The plane ride isn't that long. It takes five hours to leave his whole life and everyone he loves, Harry discovers. He's bitter about it for more than a few minutes. It seems like it should take longer or be more painful, at least more uncomfortable.

The worst part about the entire day is that he's really too tall for the seats and he wound up by the window, so he's folded in half, and if he were a glutton for punishment he could look out the window and watch his world get further and farther away, smaller and smaller.

He's a glutton.

Always has been. His mum loved to tell this one story about him discovering the chocolate-covered biscuits when he was about two years old and eating them until he wretched in the pantry. He was supposed to be napping. She had been.

"Did you eat all the biscuits Harry?" She would've laughed at his solemn response if she wasn't trying to get him to fess up, she'd explain.

"No Mummy!" He shook his head and folded his brown-covered hands together. His face had been covered in chocolate too.

"And then he'd said, 'I don't feel good' and he tossed up all the cookies from the package on my feet. His stomach felt better then," Anne would conclude, and whomever she was sharing the story with would be rolling with laughter.

As such, Harry sat with the shade up and bit his lip hard to keep the tears at bay. It wouldn't due to have to be comforted by the flight attendant, the blonde one was already giving him the eye.

He wanted no one's eye. He didn't want anybody to look at him. He felt fragmented, like his whole life, self was in pieces, and if anybody looked long enough they would see it.

This was the hardest thing he had ever done. It was out of character, actually. Harry knew he was selfish with his affections. Not that he kept them to hisself, just the opposite. He poured them out like a waterfall months after record snowfall. When he loved someone, he loved them so ardently, he overwhelmed them. Drowned them in affection. He'd chased Ethan away with it. The need to be loved the same way.

Ethan, he had his own reasons he couldn't.

And Jo had too. Always had. And her reasons were valid, but she danced and swam and rose like a mermaid in his deluge anyway. It was why he thought they might be forever, pushed for it. He wasn't too much for her, he was just enough, or almost enough.

So, leaving, that wasn't his style. He held on until he was pushed away.

He was certain Jo would have gotten there. He'd been watching her wrestle with it. Her eyes were swollen, a lot, though he rarely caught her crying when they weren't making love.

That was a knife to his heart. God, the memories of being with her were what fueled his fire most days, the chance to do it again. That changed towards the end. He loved when she let go, let him in. But she was hurting, and couldn't hide it when he was inside her. He remembered her being radaint, but to see her in anguished pleasure rather than rapture? He wasn't sure how long he could have done that.

Jo was in famine. Women are stronger than men though, and he knew her endurance would have carried her to the end. The end of her.

And that was unacceptable. He couldn't let her waste away. He was biting his hand now, staving it off. Harry knew the exact moment he had to go. He'd told her, tried to say in words, the inadequate parcels they were, how much he loved her. He'd meant it as a balm, but she'd broken open over it. 'I love you, more than anything.'

The selfish little boy inside him, who just wanted to be first, be loved more than anything, preened, tried to grow.

But Harry thought about those words the entire way back to his place, while the water beat down on him his tears mingling seamlessly, through the tasteless sandwich he choked down, and through his studio doors.

There he sat and couldn't channel the feelings through the tip of his brush. His eyes had predictably followed Jo's lead. They kept wandering over the silhouette he had of her. He loved the perfect proportions of her face, the upturn of her nose and gently ridges of her lips, strong landscapes of jaw and cheekbone. He kinda hated how strong those were right now. He loved her face, all of her, but it was not the time to fill her in. They were still here.

But they weren't, it was different, he could feel it.

It was like auto writing, auto painting? He was possessed it seemed. He'd filled in the silhouette before he could stop himself. Her pink lips and cream cheeks and hazel eyes. Her hair like a galaxy bar, rich and lush. He added all the proper details, because he knew them so well, stood back and stared at his work.

It was wrong.

It looked like her, but it wasn't. It niggled him through the cup of tea he had and the sandwich he jammed together. He wandered back into the red room and stared. Harry looked sideways and caught sight of one of his most precious possessions.

Their valley, their bit of gold at the end of their journey, was in his hands and he was struck by the difference.

There wasn't any gold. That was what was wrong with the picture before him.

Harry tore through all of his recent work, the women, woman he'd found. She always had a little gold.

Jo was always golden in his conception.

Except what he had done that day. Because little by little, day by day, since that horrible night when Ethan had discovered them and laid bare his lie, Jo was tarnishing.

Harry knew it wasn't because she loved him any less, but because she loved him so much she couldn't let go.

Harry sat in the floor and cried.

He couldn't steal her gold, she was wrong, she didn't love him most. And trying to was nicking a bit of her gold little by little. It had taken the false painting to realize it.

