Page 228 of Wild Then Wed
And honestly, I don’t know how I ended up here—but I think, maybe, this is what coming home feels like.
* * *
When I wake up the next morning, Sawyer’s side of the bedis empty. The blanket’s pulled back and cool to the touch, the pillow creased. I blink toward the window. It’s light out—a soft, diffused gray behind the blinds—and quiet enough to hear the heater ticking under the floorboards.
He’s already out on his run with Hank. Judging by the light, he’ll be back soon. I pull on a pair of socks and one of Sawyer’s old sweatshirts, and head down the hall.
Outside, the ground is covered in fresh snow. It must have fallen sometime after we went to bed. The fence posts out back are dusted white. The sky is colorless—just pale and still—and the trees along the edge of the pasture are bare, black branches reaching into the air. A few birds hop along the railing of the porch, but other than that, nothing moves.
Inside, the living room is dim except for the lights on the tree, which cast a soft gold shimmer across the walls. We haven’t decorated it yet. No ornaments, no garland, but I’m not in a hurry about it. Decorations can come later. There’s something nice about the space. Something unfinished but waiting.
I stretch my arms overhead as I walk toward the kitchen—and then stop short.
The walls.
My paintings are hung up on them.
All of them.
The small watercolor of the palomino I did in the spring. The oil painting of a red truck. The one of my dad’s hands. Framed, hung neatly and perfectly spaced.
And above the fireplace, centered and straight, is the sunflower painting.
It’s also framed now.
I walk toward it slowly. My fingers brush the corner of the frame, warm from the heat of the nearby vent. He didn’t just stick these up with command strips or push pins. He framedthem. Leveled them. Made this house look like it’s always known I lived here.
I don’t know how long I stand there before I turn and walk to the back of the house, to the room I’ve been painting in, though I haven’t done much lately. Mostly just organized my supplies and told myself I’d start something soon.
I open the door, and stop.
There, in front of the large window where the light streams in from the east, is a brand-new easel. Solid wood. Not cheap or collapsible, but sturdy, like the ones used in studios with real ventilation and drop cloths. There’s a wide red ribbon tied in a bow around the middle.
On the easel: a large blank canvas.
A real one. Triple-primed. Professional weight.
And around it, the entire room has been transformed.
There’s a metal cart, freshly assembled, packed top to bottom with new supplies. Not generic brand paint, either. Good paint. Rich, buttery tubes of oil paint with metallic labels I recognize from art class but never let myself splurge on. Every shade accounted for. Burnt umber. Naples yellow. Ultramarine. Alizarin crimson. Cool and warm versions of each primary, laid out in a neat little rainbow.
There are brushes—real brushes—in mason jars organized by type. Detail brushes. Angle brushes. Big, soft ones for blending skies. A set of palette knives. A new porcelain mixing tray with a thumb hole and smooth, deep white wells.
There’s a stool now, adjustable, with a padded seat and a low backrest, set directly in front of the easel. A drying rack sits in the corner. A thick new apron—olive green with big front pockets—is folded over the back of the chair. A box of nitrile gloves rests on the windowsill, along with a neat stack of clean rags in a wire basket.
Beside the easel, there’s a wide drawer unit with labeled compartments—sketchpads, charcoal pencils, painter’s tape, X-Acto blades, gesso, spare palettes, kneaded erasers. I open one and find graphite sticks in various weights, each still wrapped in their sleeves. Another holds soft pastels organized by hue, nestled into a felt-lined tray.
Against the far wall, even more canvases are lined up—at least a dozen, maybe more. All different sizes. Some still wrapped in plastic, others bare and ready. Large squares, long rectangles, small panels I could finish in a day if I wanted to. The sight of them makes my throat catch.
There’s enough here to last me a year. Maybe longer.
This isn’t just a little setup anymore. This is arealstudio.
For a second, I just stand there, completely and utterly shocked. It feels like someone saw the part of me I never expected anyone to notice, and decided it was worth making space for.
I take a step forward, slowly, my fingers brushing the easel. The grain is smooth. There’s a small folded note taped to the edge of the canvas, written in his handwriting.
“For you and your beautiful brain. Always. Merry Christmas, Peach—S”
