Chapter 18
Olivia
did you know that Victor Hernandez has a super cute puppy?
Me
no, I didn’t know that.
how do you know that?
Olivia
he brought him over today! His name is Winston!
Me
he’s at your house?
Olivia
yes, he’s helping me work on things around the house. The dog is just flopped out on the grass sunbathing.
Olivia sends a picture of an adorable Golden Retriever puppy>
Right about now, with any other guy in Adam’s position, I would’ve ghosted them. It would be so easy to stop replying. To duck and run when I saw him in the coffee shop. So much easier to let the feelings die of thirst than to try and make sense of them, or even scarier, listen to what they were trying to tell me.
Adam was a perfect candidate for ghosting, honestly. I’d laid out the facts: we argued the first time we met in person, I bad-mouthed him to his own assistant, he’d gotten under my skin with our back and forth, and he literally wanted to cut art students from their summer festival all Scrooge-like. Any other guy I’d take the feelings and toss them in the bin.
But Adam wasn’t any other guy. And underneath all the facts and logic, a current running under our relationship was a natural, mutual understanding unfolding between us. He made me feel understood in a way no one else ever had. As I was getting to know him, it was like my heart whispered, Oh, I know this guy. I get him.
Maybe it was why talking, even when snippy, was so easy.
Maybe it was why we could get under each other’s skin the way we did. It was too easy for us.
Maybe it was why I wanted to touch him every time we were in the same vicinity.
My heart was kicking its door open for a man who had put my defenses up right away. Made me ignore the facts.
How could I dismiss my own fears, my own instincts?I asked myself. Like I was that little girl again wanting to protect her family, and herself, from any man who would make us question ourselves, make us cry, or hurt us. My facts and fears had often felt like my only defense when men could one day kiss you on the cheek and tell you they love you and walk out the door forever the next. I’d clung to them like a guest list at the entry of my heart since I was a kid. I’d kept people out for far less than Adam.
And yet.
We were walking out of a meeting to the sidewalk outside City Hall when Adam stopped walking and tugged on my wrist, bringing me to a halt. I had been able to retain some distance, though his friendly banter was so warm it had started to thaw my cool demeanor.
“You know what?” he said, his eyes bright with a new idea. “I know of an incredible local artist that we could host at the festival. I don’t know their name, only their initials. But maybe you’ll know them, being from here?”
“Maybe.” I was intrigued. The bright sun made me squint, the air humid and hot between us. “What are the initials?”
“They had their piece listed under L.R. That was their signature on the painting, too.”
“L.R.,” I repeated. “Same as mine. Funny.”
“Oh, yeah. You’re right.” He chuckled in amusement. “You don’t happen to secretly be an amazing artist?”
“Can you show me the painting? Maybe I’ll recognize it,” I asked. My senses tingled in that slow burn of realization.
“I bought it through an online auction that was raising funds, but that link isn’t working anymore. It was the only place I found anything about the artist—and that was just the picture and their initials. I’ve searched online and haven’t found anything about this mysterious L.R. The painting is hanging in my dining room, though. I can take a picture later and send it to you?”
There was no way. No way.“Would it be weird if I came over to see it?”
“When do you want to come by?”
“You free now?” I bit my lip anxiously.
He glanced at his watch. “Sure.” He grinned at me as he said, “It’s always right now with you, Lucy Rhodes.”
I followed his green Patriot, weaving through town until we parked in front of a house in one of the historic neighborhoods. The house was a dark taupe with black shutters, but it still felt cozy and charming with the open porch and thriving garden out front. Adam is the type to stick to a thoughtful plant care routine, I thought to myself.
“This is my place, for now.” Adam welcomed me as I shut my car door. I followed him up the porch steps.
“It’s charming,” I said as he opened his front door.
Adam’s place was sparse, probably since he’d recently moved here, but what he did have felt warm and eclectic. I spotted a wooden bookshelf full of literature, a worn brown leather couch, and a coffee table in the shape of a leaf.
I could feel Adam’s fingerprints on all of it. None of it was purchased with a thought of anything other than what he liked.
He led me through the living room and turned the corner into a dining space with a long, walnut table surrounded by mix-and-match chairs. “Here it is, the mysterious painting.” He gestured toward the landscape painting of the sun setting over downtown Sweet River I had donated to the school auction.
My heart caught in my throat. Adam was the only person in the world who owned a piece of my artwork. A piece of me.
