Chapter 2 Colby
two
Colby
Honestly, it’s just my luck to be covered in ice-cold pumpkin spice latte before my big, possibly career-ending meeting with my editor and publisher kicks off.
Margot would’ve laughed. The public would’ve taken pictures.
And Dulce, huge help that she is, just yaps happily at the woman’s feet, nuzzling against her knee like she’s so excited to make a new friend.
“Um. Do I know you?”
The question sounds sharper than I intended, but she doesn’t blink.
I peer closer at her—a heart-shaped round face, small brown eyes, and inky black hair that gives way to bright pink tips. Something about her feels familiar, though I can’t think of what.
“Yeah, I, uh…” She plunges her hands into her apron pockets, rummaging around for something.
I stiffen. “I don’t do selfies.”
She must not hear me because she keeps digging.
Maybe she’s a fan and she’s after a signature. Or maybe she wants a photo, like all those other parasitic paparazzi did anytime I dared step out of my Los Angeles home after the accident that divided my entire life into before and after.
Life before I was a widow.
Life after it.
She takes a wad of napkins out of her pocket before she swipes at the coffee on my neck and my collar.
The motion is strangely intimate, and I’m shocked into silence as I stare at her, my hands flexing on her curves. I should let go. Let her stand. But my fingers are reluctant to release the colorful woman with the pink cheeks, hair tips, and plump lips.
“You went to MSU. Class of… oh, well, nevermind. Some years ago, right?” The woman breathes, shifting in my lap so that despite the cold splash of coffee, my dick twitches awake. “You were an English lit major and a Pi Delt, right?”
Shit, okay.
My cock half-hardens as her nimble hands move over my chest. Definitely been a while.
But there’s been no one since Margot, and it’s jarring to find my body reacting to someone else so soon, so suddenly.
My head spins with the torrent of information falling from the woman’s mouth, and I stare at her harder, trying to place her.
“Some memory you’ve got there.”
“Well, I only know because Ryan—that’s Mel’s other half, if you remember her.” She nods at the very pregnant woman waddling back to the counter. “He was in Pi Delt—Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I don’t expect you to remember me. I’m not very memorable.”
A memory shakes loose… frat parties, sorority socials, and a slew of names and faces.
I frown. “You’re a Xi Chi, aren’t you? There were four of you always together. Kelsey, Mel, Sloane, and the girl with the sketchbook.”
She freezes, her eyes peeking up at me through thick, dark lashes as her name flashes into my head.
“Danielle Fan.”
Her breath tumbles out on a little laugh, and I catch a whiff of vanilla and a lightly floral fragrance in her hair. It stirs something warm in my blood, but before I can examine it, she’s chattering away again.
“Yeah, that’s me. Dani, girl with a sketchbook.” She doesn’t say this with any malice, but there’s an undercurrent of pain in the words.
I glance at her hands. Small, delicate, pretty. Lightly stained with a bright blue color. Nail polish, or…
My gaze cuts to the wall—the one with the bold, color burst of paintings I spied the other night when I took Dulce out for a walk. The ones that look as if they’re in the style of the one I stumbled across at MSU Starlight Springs a few months back, during the alumni showcase.
The one painting that moved me that was signed Fanny.
As I turn my head to look back at her, I catch sight of a flyer advertising a paint-and-sip session at the coffeeshop.
The pieces of the puzzle lock into place, and the recognition rocks me.
“You were an art student. Always drawing, even in English—”
“We just had the one class.”
“I remember.”
I remember being intrigued by the girl who kept to herself but dyed her hair wild colors.
But she didn’t really speak to anybody but her sisters, and back then, I wasn’t the kind of guy who cared enough to coax someone out of their shell.
Seems I’m not the only person who’s grown a little over the years.
Glancing over at the wall, I shove my glasses up my nose. “You’re a painter now.”
It’s not a question.
Her eyes go round. “Oh. I… Yeah, I run the paint-and-sip classes here every week. There’s one tonight, if you want to stop by.”
“Paint-and-sip class?”
“Yeah, a couple of hours after closing. We hold community events here every week. That’s one of them, and I teach it.” Her smile is warm and professional as she slides off my lap. “If you’re in town for a while, consider stopping by. They’re very popular with tourists.”
I’m not a tourist, though.
“Not really my thing.” But my eyes drift over to the canvases displayed on the wall—the color, the heartbeat, the life in them.
She shrugs.
“No problem. I’ll go get you another drink. On the house, of course. And in a to-go cup.” Then she offers me a tight-lipped smile, waves an apologetic hand over my stained shirt, and mouths Sorry before disappearing back behind the bar.
#
My meeting goes better than expected. I managed to convince the publisher not to drop me. Yet, anyway. Janelle helped me secure a three-month extension on my proposal deadline, which lines up with when I’m supposed to start teaching at the university.
“You sure about this?” she asks, fingering the corner of the paint-and-sip flyer I swiped from Brewbirds on my way out earlier today. “It’s quite a turn from heart-wrenching, tragic love stories you’re known for.”
“It’s a pivot. One I think I need to make.
I’m tired of being sad and tragic, Janelle.
It’s time for something happier.” I swirl my drink and stare out the window from my luxury rental apartment on the second floor above the Main Street drag with a perfect view of the Brewbirds Coffeeshop. “A fresh start, a new direction.”
“You’re good at making love hurt.”
I smile at her. “Yeah. But I don’t want it to hurt anymore.”
She rises and reaches for her bag. “Well, I’m going to trust you. I know there’s still a wordsmith in you, Colby. You’ve just got to find that spark again.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think any of your new material is going to benefit from you hunkering down in one spot. Get out a little. Re-acquaint yourself with life. Even if it starts with a still life.”
She slides the flyer back my way and jabs at it once before she heads off.
Back to the airport. Back to the city. Back to the life I left behind.
Dulce sits up when Janelle leaves, barking at me once as if to say, She’s right, you know. Get up, loser.
I scoff. “You’re not the boss of me.”
She jumps from her bed and sniff-sneezes at me to let me know what she thinks of that before she trots off to my bedroom.
But I know there’s wisdom in her words. I didn’t escape LA just to hide myself away in another house. So, I drain the rest of my drink, grab my sweater and scarf, and hope Dulce doesn’t sully my bed while I’m out.