“I should have told you to go,” he said.
“You should have asked whether I wanted to.”
“Yes.”
When we parted, he did not touch me. That restraint felt like respect.
For the next week, we existed in a strange in-between.
I stayed with Lena. Grant sent no flowers, no gifts, no dramatic declarations. Instead, he sent practical emails through Nina, my attorney, about temporary separation arrangements. He also began grief counseling. I knew because Dr. Leland’s office called me by mistake to confirm a billing detail.
I filled out the fellowship reconsideration form.
My hand shook when I typed my name.
Evelyn Carter.
Not Hayes.
Not yet again.
Just Carter.
Julian invited me to visit his studio to review old work for the retrospective. I hesitated, aware of how complicated my life already was, but Lena gave me one look and said, “Art is not an affair. Go.”
Julian’s studio was in Long Island City, bright and high-ceilinged, with rows of canvases and shelves of catalogues. He had saved more of my work than I remembered leaving behind.
Charcoal studies.
City sketches.
One unfinished portrait of Grant from our early days, his face turned toward the window, laughing.
I stared at it for a long time.
“You loved him,” Julian said.
“I did.”
“Do you still?”
I expected the question to offend me. It did not.
“Yes,” I said. “But I’m learning that love is not always an instruction.”
Julian smiled sadly. “No. Sometimes it is only information.”
As I sorted through portfolios, a folded letter slipped from between two canvases.
My name was written across the front.
