Chapter 4 Colby
four
Colby
Idon’t really know how it happens, but over the next couple of weeks, I settle into a rhythm.
My mornings start with a brisk walk and a pit stop at Brewbirds Coffeeshop.
My days are filled with being taunted by a blank page or working out how I’m going to tackle teaching a class at MSU Starlight Springs next term.
And I’ve taken to spending my evenings sliding into Brewbirds after hours to watch Dani paint.
I tell her it’s research for a new book. I’m thinking about writing about a painter, and she seemed tickled by the idea. Her cheeks went almost as pink as her hair as she tucked it behind her ear and told me I could only stay if I was working.
We can create together.
It made me ache. At first, the words wouldn’t come, but then the sketching started… ugly little doodles in the margins of my notebook while Dulce lay at the foot of Dani’s easel.
They bonded in the quiet, and maybe… maybe I was bonding, too.
I know the dog’s happy here. Freer, too.
And once the words start to come—slowly, haltingly—I start feeling pretty settled as well.
But today, there’s a different energy in the coffeeshop when I stop in for my morning brew. A speeding Ryan Yamamoto nearly bowls me over.
“I’m getting the truck!” Ryan hollers.
“The truck?”
Dulce dances around people’s feet, trying to avoid being stepped on.
“What’s going on?” I ask, scooping her up in my arms.
Everyone else in the place is piqued and staring. There’s no one behind the counter, and I know that on weekdays, only two of the Brewbirds core four are on morning shifts.
“It’s go time!” Dani calls out, holding Mel’s arm and escorting her around the corner, aiming for the door. “Don’t worry, everyone. In no time at all, we’ll have two more little Brewbirds to add to the clan.”
The crowd whoops and cheers, shouting encouragement as Mel crosses the room, taking care to avoid a wet spot on the floor that someone’s tossed a CAUTION–SLIPPERY WHEN WET sign over.
“I’m going to be a mom,” Mel says, hand curled tight around Dani’s, eyes huge and bright as she exhales softly.
Dani clasps her hand over hers. “You’re going to be such a kick-ass mom.”
Then, a truck rolls up outside, and Ryan runs around the front to open the door. With my free hand—the one that’s not holding a wiggling Dulce—I help Mel to her feet. Dani takes her other elbow, and together, we get her into the truck.
In moments, they’re off, and we’re left standing on the curb, staring after them.
Adrenaline pumps through me, or maybe it’s excitement. Either way, it’s a vibrancy I haven’t felt in so long that has me turning to Dani.
“Well, this is exciting.”
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “It’s not every day you have a baby.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been around for the birth of a baby before.”
“No? Just the baby-making part?” she quips, then slaps a hand over her mouth. Her eyes are huge over her hand as I stare at her in surprise. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”
But I’m more surprised by how I react.
A laugh bursts out of me, real and unguarded, as Dulce leaps from my arms to scramble all around Dani’s legs, yipping excitedly.
She laughs with me, bending to give Dulce some love and attention when the dog flops onto her back, demanding belly rubs.
“Okay, so I had a reputation. You might’ve heard a few stories. They’re not all true.”
“If half of them are, that’s plenty.”
“It was a long time ago. Are you holding it against me?”
My laughter subsides, and the question hangs between us. I’m surprised to find I am curious to know what she thinks of me. That somehow, it matters.
“No. It was college. Everyone was trying to figure out who they were and who they wanted to be.”
She flashes me a smile that sends a zing of warmth shooting through me and showers Dulce with affection. Dulce flips back over, leaping up on desperate hind legs, trying to lick Dani’s cheek.
“It’s funny. I don’t remember you being this chatty in college.”
“I wasn’t. I kept to the sidelines for most of my life. More comfortable there.”
“You mean less visible there.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
She straightens, dusting her hands on her hips, and I notice—not for the first time—how beautiful she is. Her curves are subtle, but only because they were always tucked into brightly patterned overalls or paint-splattered pants and T-shirts.
But I remember the curve of her ass when she fell into my lap. The feel of her skin when I stroked her cheek. The intensity of her gaze when her eyes met mine for a heartbeat, and I wondered what I’d discover if I undid one of her clasps.
Then it’s my turn to blurt something out—something that’s been on my mind for weeks.
“Why don’t you sign your paintings with your name?”
She presses her lips together in a tight line. “What do you mean?”
“They’re signed Fanny.” I gesture to the back wall, where her work’s on display. “Not D. Fan or Danielle Fan. It’s ambiguous. Why? Still hiding behind that sketchbook, only this time it’s canvas?”
It’s meant to sound playful, but it comes out a little pointed.
She blinks at me.
“Oh, I… My parents never supported my art, and I was brought up never to bring shame to my family. Painting’s not something they’re proud of.
” She studies the paint under the fingernails, brow lightly furrowed.
“I thought it’d be kinder, you know? Not to remind them of my utter failure to be the daughter they wanted. The one they could be proud of.”
I bristle at that.
“Don’t do that.” The words come out gruff, hard. “Don’t keep yourself small and uncomfortable for someone else’s benefit.”
She looks up, her mouth a stunned little O while Dulce plops down at her feet. Her ears perked up, and she glances back and forth between us like we’re volleying verbal tennis balls at each other.
“Just because it’s not something they’re proud of right now doesn’t mean it will bring them shame. Maybe they’re not art people.”
“They’re not. They’re numbers people.”
“Okay, so maybe they can’t see the beauty in your work. Even if they don’t, others do. Fuck, I do.”
My jaw tenses, and I run a hand through my hair.
“Why does it matter?” she asks, head tilting to one side.
“Because you deserve to be seen, Dani. Fully.”
“Is that what you see in my painting? Me?”
“Shouldn’t I?” I ask. “Traces of you, aspects of you. The inner you. There are parts of me I want to hold back, but they show up in my words, in my characters. You’ve read my work. If you read enough of it and look close enough, you’ll find pieces of me.”
“I paint landscapes and women.” She draws back. “I paint my surroundings.”
“You paint yourself, Dani. You show up on that canvas the way I show up in my words. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, I’ll show you. I’m staying in the apartment across the way.”
I point at the second-story window that overlooks Main Street. Every day, I have a clear view of the mountain, the town, and the coffeeshop where Dani holes up and pours out her soul.
“Come over tonight. Bring your paints and your work-in-progress. I’ll show you what I see.”