When the Heart Falls(55)

"Well, they have a special exhibit here of his work, on loan from the Tate Gallery in London. He was one of the founders of this museum."

With a squeal, she throws her arms around my neck and kisses me deeply. "Thank you! This is the best surprise ever!"

We spend as much time as Winter wants examining the paintings, talking about landscape expressionism, and making out in corners.

"This one's my favorite." Winter stands before a painting of a deer in winter. "The first snow makes me think of beginnings, of how pure things can be. The sun reminds me that purity fades."

My jaw clenches. "It doesn't fade. It's ripped away.”

"I suppose that's true," Winter says. "One moment we're innocent, then we witness something, do something, and that innocence is lost."

"Even if it's by accident.”

Her shoulders fall forward a fraction. "Especially then."

I reach for her hand and squeeze it. "Do you think God punishes accidents?"

Winter tilts her head. "Depends on the accident."

"Murder.” The peace of the painting before me is at odds with my own emotions. “Or something worse."

"There's no accidental murder. That's manslaughter."

I shrug. "A technical term."

"What's worse?" Winter asks.

I struggle to find words. "Sometimes people get broken, and nothing can fix them. Sometimes death is better."

She looks at me, her face serious. "I'm not sure that's true, not if you're happy with whatever comes and whatever came before."

"You're happy with all that?"

Winter looks down. "No."

I want to reassure her, but life is too hard for empty platitudes. "No one is."

"I hope you're wrong."

Smiling, I kiss her forehead. "Of course you do. You're an optimist."

Winter shivers. "I hope you're wrong, because if I'm right, if someone out there has faced unbearable evil and they still smile, they still laugh, then maybe I can too." She's shaking.

I hold her close to me. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She pulls away from me, turning back to the painting. "I am an optimist, and I have your answer. God, if there is a God, judges people. If someone committed an accident, or did something wrong they thought was right, then God considers their past. Has this person done good their entire life? Or do they commit accidents often, make mistakes all the time, never caring to learn how to be careful? That's what matters."

I stare back at the painting. "My youngest brother, Stevie, the one you said I took care of, got in an accident. My dad was driving him to piano lessons. They were arguing about a trip Stevie wanted to take with me. He wanted to go to Paris that summer, but Dad said he needed help with the ranch. Stevie insisted. Dad got angry. He stopped paying attention to the road, and he drove them into a streetlight. The pole tore through the passenger side. They weren't going too fast, so Stevie lived. Though his brain got damaged, though he lost his ability to speak, Stevie lived. Sometimes, I feel like he holds on for my sake. Sometimes, I feel like he's already dead."

Winter holds my hand tighter. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." I pull my hand away and point to another painting, of a slave ship caught in a storm, slaves thrown overboard and drowning. The angry sky fills the scene with dark hues as the sea rages against the ship. "I like this one."

"It's sad."

"It's life. You can try to hold on to what matters, a ship on the sea, someone you love, but in the end life tears it all away." Looking back and forth between the two paintings, connections form. "We start in light. We end in darkness."

Winter takes my hand. "I'm happier than ever."

"For now."

She smacks my arm. "You're horrible."

"You bring out the best in me."

"Kiss me," she says, face upturned.

"Never."

She pouts. "Aren't you afraid the world will end?"

"You never know."

"So just in case?"

"Just in case." I kiss her, feel her hands wrapping around me, going down my back, sliding into the back pockets of my jeans.

Winter moans.

"Get a room," a teenager yells. He turns to his two friends as they walk by us. "Stupid slut."

Ripping away from Winter, whose face falls into pain, I grab the kid’s collar, face inches from his. "Apologize to the lady."

The kid holds his hands up. "What the f*ck, man?"

My grip tightens. "Apologize. To. The. Lady."

"Dude, anger problems. What, you got beat up on by your dad or something?"

"Shut up."

One of the museum staff, a large black man, gets between us. "Excuse me, is there a problem here?"

I let go of the kid. "This fellow insulted my girlfriend."

The security guard turns to the kids. "I'm sorry, but I have to ask you to leave."

The kid scowls. "What? Man, we didn't do nothing."

"Please leave,” the security guard says with more force.

"Fine." They start to walk away as one of them says, "Can you believe that guy? Needs anger management, man."