called.
She said Julian had come to the house with gifts. Apologized. Bent over backward.
“Vivian, he’s done everything he can. It’s time to give in.”
I asked, “Mom — did he apologize to Maren?”
She paused. “Maren didn’t do anything wrong.”
I smiled.
“Then I don’t have anything to give in to.”
After I hung up, Eliot handed me a cup of hot water.
“If you’re upset, you can take a break.”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t.”
—
I kept painting.
At ten that night, my phone lit up.
Julian sent a photo.
It was the glass cloche from the study. The shattered white roses —
he’d pieced them back together. It looked clumsy, but every piece had
been fitted back with painstaking care.
One line underneath.
“I didn’t know until now how easily it breaks.”
I stared at the screen for a long time. Then turned it off.
A breeze stirred outside the window.
On the canvas, the flowers finally bloomed their first layer of color.