“What?”
“The way I feel for you, so suddenly. And…” She indicates the room. “Your loss. All this.”
“I’m kinda figuring things out myself, to be honest.”
“I’m glad you brought me here.”
“You sure? Not too much?”
“I lost my dad a few years ago.” She puts the photo down, gently. Runs a finger over the top of the frame in a final caress. “We didn’t have time to let him go like this, bit by bit. We moved Mom out, sold the house.”
“Shit, Grace. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” She shrugs, her eyes big and sad. “Can I see your studio?”
“Sure. Come on.” Our footsteps quick, we clatter downstairs. I grab a big, tarnished candelabra from the dining room and matches in the kitchen, then lead her out the back door, to the studio. Instead of putting on the overhead, I light the wicks and set it down on my work table. “Have a seat.” I indicate the sofa and go to the fridge for some beers.
I’m nervous as I settle beside her, but these nerves are good clean first date nerves as opposed to the kind you get from baring all the skeletons in your closet.
We kiss and make out for a bit, all of it more casual than anything we did out in the wild. I like her this way, too.
“So, Grace.” I pull back, my breath shaky, let my arm hang out over her shoulders and pull her close to my side. She feels good against me. “Tell me something about yourself.”
“We’ve done this whole thing backwards.” Her giggle is low and rough and a little broken in places. Fuck, it warms my soul. “Okay. Uh… I’m a Scorpio.”
I snort. “Astrology?”
“Not into it? Whatever, dude. You literally chase women in the woods in order to have your way with them.” I poke her in the ribs, aching to hear another of her laughs. “Hey!” This one’s higher, fainter. It’s cute as hell.
“You didn’t seem to mind, Grace.”
“I don’t know, old man. One of us could’ve had an eye out.”
Halfway through a sip, my eyes slide her way. “Nah ah. No. Don’t you dare start that. I’ve got enough with Lamé. I’ll get a complex if it becomes a thing.”
“A thing.” Chin raised a little, as if she’s holding something in, she looks around the room. I get the feeling she’s avoiding my eyes, but that can’t be right. I see the moment her gaze finds the sculpture of us. “Arewea thing, Liev?”
“God, I hope so.” The answer rushes out of me, all feeling and brute honesty. Shoving back the embarrassment trying to edge its way in, I lean over and put down my beer, turn towards her and reach out. She wedges her can between her thighs and slides her hands into mine. I’m shocked anew at the feel of calluses on her fingers. That’s not something I’ve felt too often on someone else. I grasp her hands and turn them over. “How’d you get these?”
After a puzzled second, she replies. “I’m a painter. A house painter.”
My brows drop. “You’re not an artist?”
“A lot of people have asked that this week.”
“With good reason. Your stuff’s good.”
She stares at something—maybe the five flames dancing in front of us. “So, you want my story?”
“Up to you.” I give her hand a squeeze.
“My dad’s the one who pushed me to pursue the art thing. I mean, I wanted to, but he made sure Icould. Six years ago, everything changed.”
“What happened?”
“Mom and Dad went out to dinner. Date night. Dad’s night to drink, Mom drove.” I recognize the smile on her face. It’s the one you wear to soften a story you’ve told too many times. “She had a stroke, less than a mile from the house. Lost control of the car. It flipped. Dad…was gone. She had another stroke three years ago. Another last year.” I use our joined hands to tuck her in again, pressed into my side. “I left school. Didn’t graduate. Vanessa, my big sister, was pregnant at the time, with her second kid. She helps out, but…I’m basically it for Mom, you know? I work and take care of her and make sure she gets to appointments. That kind of thing makes you grow up pretty fast.” She pulls from my grasp and holds her palm out.
There’s a tightly-closed rosebud inked in the middle. It reminds me of old etchings in one of my old Art History books. It’s frankly stunning.
