Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“You’re smiling again,” Sam says as he adjusts a new watercolour painting on the wall.
“What?” I say, looking up from my phone.
Ever since Logan came over with the apology pizza, he has been texting me multiple times a day.
I find myself looking forward to good morning messages and bedtime texts asking me about my day.
We are getting to know each other again.
He often sends me messages throughout the day sharing ridiculous rumors he has heard.
I question his sources considering how insane they are.
“You’re smiling again,” he repeats, raising his chin in the general direction of the phone I have clasped in my hand. “I’ve seen that phone more in the past week than I have in the entire time I’ve known you. Half the time you don’t even know where it is.”
He walks over to the counter I’m sitting behind and leans his hip against it. Sam is the closest thing I have to a little brother. He even has blond disheveled curls to match mine. Effortlessly handsome and one of the nicest men I have ever met.
“That’s not true,” I deny his accusation.
“It is. So, are you going to tell me who’s got you smiling like that?” he asks, spinning one of the chunky rings he wears. His entire aesthetic has a boho vibe today and I’m here for it.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I say, shoving it back into the pocket of my loose, floral linen skirt. “Huh, did you notice that it looks like we coordinated our outfit this morning?”
His top is a matching colour palette to my skirt and my flowing blouse is the same tan colour as his pants. So weird, I wonder if we do this a lot. And if we do, why hasn’t anyone mentioned it?
“You are deflecting.” He points his finger at me, and I bat it away.
“Does this have anything to do with the gorgeous new tattoo artist at Inkfluence?” he asks, raising a questioning eyebrow, crossing one foot over the opposite ankle.
“Have you been listening to rumors?” I narrow my eyes at him.
“Hannah, you know everyone in town is talking about him moving home. Probably even more than about how you are trying to steal my style. Have you forgotten where you live?”
How could I forget? Sam didn’t even grow up in Emerley, but in the short time he has lived here he’s learned that for every truth there are probably two lies.
“So, tell me, have you been out on any dates lately?” I quickly try to change the subject.
“Oh no, you don’t. We are talking about you right now.”
I ignore him.
“You mentioned that you met a nice guy at Bob’s last weekend? Did you get his number?”
“Yes, and yes, but I’m not telling you a thing about my love life until you answer my questions.”
“But what I’m hearing is you have a love life and something to tell.” I place my elbow on the counter, prop my chin in my hand, and bat my eyes at him.
“Woman, you are being ridiculous.” He shakes his head while rolling his eyes.
“Sorry, I’m not trying to be evasive.”
He raises his eyebrow.
“Okay, maybe a little.” Standing to my full height, I pinch my thumb and index finger together.
“It’s complicated. I have so many conflicting feelings.”
When I hired Sam, he wasn’t familiar with my lore, and I was okay with that. But as time went by and we got to know each other better, I began to share more about myself. He never pushed for more information than I was willing to give. Until today, I guess.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently.
“I’m confused. When I first found out he moved back I was so angry. But now I’m beginning to enjoy getting to know him again. See… complicated.”
“So, now that he’s back. What’s his explanation for leaving?”
“I don’t know,” I reply, rubbing my fingertips along my bottom lip.
“What do you mean you don’t know? He’s been blowing up your phone and he hasn’t told you anything?” His eyes widen with disbelief.
“Well, no, I mean he’s tried.”
“Obviously not very hard,” he huffs.
“No, he has – I’m just not ready to listen. It was a horrible time in my life, and our breakup compounded it. I’m afraid that too much focus on the past will be triggering. I don’t want to relive any of it. Is that stupid?”
“That’s valid. But is ignoring your history together going to affect what your future could look like?”
I hesitate, then sigh, “I guess so.”
“I’m not going to tell you what to do, but as someone who’s with you almost daily, I see your face light up when you talk to him. In all the years I’ve known you I have never seen a simple text make you smile like that. Do you think you want to explore a relationship with him again?”
“That sounds terrifying.”
