“The one with the soup can painting you told me about?”
Her breath catches. “Yeah,” she says, having to clear her throat. “Yeah, we can sit there.” She heads back the way we came, turning right when we get to the front of the house. There isn’t a door, just an arch. The hardwood floor laid throughout the front of the house is covered with a worn braided rug. There’s a tan and blue plaid tweed loveseat on one side of the wall, and on the other, a worn leather recliner.
Before she can move to the recliner, I take her hand and lead her to the loveseat. Warily, she lets me.
Once settled, I push my luck and wrap an arm around her. Her body doesn’t relax into mine, but she doesn’t junk punch me either, so I consider it a win.
Right across from the loveseat, in perfect view from either the recliner or the loveseat, is the small Warhol soup can print Bell had told me about at the museum. It’s a very simple painting, the style devoid of too much detail, highlighting the ease of mass production that the artist found so intriguing. (I’ve been reading up on him since our day in the museum.) But for Bell, it doesn’t mean any of that. The picture evokes happy memories of her childhood, of her parents’ love.
“My father never wanted me. He told me, to my face, that he would’ve gotten rid of me if my mom hadn’t waited so long to tell him.”
Bell’s body freezes next to mine.
“He said he only wanted Thomas. That Thomas represented the continuing legacy. I just represented split shares in the company.”
“Oh my God.” She struggles to sit up. Reluctantly, I let her. “Thomas told me about Stan stealing money and the affair, and even about Liz, but he didn’t say anything about your father feeling that way.”
“I’m not sure if Thomas knows, to be honest.” I frown, considering. We never got around to talking about that. “I mean, we talked about all the other stuff, and we have a plan to fix all the shit my father’s fucked up, but I didn’t tell him about that particular conversation.”
“When did he tell you this?”
“One minute before I ran into you and Thomas at the elevator.”
Understanding dawns in her eyes. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” I cover her hand resting on her thigh with mine. “It wasn’t my best moment. In fact, I’m pretty sure it was my worst. What my father said to me… it really blindsided me.”
She nods.
“It doesn’t excuse, in any way, how I acted, but I was just so…”
“Hurt? Angry?”
“Yes.”
She turns her hand in mine, interlacing our fingers.
“A few days later, Mom came by and helped me realize a few things. And one of them is that it isn’t my fault my father’s a horrible person. It isn’t Thomas’s either, for that matter.”
Bell releases my hand so she can cup the sides of my face. “Ofcourseit isn’t your fault. Anyone who thinks otherwise is obviously a douche-canoe.”
“Douche-canoe?” I laugh, causing her to smile. She moves to lower her hands, but I hold them in place with my own, careful of her sore knuckles. “That’s just one of the many reasons I love you. Your ability to insult with flair.” I slide her hands together in front of me, planting a gentle kiss on them.
“You didn’t love me enough not to leave.”
Guilt slices at me. “I know words are just words. As Elvis says, more action let’s talk.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, so I keep going.
“I know I left. I really wish I hadn’t. Please know that once I finallystopped being a douche-canoe”—her smile gets a little bigger—“I realized leaving was the complete opposite of what I should’ve done.” I kiss her hands again. “I’m not very good at talking about… feelings stuff.”
She snorts.
“But I promise you I will get better. I won’t shut you out. Because I love you so goddamn much, Campbell Dougherty.”
She leans forward until her forehead rests against mine. “Chase Moore. WhatamI going to do with you?” Her Southern twang sends shivers down my spine, putting my hopeful dick on alert.
“Love me tender?”
