He blinks. "I thought you had to work."
"I did. I just gave myself the day off. So take me to see the last room."
Cole glances down at the ground then back at me, just as the doors close behind me.
"I'm not sure it's a good idea," he says.
Grant groans and backs into a corner. I ignore him.
"I want to see it, Cole. And I want to see it with you."
"It doesn't change anything. Even if it did, it shouldn't. Trust me, you don't want to be with an addict."
"You know what?" I snap. "I'm just about sick of everyone with a penis thinking they have the authority to decide what's best for me. Tobias decided you weren't right for me at our wedding, you're deciding for me now. It's bullshit."
Grant pinches the space between his eyes, and mutters, "Dear lord, please get me out of here."
My gaze snaps over to him in warning. When he sees this, he presses his lips together and shuts up. I turn my attention back to Cole.
"I decide what I want. I decide what I can handle. Take me to the exhibit."
Cole takes in my expression, trying to decide how stubborn I am. As if he doesn't already know. Grant taps a foot, staring over my head at the floor numbers ticking past, but he extends a hand to give Cole the keys to his car.
"Alright," Cole says. "I'll take you."
The elevator reaches the top floor again and Grant walks through the doors the second they open wide enough. He doesn't look back but lifts a hand in farewell.
"Good luck, you two," he calls out over his shoulder. "Next time, I'd appreciate not being trapped in your little purgatory of emotions."
FIFTY
MILA
MY HANDS ARE IN front of me, fingers twisting as I wait for Cole to unlock the front doors of his exhibit. When we walk into the reception area, I'm surprised to see it's in the exact same state as the last time I was here. The folded invitation I had carried that day is still sitting on the small side table where I set it as I viewed the sketches along the wall.
I look at Cole.
"No one's been to the exhibit since the night I was here?"
He scratches at his brow. "I didn't want anyone seeing it before you. You never went into the last room, so I told Jeff to keep the exhibit closed to the public until you did."
Cole leads me to the door in the far left corner of the room, stops and gestures for me to open it. My heart picks up, as I think of the night I came to the exhibit on my own. This had been the door Jeffrey said I would exit out of when I finished walking through the whole thing.
The last room.
I set my hand over the handle and push it open. Cole enters behind me so he can't see the way my eyes widen at the sight.
This room has dark floors and walls that were once gray before ink scribbles covered them in an uneven layer. My eyes are drawn to the center of the room. At first, I think it's a giant chandelier, but as I walk closer I realize what I'm looking at. Thousands of pieces of paper suspended from the ceiling by thin wires and tiny lights. The pieces of paper form a swarm that tapers down closer to the floor like an upside down triangle.
It's beautiful yet haunting.
Disorderly and yet purposeful.
"What is this?" I ask.
I turn to Cole, my eyes still wide, but he only nods back to the piece, encouraging me to take a closer look. I wrap my arms around myself and take slow steps forward.
As I stare through the center of the swarm, the pages reveal themselves to be wrinkled and full of crease marks. Seems each one I focus on has torn corners or stains. But every single one of them is covered in a messy black handwriting.
A chill runs up my arms and I rub them in silence.
"After I left the hospital," Cole says, "I checked into a rehab program. They took our phones, and we weren't allowed any form of communication aside from handwritten letters. I had a lot of time on my hands. I tried and tried to figure out what to tell you, how to apologize. Words were all I had, but I couldn't get them right. I wrote dozens of drafts a day for ninety days."
My gaze darts from one piece of paper to another, only registering a line from each.
It hurts to know I hurt you.
I don't know how to say I'm sorry.
I'm dying here without you.
Maybe it's better if you hate me.
Cole stops beside me.
"How did you keep all of these?" I ask, my voice a croak.
"I sent them to Grant."
"He…he never gave them to me."
"I asked him not to. He kept them safe for me because I knew I would need them eventually, I just wasn't sure for what. I needed to make things right, I knew that. But I couldn't let you see me in recovery. And the more time passed, the harder the thought of facing you became. And after ninety days and a thousand failed attempts at I'm sorry, I accepted that—"
He points to the piece of paper closest to the floor forming the tip of the triangle. It's a tiny piece, with only three lines scribbled on it.
You were always too good for me.
Maybe one day I'll be stronger than my demons.
Until then, I'll just be missing you.
My mouth parts as I try to take a breath. My heart throbs, thinking of how badly I needed to hear from him, how much it killed me to be in the dark. Not knowing what happened or where he was.
My legs carry me right under the piece and I get down on my knees, then on my hands, then lie down on my back. I stare up at the pieces of paper, which look like they are floating from this angle. I shut my eyes, regretting seeing this.
Cole lies down beside me, turning his head to look at me. We lie on the floor with his gut-wrenching letters hovering over us as though they could fall at any moment. I reach up to that last note and touch it with the tip of my fingers.
"Is this how you feel now?" I ask him.
"It is, except it's worse now because back then, I couldn't see the end of the tunnel. But over the last three years I've spent building this exhibit, I'd grown more confident in my recovery. I'd grown to believe I'd finally beat addiction."
"And now?"
