Say Yes

by Ashwood, Eva

  “What’s on the agenda today?” I asked, grabbing them each a coffee mug. We had an exhibit—a big one—coming up in a couple of days. Alex was hard pressed to get the bulk of the prep work out of the way in the next day or so.

  “Well, we’ve already got the lay-out set up, and most of the pieces have been turned in and ready to be put up. Only ones that aren’t finalized are a couple of Drake’s, but you know how he is, he’s always a last-minute kind of guy.” Alex tilted his head as Jeremy pressed a kiss to the back of his shoulder. “And, well… your last piece. But you said you were just finalizing details on it and would have it finished by the end of the day, right?”

  I nodded. The piece in question was a bit of a monster. All watercolor. A ten by ten canvas. I wasn’t entirely sure what my subject was; was there such a thing as abstract watercolor art? If there was, I was doing it. I was pleased, mostly, with the progress of the work, but I had no real frame of reference for what I was doing. It made me a little nervous. In moments like this, I had to remind myself that it was okay to just let the art materialize however it wanted. Sometimes it didn’t have to have an intentional direction. Sometimes you only really figured out what it was about after you’d done the work.

  This one definitely felt like that.

  I frowned. “If it’s not ready by the end of the night, you can just—”

  “Nah. It’ll be ready,” Alex said with a sure smile.

  Jeremy squeezed my shoulder as he went to pour them both coffee. “I’ve seen your work; it’s all stunning. I’m sure whatever this piece is, it’ll come to you.”

  * * *

  I’m sure it’ll come to you, Jeremy had said. That was one hundred percent easier said than done.

  I stood in my room at the studio, staring at my canvas. A splash of warm reds and yellows, the creeping hint of cool blue to chill out the heat. A subject was there, in the center. A man’s face, with hauntingly black eyes done in acrylic to stand out against the softer, more translucent layered tones of water color.

  It was the expression I didn’t think I could nail. What was his face trying to tell me? Was he full of sorrow? Was he angry? I couldn’t find the expression, even if I had found the face. Even if I knew exactly who he was.

  “What the hell do you want from me, Walker?”

  Art didn’t speak, not in the conventional way. Not with words and inflection, but with the subtlest use of color and turn of lines, with the way you laid down brushstrokes or played the medium to its best advantages. Art was a language all of its own, and I’d always been able to speak it.

  Until that moment.

  I had started this piece with the intention of it being my final… farewell, I guess. Goodbye? Whatever you want to call it.

  It was positively juvenile of me, like those emo grimdark drawings that used to populate my sketchbooks when I was in high school and feeling extra moody. But what I’d been attempting with this painting wasn’t happening the way that I’d thought it would. His face wasn’t speaking to me. I couldn’t tell if it was too soon to do a piece like this, or if I was trying to force it.

  Whatever the case, there was a ten by ten in front of me, in desperate need of being finished. And if you couldn’t nail a face, you might as well not bother at all.

  Fucking hell.

  There was a knock at the door, and I glanced behind me. Jeremy peeked his head in.

  “Alex and I are going to go grab some subs. You wanna come?” he asked quietly.

  I shook my head. “Nah. Trying to get this done.”

  He gave me a sympathetic smile. “I’ll get your usual and bring you back a drink, too.”

  I gave him a thankful nod and turned back to the work at hand.

  What are you trying to say to me, you asshole?

  Times like this called for music. I pulled out my tablet, plugged it up to some speakers, and cranked up bass-heavy rock.

  Hm… no. Not the right tone. Classical? No. Punk? A wry smile quirked my lips. Even less suitable.

  I sighed. Nothing I was choosing fit with what… whatever I thought I was trying to accomplish here.

  Ugh. Maybe I should’ve been an accountant after all. I shook my head, turned on a random playlist, and stared once more at the catastrophe in front of me.

  I’d painted Walker subconsciously, initially. I had just let the paint do what it wanted. When I’d realized what it wanted was to show him, I’d accepted that. What I didn’t understand was why. If I understood why, then maybe I’d be able to figure out what his expression was supposed to be. Was he trying to tell me goodbye? That he was sorry?

  As I stood there, contemplating what the fuck I was supposed to do with my own brain, which had apparently decided to torment the shit out of me, a song came up on the playlist. It started with piano; a familiar beat.

  The laugh I let out was incredulous. Really. A love song? And that one, of all the love songs in the world. Walker and I had danced to it at junior prom, when we were both so sure there was no one else for either of us. We’d been each other’s everything.

  Was that what this painting was trying to tell me?

  I expected bitterness to follow that thought, squeezing my heart in its painful grip, but it didn’t come. Instead, there was a strange acceptance that washed over me. The way I felt about Walker… was something I didn’t think I’d ever experience with another person in my lifetime.

  Accept… and let go?

  No. Never let go. Not fully. Accept and let whatever came to pass come to pass, perhaps?

  The direction was still unclear, but I painted anyway. I dipped my brushes into blocks of watercolor and pressed them to the fine, prepped canvas. I watched as the hollow expression surrounding those haunting black eyes morphed into something softer, something… familiar.

