Paint Night is Just an Excuse to Drink
Jordy
I wake up the next morning feeling sore from my day on the river. But happy.
And a bit confused.
Enough that, as I hear Ashton milling around the kitchen with Lottie, I stay in bed and pretend to be asleep until I hear the front door click and the silence of an empty house.
Spending yesterday with Ashton felt so natural, like we did stuff like this all the time—and let’s face it, he’s really, really nice to look at.
But it also makes me realize that my time in Lahoma is not as long as I originally thought it would be.
Even though I have a few weeks left, it’s not enough time.
And crushing on him is making this reality so much worse.
I know this is going nowhere. It doesn’t even matter if he returns my feelings. My whole world is in New York, and his is here. It’s pointless to start something we can’t finish.
And yet, I can’t shake my feelings of restlessness.
Last night, we arrived back home after dinner to very little conversation.
I’d put on the teakettle, thinking we could unwind after Lottie was in bed, but he said goodnight without even looking up from his phone.
Somehow, that hurt more than I want to admit.
Yesterday morning, we were holding hands on the river.
Now it feels like we’re strangers in the same house.
The message is crystal clear—this crush is very one-sided, and it’s probably for the best.
Now I’m alone in this empty house, lying in bed with my feelings.
Eventually I drag myself out of bed. I pull on a pair of slacks and a silk blouse, followed by my black heels.
But when I look at myself in the full-length mirror, it’s all wrong.
No one around here dresses like this. I love my clothes—I’ve created a very distinct style for myself—but looking in the mirror, it all feels so stuffy.
I dig around my bag again until I find a pair of workout pants and a sweatshirt. It’s not my favorite to wear athleisure as fashion, but it’s better than silk and stilettos.
Today’s mission: a new wardrobe that’s less New York and more Northern California.
And I can’t do this alone.
I head into town, stopping first at Lock & Key. My heart sinks when I see the girl at the counter. I recognize her as the single mom with a million kids who’d been picketing outside the store, and I warily back up so she won’t see me.
Too late, though. She looks up, her eyes locking with mine. It takes a moment for her to register, and I stand paralyzed as I watch it happen. Her eyes widen, then narrow.
“Grace!” she calls out, and I wince at the shrill tone of her voice.
“Listen, I’m not trying to cause problems,” I say, holding up my hands.
That’s when Grace emerges from one of the aisles, her face lighting up when she sees me.
“Mabel, this is Jordy! The friend I was talking to you about!”
My heart leaps at the word friend . I can’t recall any time recently when someone I wasn’t related to had referred to me that way. I’m not anyone’s friend. I’m not even good at being a friend—judging by the amount of times Nina calls me, but I never call her.
“You are incredible,” Mabel says.
I pause, studying the way she said it. Sincere. Not a note of resentment.
“Are you fucking with me?” I ask. She shakes her head.
“No. Thanks to you, Grace covered our whole rent this month, and I’m able to catch up on my bills.”
I turn to Grace. “You gave this lady your money?”
Grace and Mabel look at each other, and then Grace starts to laugh.
“I forget that you’re not from around here,” she says. “Jordy, this is my sister, Mabel.”
“Charmed,” Mabel says, sticking out her hand.
I take it loosely, looking from one to the other.
Now that she’s said it, I can see it. Mabel’s a brunette while Grace’s hair is blonde.
But their faces are nearly identical, with the same blue eyes and striking features.
I didn’t get a good look at Mabel before, dismissing her as some country hippy with the paisley dress and yellow hat she wore the first time I saw her.
But she’s actually really pretty—totally clueless about fashion, but pretty.
“We live together,” Grace explains. “So we both contribute to the rent. But school started a month ago and the kids needed new clothes, and money has been really tight. Your help came at the exact right time.”
“I didn’t help you,” I remind her. “I bought a few art pieces for my home, and they just happened to be yours. It wasn’t a favor—it was just a sale.”
“Whatever,” Grace says, rolling her eyes and waving her hand. “Call it what you want. It was the biggest pay day of my life, and I owe you forever.”
“You don’t,” I insist. “But I could use your help.” I look down at my clothes and then at Grace’s.
She’s wearing a pair of jeans and a loose sweater over the top.
It’s cute. Casual. Exactly what I’m looking for.
“Would you come shopping with me so I can buy something a bit more laid back?” I glance at my athleisure wear.