And Harry knew what he had to do. He fished out his fellowship paperwork, called his mum, and booked a flight, all before he could think better of it. If he hadn't already committed himself to the path of sacrificial love, he knew he would happily jump her claim again and again. She would let him.

They'd never loved anybody like this before.

And that was why he had to go.

So now, here he was trying not to cry on a one way flight to a new life. One he dreamed of and loathed. Now he would not be flying back to familiar territory and moving into her loving arms with plans for a future.

The future, fuck, he hoped she had cancelled her fertility appointment, thinking about it made his chest ache, and he couldn't imagine that reminder call would be easy for her. The reminder of further loss.

Though maybe she would be relieved.

That didn't dull the ache in his chest. It remained until the pressure in his ears was just a bit more uncomfortable during the descent.

The first week is a blur. He'd taken no time to set himself up in Montreal besides with the fellowship. Harry had spent all of his energy liquidating his life in Manchester.

He'd been able to sublet his apartment for the summer, that was a lucky break through the art department, a grad student was coming in for a late summer work study and had no accommodations.

It was the only part about it that had been easy. He was a lovely guy, Tom was, and he gave Harry a once over he'd come to recognize. It chilled his skin, though there was nothing wrong with Tom, except he wasn't Jo. Harry wondered how long that would last. That even a moment's flirtation would scald him.

He had no basis to comparison here.

Tom needing a place and taking over the lease was the last easy thing he'd done.

He'd done all of the packing up, and carrying boxes and giving stuff to the local charity on his own. Robotically and methodically working most days. He'd moved things into his mom's attic, and his old room. He figured he'd probably be back here in seven months, unless he could avoid that. Bless him, he'd try, he didn't think he could be so close to Jo again, least not without hanging round her stoop hoping to catch a glimpse of her shimmer.

He'd have to go somewhere else. He decided to call Ukraine as soon as he got there. He'd been accepted there as well. maybe he could go there after Montreal? And after that, who knew, maybe Milan. Jo had mentioned that once.

He'd get lost among the boxes, while he was packing them, because she was everywhere in all of his things. Always in his sight line, mind's eye. In his impure imagination.

Harry imagined it would be even harder for Jo, they spent so much more time at hers.

When he found the flash drive, he broke down for a day. He hadn't thought about it in months. Bigger issues had reared their heads, and they'd never even watched it together. He should delete it for her.

After.

He'd do that after he could watch it. He wasn't sure when that would be. A long time gone. He put it in the secure pocket of his laptop bag, where he had kept his portfolio flash. There it would be safe. He'd keep her safe, but he'd keep her.

Harry didn't do much of anything for the rest of that day. He put together a half-hearted load and went to his mum's. She didn't ask, he knew she'd guessed. Why else would he be leaving in such a rush? She'd made him a pie and tea and they'd shared a blanket on the couch. She'd even let his tears go by without mention, but not without sympathy.

The next morning, he'd looked around at the boxes in his room, pulled up his ticket and realized he had way too much to do and not enough time to do it. He asked him mum for help.

Selling the van was the last thing, the last physical reminder, besides his work, which he wasn't taking. Only the pieces he'd shipped at the beginning of summer for the student kick off show.

The guy he sold it to, Harry thought he may love her well enough. He looked excited about it, and he talked animatedly about all the festivals he's could go to now. Even getting a ferry to do a few on the continents. His enthusiasm made it a tiny bit easier to let it go.

"I'm gonna go check the glove compartment, just make sure I got it all, alright?" Harry had asked and Liam, the buyer, had told him 'sure'.

He checked the box, he knew it was empty, but he mostly stared at the front seat and saw her singing The Aces with him, top of her lungs and glow of spring on her face. He didn't look back at the bed.

He couldn't miss that, mourn that, wasn't even ready to think about how she melted in his arms and became his gold standard.

He held the steering wheel, whistled "Your lovin is Bible." And rolled his lips in, closed his eyes and let a few feelings slide down his face.

"Did you find it?" Liam asked when Harry got himself together enough to hop down.

"Huh?" Harry asked, a bit like a spun up top.

"Whatever you needed from the glove? Figured must have found something, you took awhile."

"Oh, um, Yeah, yeah. I found what I was looking for." And may never find it again.

And then it was getting on the flight and his mum at the security line to say goodbye. He'd cried, like when he was five and he found the dead bodies of the hatchlings in the tree outside the window where he liked to eat breakfast. Harry soaked his mother's shoulder, and she held him.

He was gonna miss her.

Both of them.

His mom didn't say much, a couple sentences, "I love you, I'm so proud of you, and you are going to take over the art world." Then she cupped his chin and her eyes misted while looking at his shattered face. "I'll keep an eye on her, yes?"

