Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“Come on, I’ve got lunch ready. Turkey and avocado sandwiches. You can tell me more about your day as we eat.” I start to go back upstairs.
“Where are you going? Aren’t we eating in the kitchen?”
“Nope. We’re eating in the studio. I’ve got something to show you.”
Jason’s eyes widen as he spots the finished dragon. He stops suddenly, the sandwiches waiting on the table, completely forgotten.
“Is that done?” he asks, voice hushed.
I smile, my heart swelling with pride, with joy. “Yeah, it’s finished.”
“It’s so cool!”
“Do you want to see it up close? I’ve got a surprise for you.” I gesture to the dragon.
He nods eagerly and bounds over, his sneakers squeaking on the hardwood. I kneel beside him, pointing out the details—the golden flecks in the dragon’s eyes, the curve of its wings, the broken arrow still embedded in the dragon.
Jason looks up, his eyes wide, curious. “Can you teach me to paint like that?”
My heart melts, a warmth spreading through me. “Of course. But first let’s eat, then we’ll start.”
We settle at the table. He scoffs down the sandwiches, homemade biscuits I found in a tin in the pantry, and washes it all down with sweet lemonade. Jason chatters about school, his clay pot, his friends, and I listen, nodding, my heart full. This moment is so simple and so perfect. After lunch, I pull out a sketchpad and sharpen some pencils. I sit beside him on the rug, sunlight warming our backs, and show him how to draw a dragon’s curve.
“Like this?” he asks, his pencil wobbling, creating a shaky line. His little brows are furrowed, and I resist the temptation to laugh at how cute he looks.
“Exactly,” I say, adjusting his grip, my hand over his small, warm one. “Just keep practicing and the line will become smoother and smoother.”
Time slips away, the only sounds are the scratching of pencil on paper, Jason’s earnest voice, and my quiet praise. The dragon takes shape under his hand, rough but energetic. My heart fills with a sweet pain as I watch him, his focus so intense, so like Max.
The thought of Max makes me lean back, pencil in hand, my mind drifting. These days with him—sleeping tangled together, waking to his voice, his touch—feels like a beautiful dream I never want to wake from. But it’s ending soon, now closer than ever, and I cannot stop thinking about how hard the crash is going to be. I’ll have to leave immediately. I cannot stay here and pretend. Sara is not stupid. She’ll see right through me. Anyway, that was the deal I made with myself. Two weeks and then it’s over.
But the idea of losing him, of going back to a life without this color, this fire, cracks something inside me. I dread it with all of my soul. A wild, desperate thought surfaces: what if I got pregnant? If I did, I would get a piece of Max, a child with his eyes, his strength, to carry with me always, no matter what. I’d never break his family, never take him from Jason, from Sara, and I’d never tell anyone who the father was. There’s no one else I’d want a child with, no one who’s ever made me feel this way about them. The thought of having his child grips me with a fierce and reckless purpose.
“Aunt Amelia?” Jason’s voice pulls me back, His eyes are curious. “Are you okay? You look sad.”
I smile quickly, pushing the thought down. “Sad, I’m not sad. I’m very happy, little angel.”
“So what were you thinking of?”
“Of your painting. About what a great talent you have. It's really looking awesome.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks, Aunt Amelia.” He grins happily and dives back into his sketch, and I watch him, my heart swelling with love for this wonderful child that Max and Sara made. I wonder if somehow Max and I have one baking inside me...
Chapter
Thirty-Six
MAX
The house is silent when I step through the door, the quiet pressing against my chest like a warning. The stillness unnerves me.
This is what it will be like when Amelia is gone for good.
It’s just past six. I went out to have a drink with a business associate who had flown in from Japan for the express purpose of meeting with me, so I couldn’t cancel on him. I clutch the bag of Chinese takeout, the scent of soy sauce and Jason’s favorite, sweet and sour chicken, wafts up into my nostrils.
My shoes echo on the hardwood as I walk up the stairs, drawn to the studio, a pull I can’t explain but feel in my bones.
The door’s ajar, golden light spilling out, and I push it open, and my breathing deepens at the sight before me. The sight stops my heart, a fierce swell of love so intense it hurts. I watch it as if I have come upon the cup of plenty. There is no more after this. This is it. This is what men died for.