Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
PRESENT
Theo watches an online grammar lesson which he has asked me to stop about three times. But I need a moment to think and I need to take homeschooling seriously. I don’t want him falling behind.
I drum my fingers on my purse, the three flash drives tucked into it practically buzzing with questions. Santi and I never finished our conversation about the drives. Theo’s nightmare had pulled me away. When the adrenaline wore off, I crashed, and Santi must have gone downstairs. Of course he was gone in the morning.
Because that’s the era we’re in now. We leave things unfinished. Conversations. Kisses. Us.
Maybe that’s why I stayed in bed longer than I needed to. If I went downstairs and he was still there, I might have said something reckless.
What could be on those drives? At best I hoped they had precious family photos, at worst I figured they’d be inappropriate snaps of women Nic probably had behind my back. I guess the other photos in the box had me assuming the drives were pictures, but it could be anything.
Could that be why someone has been breaking in? If they wanted valuables, why not take anything? The farmhouse was ransacked, but nothing was missing. The trap at Heritage—was that meant to scare me? Force my hand? What happens when they decide scaring me isn’t enough?
My pulse thrums against my throat as I glance down at my purse, where the flash drives are zipped inside. How would anyone even know I have them? And yet… there’s a prickling sensation at the back of my neck. The distinct feeling of being watched.
I scan the café, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag, half expecting to meet a stranger’s gaze. But there’s nothing. Still, that doesn’t mean they aren’t out there.
It’s all confusing but there’s nothing that will answer this question better than seeing what’s on them. I just hope I can do it with Enzo, Ava, and Callum without Santi around. It’s hard enough having him sleep half-naked, fine as hell every night on Julia’s couch, and minding my own business from upstairs.
Distance. We need physical distance.
The bell above the door chimes, sending a ripple through the quiet hum of the café.
The man who rushes in is an explosion of movement— wild, sun-streaked hair that defies gravity, skin tanned and textured like the older surfers back in Santa Cruz. He moves like he’s catching a wave, riding an invisible current that propels him toward us.
“Sorry I’m late,” he apologizes.
I can’t help but smile at his assumption and remember what Julia said about his no-clock rule. “You’re not. You’re ten minutes early. I assume you’re Arthur?”
“Ah yes.” He wipes his right hand on his pants then offers it to me. “Nice to meet you.”
We shake hands, and mine comes away with a little bit of oil paint on it. I stare at the apricot-colored blob for a brief moment like it’s a sign from Heaven.
I really can’t wait to paint today. And when I gaze back at Arthur, he has just the kind of frenetic, excited but all the same chilled energy I liked from some of the street artists in Venice Beach when I went down there one weekend with Gisele.
“Julia told me you and Theo would like an art lesson. You’re friends with Santi?”
It surprises me slightly that she mentioned it. I suppose a lot of details are shared in small towns but I’m worried people are starting to see us as an item. If the magnetism between us feels this powerful for me, I’m not sure our sexual tension is exactly discreet.
“Have you seen his art collection?” Arthur asks.
“I didn’t realize he liked art.” It’s a lie. I know damn well he did. At least, he liked mine.
The memory surfaces like a splash of color on a blank canvas—Santi lying beside me under our tree, his fingers tracing the swirl of my butterfly tattoo, the teasing lilt in his voice when he told me: One day, I’ll have your art all over me .
He still has me on him.
Maybe that’s the most dangerous part of all—knowing that no matter how much time has passed, no matter how far we tried to run from each other, there’s a part of me still etched into him. Permanently.
My stomach tightens at the thought.
I’m struggling to pay attention to Arthur as he tells me more about Santi’s collection. About how the Mendezes and the town have helped him make a living, albeit a meager one.
All I’m thinking about is my work stamped on Santi’s perfect, bronze chest and how I used to trace the black outline of his mother’s crown of flowers on his warm, balmy skin under our tree.
Arthur’s voice crystallizes again. “Santi has lots of surrealism and landscapes. Even a Georgia O’Keefe.”
“Not a real one surely?” No way he has a million-dollar painting.
He wiggles his eyebrows. “I don’t know. But he is the kind of guy who would invest in O’Keefe.”
It’s meant to be friendly, an artist’s joke, I guess, about the speculation of O’Keefe’s works resembling lady bits, meaning Santi is the kind of man who would want to be surrounded by vaginas.
The torture of googling Santi’s escapades stopped a long time ago. Once Theo was born, I was too afraid of Nic finding out I was obsessed with one man’s profile. I proactively stopped to avoid Nic doing something awful in a jealous rage.
I knew Santi became some sort of ladies’ man. Before being worried about having spyware installed, I did my fair share of cyberstalking. Santi often had a lady on his arm, though it was mostly a different one each time, and I didn’t know if that made me feel worse or better.
