“Old,” she replies, laughing. “Losing my marbles, I’m afraid.”
He laughs dryly, checking in with me for permission, it would seem. “Aren’t we all,” he says, then sniffs. “It’s really good to see you again.”
Mom reaches out toward me, smiling brightly as her hand finds mine. “This is such a lovely surprise,” she says, then mouthsthank youto me.
Realizing she’s forgotten this morning’s conversation, I kiss the top of her hand before I ask, “Would you two want to paint together? If Milo is up for it, that is…”
Milo nods, following my lead. “I would love to. Are you game, Mrs. Welch?”
Mom laughs, short and sputtering. “Wow, it has been aminutesince anyone has called me that!”
“Should I start?” I ask her teasingly. “Or get Dad to call you that?”
“Oh, your father wouldlovethat,” she returns jokingly, swaying as she holds herself in a tight, hug-like grip.
“So?” I ask, trying to kick-start her memory. “Painting?”
“Ah, yes”—she nods eagerly—“if you have the time…” She looks at Milo for an answer, her eyes dancing with a playful, youthful energy I long to see every day.
Milo drops his bag onto a lifted, bent knee, then pulls out afolded roll of brushes and a sketchbook that’s well used. “For you, Mrs. Welch, I’ll always have time.”
And in that moment, and the moment that follows when Mom smiles and loops her arm through Milo’s after he offers it to her, two realities hit me.
One, this is going to bereallygood for Mom.
Two, this is going to bereally, reallybad for my willpower.
Eleven
Milo
Prue looks beautifultoday. I keep shaking the thought away, and it keeps returning—stronger and more difficult to dismiss every time.
Mrs. Welch chose an ambitiously large canvas, fetched brushes, and got to work without so much as a word of encouragement from Prue or me. A few minutes into her painting, Prue asked if she wanted music and she simply nodded, unable to pull her focus from the straight orange line of the horizon she was cutting. Prue pulled up her playlist calledNow That’s What I Call Julia Welchas we both looked on in awe.
Well, Prue looked on in awe. I looked at Prue.
I can’t put my finger on what’s going on with her today, but Idoknow it’s catching me off guard every time I steal a glimpse of her. It’s an aura, a lightness, to be sure. But it’s more than that.
It’s not makeup, which I don’t think I’ve seen her wearing, and it’s not a hairstyle because her curls are as untamed as I’ve ever seen them, and it’s certainly not the outfit, which is a dark gray smock dress over a white T-shirt that leaves much of her shrouded in mystery.
I thought it could have been the way the morning sunlight, the yellow hue passing through the orange-leaved trees out front,cast a perfect, dancing glow on her profile. But then the sun went behind the clouds, and nothing changed.
Being enraptured by beauty is nothing new to me, I’ve found people beautiful my whole life. Too many people, perhaps. And all kinds—tall, short, large, small, any gender, sex, or ethnicity. My eager, wandering eyes have gotten me in more than my fair share of messy situations—leaving someone’s bed to join another’s that looked woefully empty. It’s a deep-seated urge I’ve not been able to justify to any of my previous romantic partners, my need formorethat has always felt more like a need for balance. My grateful appreciation that morphs into wanting with an unquenchable thirst.
But I’ve never been enraptured likethis.An unfamiliar, familiar woman in a brightly lit room, side by side midmorning while we’re both stone-cold sober, who’s offering to get me coffee as she hums along to a Carole King song. It’s usually far,farless wholesome.
And just as I’m thinking that I need to put a stop to it, Prue lets me know it’s been an hour, and I assure her that I’m in no rush to leave.
I pull out my phone to text Aleks and let him know I’ll be by the brewery a little bit later than planned before I notice five missed calls from Nadia and—more concerningly—onefrom Nik.
“One minute,” I say, jumping to stand a little too urgently, my chair nearly falling before Prue catches it with her leg. “Sorry,” I say, placing it firmly on the floor, “my sister called.”
“Okay, yeah,” Prue says softly, turning her focus back to her mother’s canvas.
I walk toward the bathroom and close myself inside the tight space. Leaning my hip on the sink, I hit the call button and wait ten torturous seconds before Nadia answers.
“Finally!” She sighs, both agitated and relieved at the same time. “Are you okay?”