“Why?”
“The last time he left it almost destroyed me. I can’t do that again.”
“Have you told him that? Maybe he has some conflicting feelings of his own.”
“What is this – Dr. Phil?”
“Ewww, no. You know I’m much better looking than he is.”
Looking at my watch, I see I have about 40 minutes before my after-school art kids arrive. This children’s program is the highlight of my week; their enthusiasm is contagious. I have been sorting through scraps of fabric that they may want to use when I hear Sam coming up the stairs.
Without looking behind me, I ask, “Do you mind grabbing the ribbon bin and buttons from the closet?”
“Sure, where’s the closet?”
I spin around when I hear an unexpected voice that doesn’t belong to Sam.
“Oh, hey Logan. What are you doing here?” This is a surprise.
The butterflies in my stomach say it’s a great surprise. Settle down in there, ladies.
“I was in the neighbourhood and thought I would stop by. I met Sam downstairs, he seems cool. He told me I could head up.” He shrugs with one shoulder. Smiling, he says, “You look pretty today.”
Has he looked in the mirror? Grey waffle knit henley with sleeves pushed to his elbows, ripped black jeans and combat boots, this man is drool worthy. It’s no wonder the town is talking about how good looking he is.
“Thanks, you too. I mean you look good. Handsome.” Cringing, fuck, why am I being so weird around him?
“So you were just in the neighbourhood, eh? That sounds fake.”
“Or maybe I just wanted to see you.” He rubs the back of his neck with one hand, sheepishly looking around the room taking in my studio space.
Shelves overflow with reference books, raw material, and items that I have collected that give me inspiration. Colourful paint has splattered across the floor, dried and forgotten. The late afternoon sun shines through the windows, highlighting many half-finished projects. It’s perfect for me.
Suddenly, his eyes widen. “Oh wow. Did you create all these?” he asks, walking towards the exposed interior brick wall that I have hung a collection of my original pieces on.
I nod my head when I meet his eyes.
Looking back and forth between me and the abstract pieces, he says, “Wow, Hannah, these are incredible. They shouldn’t be hiding up here, they should be on display downstairs in the gallery.”
“Thank you,” I say awkwardly as I feel my face flush. “I have a few down there for sale that are made for market, but these ones are just for me.”
“What does that mean? Made for market?”
I remember this feeling – having Logan’s full attention – like what I’m saying is the most important thing in the world.
“You know like design and trends that reflect what people are currently buying. Don’t get me wrong, I put just as much time and love into the pieces in the gallery, each one is unique and special in its own way.
It’s just these ones up here are for me.
After Dad died, I had all these big feelings that I didn’t know what to do with, so I poured them into my art. ” I shrug.
I’m proud of the pieces I created, but they aren’t for sale, they are personal.
“It was originally a coping mechanism, now it’s my passion.”
I continue to watch Logan as he wanders to each piece examining the details appreciatively.
I chew the corner of my lip and try not to fidget when he reaches one of my very first projects.
The one I created at the kitchen table, right after our breakup.
I wonder if he recognizes our memories layered on the canvas.
Fabric from the dress I wore on our first date, concert tickets, movie stubs, a dinner receipt, two random beer bottle caps.
I even incorporated a page from my journal and a note he had left in my locker when we were in high school.
It’s the story of us incorporated into art.
The blues, grays, and black accurately reflected my hopelessness at the time.
I watch his face fall the moment he knows what he’s looking at.
He raises his hand to gently touch and looks back at me with emotion in his eyes.
“It was a long time ago,” I whisper, willing myself not to cry.
I can’t bear to shed any more tears over this man, I’m not that heart sick girl anymore.
He clears his throat before saying, “It’s beautiful. I just wish you got to make it with joy instead of pain. Fuck, Hannah, I’m so sorry. We have to talk about this.”
“We will,” I nod my head, “but not right now, okay? I need to get ready for tonight’s art class, and the kids will be here soon.”