A week before my night with Nicholas, I saw photos of Santi after winning at the National Finals Rodeo. That was the last event I know of that he ever entered. He won an enormous payout. And along with the money, apparently, came a woman.
Leggy. Elegant. Blonde. The kind of beautiful that doesn’t need effort. She was put together in a way I never was, the archetype of a woman who belonged in his world. Though it was just a picture, I assumed they were together.
I told myself I wasn’t jealous. That I was just looking for answers. That I needed proof he had moved on.
But I didn’t want proof. I wanted a sign that nobody could replace me. For me, that picture proved he did just that. Then I did the one thing I swore I’d never do. I let myself fall into someone else’s arms. Into Nic’s arms.
And the worst part? It didn’t erase Santi. It never did.
How can my stomach cramp at an eleven-year-old thought of Santi being with someone else? It’s like I’ve just drunk spoiled milk.
When my eyes refocus on the present, Arthur is still beaming at me.
I point to the wall opposite us in the café. “Julia told me all these paintings are yours?”
Theo glances at them too, his little brow furrows in concentration as he tilts his head at the paintings. Then, asks, dead serious, “Are they butts?”
I freeze.
Arthur, on the other hand, throws his hands up like a forty-niner that just struck gold. “Yes! Yes, they are. Fuzzy peach butts. What do you think?”
Theo pulls a face. “Kinda weird. ”
Arthur lifts a finger, like a professor about to deliver a lecture. “I take that as a compliment.”
Theo side-eyes me like he can’t believe this is his life now. Who is this man? I suppress a laugh.
“Are you two ready to go to my humble abode and studio? That’s where all my supplies are.” He turns to Theo and moves his hands as if he’s casting a magic spell. “We will embark on a journey into the eye of your mind, Theo.”
Just then, Arthur turns to wave at someone he knows, and Theo makes a face behind his back that says ‘get me out of here.’
“Sorry, bud,” I say, closing the laptop and using my words carefully to change his mind about an art lesson. “I guess we’re going to have to save relative clauses for another day.”
Works like magic. Theo is out the door before I am.
But my purse feels heavier than it should. The flash drives are inside, tucked into the inner pocket, carrying the weight of something dangerous.
I shouldn’t have them. I shouldn’t even know they exist. And yet, they might be the only thing standing between me and whoever’s been watching from the shadows.
Am I ready for the answers?
I glance at Theo, bouncing ahead of me, oblivious to the storm cloud hovering over us.
It doesn’t matter if I’m ready. Because sooner or later, the past will catch up. And I need to be the one holding the reins when it does.
Ten minutes later, we’re walking down the narrow, alley-like street off the main drag. We walk past a quaint bookstore, Pages and Perks, its sun-faded awning fluttering in the light morning breeze. There’s a hammock outside and a free-standing egg chair, a perfect California vibe. The woody scent of freshly printed pages drifts out as someone swings open the door.
I imagine a day when I can afford to walk inside, let my fingers trail along the spines of glossy picture books, pick out something for Theo that he can lose himself in. Maybe then, Theo would be curled up in the hanging egg chair here outside the shop, nose buried in vibrant pages of insects, a book that sparks hours of daydreaming. And I’d be beside him, rocking in the hammock, the heroine of my own story.
Just a quiet afternoon. Just a simple life. Just the kind of peace that’s always felt out of reach.
The side alley ends at a wooded path. We wind down a trail, following Arthur who tells us about when he used to work in Hollywood as a set dresser. He captures Theo’s attention with his story about the time he had to sift through prop boxes shipped over from Thailand that had dead cockroaches and unusual bugs in them.
Arthur meant to talk about movies, but unbeknownst to him opened up the perfect conversation starter for Theo. The pair chatter ahead of me, Theo asking about every detail of said bugs, trying to figure out what they might have been. His mind ticks away, reflecting on what insects live in Thailand.
It doesn’t escape me that more people in this town have gotten Theo talking than anywhere else. Back in Los Pinos, Theo’s guard was up all the time. Then again, we mostly went to and from school, training sessions his father would set up in sports Theo didn’t want to play, or to his grandfather’s house. I suppose those weren’t exactly comfort zones for Theo.
Arthur is intuitive enough to have our first painting assignment be a bug of our choice. Arthur spends just about all of the hour with Theo who couldn’t have picked a more complicated bug—an imperial turquoise beetle. He beams at Theo with enthusiasm, his joy so unfiltered, so effortless, that for a second, I remember when Santi believed in me like that.
I swallow hard, pushing the thought down, but it’s already there, pressing at the edges of my mind. Santi used to admire my sketches the same way, tracing his fingers over the sketched lines like they were something sacred.
