Chapter 7 Dani
seven
Dani
We lay tangled together in the dim light, our hearts drumming steady against one another as we come down from the high. Our bodies are sticky and slick with sweet release, and the scent of cedar and sex lingers in the air.
For long moments, neither of us speak. We just hold tight. His hands roam over my curves with languid wonder, and I snuggle in closer, mapping out his body in my mind.
I imagine what shade of burnished gold would match the hair of his scruff, which soft brown would match his eyelashes.
How exactly I could ever capture the depth of Colby Cutter blue.
I could stay here forever, in the circle of his arms, basking in the afterglow of sex. Unafraid, for once, to be wholly glimpsed and perceived.
And that’s when I see the glisten of moisture in the corner of his eye, and my heart sinks.
It was too much, too soon.
“Are you okay?” I whisper, touching a knuckle to the tear gathering in the corner of his eye. “That was… intense.”
His eyes open, and he smiles at me.
But I can see it in his eyes. The shuttering that happens. It looks suspiciously like regret and lands like a punch to the gut.
Everything inside me tenses, and all the warmth of the moment evaporates as realization hits.
I should’ve known better than to think this was about wanting me. This was about getting over her, and that pain slashes deep.
“Oh. I see.”
I pull away, extracting myself from his embrace as I rummage around for my discarded panties.
“See what?” he asks.
“This was a mistake.” I find my underwear and haul it over my hips. They’re inside out. Oh well. I yank on my socks. “It was too soon. I was too… caught up in the moment, maybe.”
“What?” He jumps up, hand out. “No, not at all. I wanted this, too. I asked to kiss you, remember?”
“And then, I was so excited, I just ran with it,” I snap. “So desperate to be picked, to be seen, I let myself go with the flow. Just once in my life, I wanted someone to pick me. Love me. Just as I am.”
“Don’t do this, Dani. Don’t make calls and decisions on my behalf. Don’t shut me out the way you did your family because you’re scared they won’t approve of what you do.”
My laugh is loud, sharp. A tad bitter.
“They don’t! They don’t fucking approve of what I do. And if I’m afraid of it, so what? It’s none of your goddamn business. I was just your rebound, anyway, right?”
He rears back, eyes wide with horror. “What?”
I regret the words immediately, but I’m too angry, too hurt to take them back now. They hang between us like heaving breaths as I fail to find my bra and pull my shirt overhead.
Something hot pricks behind my eyes, and I think my humiliation will be truly complete if I start sobbing.
“It’s… It’s fine. I should’ve known better. I’m never the girl that gets picked, you know? Late to the party. Last to the finish line. That’s me.”
“Dammit, Dani!” Colby shouts, his voice rising with raw anguish. “I don’t know how to do this! How to do any of this. I haven’t been with anyone else in over five years. This is not about you.”
I laugh, the sound hollow and broken. “I know. It never is.”
Clasping my overalls back on, I march out to the hall and turn back to watch him snatch his pants off the floor.
“I’m glad you were moved by my work, Colby. I’ll forever be grateful to you for buying my art and making me feel like maybe I could do this—put myself out there. You know you’re the reason I applied for a booth at the art walk? You buying my art made me think I could do it.”
“You can do it, Dani.” He tugs his jeans over his hips and stares at me.
“Yeah, like this, right?” I shake my head and gesture between us. “Better late than never, I guess.”
Then I storm down the hall, trying to find my stuff. I enter the painter’s room he set up, my gaze landing on my dropped bag and the cold cups of tea.
Shouldering my bag, I shove away the internal voice that begs me to look again. To look hard. But it hurts too much to see this room and think maybe it could’ve been mine.
I head for the door as he emerges from the bedroom, Henley being pulled over his head. Dulce leaps from where she curled up on a fleece-lined dog bed, head cocked and tail barely wagging.
She barks once as I reach for the door, and I shoot her sad smile.
“Don’t go, Dani. Despite what you might think, this wasn’t just a hookup for me. I’m a different person now. And for the record, so are you.”
“Don’t worry about me,” I say, throat tight, not daring to look back. “I’ll be just fine.”
#
For the next week, I throw myself into work and paint my little broken heart out. The canvas bears the brunt of it all, my silent partner as I slash and sob and swipe color over it.
But when it’s finished, I hate it.
It looks nothing like the work I typically do, and I can’t bear looking at it. For now, it rests in the back room with the rest of my paint-and-sip supplies while I hide out in the kitchen.
I know I can’t hide forever. At some point, I’m going to have to face Colby.
Poking my head out of the kitchen, I look around the coffeeshop and spot most of the regulars.
“Is he gone?”
“Well he’s not going to pop up and say boo, is he?”
I make a face at Sloane and join her at the counter.
“Are you going to talk about what happened, or are you going to do this whole brooding artist thing much longer?” Sloane rearranges the pastries on the tray. “You know I don’t do front of house.”
“Just… please. I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to get through the art walk without any major disasters.”
“Mistakes were made, huh?” She smirks knowingly.
I groan. “You don’t even know.”
“Oh, honey, I don’t need to know. I can see it written all over your face.” She nods at a canvas that’s propped up against the storeroom. “Plus, he just dropped that by looking pretty gutted, so, you know, two and two… It doesn’t take a genius.”
I glance over and see the incomplete canvas I left behind at his place. I was too mad to grab it before I left. And too prideful to turn up on his doorstep and ask for it back.
And just like that, I can feel my face crumple.
“Oh, honey.” Sloane rushes to my side and wraps her arms around my shoulders. “Don’t cry. It’s all going to be okay.”
“He made me a painting studio.”
Sloane nods. “Okay, that sounds nice. Why is it something to cry about?”
“I blew it, Sloane. I yelled at him, said I wasn’t going to be his rebound, and then I stormed off.” I sniff. “He saw me in my art, and I don’t know if I was ready for that. Or, if he was ready.”
“I don’t think love waits for anyone to be ready for it. It’s one of those, ready or not, here I come moments.”
I laugh.
“Leave it to me to blow up my chances before anything real has a chance to take root, huh?”
Sloane shushes me with a wave. “Oh, I doubt that it’s that bad.”
Then, someone clears their throat noisily.
We both turn to see Mrs. Sanderson, a town staple and Brewbirds regular, stooped at the register waiting to be served.
“I think a man who’s faced the kind of loss he’s had is probably made of stronger stuff than that. Give the man some time and space. He’ll figure it out.”
She’s got a handful of spare coins in her hand, and she points to the menu.
“Today, I’ll have the pumpkin spice latte. Please make sure not to spill it on me. This is my best knit cardigan.”
Sloane and I laugh.
And when I pour the milk into her cup, I wonder if love is seeing someone’s good, bad, and ugly, and choosing to show up for them anyway.