  The expression in those eyes whispered, It’s okay. I love you, and it’s okay.

  I didn’t even consider the possibility that it wasn’t the truth on Walker’s part. It didn’t matter. What mattered was my closure. My acceptance. My admitting that I loved Walker and probably always would, and that it was okay.

  Maybe the way we went about things—the plan, the marriage, satisfying his father’s deal for his inheritance—maybe that was all wrong. But our feelings? My feelings? No one could take that away from me, and I should stop trying to do that to myself. I should stop trying to sit here and make our time together out to be something it wasn’t. Love and loss were a part of life.

  This piece would be an homage to a chapter in my own life that had exemplified that fact.

  Forty-five minutes later, another knock came to my door. Alex and Jeremy peeked their heads in, curious expressions on their faces as they eyed me where I stood.

  I smiled, looking at two people I hoped to have in my life for a very, very long time.

  “It’s finished.”

  22

  Walker

  I was rarely ever a nervous man, especially when it came to women. My father had raised me to be confident, if not arrogant, when it came to the opposite sex. He’d said that a Prince was to know his place in the world, and his place was at the top.

  The more I thought about my father and his will, his last attempt to guide me in life, the more I realized he really had changed at the end of his own. He’d finally seen that his outlook on life was a foolish one.

  I wondered, in the weeks that followed Mackenzie moving out, if my father ever truly came to the realization that him pushing me so hard the way he had was in part the reason I had fought so hard against him. I wondered whether, if he’d realized his foolishness sooner—or if I hadn’t foolishly walked in his footsteps for so many years—things might’ve been different for Mackenzie and me.

  Would we have already been married—the right way—before this? Would we have children?

  It was impossible to know at this point, but I couldn’t help but ask the question, and it was that question that’d led me to where I currently stood.

  The jewelry sto
re was small and funky. My first instinct had been to drive straight to Tiffany’s, but I’d quashed that immediately. I knew that Mackenzie had a thing for unique pieces of jewelry—not unique as in expensive, but unique as in crafted by loving hands and with care in the heart. And with that in mind, I had found the perfect ring.

  It was a custom order by a jeweler who reminded me a lot of Macks—except her medium was metal, not paint. I’d placed the order not too long after my conversation with Grant, using what I remembered of Mackenzie’s sizing in order to get it right.

  If things went well but the ring didn’t fit, I could always get it resized. If things went poorly… Well, resizing wouldn’t be an issue, anyway, because I would just be locking the damn thing up in a drawer.

  I hoped like hell that wouldn’t happen.

  As soon as the idea had come into my head, I’d known that what I wanted more than anything was Mackenzie by my side. Always. The weight of the little box in my pocket as I slid it in was strangely comforting, like I was a man about to go out to battle, leading forth the cavalry to win the war.

  Only, I was a lone soldier, and what I was trying to win was more important to me than any war.

  This was something I’d never talked about with my father—what it was like to want to be with someone forever. What it was like to try to fix things with that someone after you made a mess of it all. I’d asked my father all about the business, about figures and stats, about the best way to handle what happened when a partner tried to buy you out of your own share of a company—but I’d never asked him about love.

  I guess we had something in common. We were terrible when it came to relationships.

  But it wasn’t too late for me to fix that.

  * * *

  Mackenzie’s studio was putting on another massive exhibit. From what I’d gathered, they were becoming wildly popular among every strata of community in the city. Rich, poor. Young, old. Articles were being written about the innovative art pieces and the affordable showings. Many of the people that could afford to donate more did. Those who couldn’t were never barred from the doors.

  It was this general openness to the public that had me pushing into the packed studio the evening of the largest of their exhibitions so far. There were so many people in the space, all focused on the art and the artists, that no one I’d met in my previous visits to the studio even noticed me walk through the doors.

  That was perfectly fine by me. I had eyes for one woman, and one woman only.

  I took a flute of champagne and walked through the exhibit, admiring the art but seeking a glimpse of Mackenzie’s raven-black hair. I hung back from the crowds, only stopping when I noticed a large pocket of people gathered around a watercolor painting of…

  Myself.

  My brows rose. I’d recognize Mackenzie’s deft hand anywhere, even without the calling card of my face plastered across a massive canvas. It was a different light than I’d ever seen myself in, though. I was used to the way business portraits captured what my father had called “strong familial features”, bringing them to the forefront to make me look powerful and intimidating. This was… strong, but in a different way. I looked like there was love in my eyes. Affirmation.

  Was this how Mackenzie had seen me? How she still saw me?

  I couldn’t help but stand and stare at the piece, taking in every brush stroke, every varied value and hue of paint. They said if an artist or a writer fell in love with you, you would become immortal; is this what they meant?

  “Walker?”

  Her voice came from behind me, soft, uncertain—curious. I turned around, the flute of champagne still in my hand.

  My breath caught in my lungs, seizing almost painfully.

  Mackenzie was beyond stunning. She was wrapped in a knee-length green silk cocktail dress that brought out the gorgeous hue of her eyes. Strappy silver heels clung to her feet. Her hair was a cascade of black curls down her back held up by a single silver and green accented barrette.

