Strong Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous #1)(70)
That’s what I tell myself, but I’m pretty sure not a single part of my tattered soul believes it.
Two and a half months later
The November evening wind is chilly on my cheeks as I ride my bike along the rutted road that leads from the train station to my cottage. Auvers-sur-Oise is my new home. It’s less than twenty miles outside Paris, small enough to get around on a bike or on foot and, best of all, it’s rich in beauty and art history.
As I ride, I take in the soothing landscape. I can call to mind a number of paintings that depict the narrow, winding streets and rolling, bungalow-dotted hills of a quaint French hamlet, but nothing compares to actually being here.
I chose a tiny village to put down roots for several reasons, but if I’m being honest, the fact that Vincent van Gogh is buried here might’ve tipped the scales. Regardless of the reasons, though, I’m glad that I followed my heart. For the first time in two long months, I’ve begun to think I could one day actually be happy here.
One day.
And I’m always holding out the hope that “one day” could be tomorrow. Even though I feel like one day might never come. Life without Jasper isn’t getting any easier. Or prettier. Or happier. And every day that passes, every day that goes by and he doesn’t show up at my door, steals another grain of the optimism that I struggle so valiantly to hold on to. If “one day” doesn’t come soon, I’ll be a pile of ash that will simply scatter when it finally does blow in.
It’s full dark by the time I park my bike under the overhang beside my front door. In most other places I might have to worry that it would get stolen if left unattended and unsecured out in the open over night, but not here. I could probably leave my door unlocked if I really wanted to. But I don’t. I doubt I’ll ever feel that secure. Too much has happened. I have too many bad memories.
As it does a thousand times a day, Jasper’s mysteriously handsome face creeps through my mind. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, reveling in the sharp angles and planes of his bones, basking in the honey glow of his gaze, shivering under the remembered feel of his touch. I allow myself only a few seconds with him before I push him ruthlessly to the farthest corner of my memory. It didn’t take me long to realize that’s the only way I’ll ever have a moment’s peace.
“Bonsoir,” a smooth voice says from behind me.
I jump and whirl around, hand clutching my chest over my racing heart. I was so deep in thought I didn’t hear Gerard approach.
“You scared the pee out of me!” I breathe.
“Pardonnez-moi s’il vous pla?t. I did not mean to startle you, Elizabeth.”
Gerard moves into the soft light spilling from the kitchen lamp that I left on until my return. It turns one half of his face to gold and throws the other into blackness. I study his good-looking features—light brown hair, gray eyes, classic bone structure, ever-smiling lips—and I’m reminded of the differences between him and Jasper. It’s as though his face represents those disparities. Gerard is light and open, soft and welcoming, while Jasper was dark and guarded, cool and brooding.
Their interest in me is equally contrasting. Jasper wanted me as a woman. Gerard, sweet yet firmly gay, wants me as a friend and confidant.
“It’s okay. What are you doing here so late?”
“I’ve been watching for your safe return since I arrived home from work.”
“Is that code for you’ve got man troubles that you need help with?” I ask bluntly, smiling.
His grin is sheepish as he runs a hand through his hair, throwing spikes up all over his head. “Do you have the time?”
I study my friend. Today has been a hard day. Memories have been playing on my mind, causing the edges to turn black and curl up like burning parchment. As much as part of me wants to bask in the pain, to let it in so that I don’t completely lose Jasper, another part of me craves the respite such a distraction will bring.
“Of course. Come on in.”
With a smile, Gerard follows me in. He wipes his feet on the mat, leaving streaks of mud there. It clings to his feet when he walks down to my cottage. He lives just up the hill from me, which is how we met. He owns the charming little bungalow that I rent. It couldn’t have worked out any better. He speaks excellent English (which is very helpful until I learn French), he has been a cheerful and informative tour guide and he provides a friendly face and a touch of security, which I desperately needed when I first got here. In fact, most days, I still do.
I dump my cross-body bag and the pack containing my canvas onto the floor by the door.
“Did you paint today?”
My smile is immediate and genuine. “I did.”
“Will you show me? Or must I beg?”
“Maybe tomorrow? I’m pretty tired from my travels.”
Gerard’s eyes fill with sympathy. Although I’ve never confided in him, I think he knows there’s more that bothers me some days than just fatigue or sleepless nights. “You need to rest, I can see. My troubles will wait until tomorrow. Dinner?” he asks, his expression that of an enthusiastic puppy when he hears the word “play.”
“Tomorrow,” I confirm with a nod, grateful that I don’t have to show him my work tonight. I don’t feel like reliving it. I don’t think I have the energy.
With a quick kiss to both cheeks, Gerard bids me a cheerful good night and disappears into the darkness, leaving me to drag myself up the steps to change out of my paint-spattered clothes.