And he'd shook his head then nodded and kissed her cheek, dashed the wetness from his face and got to the metal detectors. His face was still red when the safety belt light went off and he went to the loo. His eyes were mostly dry now though they were crimson round their edges. He wasn't sure why he was doing this. If it was the right thing, why did it hurt so bad?

But then he thought about Jo, crying as brokenly because she loved him just as bad, and he knew it was the right thing.

But all the distracting gigantic feelings, the great breaking heart in his head and chest, meant he landed flat footed. Unprepared and I researched. He landed somewhere, a hostel he found on maps. He still got up and walked everyday once he'd slept off his minor fatigue. Mostly because a hostel was not an ideal place to sleep in or wallow in your own pain. The French and Portuguese voices startled him out of his jet lag the first morning and each one after that. It was noon in his new city, but way later in the place his heart remained. He was just about to convince himself to get out of bed, find the toilet and a shower, he was almost there, his brain could overcome his leaden limbs, it could, when the shampoo bottle hit his funny bone and clattered to the floor. "Excusei-moi!" The guy was grinning like it was funny and Harry supposed it was, at least a little bit. He just couldn't laugh.

It got him moving though. He felt around in his day bag, the one not in storage at the university til he found a more permanent place, with just the essentials until he found the cylinder with his shampoo and its matching bottle. He couldn't find the energy to dig for his soap, he'd just use the shampoo. It was a good thing that his toothbrush was in a pocket with the toothpaste alone. No digging around. He figured the people he'd have to speak to today would appreciate that. His attempts at self care.

Harry might have cried in the shower if it wasn't communal, and the French chick from the same group as the boys rooming in with him hadn't have come in. Though it might have been helpful, she eyed him so much, he had to wash his conditioner out facing the wall so he felt less self conscious. He heard her moan a little and skedaddled out of the shower with a very British "sorry." As though he had interrupted her shower and wank, and she hadn't done it too, fuck, he guessed, seduce him. What the fuck. He needed to get out of his place. He'd known that right away, that what he'd come for and what everybody else was here for, gap year adventures versus broken hearted endeavors, were different. He had more plans than a shower shag and food.

The first day though, he wandered, he wasn't sure what his plans were. Where to go. He'd done zero research. On his own.

Harry had imagined one night after he snuck over when Zoe was sleeping, they could lay on her bed and he could lay his head on her ass and give her the phone or they could dog-ear a Fromer's guide together and her excitement would infect him.

"They have a Barbie exposition, lover," he could hear the tuneful laugh of her voice. "I demand you take a picture with the gaudiest one. I need you to copy the pose."

And he would have done. But instead, he left, and broke his own heart to save hers. He lived on coffee, from the corner shops that felt like hipster Paris-cum-lumberjack and found himself in the old city.

It was beautiful, and inspiring. And lonely. He was alone. He sniffed back the emotion and pulled out a sketch book and put her face on the door of the castle like fort before him.

He needed to paint, and for that he needed a place.

The next day, he went to the University to search the boards for roommate posts. He knew he could search online, but after living in the dorms with non creative types, he wanted to live with someone who may occasionally wake him up at 3am painting. They'd understand.

He made three appointments for the next day.

He woke up that morning at 3am, not to paint, and at first he figured it was from his roommates. He laid quiet, expecting to have to pretend to be asleep through clumsy stumbles or drunken moans. He heard a few yeti footfalls, then a rustle quickly followed by snores. Harry expected to fall right back asleep, but his stomach rolled and he wondered how much beer he had drank, or perhaps it was the food. He doubted it was the bagel, maybe the smoked meat. He rushed to the bathroom and hunched over the toilet.

And nothing happened.

Eventually, after a hour on the linoleum floor and half an hour in the narrow bottom bunk he fell back to sleep.

The next day, he found a room with another university student, Rene, who was a photographer. He talked about how Harry's would photograph multiple times, and Harry thought maybe he got the spare room, and use of the drying area to paint because Rene wanted him as a subject.

That was ok with Harry until he'd mentioned that he would sit for Harry too. That knocked him in the gut and took him to the other side of the ocean.

He woke up again that night at 3am and was looking so forward to moving into the apartment. It was funny, he was starting to feel guilty for how he'd been with his first year roommate. Harry didn't think he had been noisy when he'd stayed up late painting. However, he couldn't even pinpoint what had woken him up the night before. There may have been a rustle, but the occupied beds were full.

Moving day was relatively easy. He'd sold most everything so he had a modest amount of clothes and he'd need to furnish his new space here. There was a bed and a dresser in his new room. So he only needed linens and a lamp. And painting supplies. He'd have to pair down what he would usually buy.

The easel and paint tubes and cans were heavy and he felt the bruise blooming on his thigh. There was a store walking distance, that was a smart business owner. He figured he would have more to show for it by the end of the day. He sets himself up, gets on the stool, and then just stares.