And he hung it proudly in his dining room. He had searched the internet to find more of me.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” he said, looking up at it, taking my silence as awe. “I had been googling Sweet River when I first moved here, trying to find out everything I could about the town, and stumbled on a charity auction. I was browsing it when I saw this painting. I had to have it. It made me fall in love with Sweet River. Now, it’s my favorite thing in my house. Every time I look at it, it makes me feel like I belong here, in this house, in this town.”
“I’m L.R.,” I whispered.
His brow furrowed in confusion. “What?”
“I painted it. I only used my initials. I felt a little embarrassed, I guess, since this was my first painting out in the world. If no one chose L.R.’s work, then I hoped it would sting a little less than if they didn’t choose Lucy Rhodes’.”
His eyes were big, round sunshine as he took me in. “You painted my favorite thing in my house?”
I rocked back and forth nervously on my feet. I didn’t know what else to say.
“Lucy, you’ve never mentioned your art before.”
“That’s because there’s not really any art to mention. I’m not a real artist or anything. This was an impulsive fluke.” I gestured to the wall where my painting hung.
“Something like this is not a fluke. It is intentionally crafted. It takes talent and creativity,” he defended the piece. “What makes you say you’re not a real artist?”
“Because I’m not a real artist. Art isn’t my job. I’m not paid to paint. No one cares whether I paint or not. The only one who needs me to paint is me. But it isn’t helping anyone or anything.”
“Why does it need to help someone?”
“I don’t know.” I brushed a piece of hair behind my ear. “Most of what I do is about helping my students, helping my family, helping my mom. Heck, my summer was going to be dedicated to helping my grandmother’s legacy. It feels like…anything worth doing is supposed to have a point, right?”
“There is so much more to you than what a good helper you are. Take it from me. You’re more of a pain in my butt than a help,” he said, a corner of his mouth hinting at a laugh.
“It feels like a waste when I’m not even…I’m not, like, hired to paint. I only took a few classes in college.” I crossed my arms. “No art critic found me and wanted me in their gallery. It’s just me and an Etsy account I haven’t even used.”
“I like that better. You’re doing it on your own simply because you want to. Because you like to. Because you’re good at it. Because you share it and people buy it—I bought it. Because you need to.”
I prickled against that word, need. Why?
“What’s that face?” he asked me, pointing at my scrunched nose.
“I don’t know if I need to paint,” I said, feeling my way to the splinter in what he said.
“What’s wrong with needing something?” He wanted to know. “If you find worth in yourself by being of service to others, why not also find worth in painting because it serves you?”
I didn’t know what to say. I looked down at my sandals.
“You’re going to need things, Lucy. Who knows? You might even need people sometimes.” His blue eyes locked on mine. “It can’t just be people needing you all the time. You deserve much more than that.” He turned back to the painting, looking at it with admiration. “This is Lucy just doing what feels good. This is Lucy giving into what feels right. This is Lucy in her little house just making something for herself.”
And, like he planned it, I think about how I was ignoring my art because I’d made up my mind: I wasn’t an artist. Much like I was ignoring Adam because I’d made up my mind about him.
But sometimes the way I wanted Adam felt so close to need, like a bad habit. Like looking forward to dessert after dinner or waking up and wanting hot coffee in the morning. His presence and our conversations were a treat I could only have sometimes and I didn’t want to admit how badly my mouth was watering for it. I wasn’t supposed to want it.
Itching for his body near mine, brushing up against his arms, hearing his opinions, knowing his day, like how I longed for a paintbrush. Like an itch I wanted, no, needed to scratch.
“But, by the way, you’re wrong.” He woke me from my thoughts.
“How so?” I swallowed, my mouth dry.
“People do need you to paint. Maybe the fancy art world hasn’t found you. Maybe they never will and it’s going to be you and Etsy forever. But people need your work—and those people, not the fancy art world, will find it. Through Etsy. Or through auctions.” He winked at me, tender and sweet. “Like me. I needed that painting. It was the first thing that made this place feel like home.” He put his hand on his heart as if that was where my painting really belonged.
“Adam.” My voice was soft in a way that was new, even to me. How could I go from rolling my eyes at him to wanting to melt into his dining room floor from pure sweetness? “I’m so glad you’re the one who found this piece.”
“I’m honored to be the first owner of a Lucy Rhodes original.” He grabbed my hand and gave it a little squeeze. Something in my chest behind my rib cage broke.