Before & After by Nazarea Andrews

and almost stupid happy as he talks about it and I can see it,
can picture the life he’s painting out.
    “Where
is our room?” I ask, softly.
    His
eyebrows go up, and he points toward the back of the house.
    “Do
you want to see it?” The question is soft and very vulnerable.
    “No,”
I say. “Not today.” He nods and steps into the large kitchen. Pulls a bowl of
soup from the fridge and starts heating it, and pouring us both tea. He’s
efficient and brisk in his movements, a graceful poetry in motion doing
something so simple and mundane.
    But
there is nothing simple or mundane about Rike. He’s gorgeous, with his shaggy
black hair and the beard that is growing on me. The tattoos curving on his
long, strong arms and licking across the skin over his fingers.
    He’s
everything I never expected to want, but this feels familiar. He’s who I chose.
This unconventional, beautifully confusing life.
    Scott
and Lindsay.
    They
are the life I chose.
    “How
did we get here?” I whisper, and Rike’s gaze snags
mine. I shake my head, helplessly. “This isn’t what I pictured, Rike. This is
nothing like I imagined my life. And I understand that it’s what I chose. But I
don’t remember, and I can’t reconcile it.” His expression falls, and I make a
tiny noise, reaching for him. “I am trying, Rike. I just—it’s a lot.”
    “I
know,” he whispers. “I want to help, but I don’t know how. I don’t know how to
give you the space you need when all I want is to bring you home.”
    I
reach for him and catch his hand, twisting our fingers together. He stares at
our fingers, until the microwave dings and it jerks both of us out of our
thoughts.
    The
soup and crusty bread he brings out is delicious, creamy potato broth with a
spicy sausage. But the tension between us strings tight and uncomfortable, and
it makes my stomach twist, until I finally put the food down.
    Rike
is waiting, because as soon as I stop eating, he shifts, gathering the bowls and
taking them to the sink.
    “There’s
some stuff in your office. I think you should look at it. Will you come
upstairs with me?”
    I
nod, and he grins, shifting over to me and lifting me up from the chair.
    “What
are you doing?” I breathe out as he cradles me against his chest.
    His
eyes are so close, so blue I could get lost in them, and I have to look down,
because I can’t get lost. Not yet. Not until I’ve found myself.
    “Stairs,
sweetheart. I’ll carry you up.”
    The
loft is captivating. Half-finished canvases sit on easels, a sketch and tiny
cut piece of papers waiting to be assembled cover a large table, and sculptures
clutter a corner in various states of finish. A stained glass window filters
light in, beautiful and ethereal, and I feel like I’m in a church. Like this is
where I am supposed to worship, and where everything is right. Rike sets me on
a deep red leather chaise lounge in a corner of bookshelves and I shiver. The
table next to the chaise holds a notebook.
    He
follows my gaze. “You wrote constantly. Sometimes it was things you’d share
with me or Linds , but it was usually just for
yourself, and it was incessant.”
    “Do
you think that reading the journals could help me remember?” I ask.
    He
nods without hesitation. “Yes. And they’re yours. Please. Go through them.”
    I
nod and shift back, getting comfortable against the chair, and he smiles, his
eyes soft. “I remember when I bought that chair for you. It was right after we
moved here, and we had been out, downtown. You saw it at this tiny place that
sold art and you fixated. Brought it up every few days for weeks. So I went
down and picked it up one night after I finished a pretty big piece on a
client. Surprised you with it. It was like watching a kid on Christmas morning.
I fell in love with you a little more that day.” He laughs, a little, at
himself. “I fell in love with you a little more every day, Peyton.”
    I
make a tiny noise, and his gaze snaps to