Harry's surprised he doesn't paint right away, he had so much to convey as it was weeks since he's been to the canvas, but he could feel her forming, at his horizon, and as much as he wanted to think on her face, the curves of her body and edges of her bones, he was not ready.

He needed a new subject.

Instead, when he couldn't sleep, no matter how tired he was, he found himself writing to her in his journal. He told her all about Montreal. What his life might be like.

It was not real if she didn't know.

And he was lonely, in a way he, who has felt alone for much of his life, had never felt. He was fruit cut from the vine. He'd never felt more connected and fulfilled than with her.

Harry wondered if she was feeling just as lonely. He knew she wasn't alone, but Zoe, who he missed like an ache too, wasn't exactly a conversationalist. And Ethan, he wonders if Ethan was talking to her at all. He felt bad he'd taken the pedestal Ethan always placed her on out from under her too. Ethan always saw her as some kind of super woman. He saw his mom the same, but it was different to be right next to somebody doing that job. He knew she wasn't superhuman, she was strikingly flesh and blood, just doing her best.

The work was hard to. He could tell by her response when he helped. She was so grateful when he tried. She'd never ask him for help, but when he did things, the dishes, or cooking, or laundry, or looked after Zoe, it was such a obvious blessing, her relief and gratitude would emanate from her pores. She needed a partner, him. Every time she gave him that smile of gratitude, and laughed without covering her face while he joked with her, he wanted to do more. She needed rest.

He imagined she was lonelier. Jo had been left. He had a whole new world to learn and construct, while she lived her days in the rooms they had shared. The kitchen where he made waffles, the couch where they watched movies, the ottoman where he and Zoe play, the bed where the made love. She was surrounded in memory. He envied her.

He missed her and felt sorry. So he started another letter, the first night in his new place and it was more conversational than the defense he'd sent after writing it on the plane. He had to write his reasoning for leaving, and defend her to her. If the children of single mothers keep them on a pedestal, the parent themselves only saw faults. Jo must be feeling riddled with them now, a dirt road after a storm. He wanted to remind her of her gold, she deserved a pedestal, a soapbox at least.

He'd fallen asleep while telling her a bit about Montreal, a recap of buying his supplies and finding things out about his new community. He was exhausted, he'd not slept well, or deeply since his jet lag wore off, and maybe now with a private room, he could sleep through, all night, and wake up refreshed, sad. It was horrible to wake up sad and tired. He sat his journal to the side and wondered if he would rip out the page and send it or transcribe the words as he nodded off.

He came awake running his hand over his aching chest and feeling like he was on the verge of tears in the early morning hours. The apartment was quiet. Harry sat very still and opened his ears wide to listen for the cause of his disturbance. There was nothing, the only things he could hear were his own breath and muffled street sounds. His heart wasn't pounding, and he was cool. So, no nightmare. He pulled his phone out and checked the time, did the mental calculation of the time in England.

Early morning, sun up, when Jo liked to rise from bed.

It was that thought that really woke him up. All those wee hours on the cusp between one day and another when he searched for a disturbance, he hadn't looked at his heart.

Jo was awake, and she was hurting. His heartbeat stuttered on its own rather than in sympathy and he jerked his head.

She was up. And she was sad and like they had been since he had first touched her and known real connection, he could feel her feelings, feel her. So Harry was up and his chest ached, because an ocean away she was missing him so fiercely her grief woke him from a dead sleep. And had done for nights on end.

He wanted to text her, while that special morning solitude she loved was broken by sobs. He hated that she was crying at dawn.

They loved well at sunrise. There were mornings when he'd drag her back to bed with him. He'd lavish her with kisses and touch all of the skin left bare from the night. Jo would make noises like he'd ruined her plans, then she would make noises that told him she was glad of it. Other mornings, she'd either slip from their sheets without him noticing, or he'd go with her, and help make tea, and they'd watch the sun rise. Jo'd share a chair with him at his insistence.

"There are plenty of places to sit, Lover. No need to be on top of each other."

He'd dimple and she'd scrunch her gorgeous nose at him and go easy down into his lap. Jo would cradle her cup, warm her hands on it, and try to get comfy without hurting him. Her edges were more acute when she sat in the wooden chair with him. He loved those too. The little thigh bruises from her sit bones, the marks she left on his skin.

And while the sun rose on those mornings, they'd stay close to one another, and no matter how scared she was or what obstacle was between them, in front of them, she'd look light and close her eyes while the day opened. He saw her love their possibilities right then.

He wished he had gotten up with her every morning.

It felt to him now that she was mourning their lost expectations.

They'd been so close.

Harry felt the tears on his cheeks before he recognized he was crying. He rolled into the pillow and let the water carry him back to fitful sleep.

