She rolls her eyes, yet her expression fills with joy. “You’re really going to tell him?”

I force down the lump in my throat. “Yeah, I think I’m ready.”

She smiles cheerfully as she rises from the chair. “Good, because I have the perfect idea. But it’s going to be intense.”

Chapter 9

Ella

Later that afternoon, I stand in my studio. The air smells like fresh paint and promise. One of Micha’s songs plays from my iPod dock, and my heart dances to the rhythm as I sing the lyrics under my breath.

The ghost of your soul still thrives.

Deep in your eyes yet buried alive.

Ashes surround you, drown you in pain.

A memory begging to drive you insane.

Haunting your soul, scorching your veins.

Yet heart and desire fights to enflame.

The tempo of the guitar, drums, and violin are reckless, racing, alive, and escaping, exactly how I feel at this moment. I breathe life into my art as my hand moves wildly, my fingers gripping the handle of a paintbrush, tracing lines, shading shadows, splattering bright and deep colors of paint across the canvas. Sweat beads my skin with each stroke, sheer terror and excitement pulsating through my body as vibrantly as the sunlight sparkling right outside the window. Every movement, line, and angle I make means more to me than any other painting I’ve ever created. Lila was right when she said it was going to be intense.

I express my emotions through my artwork. Right now, tears pour out of my eyes. Not necessarily sad tears. Confused tears, yes—I feel so confused about everything. Terrified tears, of course—terror over being a mom. Terror as I remember when I read my mother’s journal and realized how terrified she was of being a mother.

But, through all the mixed emotions, there’s also a tiny hint of excitement hidden inside me. I didn’t think I could feel that way, but I do.

When I finally finish staining the canvas with my soul, I step back and stare at the creation. I not only feel confusion, terror, and excitement, I feel my life changing forever.

Chapter 10

Micha

It’s a few days before Christmas Eve, and I’m coming home from work late, something I’m not happy about, but I couldn’t help it. I’ve been working really hard to get on my own feet and get my own studio running, which means sacrificing time with Ella. I hate that I have to do it and hate how sad she’s been about it, even though she pretends not to be. She’s been sad a lot the last couple of weeks, and it’s starting to worry me. Although, on the positive side, at least I’m home every night to try to cheer her up.

On my way home, I decide to stop and pick up a bottle of wine to surprise her. Not just for Christmas, but because almost six years ago from today, I asked her to unofficially marry me.(

After I leave the liquor store, I drive home yet pause before I turn into the driveway. Lights are strung up on the trim and a few strings have been hung up around the windows. The strangest part, though, is that there’s a small inflatable Santa on the front lawn that looks like he’s waving at me. It creeps the heck out of me.

Shuddering, I park the car in the garage. When I enter the house, the smell of apple pie engulfs my nostrils. It’s not like Ella to bake anything, so the fact that she’s making a pie throws me off a little.

“Honey, I’m home,” I jokingly call out, setting my guitar case down by the back door. I then slip my jacket off and hang it on the coat rack.

Wandering into the kitchen, I inhale the apple pie scent. Moments later, I start to laugh as I take in the sight of the mess Ella’s made in the kitchen. Flour practically dusts every inch of the countertops, and bowls, spoons, and pans are piled up in the sink. Plus, the air smells the slightest bit smoky. It’s like a tornado swept through the place and scattered all of our cooking supplies everywhere, and in the middle of it, right on the stove, it left a single apple pie, all golden and crispy.

“Hey, you.” Ella unexpectedly hurries through the doorway, looking a little flushed. Her auburn hair is braided to the side, a black dress hugs her body, and her porcelain skin is dotted with fresh paint. She’s wearing no makeup at all.

She’s fucking perfect. I’m so glad I get to see her like this.

“I’m really starting to enjoy coming home every night,” I tell her, crossing the kitchen, excited to touch her.

She wipes her hands on the side of her dress. “Me, too. You’re home late, though. Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. I just spent a little bit longer than I wanted to looking for places.” I slip my arm around her waist and pull her against me, burying my face into the crook of her neck. “Tomorrow, you should come with me.”

“I might be able to do that. I have to go to the gallery for a couple of hours, but we could meet up afterwards.” She hooks her arms around me, and her fingers tremble as she traces the nape of my neck.

“Are you feeling better yet?” I dare ask. Every time I ask Ella about being sad or sick, she gets all twitchy.

She wavers, biting on her bottom lip. “Kind of.”

“Maybe you should chill on the baking and take it easy.”

She shakes her head. “Nah, I’m fine. Or, at least, I’m going to be.” She contemplates something. “Did you like the decorations outside?”

“I did. Although, the Santa kind of creeped me out. Reminds me of that time when we were kids and I got stuck under the inflatable Santa when we were trying to deflate the one in front of the store.”