  I smiled like the idiot I was, my lips spreading wide before my brain even gave the command. She was, and always would be, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my entire life.

  “Mackenzie,” I murmured roughly, taking her hand in mine. I pressed a kiss to it; the red tinge to her skin went beautifully with the green of her dress. “I heard that you had an exhibit going. Heard about all the success that you’ve had recently. I wanted to come by and see you, tell you congratulations. I also… I wanted to talk.”

  I expected her to have a guard up. To have rebuilt her walls even stronger this time to keep me out. Our journey so far hadn’t been a conventional one, after all. For all I knew, the silence between us over the last four weeks was exactly what she had wanted. Maybe she had no interest in what I had to say to her.

  Call it my leap of faith, or my penance for being an idiot in the past, but I wasn’t going to let the possibility of getting my heart crushed keep me from doing what I came here to do.

  “Okay,” she finally said, further surprising the shit out of me. She slipped her hand into mine, tugging me along with her. “Outside? It’s really crowded in here.”

  Outside was a trek up the stairs, to the roof where not too long ago, we’d shared a hot, tender moment. The air was crisp like it had been that night. It clung to my skin as I took in a deep breath, coming face to face with the woman I loved.

  Macks wrapped her arms around herself, tilting her head as she regarded me.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” she admitted softly. “I didn’t think you’d come… after all this time.”

  “What can I say? I couldn’t stay away.” I smiled. “I couldn’t not see how well you were doing. You’ve worked so hard, it felt like I’d be doing you a disservice to not come support you and celebrate how well you’ve done.”

  She flushed. “Thank you, Walker.” She tugged her plump bottom lip between her teeth. “Is that… the only reason that you came around?”

  My heart thudded hard in my chest, and instead of answering that question directly, I leaned against the railing lining the top of the roof.

  “I saw your painting of me. It was… inspired.”

  That pretty little flush came back, and she shrugged a delicate shoulder. “Well, I was inspired. Your face is very suitable for breathtaking pieces of art.”

  I shook my head and leaned toward her, my gaze intense. “But it’s more than that, isn’t it? It felt… alive. I’ve never even seen myself like that in pictures. You captured me in a way I never knew anyone could. You see me differently than other people.”

  “Walker—”

  I held up my hand.

  “Just… listen to what I have to say? Please? I… I should never have asked you to fill in as my wife the way that I did. It was selfish and wrong of me, and it was exploiting what we used to have. The love we used to have. No matter what I tell myself about my motivations or my feelings, it was still wrong. It should have never crossed my mind.”

  I sighed, gathering my thoughts.

  “With that said,” I continued softly. “I don’t regret it—I don’t regret connecting with you again. I don’t regret having the time that I did to call you my wife. I don’t regret moving you into my house, or loving you, or anything we’ve done together in the last few months. I don’t regret you.”

  I reached into my pocket, pulling out the heavy black box that’d been sitting there like a heavy weight all day. Mackenzie’s eyes widened, surprise and a hint of fear crossing her features. I forged ahead before she could speak. Even if the next word out of her mouth was “no”, I needed to tell her how I felt. I needed to lay it all out there.

  Then I would respect whatever decision she made.

  “Mackenzie…” I lifted one hand to brush a strand of hair back from her face. “My beautiful Macks. I should never have let you think I didn’t want you. I should’ve told you the truth the day we talked about signing our divorce papers. I should’ve made it clear to you that I sa
w our marriage as real…”

  Her eyebrows shot up at that, and I chuckled.

  “Well, maybe not in the way we went about it, but in how I feel about you. No one can fabricate that. I feel that in my heart, and I think you do, too. It’s in that painting down there for all of New York City to see. It’s in the way people admire how you’ve rendered me. And, if you’re willing to give me another go after I’ve been such a complete dumbass, what I want more than anything is to try out this marriage thing again—but for real, this time.”

  23

  Mackenzie

  Afternoon sunlight beamed down as I stood outside the restaurant—a fancy little Italian place that had some of the best pasta the city could offer—a small purse slung over my shoulder, and a deep-thrumming cadence in my heart.

  It had been a week since the exhibition. A week since Walker Prince strolled back into my life again, asking for one more thing from me. A week since I’d admitted to myself that I loved Walker Prince more than I’d ever love another man again—a week since I had come to find that Walker felt the same way about me.

  * * *

  My heart was in my throat. Breath was nonexistent in the moment that dragged out slowly as Walker dropped to one knee and declared that he wanted to marry me—for real. I thought my closure had come in the form of my art, and it had. But with closure came new beginnings.

  Was this my new beginning?

  Walker had come here of his own volition. It had nothing to do with inheritances, or money, or his obligations to his businesses. It was all Walker. It had my mind in a million places and the only thing I knew was that Walker Prince was on his knee in front of me, declaring his love for me as the New York City skyline glimmered behind him.

  I smiled down at him, shock and happiness making butterflies flap wildly in my stomach. My mouth opened, a word hovering on the tip of my tongue. But I couldn’t quite say it.