But what good would that do? She deserved better than mixed signals from a coward who couldn't say what he actually meant.
The back door creaked open, and Priest stepped out. "You gonna tell me what's going on, or am I supposed to guess?" he asked.
"Nothing's going on."
He snorted. "Sure. That's why your linework suddenly looks like a kindergartner with a crayon."
I stared at the cracked pavement under my boots. "I’ve got some shit on my mind."
"This about Olivia?"
My head snapped up. "What?"
Priest gave me a look that reeked of pity. "Come on, man. The whole town knows about your weekend getaway.”
"It wasn't real," I said.
"Yeah, no shit." He leaned against the building and shielded his eyes from the sun. "The marriage wasn't real. Whatever's eating you alive right now? That seems pretty fucking real to me."
I ran a hand through my hair. What was the point in denying it? "We slept together," I said. "At the resort."
Priest raised an eyebrow but didn't look surprised. "And?"
"And nothing. It was a mistake."
"A mistake," he repeated. "That why you're walking around like someone shot your dog?"
"She's better off without me," I said, the words bitter on my tongue.
Priest stared at me for a long moment, then shook his head. "That's bullshit, and you know it."
"Is it?" I pushed off the wall, suddenly angry. "She's Olivia fucking Vale. She cuts hair for little old ladies on weekends and bakes cookies for the fire department. She remembers everyone's birthday and sends thank-you cards for thank-you cards. And what am I? The screwed-up kid from the wrong side of town who draws on people for a living."
"You're also the guy who's been drawing that girl for years," Priest said, his voice low. "You think no one's noticed? You think she hasn't?"
I froze. "What are you talking about?"
"Those sketches you're always working on between clients. The ones you think no one sees you tucking into your wallet or that black notebook you guard like it contains nuclear codes." He shook his head. "Always the same girl. Always Olivia."
Heat crawled up my neck. I hadn't realized I’d been so obvious. "It's just a habit," I said, unwilling to face what it meant.
"Bullshit," Priest repeated, more forcefully this time. "I've known you since you were a punk-ass eighteen-year-old begging for an apprenticeship. You've been in love with her since before you walked through my door."
The word hung in the air between us—love—stripped bare and exposed in the harsh daylight.
"Doesn't matter," I finally managed.
"Of course it matters. Listen, I'm not one for heart-to-hearts or whatever, but I've watched you two dance around each other for years, and frankly, it's getting old. So I'm going to ask you once, what are you so afraid of?"
The question hit like a well-planted uppercut to my chin. What was I afraid of? Rejection? That she'd see the real me and run? That I'd somehow ruin the best thing in my life?
"I've been in love with her since I was seventeen," I admitted, the confession breaking something loose inside me. "What if I tell her and she doesn't feel the same way? What if I lose her for good?"
"And what if you don't?" Priest countered. "What if she's sitting at home right now thinking the exact same thing about you?"
The possibility was almost too much to consider.
Priest sighed, his expression softening. "Look, McCrae. You're one of the best artists I've ever trained. You've got steady hands and an eye for detail most people would kill for." He pushed the door open, pausing in the threshold. "But maybe stop drawing her and start doing something about it."