He finished the letter and told her he could still feel her the next morning.

It was months later that he stopped waking up in the middle of the night to her crying half a day away. That first full night of sleep was an accident. He'd been ruining himself, engaging in behavior he hadn't seen since he was a first year university student. Not so long ago really, but he was another person there.

It started with his first get together with his cohort. The classroom was like any other, Harry wasn't sure what he was expecting.

He got his answer halfway through, when Paul, the facilitator, started pulling out beautiful artwork and placing it around the room. Harry felt his skin heating when his came out, it was Jo, the crux of her and florals and the woman beside him gasped. Then Paul announced, "Now stand by your work, and introduce yourself, but through your painting. Your subject or inspiration, or raison de etre."

Harry was at a loss, how did he describe himself without Jo? How did he describe the painting without feeling like he was going to rip out his helpless heart, and show all of these people it. This was a level of vulnerability he had not signed up for.

And then he watched people open themselves up to a room of strangers in a way he didn't understand but felt deeply. What if you could hear a master describe his why, when he was finding it? This was an opportunity.

"Um, I use found objects, well, I guess because I always felt a bit useless, like I didn't belong where I was. So using something like that, in my work, giving it purpose, was like justifying my own existence, every time, until I didn't need to anymore. And I could just look for the beauty of a piece found."

That was a tall blonde man named Clay. Harry really loved his work, it was the one he was most drawn to when the pieces were put up. Harry was inspired, but could still taste the sweat on his upper lip.

The vulnerability, how beautiful. It should be repayed.

Did he bring up Jo, could he say her name? Shit, he hadn't heard the last woman, Char? That was embarrassing. And then he realized the whole room was looking at him. His turn.

"Um, I'm Harry, I'm from Manchester, kind of, that's in England." He stuttered through the easy part and bit his lip. He might shut down, he was more nervous than when he'd told Jo about being bisexual. Harry could feel eyes on his face, lots of them, and his chest was rising faster than he liked, sure they could see it, his eyes rose and hit Clay's reassuring smile.

When he dipped his chin in a go on motion, Harry found some words. "Um, I used to always paint landscapes, and um, I guess I still do, sort of, but um," he exhaled. "I, I fell in love with, well, a person who was the best and worst choice at the same time. And I started painting her into my landscapes and um, I found a way to paint skin that people liked. This one," he gestured without looking, couldn't look, "Was the first time I painted her on purpose." His eyes scanned around and Clay was smirking, but kindly and for just a moment Harry smiled a little too. He supposed it was funny that the first time he painted her on purpose was her vulva. "Now, I'm looking to learn new things, find new...."

Oh god, what would he paint now? "Inspiration." That came out soft. That was definitely on par for vulnerability he thought.

He'd been near the last, and the exposure section, it loosened everybody in his cohort up. It was good, an effective way to get them all talking. Not long into their dismissal, in which everybody walked around and looked at each other's paintings rather than hurling out like everybody did in undergrad. Harry found himself near Clay's abstract piece puzzling over what parts were found objects. Clay wandered to him, and extended his hand.

"Hey, I'm Clay, and um....." he looked around and his clear awkwardness in this moment made Harry feel better at his own. "So, you got a place already? I'm in a hostel and hate it. But I don't know how to go about finding a place and don't speak French, think it'll be a problem? I'm glad this is in English, the group meetings, though I suppose it makes sense."

Harry finally laughed and put his hand on Clay's shoulder to slow him down. "Um, yeah," his hand dropped and Clay let his shoulders go down too. "I've been here about a month. I was in a hostel too, and it was a nightmare, so I used the boards here and they were helpful, and my roommate speaks English. So there's that." He shrugged.

Clay was just about to speak again when Char put her hands around her mouth. "Let's go find a drink, mates!"

Harry didn't want to go, but Clay just shook his head at him and said, "You're coming."

"I'm not really up for it, honestly." He wasn't, he wanted to go home, and..... well, be sad and miss Jo he guessed.

"Look, I know we just met, but you look like you just got kicked in the chest by a horse. Going home and moping is not a good look, unless you are planning on washing your hair." He deadpanned, "No? Oh well, then drinking with your new friends it is."

"Friends sounds a stretch." Harry actually kind of laughed.

"Well, we'll never know which ones are dipshits unless we try." He leaned in and put his hand up like he was telling a secret. "I suspect Char is a ball buster not taking no for an answer."

Sure enough, Char came over then and pushed them toward the door, Harry nearly stumbled over his Bambi legs it caught him so off guard.

It was that night Harry saw a glimpse of a life in Montreal. It wasn't the one he imagined, there were no nights he'd need to rush home to FaceTime Jo, or weekends she may fly in, and he had already told him mum he wanted to do Christmas here. But it could be good. Clay seemed a likely friend. That was something.

