Three weeks had passed since my dinner with Miguel, and we had fallen into an easy routine. He would stop by the gallery during my lunch breaks, bringing sandwiches from the deli down the street. We would sit in the small back room, talking about art and life while I ate. Sometimes he would sketch me while I worked, his pencil moving quickly across the paper as he captured moments I did not even realize were beautiful.
"You have a funny expression when you concentrate," he said one afternoon, showing me his latest drawing.
I looked at the sketch. He had drawn me hanging a painting, my tongue slightly poking out the side of my mouth, my hair messy from reaching up high.
"I look ridiculous," but I was laughing.
"You look real. That is what makes it beautiful."
These small moments with Miguel felt like discovering a new language. With Alex, every interaction had been measured and careful, like walking on glass. With Miguel, I could be messy and imperfect and still feel valued.
Sarah had noticed the change in me too.
"You have been glowing lately," she said as we closed up the gallery that evening. "Whatever you are doing, keep doing it."
"I have been happy, I think. It is a strange feeling."
"Happy looks good on you, Emily. You should try it more often."
That evening, Miguel and I walked through Central Park after dinner at a small Italian place he knew. The sun was setting, casting everything in golden light that made me understand why he loved to paint outdoors.
"I have been thinking about what you said," I told him as we found a bench near the pond.
"What did I say?"
"About entering my wildflower painting in the art show."
His face lit up. "You are going to do it?"
"I think so. It terrifies me, having people judge my work, seeing if it is good enough."
"Emily, your work is more than good enough. You have to trust me on this."
"Why do you believe in me so much? We have only known each other a few weeks."
Miguel was quiet for a moment, watching the ducks swimming across the pond. "Sometimes you just know when someone is special. When they have something real to offer the world."
"What if people hate it?"
"Then they have terrible taste," he said, making me laugh. "Art is not about making everyone happy. It is about being honest, putting a piece of yourself out there, and hoping it connects with someone."
We sat in comfortable silence, his arm around my shoulders, my head resting against his chest. I could hear his heartbeat, steady and reassuring. This felt right in a way nothing had felt right in years.
"Miguel," I said quietly.
"Hmm?"
"I am glad we met."
"Me too."
He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, and I closed my eyes, letting myself feel safe for the first time in so long.
My phone buzzed in my purse. I ignored it at first, not wanting to break the peaceful moment, but there was something insistent about the vibration that made me check it.
The text was from a number I did not recognize.
"Emily, this is Janet, Mr. Reed's assistant. I thought you should know—he has been asking about you. A lot. Please be careful."
My blood went cold. I sat up straight, reading the message again.
"What is wrong?" Miguel asked, noticing my expression.
"Nothing," I said quickly, putting the phone back in my purse. "Just work stuff."
I did not want to think about Alex, not when I was finally starting to feel like myself again. Not when I was with Miguel, who made me feel beautiful and valued and seen.
We finished our walk, and Miguel drove me back to the motel. At my door, he took both my hands in his, looking into my eyes.
"Emily, I want you to know something."
"What?"
"These past few weeks with you have been the best I have had in a long time. You make me want to be better, to create better art, to see the world differently."
My heart was racing. "Miguel..."
"I know you are still healing. I know you are not ready for anything serious. I just want you to know that I am here, for whatever you need, whenever you are ready."
He leaned down and kissed me softly, gently, like I was something precious. It was nothing like the cold kisses Alex used to give me. This felt like coming home.
When we pulled apart, I was breathless.
"Good night, Emily."
"Good night."
I watched him walk away, my fingers touching my lips, still feeling the warmth of his kiss.
Inside my room, I sat on the bed and pulled out my phone to read Janet's message again. Why would Alex be asking about me now? It had been over a month since I left. What had changed?
I typed back: "What kind of questions is he asking?"
The response came quickly: "About joint accounts, about legal separation procedures. He keeps asking where you went. Emily, I have worked for him for five years. I have never seen him like this. He seems almost desperate."
Desperate. Alex desperate about me? It should have made me happy; I should have felt special after three years of being ignored.
Instead, it just made me tired.
I turned off my phone and got ready for bed, trying to focus on the memory of Miguel's kiss instead of whatever crisis Alex was having now.
For the first time in my marriage, Alex's problems were not my problems anymore.
At least, that was what I told myself as I fell asleep.
The next morning, I woke up to someone pounding on my door.
"Emily! Emily, open up! I know you are in there!"
The voice was familiar, sharp, and angry.
It was Vanessa Martinez.