Page 134 of Noctis

“Your heart has sped up,” Pascal said quietly.

“That’s because I’m happy.”

His fingers pressed more firmly against my back. “I know. It sounds different.”

“I love you too.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to.”

I kissed him, forgetting for several seconds that we were surrounded by people until a pointed cough broke us apart.

Laura stood beside us in a red dress, holding a glass of sparkling water. “There are hotels for that sort of thing.”

“We live together,” I reminded her. “We don’t need a hotel.”

“That makes the public display even less necessary.”

“You’re just jealous because there aren’t any hot waiters here.”

“There aren’t any waiters at all. I have to get my own drinks. It’s terrible.” Laura gestured across the room. “Your gallery woman is looking for you. Something about a buyer interested in the house-of-horrors painting.”

By “house of horrors” she meant the rehab painting. Given that it had been the first painting I’d done, I’d been surprised when the gallery woman, or Belinda as she was actually known, insisted it be part of the exhibition. Apparently, it “spoke of loss, longing, and isolation.”

“I’ll go,” Pascal said.

I caught his wrist. “She wants me.”

“She likes me better.”

I rolled my eyes. “Everyone likes you better. It’s extremely irritating.”

“I don’t,” Laura said. “I still think he’s weird.”

Pascal gave her a look.

She smiled at him. On the surface, it looked sweet enough, but anyone who knew her well enough could detect the slight edge of malice beneath the cheery exterior. “Handsome,” she added, “but weird.” She took a step away before turning back. “By the way, don’t think I didn’t notice what was lurking behind the window in that painting.” She jerked her head toward Pascal in case her meaning wasn’t clear, then gave a dramatic shudder. “It’s enough to give someone flashbacks.”

Pascal winked at her, then after squeezing my waist, went to speak to Belinda. Laura wandered off shortly afterward, leaving me to accept congratulations from an elderly couple who explained at length what one of my paintings represented. I nodded along, despite it being a derelict factory I’d seen from a train rather than a profound statement on capitalism’s corrosive effect on modern life.

Art, I was discovering, involved letting other people tell you what you’d meant.

I extricated myself and spotted Remy near the door. He’d been here for half an hour, but apart from lifting a hand in greeting when he arrived, we hadn’t spoken.

Things between us were better. Better didn’t mean good, but it was a considerable improvement on silence. We’d managed two coffees, a few lunches, and several phone conversations that hadn’t descended into accusations or awkwardness.

It wasn’t what we’d once had, and it might never be again.

Still, he’d come tonight.

I joined him in front of one of the darker paintings. I’d painted it while the jury was deliberating over Tyler’s guilt, each hour of the wait stretching into what felt like an entire decade before they’d finally returned a guilty verdict. The judge had sentenced him to seven years in total—four for manslaughter and three for perverting the course of justice and stealing my mother’s ring. It wasn’t much, all things considered, but it was better than never knowing what had happened to her. There was something comforting about looking at a painting that had carried me through such a difficult time. So much so that I wasn’t sure I wanted to sell it.

“You made it,” I said.

“I said I would.”

“You’ve said a lot of things over the years.”