Chapter 231:
Canvas of Memories
Chris’s Point of View:
Walking in, I was hit by the scent of paint with an underlying hum of conversation. It had become a haven for Megan and me to burrow ourselves away from the cacophony of demands that life throws our way. Today, though, it felt very different. The air vibrated with tension, flavored by unresolved feelings.
Megan was already there, standing in front of a large canvas, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her hands moved with practiced facility, mixing colors and strokes that spoke of depths I was still coming to know in her. I watched her for a moment, admiring her strength and grace, before stepping forward.
“Hey,” I said softly, not wanting to break her focus.
She nodded, still smiling, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Hey, Chris. How was your day?”
“Busy,” I said, walking over to survey her work. “But my writing went pretty well. How about you?”
She let out a heavy sigh and dropped the brush to the ground. “It’s been… a day. This stupid piece is killing me.”
I turned to the canvas. It was a scene from her childhood, a memory she had shared with me only a few nights prior. A younger Megan stood in a field, her eyes filling with hope and determination. “It looks amazing, Megan. You’re really capturing that moment.”
“Thanks,” she said again, but her voice now betrayed a tinge of frustration. “The sky doesn’t seem to come right, and it’s like the colors don’t want to cooperate.”
I moved closer and went into a close, scrutiny-track of her painting. “Well, maybe it’s not the sky that’s your trouble but the memory itself.”
She turned on me, her eyes questionably sharp. “What do you mean?”
I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. “Sometimes, memories aren’t as clear as we think they are. They get mixed up with our emotions, with what we wanted to feel or what we wish had happened.”
Megan nodded slowly, considering my words. “You might be right. I just… I want to do it justice.”
I laid a hand on her shoulder, offering whatever comfort I could. “You will. Just take your time.”
I just stood next to her for a minute, with unspoken thoughts between us. I knew very well that Megan still hadn’t recovered from the bombshell of her ex’s engagement and the scrutiny that came along. She had put up a brave front, but I saw the fissures.
“Chris, do you ever get that feeling that no matter how hard you try, you just can’t get away from your past?” she finally broke the silence.
My eyes never left hers, seeing what few did in her-the vulnerability. “All the time. But I learned the past doesn’t define us. Sure, it’s a part of who we are, but not all of it. We get to choose what we carry forward.”
She sighed again, and her body relaxed into my touch. “I wish it were that easy.”
“It’s not,” I admitted. “But we don’t have to do it alone.”
Megan’s gaze softened, and her hand rose to touch mine. “Thank you, Chris. For everything.”
“Always,” I replied, squeezing her shoulder reassuringly.
It was then that Max strode in, and the room seemed to be seized by his presence. His piercing blue eyes held mystery, and there was a certain demeanor about him that both intrigued and unsettled me in ways I couldn’t explain. He happened to be one of the top-rated artists here, and how Megan got acquainted with him nobody knew.
“Hey, Megan, Chris,” Max said, smooth as always. “How’s it going on the masterpiece?”
“Slowly,” Megan confessed, the ghost of a smile playing around her lips. “But I think I am getting there.”
Max nodded. His gaze wandered back to the canvas. “It’s looking great. You’ve got a real talent for capturing emotions.”
“Thanks, Max,” she said, the smile stretching a little more honestly across her face.
I watched them with a twinge at their interaction, wondering at the quick pang of jealousy. Max was like that-drawing people in, making them feel seen and understood. It was a gift, but it also made me wary.
“So, Chris,” Max said, his eyes shifting to me. “How’s the writing going?”
“Good,” I replied neutrally. “I’m making good progress on Megan’s book.”
“Great to hear,” Max said, peering at me with an insincere smile. “I’m sure it’s going to be a bestseller.”
Megan looked from one of us to the other, as if sensing the tension. “Why don’t we all take a break? There’s a new cafe down the street that’s supposed to be amazing.”
Max nodded. “Sounds good to me. How about you, Chris?”
“Sure,” I said, forcing a smile. “A break sounds nice.”
We left the studio together into the refreshing evening air. The streets were so full of life, yet treading on with all that hustle and bustle of city living, there was a feel of calm to it which kindled my soul. As we strolled on, Megan slipped her hand into mine, and that touch there seemed so natural and comforting, yet possessive.
The inside of the cafe was warm, with soft lighting that really beckoned one to come in. We pulled up a chair at a table at the back and out of the way of all the noise.
“So,” Max finally said, breaking the silence, “what made you get back into painting, Megan?”
For a moment, Megan looked reflective before answering, “That’s my way to process everything that happened and bring some sense into my past; find peace.”
Nodding, Max’s face turned understanding. “That’s what art does. It lets you see things from another perspective.”
I watched them, still an outsider to this conversation. Megan’s world of art was still alien to me, no matter how hard I tried to understand it. But seeing her so passionate and engaged made me realize just how much I admired her.
“What about you, Chris?” Max turned toward me. “What drives you to write?”
I stumbled a little over my words, not quite expecting this level of scrutiny. “I guess it’s my way of making sense of the world. Of telling stories that need to be told.”
Max nodded, his eyes intense. “That’s a noble pursuit. It’s important to give a voice to those who can’t speak for themselves.”
I felt surprise flicker across my face at his words. “Yeah, it is.”
The conversation flowed from there to everything-from Art and Literature to the other things, to the big questions of life. The evening slowly cooked on and I began to relax; this initial tension eased into something a bit more comfortable.
Finally, we emptied our glasses and we began the journey back to the studio in complete silence, each being lost in his own thoughts. We had hardly reached the studio when Megan pulled me aside.
“Thanks for being here,” she said, her eyes shining with gratitude.
“Of course,” I said, and I pushed some of her hair out of her face. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
She smiled and leaned forward to press her lips very gently to mine. It was one of those perfect, apolipoprotein-rushed moments where everything else just fades into insignificance.
I entered the studio once more; my outlook felt rejuvenated. That canvas of memories Megan was painting was not a show of her past; it testified to the inner strength and resilience which she held within. And when the future does so well in front of us together, nothing can be faced but stood up to.
On the other side of the room, he looked at us. His expression was introspective. I didn’t particularly believe in him, but it was impossible not to notice that he was in love with Megan, and maybe, just maybe, he could help her find peace.