The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Twenty Four

My legs give out immediately and I lower myself to my knees on the floor in front of it. It's not the piece I saw last time I was up here. It looks like he's started again but as I study it closer I realise I'm mistaken. He's simply altered the colouring of the original painting and used it as a kind of background for a collage of smaller pictures of me. Thirty-two in total.

From here, and because of the way the pictures have been developed and placed, I can see the original painting as it looked before and, as I lean closer, I can see each individual picture has been placed just so to make that possible. They're all placed equal distance apart in four rows of eight, slightly pronounced from the original canvas to showcase each image on its own. Each picture is of me in varying lights, poses and moods, and each highlights Aidan's skill with the camera and lighting, and with his subject, me.

It's a stunning piece of work. Contemporary, visually striking, layered and extremely beautiful. I can actually see past the fact that it's me and accept that it's a piece of art in its own merit that would look incredible hanging in an art gallery, or in the dining room or bedroom at home. Then I remember that I don't currently have a home. I literally have no clue where I'm going to hang this incredible, breathtaking piece of contemporary art which I now owned. I don't care. It's the least of my concerns.

This is mine. This is me. By Aidan.

Glancing at the bottom right corner of the large canvas I see his scrawl. And on my knees, I move myself a little closer to read his signature, as well as the title which is, of course, his message for me:

Eloise: A redefinition.

The envelope in my hand seems to get heavier and warmer, and I flip it over to tear it open carefully, my heart feeling overworked and strained as I rip at the thick paper. It's a rough creamy white postcard-sized card, with his name and an address in London embossed in a stylish light grey font at the bottom.

I read it five times until I can't see anymore from the tears.

His formal tone is painful. Physically and heartbreakingly unbearable. But the words. What he's saying can't be true. It isn't... possible. It couldn't be. He didn't. I don't understand. I can't breathe. I can't stop crying.

When I hear a noise at the top of the stairs my head whips up and the tears dry up almost instantly.

"Do you like it then? You've been up h—." Patrick's words die on his lips as his expression transforms into one of shock. He rushes toward where I am on the floor. Raising myself up, I wipe the back of my hand over my face. 

"Did you know?" I ask, not bothering to hide my accusing tone. He looks confused as he glances down at the card in my hand. I don't hesitate to hand it to him, no intimate words of love or affection in it. Only a life-shattering revelation. It's the most devastating thing I've ever read. I feel sick. I need to stop throwing up in Aidan's studio. Though I guess it isn't his studio anymore.

I watch Patrick's face as he reads the contents, as Aidan's words reflect across his eyes and mouth. When he's finished he looks up at me in shock, slightly embarrassed. 

"Fuck sake Aidan," he mutters with a shake of his head.

"Tell me it's not true. Tell me he's not saying what I think he's saying. Please, Patrick."

Patrick looks apologetic as he hands me back the card. "I'm sorry." Is what he says.

"How? How is it even possible? I mean, it doesn't even make sense." 

Nothing makes bloody sense. Why wouldn't he tell me? Patrick says nothing. He just shifts on his feet and continues to look awkward, scratching the back of his head, avoiding my eyes.

"I thought he might have told you himself. I told him to, but not like that, fuck sake," he gestures toward the card.

"So why didn't he?" 

"How the hell do you tell someone that? He probably didn't have a clue how to," he suggests. "He's been in love with you for thirteen years, Eloise."

I can't breathe again. "What?" In love with me? Aidan's in love with me.

He lets out a breath. "He's been bonkers about you since he was eighteen. Since the first time you sat down in front of him. Everything he's ever done, ever created, ever dreamt about has been inspired by how he feels about you. He's insanely in love with you. Like honestly, you've no fucking idea," he smiles rather awkwardly.

Everything goes entirely quiet. I can't hear the normal New York traffic, or most concerning, I the sound of my own heart thumping anymore. How could he not tell me? What reason could justify his not telling me? I touch my hand to my forehead which feels hot and clammy and then to my mouth to check I'm still breathing.

"I...can't. I don't understand," I whisper.

"He should have told you. I told him to fucking tell you," Patrick mumbles.

I turn to stare at him open-mouthed. My legs are threatening to collapse under me and my breathing still isn't doing what it should be doing. My stomach is threatening to empty itself onto the floor of the studio which isn't Aidan's anymore. My whole life seems to crystallise into one single point. Like in the last few moments I've developed tunnel vision and the only thing I can see at the end is him. It's accompanied by anger. At him.

Why didn't he bloody tell me? He never once said he loved me. Not once. His moods and intense looks and long periods of thought were about some long shared history that I couldn't bloody remember. How was that fair? He'd had this beautiful lasting memory of me without my knowing?

It's like a slap in the face — his persistent bloody memory. I can't lose you again. How obvious it all is now. I don't know who's the bigger idiot, me or him. I was here, for him, for us, without knowing how he felt about me. He'd held onto some idea of us for over a decade and then just walked away because I asked him to.

No, he wouldn't have given up that easily. Surely not.

"I need to go to him," I say finally. My voice is stronger than I expect. I feel physically stronger too, more solid. 

Patrick studies my face, looking wary. Looking frightened for Aidan I think.

"I love him, Patrick —I'm in love with him. I need to go to him."

Patrick smiles, not the sad one he'd given me frequently since I arrived, but a relieved one. He moves and puts an arm around my shoulders and lets out a tired breath. "I fucking swear you two are going to kill me one day, honestly. Crazy fucks the two of you," he says as we walk towards the stairs. "Well, you should probably know about the day in the cafe. That fucking cafe has haunted him more than anything I reckon."

"What day in the cafe?" I ask, glancing towards Aidan's piece of me resting by the wall.

I'm not sure what happens first. That I see the picture of me sitting on the window of the lake house, my reading glasses on and my hair tied up on the top my head, or the image popping into my mind of a day thirteen years ago. Except it isn't just an image though is it? It's a memory.

It's a memory of a boy with incredible large grey-blue eyes and a soft-accented voice telling me he knew me.

And he did know me. Every inch of my body and every crevice of my soul. He always had. He loved me. Persistently he had loved me.

I needed to hope he still did so I could love him back.