I turn my face to his, which is right next to mine. His eyes are puffy from last night. His lashes lower as he stares at my chest.
"And now I realize there is no beating it, just fighting it. I won't stop, because I don't want to be that man ever again. But there's not a day I will ever be good enough for you. You deserve better than what I could give you," he says. "So much better than me."
"You keep saying that. Yet here I am. Eight years, I could've moved on but I didn't. And here you are, too. Do you know why?"
He waits, brows rising up to form lines on his forehead.
"Because, Cole, this is where we were going all along."
He searches my eyes, not understanding me.
"You said we grew to mirror each other," I go on. "You said we've changed. I agree with you on that. I can see how much you've grown, Cole. Back then, you were just hiding from it all, just waiting for the day it would catch you. And it did. Doesn't look to me like you're hiding from it anymore." I gesture around us. "You made a shrine for it. You spent three years facing it head on. Do you realize how proud I am of you for that?"
"You're saying we had to go through everything we went through to end up right here, back together."
"You treat me like I'm scared of your addiction, but I've never been the one afraid of it. I knew there would be challenges and I was prepared to deal with them together. I never needed you to be perfect. I just needed you to stay."
"I'm sorry," he says on an exhale, blinking a few times. "I thought coming here would be the end of everything. But the truth is, I don't want to lose you again. Because I can't. I can't let you go, no matter how hard I try. I think I'll die missing you, might as well die loving you. Because, Mila, I am still in love with you."
He lifts his fingers to my mouth.
His face moves closer as he gently lays a hand on my cheek.
"I love you, too," I
say, before pressing my mouth to his.
We kiss underneath the letters he never sent me and it's the saddest kiss I've ever experienced. It tastes like tears and feels like heartache. But it's a kiss we need, a kiss we surrender to in the vulnerable moment of laying everything out.
Our kissing deepens as the minutes pass, and my heart pushes aside its ache at the awareness it finally has what it craves. My senses awaken at the realization. Cole's tongue caresses mine and reminds me of all of the incredible things it can do.
Cole reaches up to the neckline of his shirt and tugs it over his head. The shirt catches on a piece of wire and when he pulls it, a few pieces of paper fall from somewhere overhead.
I gasp, but Cole says, "It's okay. The piece more than served its purpose."
He slams his mouth to mine again, kissing me with dizzying intensity. His fingers curl over the end of my shirt and drag it up my sides. His touch leaves a trail of sensations in its wake. With each breath, I grow more desperate. Until I'm fumbling at the hook of my bra and helping Cole pull my shirt up over my head.
More pieces of paper fall around us as Cole lifts up on his knees to hover on top of me. He doesn't seem to notice because his gaze trails down my bare skin instead. His hands work to unbutton and unzip my pants as he kisses along my neck. He moves down, drawing small circles with his tongue on my skin.
He works his way past my collarbone, over my breasts, and stops to take each of my hard nipples in his mouth. I let out a little whimper of pleasure as he gives them a small suck.
I arch my back off the floor to help his large hands tug down my pants. His lips are on my stomach, and when I kick off the pants and underwear he peeled off of me, he runs a hand up my thighs and urges my legs apart. He hovers there, too. Kissing my inner thighs and working his way up.
"You spread your legs and I'm drunk," he mutters before lowering his face to taste me.
"Oh," I say, my eyes fluttering to a close.
His mouth moves slow, licking and sucking until I'm squirming and sinking my fingers into the hair on the back of his head. Oh, the incredible things his tongue can do. I twist and moan and whimper as he fucks me with his glorious mouth. He brings me right to the edge and stops abruptly to peer up at me.
My eyes are half closed but open enough to realize he's still wearing pants. He flashes me a grin then makes quick work of kicking off his shoes and pants before propping himself over me again.
This time, he kisses me on the mouth and I taste myself on his tongue.
His erection brushes against my thigh, sending a thrill through me. He finds my entrance and pushes inside of me to the hilt.
He buries his face in my neck and exhales.
"Goddamn it," he groans. "I can't get enough of you."
He holds there a moment and I wrap my legs around him, not in any hurry. I love feeling him inside of me, he fills me in more ways than one. We stare at each other for several seconds, then glance up at the pieces of paper that continue to rain down on us.
"Yes," I whisper, as he begins his deep strokes, watching as my face succumbs to the stimulation.
This is different from when we were at his studio. It's not wild and mindless, it's deliberate and raw. He's not trying to make me forget, he's owning up to everything. Our past quite literally hangs above us, and there's something about his movements that tugs at the sad chords in my heart. When our eyes lock, there's a heaviness in his gaze I can't place. All the while, he moves over me. Making me feel so many things at once I think I might explode.
A tear rolls down my cheek, and he kisses it away. When another falls, he kisses that one away, too. I don't know why I'm crying, but when he tries to pull away, I grip his arms.
"Please," I say. "I need you."
When his hips start moving again, I shut my eyes tight. He reaches me deep inside and his pulses deliver a fresh wave of pleasure that eases the tightness in my chest.
He brings his lips to my ear and chokes out words between a heavy breath.
"I need you more."
