A weight pulls down on my heart at the thought.
And then it tugs even harder when I filter through three smaller canvases with portraits of a woman I’m certain Irecognise. In the first, the woman’s smile is framed by her short black curly hair, while cerulean and cobalt strokes paint an aura around her, lighter shades used to give her brown skin an almost otherworldly glow. But as the paintings progress, the colours become darker, the paint strokes messier, and the portrait more abstract. Where the first portrayed clear features and minor details, like the swirls of browns in her irises, the others lose their sharpness and clarity. The third is mostly made of mottled shapes and heavy brush strokes that just about give off the impression of a person—
‘My mom,’ Duke’s voice rumbles behind me.
Immediately, I whip round to find him leaning against his bedroom door frame, arms folded, the hoodie clutched in one hand. One corner of his mouth twitches as he glances between me and the paintings. When I decipher his softened stance and gaze as confirmation that he’s comfortable with me looking at the paintings, I inspect them closer. To appreciate the jarring sensation of experiencing such joy from the first painting, only to have it shadowed by the growing melancholy of the others. ‘They’re beautiful –she’sbeautiful.’
‘She was.’ The pad of his footsteps get closer. I expected him to stay by his bedroom, keeping a distance between us like usual. But he’s suddenly behind me, broad chest faintly touching my shoulder every time he inhales. His scent is everywhere, each breath a little rougher as I drink it down. ‘A great artist too – my grandmother has a lot of her paintings up in the house. It’s where I get my creative side from, I guess.’
‘She taught at the high school, right?’ I check. ‘Art?’
‘Yeah. My dad taught there too. History. That’s how they met.’ A brief, almost inaudible chuckle comes from him. ‘You would’ve liked my mom, I think. Our house was full of colour growing up – must have had that same eye for interior design as you.’
Duke unexpectedly runs his fingers down my arm until it meets the painting I’m holding, fingers curling around mine over the canvas edge, making my breath hitch. A shiver ripples down my spine, my breath threatening to never release. He’s touching me in so many new ways tonight …
But what shocks me the most, is that Duke doesn’t put the canvas back as I expected. Instead, he swallows audibly before he explains, ‘They’re supposed to represent my memories of her. I used to be able to remember her face so vividly, but as the years go by, I’ve struggled to recall the smaller details. Like I know she had black hair, but I can’t quite picture how the curls fell anymore. I’m pretty certain most of my memories now are actually constructed from photos. It was the same with my dad, but I was only one when he passed so I know nothing there is real memories.’
My knowledge of Duke’s family is built from small town gossip. Not even from Wyatt, his closest friend, because I’m certain those two rarely talk about their feelings. To be given the privilege to hear the truth directly from Duke’s mouth is … extraordinary.
‘This first one—’ I let him retrieve it from my grasp ‘—is actually based on a photograph my grandmother has in her house. The others are what my mind could conjure up with what’s left of my memories.’
I’m all too aware of how rare this moment is, how I don’t want it to end – just like that little snippet of his fear he shared with me before the Ferris wheel. Because how often does Duke have anyone just listen to him, like he does for everyone else?
‘You should display them,’ I suggest.
Duke shrugs as he slots the canvas back with the others. The slice of moonlight shining through the back window catches in his eyes, the deep umber suddenly sparkling with cracked memories and reminiscent joy. ‘I don’t know … I just do it because it makes me feel better to paint. I’m not really sure how to deal with my grief, otherwise. Never got taught beyond a therapist’s office. But painting … it works for me.’
He lets out a breathy laugh as he turns to gesture to the rest of the paintings littered around his apartment. ‘Hence the overflowing collection.’
A grin spreads across my face as I spin to face him properly, grateful for the small, vulnerable insight into his life I’m not sure I would have gotten had I never come here tonight. ‘Thank you, for telling me.’
Duke nods softly, keeping his head tilted down at me as his eyes immediately flick to my mouth. His tongue slowly wets his bottom lip, only emphasising how full his lips are—
‘Arms up,’ he suddenly instructs, holding out the hoodie.
I obediently do as he says. The silence in the room swarms me. Carefully, Duke slides the sleeves of the hoodie over each of my hands, pulling my arms through with such care, it makes me feel invaluable. A reminderthat the harsh hold Levi had on me earlier was nothing close to what I deserve.
You’re the smartest girl–no, person–I know, Cherry. You could move mountains, I’m telling you.
There was always a part of me that feared Duke’s gentleness with me, aside from the occasional teasing, only reflected how fragile he saw me. I’ve never been able to scorch the day of my fall from my mind, caught up on the safety I felt in his arms, while I always wondered if that day solidified how he’d always see me – a girl in need of saving.
But now I’m looking at the painting of our friendship from a different angle – there’s no trace of pity, only strokes of respect and devotion. He offers me tenderness because that’s what I deserve. Because even the strongest girl in the world is worthy of being cared for.
‘There.’ Duke slides the hoodie over my head, pulling my long hair out so it doesn’t get caught. His eyes sweep over me once, lips rolling together then parting, a shaky breath escaping them.
‘Can I hug you again?’ he asks on a whisper, forcing my gaze up to lock with his. ‘I … I’ve wanted to hold you since you told me what happened, but I was driving and—’
‘Yes, please,’ I say, and immediately wrap my arms around his waist.
He sighs into my hair, warm breath filtering through the strands and sending a satisfying shiver down my spine. Slowly, his thick arms wind around me, one along my lower back, the other across my shoulders, and he presses me closer into his warmth. My face falls flat against hischest, ear pushed up against the broad expanse, listening to the rushed beat of his heart, while mine stays unhurried in the sanctuary of his arms. When Duke’s chin rests on top of my head, I’m completely and utterly encompassed by him – his scent, heat, and body wrapping me up until we’re basically one. I let myself melt into him.
‘Thank you for calling me,’ he whispers against my parting, so quietly, I almost think I’ve made it up in my head. But when his fingers pulse against me, where they anchor me into his embrace, almost to punctuate his gratitude, I know I heard correctly. Louder this time, he adds, ‘I know I can’t take away what happened, but I meant it when I said I’ve got you. Whatever you need to feel better – I’m here. Always. I don’t care what time it is or how far away you are. I’ve. Got. You.’
After Duke finally let me go, we battled over who was sleeping in his bed and who on the couch. Obviously, being the gentleman he is, he insisted I take his bed. The sweet, warm moment from before was immediately drowned with cold water when I suggested his bed was big enough for the two of us and his face screwed up further than I’d ever seen before. That was enough to shut me up and accept that I’d be spending my first night in Duke’s apartment in his bedalone. Not quite how those dreams I pretend never happened have usually panned out.
Before saying goodnight, he sorted me with a towel so I could shower off the night, and a pair of old sweats that he thought might fit me to sleep in. The joke is, even whenhe was a teenager, Duke was alwaysbroad. So, the only thing that remotely fit was the T-shirt he left on the bed, with the hem just about hitting the tops of my thighs.
Once I’m showered, I leave the bathroom, raking my fingers through my incredibly knotted wet hair and—
