Learning-to-Feel (23 page)

I smiled at him. He grinned from ear to ear as he searched through his contacts. He looked at me, waiting for the call to connect. "I love you," he whispered to me.

But then I heard the soft click from the phone and a familiar voice answered, "Hello?"

"Julia," Trent said with a laugh. "You'll never guess who just called me."

Smiling, I remembered back to the first time he told me he loved me. He didn't even know he'd said it. It had been two months since he'd tried to leave me, since Bentley's accident, since I came out. It was a normal morning, I'd taken Bentley for a walk, I was still hesitant to stress his healing leg, and when we came back to the house, I made us our usual breakfast.

Trent, sleep rumpled and fucking gorgeous, walked into the kitchen just as I was putting strawberry conserve onto Bentley's toast. He stopped and gave me one raised eyebrow. Guilty, I explained, "He likes the strawberry conserve." Then I rambled, "Just after his accident, I felt bad for not taking him for a run, so I thought I'd offer him some toast with conserve as a treat, and now he kind of won't eat toast without it... " my words trailed away, knowing I was probably only digging myself in farther.

Trent shook his head at me as he made himself coffee. "You spoil him too much."

"He doesn't mind?" I said, my tone making it a question.

"You're fucking lucky
I
love you so much, but Brendan will kill you if Bentley ends up with diabetes." Then he shook his head again and sipped his coffee.

Now, he'd never been able to say those words out loud, but I knew he loved me. It was in everything he did. It was in his paintings, it was in the little things, like the way he'd cook dinner and leave it for when I got home from work. It was in the way he kissed me, in his eyes, in the way he'd make love to me.

But to hear him say it...

My heart pounded against my ribs, and I stood slowly from my seat next to Bentley. Trent looked at me, still not realizing what he'd just said. "What?" he asked.

"What did you just say?" I asked him to repeat it.

"I said, 'Brendan will kill you if the dog gets diabetes'," he said again like he was talking to a two year old.

"No, not that," I said quietly, now standing in front of him. "The part before that."

He looked at me, and I saw it in his eyes the moment he remembered his own words. His eyes went wide, and his mouth opened and closed.

I nodded and smiled and took his face into my hands. "I’m fucking lucky you love me," I told him. He nodded and chuckled, his eyes filled with tears. "You're fucking lucky I love you too," I said with a laugh. Then I pulled his face to mine and kissed him. His lips trembled, but he kissed me back before he started to laugh.

So I hugged him and held him as tight as I could, until he pulled away from me to wipe his tears. Happy tears. He still hadn't said anything about his declaration, he'd only laughed and smiled, but I told him, "I love you too, Trent Jamieson."

I'd never seen him smile like that.

He'd come a long way over the last twelve months. We'd talked about him going into therapy for his issues, but he said he'd been-there-done-that, and would prefer to just talk to me. Admittedly, I was hesitant, wondering if he'd be telling me things I didn't want to hear. Even my father had his doubts and told us to tread carefully.

But it turned out it was the best thing for us.

He slowly opened up to me, his fears, his dreams, his past and what he wanted for his future. He told me about his parents and how his aunt and uncle, rather than dealing with a grieving teenager, had put him into therapy. It was
that
therapist who had encouraged the young, closed-off sixteen year old Trent, to use his art as his emotional vent.

It worked. He'd successfully only expressed any kind of emotion through his paintings.

Until he met me.

His painting had taken on a whole new dimension in the last twelve months. The more he opened old wounds, the more he honed his craft. The more he told me he loved me, the more he basked in being loved, the more poignant his art became.

Which was why the works of Trent Jamieson had been signed for an exhibition in the small, but prestigious East Gallery.

He clicked off the phone call to my mom and threw his arms around me. Then, taking my hand, he pulled me down the narrow attic stairs. "Come on, we've got unscheduled trips to Boston to plan."

* * * *

Four weeks later

With no forest trails to go on, I took Bentley for a morning walk along the Boston sidewalk instead. Knowing Trent would like some, I grabbed some coffees and savory muffins for breakfast on our way home. I swear Trent had a nose for caffeine because he magically appeared in the kitchen one second after I walked in.