I run my hands across his bare shoulders and down his arms as he takes me with a passion compounded by nostalgia and threaded with grief. It's intensity like nothing I've ever experienced, pleasure raking through my body as my heart throbs in rhythm to his. It's not sadness, exactly, it's an overwhelming, heart-bursting hope we've finally fallen into place. It's free falling through all my emotions without fear or hesitation. Because he's with me, and I'm with him. And neither of us will let the other crash to the ground.
My fingers sometimes knock against pieces of paper falling onto us. I look up to where his work of art comes undone just as I do. The pieces of paper slide across Cole's flexing back as he tenses and lets out a low groan. More of the pages fall over my head, and all around.
All the words he couldn't say before rain down on us, impossible to ignore.
But we don't care.
We aren't running from the past anymore.
FIFTY-ONE
MILA
Two and a half weeks later…
SOMETHING BRUSHES AGAINST MY cheek, causing me to stir. But I keep my eyes closed, even as I stretch across the mattress. The sheets are tangled around my body and the sound that woke me in the first place comes over me again.
"Time to wake up, beautiful."
My eyes flutter open to the brightness of the studio. Cole's standing beside the bed, a satisfied glint in his eyes.
"Do I have to?" I ask.
"Yes, you do. There's something I want to show you."
My gaze travels down to his bare chest, over the grooves of his abs, and down to where his jeans hang low on his hips. I'm tired and sore all over, but I would still climb this man like a tree.
A grin tugs on my lips at the thought.
I get to my feet on the mattress and allow the sheets to fall away as I step over to the edge of the bed. When I wrap my arms around Cole's neck, his hands smooth over my skin and settle on my lower back.
"And what could you possibly show me that I haven't already seen?" I ask.
"Oh really?" He lowers his voice. "Are you so sure you've seen all my tricks?"
"Haven't I?"
We stare each other down for a few seconds until the palm of his hand snaps over my bare ass, the sound echoing across the studio. I let out a short cry of surprise at the burn, then narrow my eyes at his grinning face.
"Get dressed," he says. "We're going to be late."
"For what?"
"You'll see."
"Have you forgotten how much I hate surprises?"
He chuckles then plants a soft kiss on my lips before answering. "You'll love this one, I promise."
I let out a playful groan before prying my body away from his.
When we finish getting dressed, we step out into the cloudless spring day, where the sun beats down from the highest point in the sky. And as we ride in the back of a cab, Cole weaves his fingers through mine, the innocent gesture sending emotions fluttering in my chest. I stare down at our hands, not believing there would be a day where this would seem natural again. My arms are exposed in a floral sundress, and all I can think of is how good my ink looks beside his. I don't worry about who can read the words anymore. They are part of me and always will be. Anyone that sees them might guess we are a couple who went through hell and walked out the other side, hand in hand.
We ride in a direction I don't expect, across East Harlem and over the Madison Avenue Bridge. Seeing as his art exhibit and studio are both in Brooklyn, I'm curious what it is Cole wants to show me in the Bronx.
Reading the question in my eyes, Cole says, "You know how I've been telling you about my kids? The ones I mentor through my non-profit?"
I nod. Cole founded an organization that brings art and mentorship programs to poorly funded inner-city schools. He started it in Chicago two years ago, and now the Rise Above Foundation has locations in three states.
"You want me to meet them?"
"Of course I do. But honest
ly, they're the ones that keep asking to meet you."
I tilt my head and the question of why dies on my lips as the cab rolls to a stop in front of an empty parking lot. Six kids hang around, leaning against the side of a building and talking amongst themselves.
I'm confused when Cole asks the cab driver to wait for us, before rushing to my side to help me out of the car. The kids fall silent as they notice our approach. My eyes are on the massive mural painted on the side of the building. At first, the vibrancy of the beautiful colors is all I can see. They have a huge impact on their surroundings, bringing energy and life to a muted and depressing neighborhood.
I tear my gaze from the mural to look at the kids. One of them, a tall boy with dark brows pulled low over his eyes, steps up to Cole and they greet each other with a fist bump.
"This your girl, Mr. Cole?" the boy asks.
"Yes, Aidan," Cole says, with intonation. "So, let's watch our language."
"I'm Mila," I say, extending a hand to the boy.
"Aidan." He shakes my hand before gesturing to the others behind him. "These are my assistants. They helped some, but I'm the one with the talent here."
A low grumble of playful argument breaks out between the kids. They push past Aidan and take turns introducing themselves before stepping aside to let me glimpse the full mural. My mouth opens in an automatic intent to praise it, but when the details hit me, the words get lodged in my throat.
I'm speechless, staring at the intricate details painted before me.
The focal point of the mural is a woman, small but defiant, walking through a gnarly jungle of buildings and cement with her chin held high and her hair whipping through the air. She heads straight toward a menacing sight of tangled metal and precarious looking buildings. But behind her, she leaves a trail of color and life that transforms everything in her wake.
"It's you. And the city's, like, Mr. Cole's soul or some shit." Aidan glances over at his mentor.
"That's one interpretation," Cole says, a playful glint in his eyes.
"Whatever," Aidan cuts in. "You're trying to act like you ain't obsessed, Mr. Cole, but she already knows. You got it bad."
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