Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Sabrina stared at Colby's kitchen table and realized she'd been tracing the same knot in the wood grain for ten full minutes.
The swirl of darker wood felt familiar now, a landmark in this space that was slowly becoming less foreign and more like somewhere she belonged.
Morning light slanted through the window above the sink, catching dust motes in the air, making them look like tiny sparks suspended in amber.
The coffee in her mug had gone cold without her noticing, a skin forming on the surface that she kept meaning to drink through and kept forgetting.
Her mind had been doing that lately. Drifting.
Circling back to the same worn grooves like water finding the path of least resistance.
The fire. The insurance call. Gavin's face on the sidewalk, that polished smile aimed at someone who wasn't her.
The way Colby's hands felt when they steadied her, when they reminded her she was real and present and not trapped in the smoke-filled hallways of her dreams.
Her phone buzzed against the table, and she jumped so hard her knee hit the underside of the wood.
She exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to her chest where her heart had decided to audition for a drum solo, and flipped the phone over. Bree's name lit the screen, accompanied by a string of paint palette emojis that made Sabrina's lips twitch despite herself.
She answered. "Hey."
"Hey, yourself," Bree said, her voice bright and slightly breathless, like she was moving while she talked. "Are you decent?"
Sabrina blinked at the phone. "That's... a strong opener."
Bree laughed, the sound warm and familiar even through the tiny speaker.
"Relax, I'm not outside your window. Yet.
I'm in the studio at the community center, setting up for a class that starts in an hour, and my assistant just texted that she's got some kind of death flu.
I need hands. Preferably attached to a person I actually like. "
"You want me to... help?" Sabrina drew the word out, turning it over like she wasn't sure she'd heard correctly. "With an art class?"
"You have done many beautiful things at Norman House," Bree said.
"You talked to strangers for hours while painting or fixing something.
You have a good face. Approachable. Trustworthy.
And you can pour water into jars and hand out brushes without dropping them.
I've seen you host brunch for thirty people while simultaneously managing a plumbing emergency.
You can handle six teenagers and a canvas. "
Sabrina looked toward the living room, where Colby stood by the front window.
He was checking the motion sensor's tiny red light, peering at it like it might decide to resign from its post if he didn't personally supervise.
His hair was still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends, and he wore an old gray T-shirt that stretched across his shoulders in a way she was trying very hard not to notice.
He glanced over at her, one brow lifting in silent question Everything okay?
"I don't know," Sabrina said into the phone, but she was looking at him. "Diaz told me to stay put."
"Diaz told you not to roam Main Street by yourself," Bree corrected.
"I'm not Main Street. I'm in a locked room at the community center with security cameras and a very large supply cabinet that I could probably shove over and use as a barricade if I absolutely had to.
Colby can drive you over and pick you up when we're done. I already texted him."
Sabrina's gaze swung back to Colby. His phone sat on the counter near the coffeemaker, screen lit with a new message. He picked it up, skimmed whatever Bree had sent, then met Sabrina's eyes again.
"You okay if we go?" he asked. No pressure in his voice. Just the question, offered like a choice she was allowed to make.
Her chest did that odd little twist it had started doing whenever someone said "we" and meant her. Like the word itself was a gift she hadn't earned, wrapped in casual paper and handed over without ceremony.
"I don't want to be a problem," she said, holding the phone away from her mouth slightly. "I don't want you to have to rearrange your whole day around babysitting me."
"You're not a problem," he said, like the idea was absurd. "And it's not babysitting. We can do controlled field trips. Get you out of the house without you being exposed."
She brought the phone back to her ear. "How many kids are we talking about?"
"Six," Bree said. "Maybe seven if Eli remembers what day of the week it is, which is honestly a coin flip. We're doing mixed media today. Collage, paint, and some experimental stuff. I just need someone to help wrangle supplies and pretend I know what I'm doing when the parents ask questions."
"You do know what you're doing," Sabrina said. "You're an actual artist. You sell paintings to actual people."
"Don't ruin my humble narrative," Bree answered. "Please say yes. I promise to send you back to Colby in one piece and only lightly spattered with non-toxic paint."
