Let Him Have His Moon

Gavin Henson had spent five years as a wildlife painter and collected more awards than I could count.

The year my father lay in the ICU, I begged him to paint one portrait of my dad, something to keep.

He only turned the pen over in his fingers and answered, flat.

Painting people ruins my feel for animals. You can generate one with AI.

I swallowed the heat rising in my eyes, and I never brought it up again, not even after my father died.

Two days ago was the anniversary of his death. I went back to pay my respects, and to tidy the old house while I was there.

And under the cabinet in the study, I found a whole box of sketchbooks.

Fifty of them. Fifteen hundred sheets of paper, and every last drawing was the same woman.

Naomi Sullivan. The copywriter on his team.

Naomi dozing, tucked against a car seat.

Naomi in tears at the sight of an animal cub being taken by a predator.

Naomi sitting on the hood of a car, her face tipped up to the moon.

Every one different. Every stroke fluid.

And in the bottom right corner of the one with the moon, a small line of writing.

"You watch the moon. I paint the moon."

I closed the sketchbook and stood.

I stretched up on my toes and took down the photo from my coming-of-age day, the one of my father and me with Gavin, and I cut him out of it.

Since he'd already found his moon, then I, this dark cloud, ought to clear off too.

...

I contacted a lawyer to ask about divorce, then replied to the design firm's job offer.

I'd just shut the laptop when the keypad lock beeped at the door.

Gavin came in with the waterproof painting pack on his back, damp all over.

Same as always. He kicked his mud-caked boots off in the entryway, dumped several days' worth of clothes on the floor, and tossed the words at me without so much as looking up.

"It's been raining a lot lately, the clothes are all silt and mud, the machine won't get them clean. Scrub them by hand."

Then he headed for the kitchen, saw the cold stove and empty pots, and turned back around.

"Didn't I tell you ahead of time I was coming home?"

I stood, dug a packet of instant ramen out of the snack cabinet, and set it on the table.

"Make it yourself. I don't have time."

He paused.

All these years, whenever he came back, no matter the season, no matter what hour his flight landed.

I always made the dishes he liked, watched him finish, cleared the bowls and chopsticks with quiet satisfaction, and only then went back to my room.

He stared at that packet of ramen, his brows drawing tight.

"Valerie Stanley, you sit around this house all day doing nothing, and you're telling me you don't have time to cook?"

I poured a glass of water and leaned against the counter.

"Even if I had the time, I wouldn't want to."

Gavin pressed his lips together. His gaze landed on the calendar on the wall, on the date I'd circled in red, as if something had just come back to him.

"All because I didn't go see your dad?"

I didn't answer. I set the glass down, tied my hair back with an elastic, and walked toward the bathroom.

He threw the ramen into the trash. His voice dropped low.

"Valerie, I run myself ragged every single day, on edge every waking minute, and I come home to your attitude?"

"Your father's been gone for years. You keep circling around a dead man. What's the point?"

I stopped. I turned to look at him.

"Paying respects a few times on the holidays is circling around him? Then what do you call eating and sleeping out there with someone else every day?"

A low laugh scraped out of Gavin's throat, the look on his face saying he'd known it all along.

"Naomi is my copywriter. If she doesn't travel with me, how is she supposed to write anything that fits my style and my vision? And it's dangerous out there. I can't just leave her to fend for herself, can I?"

He said it while sizing me up, then let his eyes slide away.

"Forget it. You wouldn't understand anyway."

That tone, that expression. I knew them too well.

It was the same face he made whenever someone said they couldn't grasp the composition and the ideas in his paintings.

"Yeah, you're right. She understands."

"Then just tell her everything."

I pulled open the bathroom door, shut it behind me, and a sharp cramp twisted low in my belly.

My eyes landed on the pads in the storage basket, and it hit me that my period was a week late.

I took a pregnancy test from the drawer and tore it open.

Five seconds. Pregnant. Two to three weeks.

My mind went blank.

I stood up slowly and walked out to the living room.

I meant to tell Gavin, but he came out of the bedroom in a fresh, dry set of clothes, his voice gone gentle.

"A leak? The unit downstairs is coming up?"

"Don't be scared, I'm on my way over. Shut the door and stay put."

The woman on the other end had a soft voice, thick with tears and panic.

As he passed me, he tossed off a line without stopping.

"Something came up. I'm heading out for a bit."

I watched his back and swallowed what I'd been about to say.

Right then, my phone buzzed.

