"Goodnight, Ash."
I watch her disappear down the hallway. This controlled politeness is so far from her usual vibrancy, it feels like punishment. I deserve it.
The sound of our bedroom door closing echoes through the empty house. I sink back into my chair, surrounded by evidence of her thoughtfulness while she adheres to the distance I've forced on her.
I wait until I think she’s asleep, then head up to bed myself. Hannah's curled on her side when I enter. Even unconscious, she keeps herself contained to her side of the bed, respecting the boundaries I've drawn.
How did this get so fucking complicated? This marriage was supposed to be simple, a business arrangement, nothing more. But Hannah's sweet temper, generous personality, and her warmth keep seeping through my defenses, making me want things I swore I'd never allow myself again. The way she brightens every room. How she stands up to me without fear. Her determination to make this house a home despite my coldness.
My body aches to reach for her, to pull her close and bury my face in her hair. To feel her softness against me, to chase away the loneliness.
But Meghan's memory holds me back. The guilt of wanting Hannah, of feeling anything beyond duty toward my new wife, wraps around my neck like a noose. I don't deserve a chance at happiness. Not when I failed to protect the last woman I loved.
11
HANNAH
Iwalk through the entire house, a sense of accomplishment and completion filling me. After a week of deliveries and directing staff where to place everything, the house finally feels furnished. The house may be full of furniture now, but it still feels empty somehow. Ash and I have a house… not a home, but for his purposes, I guess this works.
I've done my best to give him the space he wants, keeping my presence at a minimum. All my items are neatly contained to my side of the closet and bathroom. I keep myself busy, mostly in my art room, so as not to disturb him. Today, I helped at the children's hospital, reading stories to kids too sick to leave their beds. One evening, I went out with my friends. Anything to keep moving, to avoid infringing on Ash’s space.
The last bit of art supplies I ordered arrived yesterday, and I've set up my studio in the sunny room. My easel stands ready, blank canvases stacked nearby. I’m excited to resume my studies.
“Mrs. Ifrinn, your guest is here,” Mrs. Petersen announces from the art room doorway.
“Send him up, please, Mrs. Peterson. Thank you.”
“Also, Antonio is wondering if he should set dinner for two tonight? Will you be out again?”
“I believe we’ll be home.” Ash rarely lets me know his schedule, and I don’t ask.
“I’ll send your guest up,” she says with a nod and then leaves.
My new teacher strides in, tall, distinguished, with silver threading through his dark hair. His blue eyes crinkle warmly as he introduces himself. "James Matthews. Though my students usually call me Jim."
"Hannah," I say, shaking his offered hand. "I'm so glad you could come. I've missed having art in my life."
“I understand you used to work with George Davidson.”
“I did, but I heard he retired.”
“Yes. He’s ninety years old and finally touring Italy like he’s always wanted.”
I laugh, remembering how Mr. Davidson talked fondly about going to Italy someday.
Jim moves around the studio, examining the space and light. "This is perfect. You have wonderful light in here." He sets his leather portfolio on a nearby table. "Is there anything specific you hope to learn?"
“I want to do portraits. Maybe even a self-portrait. Is that conceited?”
“Da Vinci and Van Gogh did self-portraits, I don’t know why you can’t.”
I laugh. “I’m no Da Vinci or Van Gogh.”
“How about we start with a sketch?”
I bring in an oval-shaped makeup mirror, setting it on a table near me so I can see myself and draw. For the next hour, I lose myself in charcoal and paper, sketching while Jim offers gentle guidance. His presence is calm, professional, and it’s the first time in a while that I can really relax.
"You have natural talent," Jim says, studying my work. "But I see hesitation in your lines. Art requires confidence, the willingness to make bold strokes even if they might not work out."
