“Who is MM?”
“Mariska Maase,” he answered calmly.
My brows went up.
“Her maiden name,” he explained, fingering the edge of the painting. “She commissioned these under that even after our wedding. That alone should have been enough of a clue that it wouldn’t last. Wishful thinking, I suppose.”
I stared harder at the painting knowing she’d created it, in awe over the harsh brushstrokes, long lines, and darker colors. It was moody, like she was trying to set the tone. Was it about how she felt? There was no date like some artists put next to their initials, which meant I couldn’t be sure if it was during the rough patch of their marriage. It wasn’t exactly something I could ask Theo considering there had to be ill feelings toward the subject matter. From what I remembered, it wasn’t a drama-packed separation. They both seemed to want it, but they still had years of history between them.
“It’s beautiful.” It wasn’t a lie. Mariska had talent and I’d known it from the start. I rarely saw paintings she made, but she would sometimes share tips and tricks with me on my own if she were around when I worked on my pieces.
“It is.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and cocked his head. “She told me to keep it and I could never figure out why until I stared at it for a solid hour one night. It’s us. Or, who we became. Dark. Distant. Angry. I was never good at reading paintings like you two could, but she wouldn’t have given it to me if she didn’t want to make a point. We became strangers in our own home, and she told me the only way she could.”
I swallowed, sad for him but knowing words wouldn’t help. We both stared at the painting, and I could see it. The lines were in dark blue and black, distanced but nearly touching. They could easily be silhouettes of people, a couple. The somber mood certainly called for what he analyzed, so I couldn’t argue with his summary.
All I said was, “I’m sorry, Theo.” But I wasn’t sure what I was sorry for. For Mariska leaving? For her giving him this? Both of those things? It was hard to tell. I cared for Theo, that much was sure. I didn’t want to see him hurt, and even though he looked fine now, he had to have felt a certain way about it.
As expected, he gave me a terse shrug. “I didn’t show you for pity. But I thought maybe it would spark something. She used her experience, her feelings, to make something that told a story. So, what’s yours?”
I blinked. “My story?”
A nod.
“I…” I nibbled my lip. My story wasn’t pretty, certainly not beautiful. Mariska had the kind of ability to turn something sad gorgeous. A lot of artists did. But what would mine turn out to be? A black canvas. White paint? That was what my world had become. Black and white. Nothing more or less—nothing technicolor and hopeful like I wanted. “I don’t think I have one worth channeling. Not one I’d want people to critique any more than they already have.”
My past was no secret. In fact, it was broadcasted for everybody to see. It took my father dying brutally in prison before the media decided to act like they felt bad about what had happened rather than insisting me and my family deserved the kind of pain that we’d all suffered since the scandal broke.
“Bullshit.”
I drew back. “What?”
He crossed his arms over his chest, the button down he wore stretching over his broad muscles. “That’s bullshit and you know it. You’re scared of opening yourself up to what you’ve shut away, but maybe that’s the problem. People can only take so much, Della, even you.”
I said nothing. All I could do was stare, not sure if I was offended or just irritated that he was right. Maybe a little of both. I mean, he wasn’t wrong. I knew there’d be a day in the not so distant future that I broke from keeping it together. I just figured I’d shut myself in my apartment to do it and ignore the rest of the world. What was wrong with that?
“Do you really think Mariska wanted to paint something like this?” The yes was at the tip of my tongue, but I held it back. He must have sensed that because he shook his head. “She was a lot of things, but she wouldn’t have put herself out there like this unless she felt a reason to. And you know what? If I think hard enough, I can probably remember the day she finished this. Not long before she left, she looked lighter. Like a weight had been lifted. The truth, I suppose.”
“The world already knows my truth.”
“You are the only one who knows your truth,” was his argument. His voice was hard, not willing to give me room to disagree. “You told me how angry you were, but it isn’t for the same reasons people probably think. Paint that. Hell, Della. Paint whatever makes you feel something.”
I looked at him for a long moment, knowing what was about to pass my lips was pushing the boundaries he’d drawn. “What if what makes me feel something involves you? Us?”
He didn’t even pause. “Then paint us how you see us. Scarred. Broken. Beautiful. Make it real, because