The thought of it curled through Sabrina, warm and unexpected. A room full of color and paper and creativity. Kids making messes for the joy of it. Something that had nothing to do with fire or insurance or the ex-husband who might be lurking around the next corner.
Something that was just... life. A normal, chaotic, beautifully mundane life.
"Okay," she said, before she could talk herself out of it. "I'll help."
Bree let out a whoop that made Sabrina pull the phone away from her ear, grinning despite herself. "You just made my entire day. Class starts in forty-five minutes. I'll text you the code for the back entrance so you don't have to walk through the main lobby. Love you. See you soon."
The call clicked off before Sabrina could respond.
She set the phone down slowly, staring at it like it might explain what had just happened. "Did I just agree to be an art assistant?"
Colby leaned his shoulder against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching her with something that looked dangerously close to amusement. "Seems like it."
"On purpose," she said. "Voluntarily. With my own free will."
"I'm proud of you," he said. "And a little scared for those kids."
She rolled her eyes, but she couldn't quite suppress the smile tugging at her mouth. "You're not funny."
"I'm hilarious," he said. "Ask anyone. Grab your stuff. I'll walk you in and lurk like an overgrown chaperone until you tell me to leave."
The community center smelled faintly like floor polish and crayons, a combination that tugged at something deep in Sabrina's memory. Childhood art classes, maybe, back when her biggest worry had been whether the blue she wanted was already claimed by someone else.
She stood in the doorway of Bree's studio space, taking it all in.
The room was larger than she'd expected, with high ceilings and windows along one wall that let in a flood of natural light.
Tables had been pushed together in a rough U-shape, creating a collaborative workspace.
Jars of brushes stood in clusters like small forests.
Stacks of canvases leaned against the supply shelves.
The far wall was a riot of color: sample paintings and student work pinned up in overlapping layers that created a patchwork of creativity.
Bree darted from one supply shelf to another, her dark blonde hair twisted into a messy knot that was already threatening to escape its elastic.
Her leggings were streaked with paint in at least four colors, evidence of past projects, and she moved with the focused energy of someone who thrived on organized chaos.
"You made it!" Bree spun toward them, her whole face lighting up. "You're officially my favorite person in the entire world."
"Good to know where I stand," Colby said dryly. "I'll be in the hallway, nursing my hurt feelings."
Bree pointed a loaded paintbrush at him, leaving a small arc of cerulean blue in the air. "You're my favorite human wrench. Completely different category. Non-competing."
Sabrina snorted, the sound escaping before she could stop it.
Colby tipped his chin toward her, his expression shifting to something more serious. "You good?"
She nodded, meaning it. "Yeah. Go. Fix something before you start reorganizing her markers by color and size."
He gave her a look that was half warning, half affection, the kind that made her stomach do a small, pleasant flip. "Text if you need me. I'll be two doors down, pretending I understand the grant paperwork they keep asking me to review."
When he disappeared into the hallway, Bree clapped her hands together once, sharp and businesslike.
"Okay, Inn Queen. We've got ten minutes to set this circus up before the chaos arrives.
I need water jars filled at every station, drop cloths straightened, and canvases distributed to tables.
And I need you to keep me from saying anything wildly inappropriate in front of impressionable minors. "
"I once ran a breakfast buffet where a groomsman dropped his pants in the middle of the dining room because he lost a bet," Sabrina said. "I handled it with grace and only minimal screaming. I can manage teenagers and paint."
Bree's grin was immediate and delighted. "That's the spirit. I knew I called the right person."
They moved in easy tandem, falling into a rhythm that felt surprisingly natural.
Sabrina filled mason jars at the deep utility sink in the corner, watching the water turn faintly cloudy as residual pigment lifted from brushes that hadn't been fully cleaned.
She set them at each workstation, spacing them evenly, then straightened the drop cloths that protected the tables and lined up the paint bottles in a gradient from warm to cool.
It was soothing, this work. Preparation. Anticipation. Making a space ready for the people who would fill it.