27
With a frustrated sigh, I stare at the mess of watercolor sheets in front of me.
Half a dozen false starts and not a single one worth saving.
They all bear the ghosts of ideas I couldn’t bring to life.
On one sheet, two squirrels are wrapped in a single knitted scarf.
They’re meant to look in love, except they look like they’re being strangled.
On another sheet, a hedgehog on a blanket stares up at the night sky, but his face says he’s thirty seconds from a dental appointment.
I crumple up the sketches and toss them into the trash.
My drawings are supposed to be about love in all its forms, but I can’t capture that feeling this morning.
None of my little creatures look as though they’re getting their happily-ever-after.
And it doesn’t take a psychoanalyst to guess what I’m channeling here.
I rub the dull ache in the center of my chest and drop my brush into the rinsing jar a little harder than necessary.
It’s not the fault of the paper or the paint.
It’s Joel.
I press my palms against the edge of my worktable, willing myself to think about anything else. But every time I try to drag my mind back to work—to spring cards, pastel palettes, and Tess’s clever little captions—it drifts back to Joel and that haunted look on his face when he said goodbye.
I feel tired, even though the day has just started.
I bite my thumbnail, a habit I thought I’d kicked, but it’s back with a vengeance. Another thing to thank Joel for, along with the sleepless night.
I’m alone in the studio. I came in at five, hoping work would distract me, but it hasn’t. I can usually lose myself in my art, but today a blank page only mirrors how I feel.
I pluck a fresh sheet from the pile, determined to come up with something useful. Within minutes, there’s a rough sketch in front of me. Long fingers. The flex of a forearm. A strong jaw shadowed with stubble. And those dark eyes with their hint of vulnerability.
I shove the sheet to the bottom of the pile before Tess or Sofia can walk in and see it. I shudder to imagine the interrogation they’d subject me to.
I push back my chair and stand. Maybe a walk will clear my head.
Fifteen minutes into my walk, I already feel better. Main Street is still half asleep as the sun breaks the horizon, dew beads the awnings, and birdsong skims the crisp spring air like pebbles skipping over water.
With no one around to hear, I give myself a pep talk.
Joel ending things is for the best. It really is.
He carries too many shadows and secrets.
What’s worse, he isn’t ready to share them or set them down.
The chemistry between us might be insane but wanting someone isn’t the same as being safe with them.
What I do want is a man who’s open, steady, and uncomplicated. One who answers a straight question with a straight answer. Even if there’s no heat, there would be trust. That would be enough for me.
Last night, before Joel drove away, we agreed to quietly let a few people know next week that we’ve called off our (fake) engagement.
We’ll keep it simple, tell everyone we’re still friends, though really we’ll be more like acquaintances.
He’ll still come to trivia night on Saturday because he promised Tess. It’ll be awkward but survivable.
For now, I’ll do the small brave things.
I’ll finish this walk. I’ll call my parents and lose myself in a conversation with people who love me exactly as I am.
I’ll go back to the studio and paint something that doesn’t remind me of Joel.
I will let this be what it was—a good experience that didn’t become a life.
I repeat the sensible plan until it sounds almost true. But buried under the logic there’s a tiny, stubborn part of me who still wants the complicated man with the reserved eyes.
“Excuse me, miss?”
The reedy voice makes me pause. A man stands a few feet away outside the art gallery, hands shoved into the pockets of a faded jacket. He’s short, maybe mid-thirties, with a small potbelly and sandy, windblown hair.
“Yes?” I say politely.
“I’m looking for the White Heart Inn,” he says. “Someone told me it’s not far, but I think I’ve been walking in circles.”
I smile warmly at him. “Oh, you’re actually close. Just go two blocks down, then turn left at the corner by the florist. The inn’s on your right. You can’t miss it.”
“Appreciate it. I’m new around here. Not from a big city, but this town feels...different. Really quaint.”
I chuckle. “That’s Brown Oaks for you.”
His pale gray eyes linger on me a beat too long. It feels a little disconcerting. “You must know everyone then. Gotta be nice, living in a place where people look out for each other.”
I nod agreeably. “It is nice. Everyone pretty much knows everyone here.”
He tilts his head, and there’s something off in the way he’s looking at me. “You never really know someone, though, do you?”
“I suppose not,” I say lightly.
He takes a half-step closer, and I catch the unpleasant whiff of a sharp metallic smell. “Sometimes a person looks like the hero and turns out to be the villain.”
My brow creases. What an odd thing to say. The conversation has taken a strange turn and I’d like to exit gracefully without offending him.
“You don’t really strike me as the small-town type,” he says.
The back of my neck tingles, but I keep my tone light. “I’m small town to my core.”
He chuckles. “Lucky for Brown Oaks, then.”
I offer a polite smile. “Anyway, you should find the inn from here.”
He flashes an embarrassed smile. “Sorry, I’ve been keeping you. You’ve probably got things to do.”
I relax a fraction. “It’s okay. Good luck finding the inn.”
I start to step away when he says, “I don’t suppose you’d like to grab a drink there with me. My thanks for being so kind.”
“I appreciate the offer,” I say, unease coiling low in my stomach, “but I have somewhere to be.”
Irritation flickers across his face before he quickly masks it. “Sure. No problem. Thanks again.” His eyes linger a moment more before he finally turns in the direction I pointed.
I let out a breath and cross the street. I have a weird feeling he might follow me, but when I check over my shoulder, he’s heading the opposite way. The tension in my chest eases. Joel’s wariness must be spilling over onto me. I’m starting to see threats everywhere the way he does.
With every step, I start to feel a little silly. I made a big deal out of nothing. He was simply a stranger asking directions, and I was happy to help. It was probably the awkwardness of the encounter that was making me uneasy.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I head back to the studio, the echo of his pale eyes still sharp in my mind.