Chapter Thirty-Six
Becca
I stand back from the easel. Barron Sterling’s first painting has come along nicely over the past week, and now is more than seventy percent finished. I grab a bottle of wine cooler for a minor celebration.
Somebody knocks on the studio door. “Yoo-hoo!”
Tasha’s voice. I open the door, a bit surprised. She normally doesn’t come over to my studio during the day because she knows I’m busy working.
“Hey, come on in,” I say, ready to lend support for whatever emergency has brought her here.
She stands for a moment, taking in my appearance. “You forgot about our lunch date, didn’t you?”
I frown, then squeeze my eyes shut. Ah, shit. “Yeah. I did, sorry. I got distracted with work.”
Tasha and I meet once a month for what we call our “power lunch for women who want to go places.” In spite of the grand name, we usually end up chitchatting and only brainstorm when we need it. It’s where I discussed the possibility of hiring an escort to play my husband for a year. And I helped Tasha narrow down some ideas for eye palette colors. She didn’t want combinations that everyone else is offering, but she also didn’t want people to say, “What the hell?” over the color choices.
“Or maybe you were distracted with your husband,” she teases.
“You like him now?” I ask, then gesture at the fridge in a silent offer.
She goes over and grabs a beer. After a sip, she says, “Well, he has sort of proven himself.”
I take the rocking chair, while she takes the worn couch.
“You mean at the fair?” I ask, smiling as I recall how awesome that day was.
“Yeah. I haven’t forgotten how Jimmy was when you won,” she says, referring to my ex-boyfriend and an archery competition from four years ago.
“He was mad he lost,” I point out. “It’s actually why we broke up.” He couldn’t stand losing, and I couldn’t stand a sore loser.
“Not surprised. He was weird when you won the year before, too. He’s just a jealous little punk who can’t stand the idea of a woman doing something better than men. I’m glad he moved away.”
“So am I, actually. The town’s better off without him.”
“Everything’s better without him,” Tasha says. “But it seems like things are better with Devlin. For you, anyway.”
“Yeah.” I sigh as something that’s been bugging me starts to come to the surface. It’s been increasingly difficult to ignore it.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s really wrong…”
“People don’t sigh when nothing’s wrong.”
“Okay, fine, it’s just…” I sigh again. “I’m sort of regretting this marriage thing.” My voice is small enough that Tasha might not hear me. And I feel even smaller.
Tasha sits bolt upright. “What? Why? What did Devlin do?”
“No, no. It’s not him. He’s perfect.”
“Oh.” She relaxes. “So… Why the regret?”
“Because he’s perfect! And because it’s going to end. We barely have ten months left.” I press the heel of my hand against the spot between my eyebrows. “It’s going so fast.” I wish I could turn back time, so Devlin and I could start over. Or at least leave ourselves an option to stay together beyond one year. My stomach feels queasy every time I think about “the end.”
“Does it have to end?” Tasha asks.
“What do you mean? Of course it does. We signed an agreement.” And it lays out exactly what’s between us. Even Devlin’s loving husband act isn’t going to change what’s on the paper I signed. I’m a hopeless idiot for having genuine feelings, but I can’t control my heart with a snap of my fingers.