Chapter 43 Pre-Birthday Party
PRE-BIRTHDAY PARTY
ORAZIO
I’ve been avoiding Alice.
We haven’t talked about what happened in the Woods, but there isn’t much to say. She has a concussion; she needs rest and comfort, not me hovering over her like a caveman. Since she’s woken up, Harley and Jessa have made sure she isn’t alone. They’ve taken care of her.
I also haven’t figured out what I would say. And so, I’ve said nothing.
My entire world tilted on its axis when she hit that tree and crumpled to the grass; I’ve heard Jessa affectionately call her Trouble, and Alice certainly has proven the accuracy of the nickname.
Trouble is what she gives me—a searing pain between my ribs whenever I take too large a breath. Troubled is the organ in my chest skipping beats when she’s near. Trouble is what I’m in, having continuously fucked up every interaction I’ve had with her since she came to Meadowbrook.
I shift my stance, oxfords scraping against the rough wooden slats of Alice’s front porch as I pull my phone from my pocket and open my messages.
The texts came through three days ago, while I squinted at my needle stabbing through fabric.
Staccato vibrations had buzzed the phone off my worktable, and I’d shucked off my readers just in time to catch it before it fell.
Hey. It’s Alice.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
Harley and Jessa are helping me pack up my paintings on Thursday.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
Do you want to help?
UNKNOWN NUMBER
We’re also ordering food. It’ll be a pre-birthday party of sorts.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
No pressure though. Figured I’d extend an invite since it’s your birthday too. Do you like sushi?
UNKNOWN NUMBER
I’ll check my calendar.
And yes. I do.
I haven’t saved her number, that felt like too big a commitment—a part of me is still scared she’ll leave.
But I came anyway.
I knock on the door, and I hear Alice’s muffled shout from deep within the house. A few moments later, she fills the threshold.
I’d never let myself look at her too long before. It hurt too much. But as I take her in now, I can push the pain down and appreciate that she’s here. Breathing. Alive. And staring back at me with something other than confusion. Excitement, maybe?
Her blonde curls are woven in a French braid, stray pieces framing her pixie-like face; they brush the healed cut on her cheek, which is now a faint pink line. And on the tip of her freckled nose is a smear of green paint, as if she’d swiped her hand over it and unknowingly deposited the pigment.
“I thought we were packing paintings, not making them,” I say.
“What?”
I point to my nose. Her eyes cross.
“Oh.” Alice picks the dried speck away with her nail. “This is from last night. Just a fun piece.” The flakes fall like colored snow, drifting onto the welcome mat. “Thanks for telling me. The two upstairs didn’t say anything. Assholes.”
“Sure,” I grunt.
Alice’s lips pucker and twist to the side as she leans against the threshold, one hand curled around the door and the other braced against the molding, blocking my way in. She stares me down, lashes dipping with the slow glide of her gaze along my body. Assessing. Concerned.
The air shifts, the tension palpable. A chill crawls up my spine.
“You came,” she states.
I shrug. “You asked.”
Alice hums, continuing to stare, as if I’m art hanging on the wall of the gallery we’re about to pack up her paintings for. I don’t know what she’s looking for, but I hope she finds whatever it is—and is pleased rather than disappointed.
She steps back, throwing the door open wide so I can enter. “Take your shoes off.”
Alice bounds up the stairs as I close and lock the door before slipping off my shoes. I add them to the line of her tossed aside Chucks, Jessa’s dirtied Vans, and Harley’s shining brown boat shoes. The sight tightens my throat.
The four pairs look like they were meant to be next to each other.
Things have devolved since I arrived. Not between the four of us—the others chatter as they complete their tasks, wrapping up the paintings in protective layers of packaging and taping the boxes shut—but in my head. It’s a jumble of thoughts that I’m unable to sort through.
All the paintings are of them.
Alice… painted them.
Each is beautiful and haunting, full of emotion; she has real talent with a brush.
“Alright, last one!” Alice calls, pulling a large canvas from the rack.
I rip a strip of packing paper and place it on the ground.
Alice and I teamed up while Jessa and Harley mirrored on the other side of the studio.
It’s a two-person job, with how big the paintings are, and I’m glad Alice didn’t have to carry them all down the stairs herself.
I’ve handled most of the carting up and down; the last thing we need is her tripping and cracking her head on the hardwood.
When Alice straightens, stepping back from the canvas with her hands braced on her waist, I freeze.
The painting is of her, in her leathers, and me… shirtless. My arm is bleeding, and she’s tying a strip of my shirt around the wound.
The scar heats beneath my T-shirt as my head shakes in disbelief. My fingers instinctively reach for the wound, dipping under my sleeve and tracing over the raised flesh. Wounds from others never scar, it’s only those from Champions that do.
I’m so fucking confused.
“You painted me?” I whisper.
“Yeah…”
My head whips to catch Alice scratching the back of her neck. Her face is pinched with embarrassment, and she looks up at me through squinted blonde lashes.
“Is that okay?” she asks. “I know I should have asked earlier but…”
“Why?” I ask, voice cracking on the word.
Jessa barks a laugh, and I quickly shoot her a glare.
“Sorry! Ignore me,” she says, covering her mouth.
“Kind of hard to when you’re so loud,” I say, my skin itching all over with nerves.
“Harley, why don’t we go downstairs and place the dinner order while these two finish up,” Jessa says.
“Oh, yeah, that’d be great. My card is in the purse on the counter,” Alice says.
Jessa waves a hand in the air while pushing Harley out the studio with the over. “Ori’s paying. I already have his card hooked up to my account.”
“But it’s his birthday too—” Alice says at the same time I speak.
“Is that why I keep getting random charges from that stupid delivery app?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jessa drawls as she disappears into the hall. “Okay, leaving now, bye! Don’t murder each other!”
Alice sighs. The sound of it brushes up against me like a tired and warm wind.
A beat passes where we both study the painting. The brushstrokes are raw; the colors are dark and vibrant. Emotion is palpable in the pigment.
These versions of us cradle each other so tenderly.
Is that how we looked that day?
“Why?” I repeat, quiet. Why me?
Alice shrugs with one shoulder. “‘Cause I wanted to.”
Something in her response heals a part of me that’s long been broken; one of those tiny fissures in my heart seals up, the flesh fusing together again.
I don’t know what to say in response, so I crouch down and start to wrap the packing paper around the canvas. Alice kneels to help, and we finish packaging the piece together.
“Thank you,” I say, hushed, as I press tape onto cardboard.
It’s only two words, but as our eyes meet—our two shades of blue blending together—it’s so much more than that. There’s understanding reflecting back at me.
“You’re welcome,” Alice says. “I made cake, by the way.”
“Why?” I ask again.
“It’s part of the job,” she says, like I’m dumb. “They told me you don’t like celebrating your birthday on the actual day. So, I figured we could have cake tonight.” Alice shrugs. “And even ex-best friends deserve a birthday present.”
Her eyes, they remember. Much more than I realized. Or maybe that knowing glint that shines in them is new.
Or maybe I’m the idiot who didn’t take enough time to look and see.