Page 9

Erika

B eing with Fletcher was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. I keep trying to say those three words that I'm sure he'd love to hear, but I can't seem to get them out. I don't know what's keeping me from saying them.

I already knew I loved him when I came looking for him up on the mountain here at Hunter's Peak. But being the recipient of his full attention has been an eye-opening surprise. He goes out of his way to do things for me and make sure I'm happy.

I've never had someone take care of me as well as he does, and it just seems to come naturally for him. Now he's willing to take me to work every day. I feel that's too much, but my car isn't back from the mechanic just yet.

Today we're going down the mountain to my house so I can pick up some clothes and make sure everything is in order. I managed to convince him to give me a few of his new pieces to sell in the gallery, and I'm ecstatic.

When we get to my house, I'm shocked to realize I haven't missed the place one bit. Well, except for my studio, but maybe that part of me is supposed to stay in the past—with all the crushed dreams and aspirations.

I open the door, and Fletcher follows me around until we reach my bedroom.

"This is a nice place you have here."

"Thanks. It's become sort of a refuge, you know."

I start throwing things into a bag as Fletcher looks around. I wonder what impression he's getting. I'm a bit messy, and there's the whole locked studio thing. I hesitate and then look at him.

"How much stuff do you think I need?"

"Depends on how long you want to stay. If it were up to me, you'd be moving in."

A thrill goes through me at his words, but even I know it's too soon to be making such a commitment.

"Will you give me a minute?"

"Sure thing."

Fletcher leaves me, and I sit down on the bed to think. There are parts of me that I've been keeping from him—that shame of not being good enough to sell my art. The heaviness of needing to produce that art, even though I know it'll never be good enough.

When I finish packing, I go look for him, and to my utter horror, he's standing in the middle of my studio, inspecting all my hidden pieces of art.

"What are you doing here?"

"Erika, these are magnificent. Why are you not showing them in your gallery?"

"We should go."

"These would sell like hotcakes, sweetheart."

"Can we just go?"

So far, he's been looking at my artwork, but now he takes a good look at me and realizes that tears are flowing down my face. I can't seem to stop them.

"Erika, what's wrong?"

"Please, let's just leave."

He puts down the painting he's been inspecting and pulls me into his arms.

"It's okay, sweetheart. I'm right here with you."

More tears come out, and then I'm ruining his shirt with them. I try to pull back from his embrace, but he won't let me.

"Tell me what's wrong."

"No one would ever buy my art, Fletcher. It's not good enough."

He cups my face in his hand and makes me look up at him.

"What are you talking about? Every piece here is sales-worthy. There are thousands of dollars of artwork here in this little room. Why would you think they're not good enough?"

"Someone told me I could never sell my art," I say, sobbing.

"And you believed them."

It was a statement, more than anything else, and I nod in agreement.

"Would you help me destroy them?"

"What? Never. What we are going to do is frame them and put up an exhibition in your gallery."

I start to panic. What if people see my art and hate it? Worse even, tell me to my face I'm no good. I don't think I could stand it. So I approach the first work of art and start destroying it.

"Erika, stop!"

My whole body is shaking as I tear the paper into tiny little pieces, and as I finish with that one, I start with the next. I need to shred them all into pieces.

I don't know how many works of art I destroy, but I'm exhausted when I collapse into Fletcher's arms.

Now I'm full of shame for having acted this way in front of him.

"I'm sorry you had to see that."

"Erika. It tore at my heart to see you destroy those beautiful pieces. What can I do to convince you that your art is worth sharing with the world?"

"I don't know that I'll ever believe that again."

"Then we've got a lot of work to do, because your work matters. You matter. I won't let you believe otherwise."

I look at him and realize he's truly serious about this, and maybe, just maybe, I could get some help for this, because deep inside me, there's still this pull to make art.

Now I start crying for all the pieces I destroyed, knowing I need to heal so that one day I can proudly show the new ones I create.

We go back home, and I have to lie down and sleep for a while. Fletcher lies right beside me, letting me be the little spoon.

"How are you feeling, sweetheart?"

"I think I'm going to get some help."

"You mean that?"

"Yes, it's time."

"I'm so proud of you, and I'll be right here by your side. You are the love of my life, Erika."

"I love you, too, Fletcher."

We kiss and we make love all night long. I feel cared for and protected with Fletcher by my side. All I know is I've got a long road ahead of me, but I won't be doing it alone.