Finally Ours (Harborview #2)

36. Angela

36

ANGELA

“Where do you want the chili?” my mama asks. “I can put it in the fridge or heat some up for you right now?”

Carter had to work on his dissertation today, so after a long morning of eating waffles, drinking coffee, and having slow, glorious sex with him, I left his house and came home to find my mama waiting for me with a car full of food. I’ve already told her three times that I’m all better, but she doesn’t want me to have to cook while I’m “healing.” And frankly, she’s a great cook so I’m not complaining that much.

“In the fridge is good. I had a big breakfast with Carter.”

“Good, I’m glad that boy is taking care of you. But how are you feeling? Have you heard anything from work?” My mama’s face looks concerned.

“I’m okay, I promise. And HR emailed me this morning. Tony’s been placed on leave while they investigate his management practices.” I take a deep breath and continue, “And they want me to fill in for him.”

I did a fist pump and let out a cheer when I heard the news that he was being investigated. Then I immediately texted Aline, who proceeded to send me a minute long voice note of herself whooping.

“Well hallelujah for that,” my mama says. “To both parts.” She must notice the hesitant look on my face because she asks, “Please tell me you’re taking it. Honey, you’ll be a great charge nurse.”

“I know,” I say, pushing my nerves and hesitance down. I need to push myself out of my comfort zone and be bold. I may not like being the center of attention, but I think I could be a damn good leader. “That’s why I said yes. I’m a bit worried but hey, there’s no way I could be worse than Tony, right?”

“You’ll be a hell of a lot better than him.” My mama gives me a firm nod, and then a smile.

“Thanks,” I say. “It’ll be a struggle getting some of the other nurses to pull their weight, but I know I can count on Aline, now.”

We chat for a few more minutes about the charge nurse job and then I tell her that I’m going to work on some art for the rest of the day.

“I haven’t heard you say that in a while,” my mama says. She slides the last of the glass containers into the fridge, and sits across from me at the small kitchen table.

“My trip to Isle North inspired me again. And Carter took me on this perfect date where I did some work in pastels.” I explain a bit more about the date to her, leaving out the beach sex, though. Obviously.

“I’m impressed,” she tells me. “It seems like Carter has matured a lot since the last time you two dated.”

“Wow,” I say, because that’s high praise coming from my mama.

“Credit where credit is due, Angie. And besides, you deserve someone who is so thoughtful.”

I shrug, as that same feeling of unease from last night rears its head once more.

“What? You don’t think that’s true?”

I can tell my mama is a few moments away from giving me a ten minute long pep talk on what I deserve from a relationship, and while normally I’d welcome it, I don’t actually feel like I need one at the moment. Because Carter has been nothing but kind and caring and patient with me. No pep talk needed here.

“It’s not that,” I tell her. My mama sits there quietly and waits while I formulate my thoughts. I stare out the kitchen window and try to figure out how to put what I’m feeling into words. “I’m not…I’m not made of glass.”

“Ah,” she says, like that makes any amount of sense. “Is he treating you like you might break at any moment?”

“Sort of. He got a job. One I didn’t even know he’d interviewed for. And that’s not the annoying part, because that all happened before we started dating. But he’s not taking it, solely because it’s in Iceland and would mean leaving me in Harborview.”

“So?” my mama says, reaching across the table and patting my hand. “It sounds like he knows what is important to him and that’s being here with you.”

“And I appreciate that.”

“But?”

“But what? I think it’s great that he cares so much about things working out with us.”

“Something is clearly still bothering you, Angie,” my mama says.

I get up from the table and busy myself making more coffee in my French press. In addition to food, my mama has brought over a bag of beans from her and my mom’s favorite coffee roasters in Portland, and just smelling it makes me feel a bit more clear-headed.

“How do you know when you can trust someone?” I ask her.

“You don’t.” She’s smiling as she says this, like she hasn’t just delivered a devastating blow.

“Um. What? But don’t you trust Mom?”

“Of course I do. But trust isn’t something you can check up on, or test. Because you can never be completely sure of what another person will do.”

“So you just have to give it blindly?”

“No, not blindly. I trust your mother because she shows me every day that she’s deserving of my trust, and I of hers. But we can’t ever know what the future will hold with complete surety. People change. Love changes. Trust truly exists when you stop needing constant reassurance of its presence.”

I nod. “That makes sense, I think.”

I don’t say anything else, and I think my mama understands that I’ve shared as much as I’m willing to about this. Where my mom would pry and try to get more out of me, my mama understands that I like to think things through.

“Why don’t you show me some of your art?” she says.

I pour us some coffee, and then we head into the small office in the back of the house. I’ve never used it for much aside from storage, but it gets good light, and I’ve laid out the oil pastels I did at the beach on the desk.

“I think I want to turn this place into a studio. If I have a dedicated space, I think I’ll be more committed to it.”

My mama nods and holds one of the pictures up to the light. “These are good, Angie. And I’m not just saying that because I’m your mom.”

I laugh, but I really do trust my moms’ opinions on art. Plenty of their New York friends, including Uncle Benny, are involved in the art world, and they’ve always filled their home with fabulous pieces done by people they know.

“Thanks. I’m still getting the hang of oil pastels, but I like them. I’m going to finish these up and then do some studies of the birds we saw on Isle North.”

I show my mama a few of the photos I’m planning to use for studies and then she leaves, heading home to get ready for a hike her and my mom are going on tomorrow.

For the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening, I work on my art.

I don’t work with the oil pastels like I said I would, though, and I forget all about the photos of birds that I took. Instead, I become captivated by a shot I took of Carter on the boat. Half of the photo is a close up of one side of his face—baseball cap pulled low, a smile stretching his cheeks, tanned skin glowing in the sun. The other half is filled with a perfect light blue sky, meeting rolling dark blue waves in the middle.

I sketch it out on a pad of paper, drawing the lines of his face carefully and deliberately, trying to capture all of his goodness and light. And then I do it again. And again, shading here and there with charcoal, playing around with the light. I stop for dinner, heating up some of the chili and cornbread that my mama left, and then I start transferring the drawing onto a canvas.

Then, I get to work on the underpainting.

The whole time, I think about what my mama told me about trust, and whether or not I truly trust Carter, and how far that trust extends. I think about finding that place where trust exists because I no longer need constant reassurance of its presence.

And I think about the feeling of unease I felt with Carter. And how it’s not just me who needs to trust him, he needs to trust me as well.

By midnight, the underpainting is done, and I know what I want to do.