Montreal could be good if he let it.

It was also the night he picked up a bad habit, if he was drunk when Jo woke up, he didn't notice or slept through her pain.

He didn't want to feel what he did to her. He was already feeling what it did to him. The numbness was great.

He did it more than was healthy.

He only happened to be sober one night and woke up to the sun rather than a sore stomach not to do with alcohol. He sighed in relief and wrote her a letter over coffee. She'd slept, thank God.

He stopped stumbling in from the pub too, and Clay, his erstwhile partner in crime, but really keeper, seemed relieved when he stopped drinking like it was his job to forget.

They had conversations, Clay and Harry, about their life. Shared their torturous coming out stories.

"My grandparents disowned me, and my dad is like waiting for me to grow out of it or something, which I don't know how to tell him I've never had a sexual thought about a girl, but my mom, my mom has been damn near perfect. She didn't even cry, just looked at me like, well, yeah, but she took my hand and let me cry."

Harry had nodded, "Mum's, I think they usually just feel sad we didn't talk to them." And his eyes filled up thinking about another mum who felt that way, and who he was glad everyday her son waited so long to tell, guilty too.

Clay cocked his head but didn't ask. Just sat a tiny bit closer, his shoulder offering comfort where words were heavy.

He didn't ask while Harry drowned his sorrows, or when Harry showed him the paint shop, or when they went scavenging at a park after an event for pieces for Clay's art.

He waited until Harry's dark circles cleared, and he was painting again. That had been hard. To be a painter learning about painting, uninspired to paint. Thankfully, it was a creative group. They seemed to understand. And the assignments, they eventually got done. When Harry could paint. It was in a frenzy, and he'd started again, with Jo, his home base, but he'd done one of Clay recently. That was good, he could paint somebody besides her. He didn't know that.

They were sitting in the coffee shop after a peer critique day. Harry had gone first, and he'd barely stuttered, talked pretty confidently, but didn't say her name. Though he thought he could.

"So," Clay said as he sat down. "Did she stomp on your heart, or did you destroy her?" Months of curiosity in the short sentence.

"I'm sorry," Harry was reeling. He'd really just decided that he was feeling better, he wasn't carousing to avoid feeling her dawn wake ups and he slept himself, and he'd painted, he could paint.

"Your girl, woman. The one you paint all the time. I'm assuming it's over. You looked like a revenant when you got here. Like a shade of a human. People look like that after they've lost something they still want. I figured she'd done it for a long time, but you never paint her like she was the villain. I've given you a long time, I thought you might be able to talk about it by now. I know they say start at the beginning. But they are wrong, so, how'd it end?"

Harry choked on air for a minute, "I, I left, because I was hurting her." He took a big sip of his drink to ease the dry fire in his throat.

"You cheating? You don't seem like a liar." Clay pulled his head back. "Damn, ok you weren't cheating on her. Then what's the story morning glory?"

The words built up on the tip of Harry's tongues like eager lemmings. They all wanted to come out. He looked at Clay. They'd been friends right away. Harry would have avoided human contact in general had it not been for Clay. His friend had opened him up and Harry was grateful, Montreal, he would have missed the experience if Clay hadn't encouraged him, befriended him, looked out for him. He decided to trust him.

"Um, Jo, her name is Jo. She, well, god I don't even really know how to explain it. I guess the short version is that she was my best mate's mum, and she taught me to paint. I always thought she was lovely and liked being at her house, around her. But when I got older, like at University, it was different. Suddenly she was like the sexiest woman I'd ever seen and she seemed into me. So I pursued her, or well, more I couldn't stay away from her and she, god, she wanted me the same, but by this time she was also my professor and advisor." At this Clay whistled. And Harry looked up at him from under his brows. "Did I mention that her son, Ethan and I had been together at college, secretly"

"Jesus, ok, so she chose her son over you?"

"No, we fell in love, like, god, I don't even know how to explain how we were together. I'm better on paper." He leaned back in his chair and let his hair fall back and he thought about their birthday, a couple months away. He didn't know where he'd be in February, but he hoped nowhere near Manchester or he would be on her doorstep. He figured he'd need to be blackout drunk that day so he wouldn't call the number he knew by heart. "It's not even like we were puzzle pieces, or some other trite comparison. Maybe, maybe she was like Earth and I was the moon, her gravity gave me purpose and I gave her tides."

"That's very poetic, you romantic fool." Clay laughed and Harry couldn't help but smile. That was fair.

"Yeah, a fool is right. I wanted her to be my wife, have my baby, everything, but how did we tell her son, how did I tell her about her son and I? I um, I did, I did lie about that.." he looked up and Clay wasn't aghast, just waiting with a blank expression. "I really thought if I talked to him first, if he saw us together he would understand and it would all work out. Because I wanted it so bad, and fuck, the universe owed me love."