“I mean, classier than this. But something more casual than my pencil skirts and heels.”
“Oh my god, really? You want to go shopping with me?” Grace claps her hands together, then looks at Mabel. “Do you mind?”
“Go for it,” Mabel agrees. “It’s not like we have a line out the door or anything.
” She gives me a wistful look. “I only wish I could go with you guys. There’s this thrift store a few blocks away I just love.
It’s where I find all my cutest clothes, like the outfit I’m wearing today.
” She steps out from behind the counter, and I do my best to keep my face blank.
Mabel is wearing a pair of corduroy overalls and a grey thermal, plus a pair of heavy utility boots—like she’s headed to the garden right after work, and knowing this town, she probably is.
“What a shame,” I say, then turn to Grace. “Ready?”
“Just be back before I have to go,” Mabel calls after us as we head out the door. “I was late yesterday picking up the kids from school, and Grayston never let me live it down.
“Got it!” Grace calls. To me, “Grayston is her oldest. He’s eleven, but he acts like he’s forty. Probably because he’s the man of the house now. Then there’s Alex, she’s the middle child, and the baby is Logan.”
“And their dad?” I ask as we approach my car. I don’t know why I’m asking—it’s obvious there’s no father in the picture, especially if Grace is helping to pay the bills.
Fucking deadbeat.
“He died a year and a half ago, just before Logan was born.”
I didn’t expect that. I don’t even know what to say, though I feel bad for judging Mabel’s fashion choices too hard.
We get in the car, but before I pull from the curb, I look at Grace. “Is she doing okay?”
Grace nods. “It was hard. Sometimes it’s still hard, but we’re managing.
If it weren’t for this town though, I don’t know.
” Grace goes on, describing how the town pitched in with meals, helped keep up the yardwork, and even helped Grace move all her things over to Mabel’s house so she could help lighten the load.
“There’s always someone willing to help with rides for the kids or babysitting when Mabel can’t be in three places at once.
” Her face gets serious then. “I think it’s hardest for Grayston, though.
He was really sad at first, then angry, and then he kind of went into project mode, making sure all the things his dad used to do were being done.
He’s out there mowing the lawn every Saturday.
He makes sure Alex does her homework. He even helps Mabel clean up after dinner every night. You don’t even have to ask him.”
“Sounds like this is how he’s coping,” I say.
Grace nods. “We know. Mabel put him in counseling, and it’s helping a little. But he’s still not ready to talk about any of this, and throwing himself into all these duties seems to be holding him together, so we aren’t pushing.”
I nod, and inwardly I promise myself to never judge a person by their paisleys again.
“You know who needs to go with us?” Grace suddenly blurts out. “Michael!”
“Really? You think he’d want to hang with two girls shopping for clothes?”
“Are you kidding? This is the kind of event he lives for.”
Sure enough, Michael immediately flips the “Closed” sign as soon as we tell him our plans.
“While I think everyone here could benefit from dressing like you,” he says as we head to my car, “the least I can do is help you look two steps ahead of the community instead of ten.”
Grace directs me to a cute boutique at the edge of town, one she promises is not the same thrift store Mabel shops at.
We head in, and Grace and Michael both immediately abandon me in favor of scouring the racks like pros.
I mingle by the nearest rack, thumbing through shirt after shirt.
This is so different from any store I shop at, and I’m not sure what I’m looking for.
“Stop that,” Michael says, smacking my hand as I pick up a blouse that’s similar to the one I had on this morning before I changed. Then he places a pile of clothes in my arms. “Go try these on.” He points at the dressing rooms in the back of the store.
The two of them make me do a fashion show for every outfit.
They clap at the ones they like, and frown at the ones that don’t quite hit the mark.
In the end, I walk away with a few t-shirts, some sweaters, a few pairs of non-designer jeans, and even a pair of Vans that tie it all together.
All of it for a fraction of what one outfit costs me in New York.
“Damn, I’m going to need another suitcase to bring all this home,” I say, then laugh. Grace pretends to wail.
“I keep forgetting you’re leaving! How much longer do you have?”
“About three weeks,” I say, feeling my heart sink.
“Then we don’t have a lot of time,” Michael chimes in.
I look at him and then at Grace, but they’re too busy looking at each other, grinning.
“For what?”
“Paint night!” they say in unison.