“But promise me we will talk?” Shoving his hands in his pockets, his dark eyes search mine for answers I don’t want to give.
I nod in agreement. “I’m sorry, I’m not ready, I just need more time. I’m feeling very overwhelmed,” I say, carrying the basket of fabric I’m still holding over to the large harvest table I use for a work surface with the kids.
“Okay, I understand,” he acquiesces. After taking one last look at my art wall, he blows out a long breath and asks, “What can I do to help? Where are the ribbons you wanted?”
Pointing to the storage closet behind him, I watch him find what I’m looking for. It’s a magnificent view. He can certainly fill out a pair of jeans with that ass and those thighs. I quickly avert my eyes when he turns back around. The last thing I need is to be caught ogling him.
I really need to get my shit together; I’m giving myself whiplash. My emotions are all over the place and that’s not fair to either of us.
Placing the ribbon on the table beside me, he asks, “So tell me about what they will be working on. Do you have an example?”
I softly smile in appreciation that he’s trying to lighten the moment for both of us.
“No, I usually just give them a theme and tell them to grab the items that appeal to them the most. Mixed media is a form of self-expression. There is no need to worry about perfection because everything they create will be uniquely theirs.”
I set out paint, markers and coloured pencils beside the glue and Mod Podge already on the table.
“It sounds like a lot of fun,” he says as he picks up and examines pieces of newspaper and pages I have pulled out of old magazines and sets them back down.
“I think so. I make sure there are a lot of different colours and textures for them to choose from. Sometimes, they bring things they have found at home. There are no rules so they can mix and match mediums. I encourage them to get messy. Some of the best art comes from happy accidents.” I grin up at him.
“Wow, this is fantastic, Hannah,” he says as he scans the variety of mediums before him.
“Thank you. I love to see how they share ideas and encourage each other. They learn more from each other than they do from me.”
“You know you are amazing, right?”
“Not really, I just provide a judgement free space for them to play.”
“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. I know it’s not my place to say this, but I am incredibly proud of you.”
I feel a blush cover my face and I look away.
“Thank you. That means a lot to me.”
“Can I hug you for a minute?”
Stepping forward, I rest my head on his chest and sink into his embrace.
I sense we are both feeling a little vulnerable right now.
His heartbeat quickens as he gently rubs his hand up and down my back.
We hold each other in familiar comfort for a moment before he whispers, “I’ve missed this. I have missed you.”
I don’t know what to say. Of course I have missed him. I’ve longed for this for years, but I’m just terrified that if I give into these feelings he will leave again. He must feel the change in my body because he takes a step back and smiles down at me.
“So, I have a confession. The real reason I stopped by is not just because I was in the neighbourhood. I wanted to invite you over on Friday night for dinner.”
“I don’t know, Logan. Is that a good idea?” I turn and walk towards the window to put some space between us.
“It’s okay, friends have dinner all the time. No strings attached, I promise.” He uses his finger to cross his heart and grins warmly. How can I say no to a man who smiles at me like that. It’s just dinner.
“Okay,” I agree. “What can I bring?”
“Just yourself. I’ve got dinner covered.”
When I raise my eyebrow in question, he huffs.
“I do. I have developed more culinary skills since I last cooked for you.”
“It’s fine, you always made great mac n’ cheese. Seriously the best I’ve ever had.” I can’t help but giggle at his offended expression.
In the past, Logan had a rotating menu of grilled cheese sandwiches, scrambled eggs, and mac n’ cheese.
The laughing voices of children stomping up the stairs interrupts our conversation.
“Okay, I’m going to head out so you can help create some happy accidents. Does Friday at 6 p.m. work for you?”
“Sounds good.”
Leaning down, he kisses me on the forehead before walking towards the exit.
He stands to the side as the kids pile into the room dropping backpacks and calling out greetings to me.
When I meet his eyes, he delivers a breath-taking smile and winks before retreating through the door and down the stairs. What have I gotten myself into?