For years, I told myself that must have been just youthful infatuation, that he probably doesn’t even remember.
I shake my head of it all, grounding myself with a brushstroke and stolen glances at Theo. My son is so relaxed in this town. I suppose Arthur does have a sort of childish nature about him, he’s very unassuming, and he tends to like to talk about gross things just like my ten-year-old.
I decide to paint a beetle, too, and challenge myself with color and shading, testing how rusty I am by choosing a one-colored Golden Jewel Scarab. The time goes by like an out-of-body experience. In my concentration on texture, hues, and shading, I forget myself and everything around me. When Arthur appears by my side, I can’t believe the time is up.
“Wow, Kat! This is… I’m speechless.” Arthur crosses his arms, chin in one hand, contemplating my work.
Theo comes over, and his jaw drops open.
Arthur asks, “Are you a savant or something? ”
My cheeks heat up. “I used to do a lot of art when I was younger. And went to college for a bit to study.”
“What? Why didn’t you say? You’re more qualified to teach your son than I am!” His praise is kind and sweet.
Theo stares at my canvas as if seeing me for the first time. “Mom…” he finally says, almost breathless. “This is amazing. Why didn’t you ever paint before?”
I open my mouth, but no words come. Because how do I explain that I did? That I used to fill sketchbooks and canvases with color, with dreams, with pieces of myself? That I let someone else take it from me? That I let myself forget?
I simply shrug, but Theo’s eyes search mine. In his crystal blues, I see it. He knows why. His father. Like he just tasted something sour, his face pinches together and a quiet anger settles over him.
He takes my hand. “You should do it more now.”
Theo is so goddamn strong in a way I wish he didn’t have to be. Still, his words weave around me like a cocoon, the very beginning of my metamorphosis.
My heart bursts with how much my son wants for my happiness. I wish he never had to think about me or worry about me, but I know he has. For as grumpy a kid as he can be, he has the most gentle, considerate caring inside.
“Theo is right!” Arthur exclaims.
But I can’t afford any paint. Canvases. Now isn’t the time.
Arthur caps an acrylic paint tube. “You can come here any time you want. And you, too, Theo. The woods are full of tiny creatures if you don’t want to paint.”
It’s a wonderful offer.
He wipes his hand on his pants. “Kat, maybe you want to get involved in something with me that I’m pitching at the next Town Hall? I hope to provide an art class in Echo Valley for some of the older folks who don’t get out much. Our nearest community center is Mount Hamilton, and it’s too far for most. Maybe we could get funding for supplies at the next Town Hall meeting together! We could host it upstairs at Heritage…”
“Honestly, I wouldn’t be able to afford any of this without the Mendezes and Linda and Natalie from Café Luna letting me sell my paintings there.” Arthur gets more serious. “You know, you could put some paintings up. This bug is special. And I don’t know how those gals attract buyers to the café, but I’ve sold out every collection! You definitely would, too.”
The joy within Arthur is next level. The man bursts with excitement and generosity. He’s not afraid to give up space for my work next to his. It’s selfless.
It would be fun to do a project like this with Arthur and give back to the town. I think back to Julia’s neighbor, Chris Chen. I’d love to knock on his door and invite him to an afternoon out.
Arthur’s mind seems to be reeling at a hundred miles per hour. “Maybe if it goes well with this art class, we could do them in other places, too. I’ve always wanted to bring the joy of art to people. I was so excited when Julia asked me to meet with you two. It was meant to be…”
My heart leaps with excitement. Maybe this could be my new job. My new life? Working at a lovely tack and feed shop where my son loves to go, hosting senior art classes… it could be the flexibility and maybe just enough money for us.
This is the moment where I realize… I want us to stay here. This is where I want Theo to grow up. It’s a true community .
I glance around Arthur’s studio, soft golden light spills through high windows. Theo stands beside another new pal, chattering about beetles, completely at ease. And for the first time in years, something in my chest loosens.
This is what I want.
Not just safety. Not just distance from the past. But a life. A real one. One where Theo can be himself. Where I can be more than just surviving.
But reality is a cruel thing, and it doesn’t let me forget—not for a second. Because wanting something and having it are two very different things. A shadow from my past follows me… It could drag everyone in this town down with it.
I close my eyes, inhaling deeply, grounding myself before I let the hope sink in too deep. Because that’s the problem with hope—it doesn’t just bloom quietly. It takes root, digs in, refuses to let go. It makes you believe in things you have no right to.
Echo Valley could be the fresh start we need. But whoever is out there, whoever wants what I have—they won’t stop. And when they catch up, it won’t just be me paying the price. It’ll be everyone who ever dared to care about me.