The Paradise Problem (105)
Like this, we thread ourselves into each other’s lives so completely that there’s no question how or whether we could fit together for more than a luxury vacation. I’ve only felt really seen by two other people—Dad and Vivi—and as the months fly by, there is a new, indelible Liam-shaped imprint in nearly every part of my life. In my confidence when I paint, and in my vision of a future where my art blooms into a full-fledged career; in my new financial security, and my dissipating worries about Dad’s health and his hospital bills. Liam’s impact is present in my mood, my sleep, my sexual satisfaction, my outlook on everything. He becomes my everything.
I finally tell him as much, on a sweltering day in August at my local tiny bakery.
“You see that right there?” I say, and nod to the pink-wallpapered wall where a framed print of one of my favorite paintings in the world hangs. “I’m going to see the real thing one day.”
He follows my gaze and then looks at me over his coffee cup. “What’s it called?”
“Dance in the Country by Renoir. It’s one of the Dance series he’d been commissioned to paint, and of the three I love it the most. It’s at the Musée d’Orsay in Paris. Have you ever been?”
“In high school.” My expression must give away exactly what I’m thinking—how outrageously fancy he continues to be—and he playfully nudges my foot with his under the table before trapping it between both of his. “I remember seeing Starry Night,” he says. “Whistler’s Mother. A lot of Monet. A lot of Van Gogh.” He studies the piece again. “What is it you love about this one?”
I turn my attention back to it. “It’s the feeling I get when I look at it. The details. Some might just see two people dancing, but… look at his hat on the floor—it’s like he was so swept up in the moment it fell to the ground, and he couldn’t be bothered to pick it up. The forgotten table, the spoon still in the cup, her fingers barely grasping her fan, and he’s holding her so close, completely unconcerned with the people behind them. See the way he’s gripping her waist?” I say, pointing. “And is he nuzzling her cheek? Smelling her hair? Whispering something naughty into her ear? Is that why she’s smiling with that look of absolute bliss on her face? She’s so in love.”
His chin rests on his hand and butterscotch eyes gaze at me instead of the print, so full of lust and devotion and wonder it feels like the room shrinks down to a satin-lined shoebox, and we’re the only two people inside. “I know how she feels.”
My heart pounds against my rib cage when I meet his eyes. I know Liam loves me; it’s always there, barely contained beneath the surface. It’s visible in everything he does; it’s obvious just by the way he looks at me. But he’s never said the words.
Never wanted to push me, I know.
“So do I,” I say now.
His gaze drops to my lips. “Are you saying you love me, Anna Green?”
“I’m saying I love you madly, West Weston.”
Liam stands from his chair, unconcerned with the tables of people around us as he pulls me into his arms, just like the man in the painting. “I love you, too,” he says against my cheek. “I have been aching to say it for so long.”
* * *
ONLY A MONTH LATER, September tiptoes in and we’re too busy banging each other on a Labor Day weekend getaway in Cambria to realize what it means: Liam has gained full access to his trust. Surprising no one, the We Can Safely Divorce date comes and goes and there is zero talk of divorce. Divorce would feel like breaking up, and I have a hard enough time saying goodbye at airports; no way would I let this man say goodbye on paper.
But I guess that means there’s also no talk of marriage, either, even though we both know that, hello, we are very much still legally married. I took off my ring and gave it back to him on the flight back from Singapore all those months ago; Liam never wore one. So when he climbs out of my bed one Saturday night in October, digs in his suitcase, and then sets the iconic turquoise box on my rumpled bed between us, I feel unprepared for the complicated emotions that smack me right in the face.
“What is this?” I ask carefully.
“It isn’t what you think,” he says, taking my hand. “I mean it is—it’s your ring—but I’m not asking you to put it back on.”
“Is this you admitting that the nipple-sized diamond is real?”
Liam laughs. “Yeah. It’s real.”
“Fuck me,” I say on an awed exhale.
Smiling, he looks down at our joined hands. “This ring is yours, Anna. It’s yours whenever you want it. Or we can sell it and get a different ring, a more Anna-appropriate ring, a ring a Muppet would wear, with gemstones of every color or a chain of diamond daisies. Whatever engagement ring you want is yours. As is my grandmother’s wedding band. I can’t tell you how happy it would make me to put that on your finger.”
He takes a breath, puffing out his cheeks as he exhales, as if he’s not getting this quite right. He’s so fucking cute I want to lick his face.
“I know it’s soon,” he says more earnestly, meeting my eyes. “I know we’ve been married for five years but only together for five months. I know our lives are complicated and we don’t live near each other, and we’re still figuring out what we each want. But I love you. So much. I can’t fathom wanting someone else, anything else, the way I want you. There’s a ring in that box for me, too, when you’re ready for me to wear it. Whether it’s a month from now, a year. Shit, I’ll put it on tonight if you tell me to.” He frowns. “?‘Never’ wouldn’t be my preferred answer, but I’d take that, too.” He winces at his sweet rambling. “When you’re ready—if you’re ever ready to be my wife for real, I’ll be here, ready to be your husband for real.”