A/N: Done! Finished! I have an idea for another one, maybe. Let me know what you think of this one.
She walked into the room with hesitation. She smirked to herself because this was the first thing she had done in the past week that she did with hesitation. John gave her a little shove to move her along and closed the door after them.
The room was big, with high ceilings and hardwood floors. Big windows lined the far wall that made it seem as though the outside was brought inside. The walls were painted a dramatic blue and the white furniture was functional and minimalist. To the left there was a tiny kitchenette separated from the main room by only the countertop.
John led Claire to the white loveseat and placed himself across from her in the chair facing the windows. He leaned across to the coffee table that was separating them and picked up a picture and handed it to her.
When she looked at the picture she saw John with his arm around an elderly woman. And he looked happy. Actually, truly happy. When she looked up at him he seemed sad and pensive. Not a word escaped from her mouth, it was his turn. She had tried everything and this time, it was his turn.
"The woman in that picture was my father's mother." He stated quietly. "A week ago she died from cancer in her lungs." He stopped here, and she reached out as if lending strength. When he put his hand in hers she pulled him beside her in the loveseat. She sat cross-legged then facing him and he continued. "She was one of the only …" He hesitated here and seeming changed his mind. "We were close. This is, was, her place. I used to come here and paint with her and she would tell me all about her life in the wars and how much she loved my grandfather."
"Why did you bring me here, John?" Claire pushed gently.
He sighed dramatically and leaned his head back to the back of the loveseat and spoke. "I guess I just wanted to show you, wanted you to know that my life, my family, is, was, not completely devoid of caring." When he looked his leaned head over at her, she noticed the shadow of a bruise that traced his jaw line. She reached up and touched it and he sighed, pulling away.
"When she died," he continued, "She left me all of this, everything she owned. When my father found out he was livid." He paused dramatically. "I have never seen him like that. And I've seem him angry. That night I packed my bags and swore I would never go back." They sat in silence for moments after, and she smiled thinking she had never heard him say so much since she knew him. He looked over at her and smiled softly as well.
"On Monday I had a meeting with Vernon and the guidance councillor and we all agreed that because this is my second year in senior year and I only have one credit left, that if I went to all my classes and "behaved" I would be "reprieved" of my Saturday detentions." He finished with a snort of laughter and she smiled. She for one was happy that the conversation had lightened.
But the reality of the situation quickly fell upon her and she hated what she had to do. But if she was going to survive another day, she had to do it with no questions, she had to have no doubts as to what the situation was.
"John?" She asked quietly. When he turned his head he had the look in his eyes, silently begging her to give him more time. "John, why did you bring me here?"
He closed his eyes, as if gathering the strength he would need to proceed. "Last week, when I came to see you, I knew she was going to die. I went to see her that night, I knew she wasn't sleeping because of the pain. So I went to go see her, and she asked me to paint for her. She couldn't anymore, she wasn't strong enough but she loved to watch me paint. So, I asked her what she wanted me to paint. 'John, you're such a sad boy' she said, 'Paint me something that makes you happy.' So I did."
He paused and took a couple of deep breaths before continuing "She saw the end result and asked me what I was doing. Why was I pushing happiness away instead of embracing it? Then she told me that they short twenty years she had with my grandfather, was enough love to fill a lifetime. Her lifetime. She didn't need anybody else."
He rose and took her hand leading her to a door, when he opened it, she could see that it was his bedroom. In the middle of the room was a large bed and beside it on the bedside table was a book, "Tartuffe" by Moliere. Claire burst out laughing. John looked at her and realized why she was laughing. "What?" he responded sarcastically "Brian loves his work."
While laughing, Claire noticed an easel covered with canvas in the corner of the room by the windows. She went to is as if drawn to it. When she reached the easel she looked at John who nodded ever so slightly.
She knew when she lifted the canvas that the painting would be of her, but what she saw shocked her. It wasn't the Claire that everybody knew, in her designer labels and carefully drawn on make up. No, this was vulnerable Claire, sitting in her bay window with her brother's rugby shirt on. It was Claire, with no make up, flat hair and boys clothing. And in the painting, she was beautiful.
She didn't know how or when but tears were streaming down her face when he turned her to him. He gathered her into his arms and buried his nose into her hair. "I'm sorry" he whispered "I'm so fucking sorry." He continued, kissing her hair. "I wanted to tell you. I swear to you, I did, but how could I? How could I ever be with you when it would bring you that much closer to him?"
She looked up at him, her eyes beginning to dry when she touched his cheek kissed him. She felt like she had finally come home, and the heat growing in her might just be enough to warm her frozen heart. She pulled away slightly and whispered against his lips "You're not your father."
He smiled softly before saying "And you're not your mother." She nodded slightly before closing the small gap thinking, that with each other, eventually they just might start to believe it.