Eternal [HS]

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Her chest sinks with a heavy exhale.

Despite this being fun, well, for the first hour or two before her body began aching, she hasn't been able to stop thinking about his dislike for his birthday. Some people simply hate birthdays because they truly hate them, or to be a contrarian, but she couldn't help but think there's a deeper reason. The way he looked when he said it...it didn't seem right.

His brows are furrowed, features set in harsh focus on the canvas that he has nurtured for hours, stopping every other minute to set that blazing stare on her and return with a refreshed image of her in his mind. She doesn't want to break his concentration. Doesn't want to pull him out of his groove, and yet, here she is preparing to do so with a personal question he could very well get annoyed with her for asking.

She swallows back the lump in her throat and asks, "Why don't you like people celebrating your birthday?"

His body stills.

There it is. The question she has wanted to ask since last night in the car. It was a buzzing urge that began bubbling up inside of her as they drove home, and she intended to ask it then but didn't want to ruin the night they had with something like this.

Harry resumes his brushstrokes after a second of pause.

"You really want to know?"

The words make her stomach churn. What is it, then?

The reason behind this negative association he clearly has with a day that means celebration for others and sorrowful reflection of past memories for him. It would take someone who lacks every semblance of emotional intelligence to miss the slight strain in his voice too. Even asking her if she wants to know must have pained him, because she can see his face hardening from all the way over here.

She nods, careful to make sure that her body does not move from the placement he put her in.

"Yes."

It took at least thirty minutes of trying and revising before he settled on a position he thought reflected the vision of the painting predetermined in his mind.

His hands, as always, raised goosebumps on her skin where they touched and guided her into the exact place he wanted her. Those kohl-lined eyes looked up at him, lashes fluttering up to meet his gaze, and he wanted nothing more than to capture her beauty. The sensuous curve of her red painted lips, the slope of her breasts that rose and fell with every gentle breath, and the thighs splotched with love bites from earlier in the morning—she was and is a piece of art.

The painting before him is almost finished, and he's working on the finishing touches on some of the shadows of the blankets and pillows beneath her, so he doesn't see an issue with striking up conversation now that the hardest part of the piece is out of the way. It may be a tough conversation to have, but with both the painting and Jo here to steady him, it will not be as unbearable as it once was.

He takes a quick glance at her once more before looking back at the canvas with his brush in place, saying, "Mel died on my birthday."

Her heart might as well have stopped. He doesn't give her the chance to say anything in response either, because he continues before she can.

"It would've been my forty-seventh birthday if I were still human. We were happy because it seemed like she was getting better the night before, but then..." The words aren't as clipped and short as they were a moment ago, and she feels proud of him for having the strength to say it aloud. "I didn't even get to say goodbye or tell her I loved her before it happened. I usually never left the hospital she was staying in, always stayed by her side the sicker she got, but that day I did."