I glanced at it. My best friend, Gloria Lyons.

"Val, these past few nights I keep dreaming the apricot tree in front of your old house is heavy with fruit."

"My mom says when the old folks dream of a fruit tree bearing fruit, it's usually a pregnancy dream."

She paused.

"You're not expecting, are you?"

I looked down at my flat stomach.

"Yeah. I am, actually."

"But I'm not keeping it."

"What? Not keeping it?"

"Haven't you always wanted a kid?"

Gloria was stunned.

I looked at the instant ramen in the trash, the mud-caked shoes at the entryway, the clothes stuffed in a bag.

"Gloria, remember the year my dad was dying, how I begged him for one painting, and he said he doesn't paint people?"

"Today's the anniversary of my dad's death. I went back to the old house."

"I found a whole box of portraits he'd painted of someone else."

I let out a soft laugh and shook my head.

"Spending a whole life with a man like that. There's no point."

Seven in the morning, my stomach churning.

I got up out of habit to drink some water and found the filtered water dispenser wasn't running.

Gavin had bought it.

It had broken two weeks ago. I'd told him more than once to have someone come fix it, and he kept forgetting.

Or maybe he'd never once remembered.

I pulled a knit cardigan over my shoulders and got up.

The moment I stepped out of the bedroom, I saw Gavin making breakfast in the kitchen. The smell was a spicy noodle soup.

Naomi was beside him, rummaging through a shopping bag.

"Stop looking."

Gavin turned his head, chopsticks still moving, a curve at his mouth.

"The chicken feet you love are tucked underneath."

Naomi gave a soft little hum.

Gavin smiled and took a cute little bowl from the corner of the cupboard.

That bowl. He'd had it custom-made from an artisan ceramics studio, and the pattern on it was a moon.

The day it arrived, I thought it was for me and was happy about it for a good while.

But he put it back in the box and said, flatly,

"Not for you. It's for something else."

Back then I assumed the something else meant he'd use it for his painting, and I didn't think much of it.

But now he ladled the noodle soup into it and handed it to Naomi.

"Eat at the table, it's too hot in here. I'll fry you an egg."

Naomi took a sip of the broth, her eyes lit up, and she lifted the bowl to his lips.

"Gavin, it's so good, you have a taste too!"

Gavin was cracking an egg into the pan, the oil hissing and spitting up, and he leaned down and took a sip without a second thought.

My hand tightened around the cup, and my thoughts drifted back a few years.

Back then Gavin and I had just moved in together. I'd seen a new spicy noodle soup at the supermarket and bought a pack to try.

Gavin pushed the door open, and I hurried over with a bowl for him to taste.

He clamped a hand over his nose and backed away.

"Valerie, can you not cook this stuff at home?"

"It reeks. Anyone who didn't know better would think the toilet blew up."

I felt hurt, so I carried my noodles out to the balcony to eat.

After that I never bought it again.

But now he'd not only made ithe'd eaten it.

So it wasn't that he wouldn't eat it. He just wouldn't eat it with me.

Footsteps came closer. Gavin carried the little pot in one hand, two sets of chopsticks and spoons in the other.

When he saw me sitting on the couch, his steps hitched.

"Why are you up so early?"

He turned to Naomi.

"Get her a bowl too."

"No need. I don't like it."

I said.

Naomi glanced at Gavin, at a loss.

He frowned.

"Didn't you use to like it?"

"And didn't you use to not like it?"

I leaned back, my eyes settling on that little moon-painted bowl.

"So a minute ago, you liked it again?"

His voice shot up.

"Valerie, first thing in the morning and you're throwing a"

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Henson."

Naomi cut in, her eyes rimmed red.

"When we're on the job, everyone shares one set of dishes to keep it simple. I just wasn't paying attention."

"It won't happen again."

Gavin pulled her over to a chair and sat her down.

"Why waste your breath on her? Probably hit menopause early."

"Just eat. We've got to fly to the northwest after this."

For the next twenty minutes he ladled her soup and passed her napkins.

They talked and laughed about Asian elephant calves trailing the herd, wobbling along clumsily, unable to control their little trunks.

The whole time, I might as well have been invisible.

Not until everything was cleared and they were heading out did Gavin pause at the entryway, look at me for two seconds, and finally close the door.

I knew he was waiting for me.

Every other time he'd left, fight or no fight, I'd given him a kiss.

Told him to be safe.

But this time, I didn't look up.

And he didn't turn back.

He left to chase the next grasslandwith Naomi.

