Page 74 of The Write Choice

“Brandon!” She presses a hand to her heart as if she could calm it. “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” I say sheepishly. “I got home early and came in to see if you wanted lunch. You must not have heard me with your headphones on.” It’s a half-truth, but I don’t think she needs to know that I have been creeping behind her to see her painting for the past few minutes.

She narrows her eyes as if she doesn’t believe me, but I shrug and point to her work in progress. “You’re painting me and the kids?” I can’t help the note of hope in my voice. Surely, if she’s painting us together, she can’t be totally angry with me for the way I behaved last night.

Katie scratches her head with the hand holding the paintbrush. A few drops of paint land in her hair. “Uh…” she falters. “Yeah. That’s kind of all I paint.”

That’s when I finally look around the whole room and notice the stacks of paintings in various stages of completion leaning against the wall and hanging on the hooks I installed when we moved in. Every single one of them features the kids and me in some way. Making pizza, ice skating, making a snowman. And there’s the one she started in New York of us at the pumpkin patch. Some are scenes that really happened, and others are made up from other references, but they are all clearly the kids and me having fun together.

My jaw drops as I take them all in. They’re stunning.

“I started with the pumpkin one,” Katie is saying. She moves her hand, wielding the paintbrush as a pointer. “And then I got inspired, I guess? I don’t know.” She sounds unsure, but I wish she had more confidence about these pictures. They’re perfect, and there’s so much love in them. It makes my heart hurt.

“Why aren’t you in them?” I ask quietly.

She chews her bottom lip, considering. “Well, that’s a good question. I didn’t realize I was gone at first, but when I did, I thought maybe I should talk to my therapist about it. We’re working on it.”

I nod slowly, still looking at each painting in turn.

“But I kept going with them, and I think there’s a story here? Maybe something about a hero dad, or a dad who makes some mistakes, but is always there for his kids? I thought it might make a good children’s book.” Her voice is shaking a little, which rips my attention from the paintings to land solely on her.

“You want to write a children’s book?” My eyebrows pinch together.

Katie blushes. It’s so beautiful, I can hardly stand it. I could sweep her up in my arms right now, but I can see she’s struggling to get something out in the open, so I wait patiently for her to speak.

She runs a hand through her hair, looking at it as it comes away with purple paint on it. “Maybe? I started contacting some professional photographers to take pictures of the paintings so they can be digitized, but I don’t know. It’s kind of expensive.”

“I don’t care about the money,” I say, my voice still quiet.

Katie snorts a laugh. “I know. It just feels wasteful.”

“What’s wasteful about it? It’s something you love. It’s something you want to do.”

She shrugs as if it’s truly no big deal, then steps closer to her table to put the paintbrush down and start cleaning up. I take her hand and she turns to face me. “Cat.” I’m completely in awe of her, and I don’t quite know how to express it. “It’s brilliant.”

Her face lights up ever so slightly, her eyebrows raising and her eyes widening. “Do you think so?” She wears the exact same expression our kids make when we tell them we’re proud of them—excitement mixed with hope.

I step closer to her, intoxicated by her budding happiness. I want to put it in a box and keep it with me to pull out and look at on bad days.

I cup her cheek with my hand, threading my fingers through her hair. “I do.”

Her eyelids flutter closed. “I’m sorry—”

“No,” I stop her. “I shouldn’t have run off last night. And I shouldn’t have made you spend all those nights alone with the kids while I was at work.” Her eyes open softly, her face tipped up to mine. My hand is tangled in her hair, mixing with the paint splattered there. I want desperately to kiss her, but we’ve gotten side-tracked too many times, so I force myself to continue. “I never felt like I deserved you and the kids. I assumed I was too lucky to have landed this perfect family, basically by accident. My parents practically handed me a job, and now they’ve handed me another one. I wanted a promotion, yes, but I wanted you to be proud of me. I wanted you to feel like you made the right decision marrying some idiot right out of grad school with nothing to show for himself but some money his parents gave him, a strung-out brother, and a broody writer friend.”

Katie starts to shake her head, but I don’t let her get a word in. “You make everything in my life better. You always have. From the night I met you until this very moment, you’ve continually made our lives magical. I wanted to be worthy of that magic.”

“All I wanted was for you to be with me.” She pauses, dragging her bottom lip through her teeth. “I was okay until I wasn’t, you know? And it happened so fast. I didn’t even know I was turning to old habits until I did, and I didn’t know how to ask for your help. You were stressed. I didn’t want to be a burden.”

I pull her into me, her head on my chest, paint smearing on the other side of my shirt. “I love you, Cat. You could never be a burden. ‘In sickness and in health,’ remember?”

She shrugs and buries herself deeper into me. I wrap my other arm around her shoulders and press a kiss to a paint-free area of her hair.

“I’m going to be better. You don’t have to believe me, but I’m going to show you,” I insist.

Katie turns her face upward and snakes her hands up my back. I shudder, fisting her hair without thinking, and kissing her deeply. It’s urgent, and we’re all tongues and teeth and swollen lips as we crash into each other with fervor. I part my lips from hers just long enough to pull her shirt over her head and groan when I see her lacy, blue bra barely covering her perfect breasts. I kiss my way down to them, pulling each strap off her shoulders on the way. She pulls my shirt over my head, then goes to work on the fly of my jeans, shimmying herself out of her leggings at the same time. It’s a feat that shouldn’t be possible, except we’re the parents of small children who have learned a thing or two about how to undress quickly.

I unhook her bra and let it join the pile of clothes on the floor. She smooths her hand over my chest, lingering over my tattoo. Some of the remaining paint leaves its mark. Katie eyes it, purring. Her eyes gleam at the mark she’s left and, I have to admit, it’s hot as hell to know she’s claimed me.