Clay interrupted him, "The universe owes you nothing, that bullshit about it conspiring to give you what you want? Lies, the universe is just trying to keep going on. But I'm assuming he wasn't ok with it when you told him?"

"We never got a chance. He caught us in bed together—"

"Holy shit!"

"Yeah, and it was just as awful as you think. I figured it was over then, but like I said, we moved to each other like gravity, but being with me, when Ethan hated it." Harry looked up at him. "Little by little, everyday she was sadder, sicker." He swallowed and thought about her face when she confessed her love, like a curse. "I had to go. That's why I already was set up here when the fellowship started. I came early." Harry looked up then and Clay's jaw was dropped. It was quiet for longer than comfortable. Maybe it was more shocking than he gave it credit for.

"Well, damn. That's a story." He whistled again, waved over the waitress for another round. "Have you talked to either of them." He asked after giving them both a moment.

He shook his head. "I, um, I can't. If I talk to her and she sounds sad or she asks, I'll get on a plane—"

"Still?" Clay boggled.

He just shrugged. That was true that day, and for a lot of days that passed. He still would wake up on her side of the bed in the night on his own, without her accompaniment and hug the pillow where she should lay. That went on for years, though he is better in time.

There's this one day, he's downtown with his cohort, touring public art pieces and there's the 3-D face of a woman that he almost touched. He woken up the night before, for the first time in at least a month, his breath thready and chest aching.

He'd been in Montreal for six months and he'd felt so much better since he talked to Clay.

Harry needed Jo to get better. So he sat down, and he wrote a postcard to her, a goodbye, he'd been trying to hold her close and protect her half a world away but wondered if he was hurting her instead.

He left off the love, though it remained, and he could still feel her too. After he dropped it in the mail, a little weight he'd been carrying flew away from his shoulders like the birds inscribed there took flight suddenly.

He didn't go home for Christmas. His mum really enjoyed the snowy sights of his new place, and the skiing they tried. One day, out of the blue, on a ski lift, just before the exit, Anne said, "She's put some weight back on." And she'd skied off and he'd almost wound up riding back. She did that on purpose, so he had to move, no time to process. But that night he thanked God she was a little better. He dreamed about her full body for the first time in a while, woke up with a wet face and a hard cock and wondered if she woke up too.

Then his mum left and he had decisions to make

His time in Montreal was ending, and Clay's too. It dawned on him that Clay was his best friend, so when he asked him to go to Southeast Asia, not so much to learn as to live, he said yes. And after a month there, he asked Clay to apply in the Ukraine.

Vietnam was a dream. He loved it so much and it had tiny hints of familiarity with the baguettes and shabby Parisian buildings, they spent two weeks there.

Harry's eyes dazzled in Thailand. He expected to love Thailand, the way that Clay did. They were exhausted from the buses and lazed around Phuket for days to "recover." They were hungover a lot too. He felt younger than he had in a year. This was the time of his life. Something Jo feared choosing her would steal from him. He still knew where he'd be if things were different, and it wasn't on a crowded bus covered in his own and his neighbors sweat on the way to a new place that had Clay's eyes glittering. This was good too though, and he might have missed it. She was right.

When they first got to the temple, Harry turned in a wide circle at all the statues with gold leaf on their faces. Wow. They were all gilded and it was a wonder. He could love it for a few minutes before it started to hurt. Use his senses, then his heart. He'd process later.

He didn't get a chance to.

When Clay walked over and pressed the gold to his cheek with a soft look Harry had never seen and said "Happy Birthday!" Harry smiled for the beat of a hummingbird's wings. Their birthday. Oh god, he'd lost track of the days. Where was she, was she alone? Was she golden, at least gilded?

He swiped the gold off his cheek and his hand came away wet.Then he was stumbling to a run while Clay tried to catch him. He couldn't, he couldn't explain. So he found a pedi-cab, had it take him to a hostel. He bought cheap liquor and curled around the bottle and hoped she was somewhere with Zoe and Ethan and not on a unfamiliar floor crying.

He used his precious data to contact Clay 36 hours later and they never spoke of it. Through Malaysia, and their weekend eating their body weight in street food in Singapore. When they were getting out of the Uber a day later, so jetlagged and tan and swollen in Montreal, Harry grabbed Clay's hand. "Thank you. You should apply to Ukraine. Come with me."

Clay had nodded eagerly and his hair had looked silver in the dome light. Harry turned back right before the door closed and said, "We share a birthday, Jo and I." And went in.

Ukraine was months of self-discovery. The facilitator there was a big believer in self-portraits. Harry hated his, they were pathetic. Him wanting, unwanted. The child daddy wouldn't claim, either of them. The man Jo couldn't.