That afternoon I went down to the government services center to apply for a passport.

The moment I got back in the car, my phone chimed. My lawyer had sent the final version of the divorce agreement.

I opened the file, and when I reached the assets page, my finger stopped.

The place we lived in now was bought by my father the year I turned eighteen, registered in my name. It was my premarital property.

When I was three, my mother went out to buy groceries, and a truck lost control and swerved toward a child at the roadside.

She threw herself over him without thinking, shielded that child, and never woke up again.

After that, my father worked without a single complaint, took second jobs, built up something solid for me to stand on.

In his free time, he studied the things I loved and the celebrities I liked, just to close the gap between us.

Through my teenage years, he protected my sensitivities, respected my rebellions, and never once made me feel small.

When he read in my diary that I liked Gavin, he didn't scold me. He encouraged me to work hard and get into the same college as him.

On the day of my coming-of-age celebration, Gavin's parents were in the middle of divorcing, and neither of them showed up.

During the group photos, everyone else had a parent beside them. He stood alone in a corner, a little lost.

My father walked over on his own and asked him to take a photo together.

That one moment brought us closer.

In Gavin's world, I went from a stranger to an ordinary friend.

Later, we really did get into the same college.

He studied art; I studied design.

The city where our school was sat over six hundred miles from home. We made the trip back and forth together and watched a lot of sunsets along the way.

Every time my dad brought me food, there was always a portion for him too.

Over time, we could talk about anything.

Then came my twentieth birthday. After dinner, we were walking along the lake on campus.

He stopped suddenly, turned to look at me, the tips of his ears bright red.

"Valerie."

His voice shook a little. He drew in a deep breath before he managed the rest, holding out his hand to me.

"Do you want to see all the years ahead with me?"

I stood there stunned for a while, then gripped his damp palm hard.

That one clasp lasted eight years.

From our student days to his first award.

To let him focus on his art, I quit my job and worked from home as an independent designer.

When Gavin found out, he held me with his eyes full of gratitude and guilt, and he made a promise.

"Valerie, I'll paint well, and I'll love you well."

With that promise, I was content to give everything.

For eight years, I changed the lightbulbs alone, fixed the pipes, unclogged the toilet, kept his art supplies and first-aid kit in order.

I remembered his parents' birthdays and bought their gifts for him; when his aunt had surgery, I sat by her bed until dawn.

When he was away, I handled every one of his relatives, kept all his social debts and courtesies smoothed over on his behalf.

Little by little, his work got better and better.

The trophies filled the cabinet in his study, and his name grew louder in the art world.

But the part about loving me well, that he never did.

He even thought that my being at home made me an idle person who did nothing.

I was about to reply to my lawyer when the phone rang.

It was Gavin calling.

I picked up, but I didn't ask, the way I always used to, what the weather was like where he was, or when he'd be heading into the wilderness.

After a few seconds of silence, his voice came through, an airport announcement in the background.

"I've landed. If all goes well, I'll be back next Thursday."

"They're known for their drinks and supplements out here. You haven't been sleeping well lately, right? Want me to bring you some saffron or something?"

I pried the little figure engraved with our two initials off the center console, opened the storage box, and dropped it inside.

"No need. I don't want anything."

The other end was quiet for a long time, then the call ended.

Maybe he thought I was being ungrateful, refusing the olive branch he'd held out.

Or maybe he just couldn't be bothered to waste more words on me.

I'd barely started the engine when Gloria's messages came rattling in one after another.

Val, I just came across that woman's video feed, I'm so mad!

Several screenshots in a row, from Naomi's account, updated just two minutes ago.

The caption read: "Fresh out of the oven, my Moon!"

The photo was a candid shot from the side, her leaning against a car window, head tilted, fast asleep.

Beside it was a quick portrait sketch.

Soft lines, nothing like Gavin's usual realist style.

I zoomed in on the image.

There was a reflection on the window glass, but I still recognized the person holding up the phone to take the shot. It was Gavin.

So it turned out he didn't just paint her. He'd also changed his own style for her.

I couldn't stop myself from opening the video app and typing in her account ID.

Under every one of her posts, there were comments.

Teasing from other coworkers on the team, envy and praise from fans.

And one user, with the nickname "S."

This account showed up under nearly every post Naomi made, and the time of the comment was only a few minutes after she uploaded each one.

"Beautiful. Your photography's improved again."

"Don't sneak around on your phone. Get to sleep early."