He took the coffee straight from the take-away tray and hummed as he tasted it. "God bless the coffee bean."

"Yeah," I laughed. "And the boyfriend who brings it to you."

He grinned. "Oh, yes. Him too."

As we ate our breakfast, we talked about our plans for the day. Trent needed to meet with the Director of the Gallery. The opening was tonight, and after previous meetings last week, phone calls, emails and weeks of preparation, this was the final meeting before the big night.

I wanted to head in to see my old boss at Mass General. When I left, he asked me, unofficially, to come back and see him in twelve months, and he'd give me my job back, no questions asked.

I was going back to see him. To say thanks, but no thanks.

I’d signed on for another twelve months at Belfast.

Mom and Dad were so pleased with my decision. Actually, my entire family were. They loved having a weekend getaway if needed, and with my roster giving me four days off every fortnight, Trent and I usually spent every second one in Boston. We'd hit the clubs, restaurants, markets and movies.

The other days off were usually spent in Belfast. We'd made some great friends there, Dani, Adam, Lucas and Carla, the nurse who had helped me with an injured Bentley was Dani's best friend. We'd have barbeques and watch football or hockey.

Life was pretty fucking good.

And my mom basically told me if I ever planned to come back to Boston, Mass General ER and run myself into the ground and stop living again, she'd wring my neck.

Trent and Mom have grown incredibly close this last year. As thick as thieves they were. It’s beautiful. It was actually my mom who had introduced the Director of the gallery to pictures of Trent's work.

Trent had argued that the Director felt obligated to see his paintings because Julia could be so insistent. But then the Director had dismissed Trent's concerns with a click of her tongue and a simple, "Connections can only get you so far. Don’t insult my eye for talent. I know talent when I see it, and you my dear boy, have a gift."

Trent didn't argue after that.

He did, however, say 'no' to showing his collection of paintings inspired by me. The one he'd painted twelve months ago, of the falling leaves in all the colors of me, and the paintings that followed, he wouldn't show. He told me later he didn't wanted people to tell him it was no good... he couldn't handle anyone telling him what he felt for me wasn't good enough.

He said they could show the “Two Sevens” collection he'd be working on. It was actually two lots of seven, fourteen paintings altogether.

The Seven Sins in true Trent style, color and texture, swirls and lines, some defined and some not, all a different color, infused with gold or silver. Seven representing sins, and seven opposing sins: Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy and... and... ugh fuck. Godammit, I could never remember the seventh one. I yelled out to Trent, who's getting dressed up stairs. "What's the seventh one called again?"

"Sneezy? Clumsy?" he yelled back. I rolled my eyes, even though he couldn’t see. "No wait, it was Dopey!"

"Shut the fuck up," I said flatly. "Clumsy was a Smurf anyway, smartass."

He laughed, and I tried not to smile. "Pride," he answered, and as soon as he said it, it was like a lightning bolt of recognition. Yes, that was it! Pride.

Anyway, the fourteen new paintings, they loved.

So a week ago, he'd had his paintings transported to Boston. He was nervous and even wanted to drive them himself. But from my cell phone at work, I'd convinced him that I was fairly certain the Director of East Gallery wouldn't appreciate her next exhibit arriving in the back of a Chevy.

He walked down the stairs, dressed in jeans and a vintage tee. Casual and sexy as hell. Sweet Jesus, he still took my breath away.

I couldn’t help but smile. "You will knock them dead tonight, Love."

He exhaled nervously. "You sure?"

I smiled at him. He’d asked me this a thousand times. Kissing his lips, I told him, "They'll love your work, and they'll love you."

A car honked its horn outside, and we both knew without looking who it was. Mom. I asked him, also the thousandth time, "Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you today?"

He shook his head. "No, you'll only distract me," he said. "Plus, I want you to see it for the first time tonight." And with a peck to my lips, he ran out the door to my mother's waiting car.

I fixed Bentley some dry food and checked his water, then gave him a good rub on the belly. We had a dog door installed - actually
I
had dog doors put in - in this apartment and in the house at Belfast. The wake up calls for breakfast I could handle. The wake up calls for pit-stops got a bit tedious. So when I left him inside, closing the front door behind me, I knew he'd be alright.

