Page 33 of The Edge of Always

He goes to talk again, but has a drink instead.

‘What?’ I ask him.

He has another drink.

‘It’s just… Well, I wondered what you made of the message in the corner of the painting?’

‘The answer is always in the art?’ I ask, remembering the sentence in the corner above Earl’s signature. I push my plate away.

‘That’s the one.’

I shrug. ‘You know Earl believed that everyone should be creative somehow. I guess he’s telling people that you should look to art to answer… I don’t know, life’s big questions.’

‘So you don’t think it was a message for you?’

‘For me? Why would it be for me?’

Emmett neatly puts his knife and fork across his plate.

‘Because you’re in the painting. What if it’s a message for both of us?’

I laugh, too loudly in this fancy restaurant.

‘Why on earth would Earl send us a message from beyond the grave?’ For a smart person, Emmett has always had the capacity to be really fucking stupid.

‘Not from beyond the grave. He painted it that last summer, and we had more going on than what happened. I think he knew that we’d find it hard to stay together. Neither of us knew what love was meant to look like.’

His words sting. ‘I wouldn’t have found it hard, Emmett. That was all you.’ My voice is sharp. But even as I say it, I know it’s not exactly true. He’s right: we had other obstacles, so many obstacles.

‘You knew Earl – he saw things.’

Some of the fire goes out of me as Emmett reaches into his pocket and unfolds a neat piece of paper. It has a list on it.

‘What’s that?’ I ask.

Emmett slides it across the table to me.

The Weight of Light

Longing for Human Connection

Montmartre in Motion

The Juxtaposition of Life and Death

The Rubicon

The Edge of Always

‘Why do you have a list of Earl’s final paintings?’

‘These are the ones that are included in the exhibit.’

‘I know that, but why are you showing it to me?’

‘What if Earl wanted us to go to them, the places he painted? What if he saw it as a way to bring us back together?’

‘In Paris? Why would Earl want us to come to Paris? It makes zero sense, Emmett.’