Chapter 233:
Bound by Brushstrokes
Chris’s Point of View:
I never would have thought that I was going to land in some art studio, let alone such a lively and eclectic one as this. On the walls were paintings in styles ranging from abstract to very hyper-realistic, while the fumes of paint and turpentine mixed into the atmosphere like an invitation, to invigorate and calm. I turned around, taking it in-sort of fish-out-of-water, strangely at-home.
She’d been distant since what happened with Miles. No way more before that, even. Somewhere she lost her balance, and I knew she needed space. Yet as much as I wanted to give it to her, I couldn’t help but feel we needed to reattach, and that was why I had suggested that we should drop in on this art studio I’d heard about. It seemed like a perfect spot for her to rest and for us to hang out for some time.
“Chris, over here!” Megan hollered, her voice cutting through the hum of activity. She stood beside a tall artist, moody-looking, slapping paint about on a large canvas. His hair was dark and unkempt, his blue eyes so bright, they seemed to bore into everything.
She smiled as I turned toward her, but there was something else in her eyes, something nervous maybe. “This is Max,” she said, gesturing to the artist. “He’s been working on something really amazing.”
The artist looked up from his work and nodded at me. “Chris, right?” he said in a low, husky voice. “Megan’s told me a lot about you.”
“All good things, I hope,” I said, attempting to lighten the tone in my voice. Though I could not help but be struck by the way Max’s gaze settled onto Megan. There was familiarity there that I didn’t quite get and hardly couldn’t overlook.
“Mostly,” Max said, his smile barely moving. “She’s a tough critic, though.”
Megan laughed, more honest than not, a little forced. “You know me, always honest,” she said, nudging Max playfully. But what I could see was the tension in her shoulders, the way that she was just a bit too tightly wound.
“What are you working on?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation into safer waters.
Max sidestepped, and I saw what he’d been working on. I gasped at the sight. There was Megan, standing on a windswept cliff, her hair whipping about her face as she stared out to sea. Emotions on her face-so much sadness, longing, and somehow hope, too-were raw, real enough to feel like a gut punch.
“It’s beautiful,” I said softly, not tearing my eyes from the painting.
“Thanks,” Max replied, his eyes flicking to Megan. “She’s a great muse.”
Megan blushed, looking away. “You’re too kind,” she muttered clearly uncomfortable with the praise.
I cleared my throat, trying to break the tension. “It really is amazing. You have captured her perfectly.”
Max nodded, his eyes never leaving Megan. “She has that effect on people,” he told me, his voice near reverent.
That twinge of jealousy wasn’t my friend, so I pushed it aside. This wasn’t about me. It was Megan, and what she needed. “Do you paint often?” I asked, trying to keep the conversation going.
Max shrugged. “When the inspiration strikes,” he said. “Lately, it’s been striking a lot.”
Megan shifted beside me, and I knew this conversation was getting into risky territory. “Why don’t we go look around some more?” I said. “There’s just so much in here.”
“Good idea,” Megan agreed hurriedly, already yanking me by the hand away from Max’s canvas. “Let’s go.”
We walked around the studio, and Megan was unrealistically quiet. Her eyes would move from one thing to another; she was in some sort of trance. I squeezed her hand, trying to reassure her. “You okay?”
She nodded, though by looking into her eyes, I could feel she hated every moment. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said but not convincingly at all.
“Megan,” I said, turning and stopping. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
She sighed and pushed a hand through her hair. “I don’t know, Chris. It’s just that everything feels …complicated.”
“Complicated how?” I pressed on, trying to get some understanding.
She looked elsewhere, her eyes distant in thought. “It is just that Miles, Max, everything-it’s all so confusing.”
I nodded, trying to be patient. “I get that. But you don’t have to go through this alone. I’m here for you.
She looked at me then, her eyes softening. “I know. And I appreciate it. It’s just…sometimes it feels like I’m being pulled in a million directions, you know?”
“Yeah, I do,” I said, squeezing her hand again. “But we’ll get through it. Together.”
This time, she smiled-really smiled-and though it may sound dramatic, though felt a weight had been removed from my shoulders. “Thanks, Chris. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”.
We wandered through the studio until we landed in some relatively quiet corner. There was a little nook, really, an alcove with a couple of comfortable chairs and a table quite ideal for some privacy. We both sat down, and I took a deep breath to find my words.
“Megan,” I began, “I know things have been really, really rough lately. Let me tell you something-it doesn’t matter. I’m going to be here for you no matter what. We have come a long way, and I truly do believe in us. More importantly, I believe in you.”
Her tear-brimmed eyes locked on mine. “I believe in us, too, Chris,” she whispered. “I just have to find a way to get everything into balance, to make sense of things.”
“I know you will,” I said full of conviction. “You are, without doubt, the toughest person I know, and no matter what happens, I’ll be here for you.”.
She leaned in closer, laid her head on my shoulder, and I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close. Everything else vanished just then, and it was just us, bound fast by the threads of love and will.
She sat up finally after a few moments and reached up to wipe her eyes. “I think I want to paint,” she said then.
I raised one eyebrow. “Paint?
She nodded. “Yeah. I mean, I’ve never really tried it before, but just being here, seeing all this… It makes me want to create something-to express everything I’m feeling.”
“I think that is a very good idea,” I said, smiling. “Let’s find you a canvas and some paints.
We spent the next hour gathering materials and setting up a pop-up studio in the corner of the room. Megan still seemed pretty tentative, but as she started to paint, I felt some of that tension begin to dissipate. She became engrossed in the process; gradually, her strokes began to pick up confidence and expression, fluid with every passing moment.
My eyes locked with hers, as I was overflowing with feelings of admiration and pride. She was amazing, and I was a lucky man to have her in my life. This, I felt, as those colors came into shape on the canvas one by one, was only a beginning. We could face anything together.
A few moments later, Megan stepped back from the painting and regarded it objectively. “What do you think?” she turned toward me.
I walked closer to the painting. It was raw, emotional-everything she had gone through. “It’s beautiful,” I said quite truthfully. “Just like you.”
She smiled, her eyes shining with gratitude. “Thanks, Chris. For everything.”
“Always,” I said, pulling her into one big hug. “Together, Megan. We’re in it, bound by so much more.