""

The tone was familiar, the kind of concern only someone very close would show.

I opened her profile. No work posted, but the banner caught my eye. A sunset.

It was from the day Gavin first flew abroad for work. I'd been curled up at home sketching designs when I looked up and saw the sky burning red, and I'd taken a photo and sent it to him.

I'd posted it to my social feed too. Plenty of likes, plenty of views.

Over video call, I'd joked that maybe he should make an account of his own, to record our life together as a working couple.

He'd looked at me, cold.

"An artist stays focused on himself and his work. He doesn't let fast-paced clips push him around."

And now? Now he'd made one.

Something wet and heavy lodged in my throat, and the tears blurred everything.

I tipped my head back and forced them down.

I found the nearest OB-GYN clinic and booked an appointment.

I rested three days, then started packing.

Some of the clothes in the closet I shipped back to my hometown; the rest I packed to take abroad.

The handful of gifts Gavin had given me over the years, I listed on a resale app.

Drafts, books, all boxed and sealed.

Last, I put the house up on a rental app and set a price.

I poured a glass of water and sat down on the couch. Gavin came home, saw the boxes in the living room, and his brow drew tight.

"What are you packing for? You want to go back home again?"

I cupped the glass in both hands.

"Too many clothes. I'm sending some back."

"I told you to stop buying cheap junk. You wear it a few times, then it just sits there. Waste."

As he spoke, his eyes went to the corner.

The dirty clothes and boots he'd dumped on the floor when he came back last week.

He picked up a jacket, brought it to his nose, and his face cooled.

"Valerie, it's been how many days? Why haven't you washed this yet?"

I looked down, took a sip of water, and turned on the TV.

"Not a good time for me."

He blinked, then his voice climbed.

"Since when did you get so precious?"

"You can't even do laundry now?"

I set the glass down and looked at him.

"Right now."

His lips moved, and in the end he snatched up the pile, irritated, and stalked off to the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, he hung the dripping clothes on the balcony, crooked and careless.

That was when the door opened.

"Gavin, I'm here!"

Naomi walked in beaming, two bags of snacks in her hands.

When she saw me on the couch, the smile froze on her face.

"Val... you're home too..."

"How do you know the code to my house?"

I stared at her as I asked.

Gavin heard the noise and came over quickly, taking the snacks from her.

"I told her. The floor in her rental flooded. It won't dry out until tomorrow."

"She's staying in the guest room tonight. I'll set it up."

"This is my house. What gives you the right to let her stay?"

"Valerie, what are you saying?"

His brows knotted.

"So now you're drawing lines between yours and mine?"

"It's just a fact."

"Fine. I'll pay you rent. Happy?"

He pulled out his phone as he said it.

A second later, my phone buzzed. A transfer. Two thousand.

I didn't hesitate. I accepted it, stood, and went into my room.

"Fine."

In the middle of the night, my lower belly cramped in waves.

I got up to take medicine and saw the guest room door standing open.

Gavin and Naomi were eating snacks, watching a variety show on a tablet, laughing now and then.

Their arms pressed close together.

By the time I finished the medicine and turned back to my room, the door had closed.

At eight in the morning, the airline woke me with a call about rescheduling my flight.

I got up in a fog and saw a bowl of clear noodle soup on the table. Naomi was gone.

Gavin came out of the kitchen, looked at me, and his tone softened.

"You look terrible."

"Eat. I just made it. Then go back and sleep a while."

I sat down and looked at the scallions floating on top.

"I can't eat this."

Impatience crossed his face.

"Valerie..."

"I'm allergic to scallions."

Gavin went still, his face going awkward.

"No time to make something else. I'll order you delivery."

He grabbed the keys and started for the door.

"Gavin."

I called him back.

"Do you remember what day it is today?"

He didn't turn around.

"We'll talk this afternoon. The guy installing Naomi's floor is almost there, and she can't handle it on her own, so I have to go supervise."

"I'm off for the next two weeks. I'll have plenty of time for you. Wait till I'm back."

Watching the door close, I murmured to myself.

"Today is our three-thousandth day together."

We'd promised each other that every time we hit another thousand days, we'd spend the whole day together.

Too bad. There was no chance now.

I didn't want to wait anymore.

I called a courier to pick up the packages. Then I laid the signed divorce agreement and the hospital report on the dining table.

On the way to the airport, I cleared my phone of everything from these eight years, everything about him.

Last, I sent him one photo.

Congratulations on finding your Moon. Eight years. They're yours.