But then something shifts. A shadow passes over her face, dimming her radiance for just a heartbeat before she masks it with another smile. If I hadn't been watching her so closely, I might have missed it.
"What's wrong?" I ask, leaning closer to her as our guide shows off student art hanging on a wall.
"Nothing's wrong. I'm just… overwhelmed. Happy. Thank you for this."
I study her face, knowing there's more she isn't telling me. Is she thinking of the attack and afraid? Is she still wondering if I’m angry about the dinner? I have yet to apologize for that. Or is there something else I’m missing?
"You sure that's all it is?" I press gently.
"Of course." She turns to study the art the guide is discussing, but not before I catch another flicker of that mysterious sadness in her eyes.
I let it go, for now. But I make a mental note to pay closer attention. Hannah's hiding something from me, and I need to figure out what it is.
When we get home, I follow Hannah into the house, expecting her usual beeline to the art studio after such an inspiring visit to MassArt. Instead, she heads straight for our bedroom.
"You're not going to paint?" I call after her.
She pauses at the top of the stairs, one hand on the railing. "Maybe later. I'm just… tired."
The door clicks shut behind her, and I'm left standing in the foyer, that nagging worry growing stronger. Before the attack, Hannah would spend hours in that studio, losing herself in her work. She'd emerge with paint-stained fingers and that satisfied glow that made her even more beautiful. Now the studio sits empty, like a shrine to who she used to be.
I climb the stairs, pausing outside our bedroom door. I can’t shake the idea that this isn't just about the attack or my harsh words over the Sullivan dinner. Something else is eating at her, something that's stolen not just her smile, but her passion for art.
I push open the bedroom door, finding Hannah curled up on our bed. The sight of her looking so small and vulnerable is untenable.
"Hannah?" I move to sit beside her on the edge of the bed. "Talk to me, Sunshine." That’s how I think of her in my head. Her eyes widen slightly at the endearment, and for a moment I see a flicker of that inner light I've been missing.
But then it fades, replaced by something that looks like guilt. She curls tighter into herself.
"I'm fine. Just tired from all the excitement today."
I reach out, brushing a strand of that fiery hair from her face. "You're not fine. Are you ill or is this from the attack?” Maybe she has PTSD. I should research a suitable therapist for her.
“Maybe.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around to help you more. I just?—”
“I know. You need to deal with Kean.” She turns over, her back to me.
“You’re not safe until I do. You understand that, right?” Maybe she thinks I’m avoiding her like I did when we were first married.
“Yes. I know how this all works.” Is that bitterness in her voice?
“Listen, about the Sullivans?—”
“I’m sorry, I?—”
“Hannah, listen. I’m the one who’s sorry. That shitshow last night is on me. I’d forgotten that they’re both egotistical assholes. You could have been on your game and me fucking Prince Charming and they’d still have sneered and been jerks.”
She turns back to me, blinking. I realize I should have led with this apology before the art school tour.
“I was upset at myself and took it out on you, and I’m sorry.” Taking a chance, I lie down next to her. “And I’m sorry I haven’tbeen around to help you deal with the attack. I’m just so fucking angry that Kean was able to get near you.”
“No one takes what’s yours. Not again.”
I study her, thinking her statement is odd. She’s not wrong, but there’s something about it. I realize she’s thinking about Meghan. About how I’ve never gotten over what happened. How odd that she’s the one carrying it now, while all I’ve been thinking about is her.
“You are mine,” I say, wanting her to know I’m thinking of her.
