Page 137 of Trusting You

“What’s that?” I ask.

Sophie grabs it and starts heaving it up the stairs. “Grab my bag, would ya?”

I do, but it’s on automatic. “Soph, what did you bring?”

“A painting you told me not to ship you.”

I nearly miss a stair. “And you thought to bring it personally instead?”

“It’s beautiful, you know. And while you don’t think it is, I know someone that might.”

We’ve reached the top, where Lily, distracted once again by her blocks, has her back to us. But Sophie sets the wrapped painting next to her.

“I…that was painted in pure grief. Lily deserves more than that.”

Sophie stares at me levelly, then begins ripping the paper from the canvas.

“Soph, please don’t—”

“Cold, harsh action. That’s what you need, and it’s exactly what I’m here for. Unless you’d rather I splash ice water in your face instead.” She continues tearing.

I hold out a hand, but it’s weak. I have so little fight left.

In mere seconds, Sophie exposes the very face I’ve dreamed of, had nightmares about, and desperately wish was still with me.

Paige. Oh, Paige.

I forged her from water out of a sunset. Purple, pink, gold hues from the moment just before night hits. Mostly navy, mostly reflected stars. Her hair cascades with the coasting waves, the whitecaps forming each tendril.

She’s blue, so blue, and her eyes are closed. But she’s healthy, because I created her from memory, from the times we pulled all-nighters for exams, woke up hungover together, went to movies or binge-watched shows on our computer. Times when all I had to do was look across the room, and I’d see her.

“It’s too sad,” I choke out.

I’m rooted to the spot, turning to stone as Paige’s face comes to life in this apartment, in front of her daughter.

Lily, intrigued, smacks a hand against the canvas, then tries to climb it.

“Not the purpose of a painting, silly,” Sophie says, gently pushing Lily away. Sophie says to me, “I think Lily deserves this picture of her mother, don’t you?”

I’m unsure. I’m also well aware that Paige isn’t really anywhere in this apartment, except in ashes.

I lick my lips. “You’re trying to get me to say yes, but all I know of this painting is how to cry.”

“Lily doesn’t know that,” Sophie says lightly. “When she’s older, all she’ll see is a beautiful picture of her mom, created by you.”

My molars clank together, but I don’t argue.

“Settled, then,” Sophie says. “Where should I put it? Does Lil have a room?”

“She does. Over there, on the right.”

“Gotcha.”

Sophie disappears with the painting, but I stay in place, Sophie’s duffel at my feet, gazing longingly at Lily.

“There’s so much about you I don’t know yet,” I whisper. “How you’ll be when your older, the questions you’ll ask about your mom.”

“Bah!”