And that’s how I find myself sitting in a studio, an apron covering my new casual outfit of a t-shirt and jeans, a very full glass of wine to my right, and a blank canvas in front of me.
I like to think of myself as a creative, crafty person. My job requires me to know how to sketch, and I do a pretty decent job of it.
But painting? Frankly, I suck.
“It’s not fair,” I hiss at Grace, who is already starting to outline the jellyfish we’re supposed to be painting. “You’re just making us do this so you can show us up.”
“Honey, it’s not about the painting,” Michael says on my other side. “It’s about the wine and the gossip.”
“Gossip?” I already feel like I know way too much about everyone in this town. “Don’t you all mind your own business?”
Michael shoots me a look. “Hello, are you new here?”
“Yes,” I reply, then dip my brush in the purple paint.
“Fine. Well, you have some intel that we don’t have, and it’s time for you to spill the goods.”
I roll my eyes. “All I’ve done since I got here is dodge insults and protests, and keep my head down while I do my job.”
Michael and Grace glance at each other, and I realize I’m not in on whatever they’re hinting at. “What are you two eyeing each other about?”
“About the fact that you’ve done something to make that tall, broody farm boy smile in ways we’ve never seen him smile before.”
I gawk at them. “Are you talking about Ashton?”
Grace bumps me, and I almost skid my paintbrush across my canvas. “Hey!”
“Sorry. But yes, Ashton.” She gives me a pointed look.
“That guy has been a somber train wreck since Sasha took off, barely even talking to any of us anymore. But you show up, and suddenly he’s whistling while he’s picking up supplies at the feed store, or smiling and staying to chat when he delivers produce to the restaurants.
Everyone is talking about how you two were paddle boarding down the river, and I don’t think I’ve seen him do that since he first showed up around here.
Then at the gallery, the way he was looking at you.
” She fans herself, but I just feel confused.
“What way?” Everything they’re saying is sparking hope in my heart that feels both exhilarating and dangerous.
“My god, don’t you see it? That man could not take his eyes off you.”
I roll my eyes at Grace, then look at Michael. “And how do you know anything? It’s not like you’ve seen us together.”
“No, but everyone else in this town has, and girl, you’re the buzz. Now that people have moved on about the whole store takeover, they’re onto bigger and better things. Namely, how you landed the most unavailable bachelor in this town.”
Despite myself, I can’t help laughing. If Ashton could hear them talk right now. “According to Ashton, everyone here has tied him to Sasha and expects him to remain single for the rest of his life.”
“Are you kidding?” Grace shakes her head. “That guy would see he has a line of women begging for him to give them attention if he would just look up.”
“Guys too,” Michael pipes in.
I give him side eye, and he shrugs. “What? The man is fine. You can’t tell me you don’t think so.”
I bite my lip, dying to cave to the gossip but also not wanting to feed it. “It’s not like it matters. I’m leaving in a few weeks, and his whole life is here.”
Grace groans and pretends to slither out of her chair. Michael just shakes his head.
“Nothing is so permanent it can’t be changed for the right circumstance.”
“Or the right person,” Grace pipes in. “Come on, tell me you don’t feel something whenever you’re around him.”
I say nothing. Instead, I take a sip of my wine, and my eyes stay on hers—which become saucers—and then she bursts out laughing.
“I knew it! You like him! You might even loooove him.”
“I do not,” I say, smacking her arm. “I’ve known him all of ten days.”
“Fine, but in those ten days, how many times have you thought about jumping his bones?” she asks.
I bury my face in my hands, then peek at them both. “Way too many times,” I groan.
Grace nearly falls to the floor laughing, while Michael offers a smirk and a raised wine glass. I tink my glass to his.
“It’s about time, bitch,” he says.
“What are you talking about? It’s been ten days.”
“Ten days of you two eye fucking each other, according to everyone in this town. It’s like watching a slow-motion rom-com with no kissing.” He looks at Grace, who nods.
“Infuriating,” she said. “But also kind of hot.”
“You two are the literal worst.”
But even as I laugh, it gets me thinking. He hasn’t said anything to me. Hasn’t even tried to make a move. I haven’t seen half of the things Grace and Michael—and apparently the whole town—are saying. But I have seen Ashton’s small glances. The way his eyes shift. How he’s so careful around me.
What if this really isn’t a one-sided crush? What if he feels the same way I do, and is hiding it—just like me?
But do I even want to open that door?