With each demon he put on the canvas though, each not enough piece of Harry he painted, he felt more whole. Weird that losing pieces of his pain made him more. It was the last month there, when he thought he'd grieved enough, that he let Clay kiss him. Then let Clay do more. Loved every second of it too.

But he learned he wasn't still exactly who he thought he was, had pieces to lose, self portraits to paint. Because he loved Clay. Not like Clay loved him, he learned. He didn't know he could make love with someone he wasn't in love with.

It felt good, but like a lie.

He lies with Clay for a few months before he has to stop it. By this time, he had an opportunity in Milan. He went. Clay didn't. But that good natured heart as wide as Kansas boy, who healed Harry and tried to find his gold, he stayed Harry's friend, from far away. And Harry thought maybe he knew how Ethan felt. To feel something, just not as much. He empathized in a new way. He'd heard somebody usually loved less.

He never wanted Clay to sleep over, because he was on Jo's side. Where was she supposed to lay if he was there? Maybe that's why Harry slept on Ethan's floor. He was in Sean's spot and they just didn't know it.

Now Harry knew.

He was alone in Milan. And that was good. All he did was paint. Harry went days in his apartment painting and they were landscapes without flesh, becoming more abstract. He wound up with an agent there, nine months in. He didn't like them as much. They needed more life. Round shapes, and muddled golds. He'd find flesh again he knew.

When his agent convinced him to move to London, that his name, a hometown art prodigy, was coming up in art circles, important ones. He agreed, because he didn't wake up on her side anymore. And it had been ages since she woke him up. Or maybe he was just on her time zone, so the wake up wasn't abrupt, or so odd, to wake up just at or around sunrise.

He was seeing it from the wrong side, sunrise, the same one Jo would see, when he met Maggie in London just after he had moved back at his agent's urging.

It's not grounding, or gold. But he was as fiery for her as her hair in that light. Right away, almost at first glance. That's a new feeling he decides to pursue. It felt good to feel again, even though the depth of it scared him.

He was truly terrified when just after he realized it could be something, third dates and almosts, he received the invitation from the university to do the alumni show.

How was he not over her? Three years. He could do it. He was over it, he was falling in love again, he must be. The iceberg around his heart warming at Maggie's hearth, melting. He could see Jo, show her he was ok, she was ok. Right?

They could both feel his sacrifice was worth it. He could show her.

He was gonna do it.

His agent insisted, and well, he wanted to see her. To see Ethan. so he invited him. It had been years, and he needed to see them whole, and that his sacrifice wasn't for nothing.

Jo's not there. For ages, and Harry's trying not to look for her.

He and Ethan talked and it was ok, it seemed ok. Harry can't help himself, even with Sean right there, he hugged Ethan. He teared up a little when Ethan bunched the fabric of his suit coat. They nodded at each other, and Ethan caught him looking for Jo. Shrugged before he caught Harry's shoulders and left.

Where was Jo? He felt almost like he was cheating, he was just not sure on whom. She was not there, though her image was everywhere. Those were the ones getting traction, notice, buyers, his golden Jo, of course.

Harry was talking to a possible buyer. He was a little flirty, Harry wasn't entirely sure he wasn't seeing exactly what was for sale when his skin erupts, in that way only she'd ever caused.

Because life's cruel, Jo's dressed in white. He'd dreamed of her in white, in a tiny chapel. He needed a closer look at his lost future. He was next to her before he could second guess it, touching her skin. Her fingertips were cold, but her palms clammy. She's nervous. He had to close his eyes, at her emotion. He sees a rainbow on the back of his eyelids, but instead of the promised treasure, there was no end. His heart sank a little. It was still not time for them.

He knew this, before he came. Gave himself a talking too. Kissed Maggie goodbye with every intention of returning. They were only a month in.

He had a life to live and love to give. He also had Jo's company to enjoy. He showed her around, got to feel that completion she brought and got brave enough to show her what he just learned. Because her opinion still filled him the most. Jo didn't bullshit him, ever. She made him confident because she loved his work too, genuinely.

Even when he was scared of himself. So he showed her.

His self portraits. Harry thought this was why his heart woke up a little bit, getting these feelings out. It was like an exorcism. But he saw how it affected her, to witness his pain. The domestic scene he wanted, that she wanted for him, it was not in the cards for them. He wanted that, she knew it. Didn't offer a sniff of what she couldn't give this time.

It hurt a little. To be near her, but he mostly couldn't help but grin, her too. It feels like completion for those moments, so he settles in and loves them.

He didn't call her bluff when she said she was golden, because he knows, feels the truth. They have a longer time on their rainbow road, miles to go. Lives to build.

He had a life to build.

He has a rainbow to ride, his own colors to name, before they find their pot of gold.