Landon sat on the couch as I got comfortable on the floor. I knew it was a weird position, but I’d always painted like this. Knees tucked under me, paintbrushes and colors spread all around.
“What are you painting?”
I glanced up at him. “I have no idea.”
He took a sip of his coffee cup. “Want to bounce ideas off me?”
“Okay, ideas.” I sighed deeply, racking the deepest parts of my brain. “Well, I like books, so I was thinking of painting a library. Or baking…maybe those mini muffins Macey likes so much.”
I was still debating other options when Landon said, “Those are all things that you like. They’re not so much part of your identity.”
“Things you like can be part of your identity,” I grumbled as he gave me that look. TheI-know-you’re-smarter-than-thislook.
I wasn’t dumb. I could practically recite the textbook definition of identity. Your personality, values, beliefs, culture, experience—all those things made up identity, not mini muffins.
“Okay, fine, forget the library. What do you recommend?”
“I don’t know. Can we paint your tendency to overthink?”
I threw a paintbrush at him. “It’s not my fault that our society overthinks and under feels.”
“Well, what do you feel now?”
“I feel…lost.” A pause. “Scared to start.”
He nodded. “I got the same way when I picked up baseball in high school. I’m generally afraid of making a fool of myself.”
“But you’re great at sports.”
“And you’re great at art. Sometimes we’re most afraid of the things we’re good at. The things we love. Because if we pursue them, they could change our lives.”
“Do you even play baseball anymore?”
He looked down, suddenly shy. “No. I quit pursuing things I loved.” He glanced at me. “Until recently.”
My fingers tightened around the paintbrush, my chest tightening too, like the air had thickened between us.
“I remember Mason used to always be the loudest parent at all of your games.”
Landon smiled softly. “Yeah. Dad never missed one, even if it meant coming after working all night at the diner.”
“For what it’s worth, I think he’d be proud of you. Helping your mom reopen the diner.”
“Maybe.” Landon cleared his throat like he was shaking something off. “I like to think he’d be proud of the person I’m becoming. But this isn’t about me. I have an idea.”
He shifted closer, settling beside me on the tarp and pulling a box of mismatched paints toward us. He set up a makeshift easel, his movements sure and unhurried like he’d done this a hundred times before. Then, without a word, he grabbed a spare canvas and propped it up in front of him.
I narrowed my eyes. “What are you doing?”
Landon’s gaze flicked up, and something in his expression sent warmth unfurling in my chest. His eyes sparkled with playful mischief, and in this element, surrounded by art, hands dusted with dried paint, he looked like someone I knew. Someone familiar. Comfortable. Confident. Mine.
“What’s the most important thing to do before a kickball game?” he asked.
I smirked. “Sneak a kiss behind the bleachers.”
He huffed out a laugh. “The other most important thing.”
“Warm up.”