I called in to see my old boss like I'd planned. He was happy to see me, he thought I was there to ask for my job back. After seeing the madhouse that was the ER, the understaffed, overworked medical teams that darted from patient to patient, I could only smile when I told him no.

No way in fucking hell am I coming back to this.

He laughed and told me I’d gone soft.

"Maybe," I told him.

"Or you've fallen in love," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"Or there is that," I said, grinning.

"Well, I'll be fucking damned," he snorted. With perfect timing, his pager beeped and he shook my hand, smiled and called out, "Good luck, Tierney," as he ran off down the hall.

I walked down the corridor, once so very familiar to me, toward the exit. It used to be like my second home. It felt alien now, foreign. I used to run these corridors, I owned them. Well, I thought I did. Some faces I recognized, most I didn’t. One thing that was familiar was how completely stressed and tired everyone looked.

I didn’t remember thinking I ever looked that bad.

I must have looked like death warmed over.

I smiled as I left. I wondered if coming here would spark a buried desire to come back, but it only reinforced my decision to stay in Belfast. No Belfast has not the prestige, the money or the reputation my old job had.

But I couldn't care less. I wouldn't trade it. I had a life in Belfast. A job which I loved, people I had come to know, friends I’d made. I had the big old house that I loved, the Bay, the running and walking trails.

But most of all, I had Trent.

The last twelve months haven't been all sunshine and roses. He has habits that drove me mad, leaving his clothes on the floor, and don’t even get me started about leaving wet towels on the bed.

I have traits that annoyed him too, but we're learning. We've had our disagreements. The biggest one by far was about money. The big fights usually were, or so I was told.

He mentioned looking for work, and I told him not to worry about it, to concentrate on his painting. I thought he'd like that idea, and he thought I thought he was sponging off me. He yelled. I yelled back. He grabbed his keys, and I told him not to
dare
fucking leave. He stormed out, revved the Chevy far too loudly and took off down the drive.

He only got about a hundred yards before his brake lights came on. He stopped half way down the drive and sat in his car for a minute or two before reversing back down the drive.

He walked quietly back inside. "I’m sorry," he whispered. "I told you I'd never leave."

I hugged him fiercely. "Yes, you did," I reminded him, kissing the side of his neck. "I don’t give a fuck about money, Trent. None of that matters to me. But you," I held his face and looked him in the eyes, "you matter to me."

And then we sat on the couch and talked it out like adults.

Yeah. Imagine that.

Like I said, we're learning.

After my visit to the hospital, I headed back to the apartment and took Bentley down to Mrs. Lin's to pick up some takeout for lunch. "Where’s Mr. Trent?" she asked me.

"Big opening at the Gallery tonight," I reminded her. Trent had come to Boston a few times in the last few weeks and had eaten here, when he wasn't fed by my mother. "I'll grab enough for two, though. He'll be home soon."

She smiled and threw in some wagashi. "Mr. Trent always like my wagashi."

I smiled and nodded. Of course he did. How very typical of Trent to have charmed his way into Mrs. Lin's good-books and she'd give him free sweets.

"You tell him good luck," she added. I paid, thanked her again and Bentley and I walked home.

When Mom dropped Trent home two hours later, he was nervous.

"How'd it go?" I asked him, standing up and walking toward him.

"All done," he said. "No going back now."

* * * *

I was showered, dressed and ready, and Trent was still in the bathroom. I knocked on the door. "Babe, we have to leave here in 20 minutes."

He mumbled an inaudible response.

"Can I come in, Trent?"

"Yeah," he huffed.

I opened the door, and he was wearing only a towel around his waist, fiddling with his hair. "I can’t get it to sit right," he told me.

Pulling his hand from his hair, I took his hand in mine. "Trent, it’s perfect."

He pulled his hand away and tried to tame a wayward curl, mumbling something about getting a buzz cut.

I took his hands in mine again and stood in front of him. "Trent, stop." He stared at me for a moment. I smiled and told him, "Let me."