Eternal Longing ✓

61. Love Will Bring You Back Home

JAYA

"This way."

I follow behind him, my eyes on his strong back covered by a wrinkled T-shirt. In all the years I've known him, Fin has never been anything but impeccable. His clothes starched to perfection and so put together almost to the point of exhaustion.

"I . . . know that this doesn't change anything." He stops just before the door of a room, one that I've only taken a glimpse at one time enough to deduce that it is a guest room. "But, I did this because you deserve it. Whether you'll use it or not . . ." He turns around and looks at me, eyes sincere and open. "It will always be yours."

I don't say anything. I don't know what to say exactly.

Not when he's staring at me like this. Not when my hair is a mess on top of my head and everything about me screams pathetic, yet he's looking at me as if I'm the most beautiful thing on Earth.

Without another word, he pushes open the door and steps back, giving me space to walk inside. "Please."

Gingerly, with no idea what to expect and my heart beating out of my chest, I take a step inside the room. I don't know what to await when I walk into the guest room, but what I see causes me to stop in my tracks.

It can't be.

The door closes and I feel him behind me, only a few feet away as my eyes take in the room. From the most beautiful light-gray laminated floor to the various canvases on easels scattered around the space, to the plants, books, and cool posters of my favorite artists old and new adorning the walls.

"Most of the supplies are from Barton Galleries. I know how you feel about your supplies."

There's a section of the room-the studio, rather-dedicated to sketching. A long wooden table that is meant to appear rustic and worn, a part of the aesthetic, when its price tag will point to how expensive it truly is.

On the wall to the side of the table, my sketches, the ones I've made while in this apartment, are encased within oak frames. Looking at them, some half finished and haphazardly drawn, I can't help but cringe.

I remember being sprawled on him, lazily dragging my pencil around the sketchpad in hopes of inspiration to strike down from heaven to no avail.

Fin would always ask for the sketch, and annoyed with my lack of inspiration, I'd frown at him and pass along my sketchbook just to see what he'd do with it. And without fail, he would carefully tear out the page and stare at the drawing before pocketing it.

One time, I had asked him what he does with the sketches, but he'd only shrugged suspiciously and distracted me by turning on the TV.

"I know this won't make everything right," he reiterates when I move toward the myriad of plants, my fingers grazing the tiny leaves. "But I'm committed to spending my entire life making everything up to you."

"I'm bad with plants," I state as I look at the beautiful ivies, my heart swelling because he really did listen to me when I told him about my dream studio. "Can't keep them alive."

"I can help," he supplies almost in question. "If that is what you want. If you'll allow me to."

Of course, he's also well-versed in plants. I don't say anything, only move toward the far right of the room where I spot a large sink unlike any I've ever seen in my life.

"As you can probably see, the room was extended and renovated. The bathroom doesn't exist anymore," he tells me, "instead, there's now a water station."

A water station is quite an understatement. This is a state-of-the-art metal sink that is unlike anything I've ever seen before. It's deep enough to submerge all my supplies and scrub them clean, long enough to take up a whole stretch of this side of the room, and so opulent that I can see my reflection when I look inside.